Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(85)

Despite his inability to see, Ransom’s other senses felt stronger, and the water rushing in his ears imparted a calming sensation. He turned back just as Estian charged at him. Ransom jumped at the horse, grabbing the bridle with his left hand, tangling his fingers in the straps of leather. The force of the mount toppled him, but he clung to the harness and beat on Prince Estian with his sword until there was nothing left to hit. He heard a crunch of armor and a gasp of dismay from the crowd.

The destrier, still in his grip, slowed and stopped, stamping angrily. His rider was gone, and Ransom controlled the bit in his mouth.

“Easy there,” Ransom said in Occitanian to the beast. He stroked the flank, but the horse turned and bit his arm, its teeth glancing off his armor.

Ransom swatted the destrier on its rump with the flat of his blade, sending it off running. Turning his head, he thought he saw the prince lying on the ground nearby. He approached, listening for any sounds of danger. He heard Devon laughing. It was then he sensed a presence in the throng before him. The woman he had encountered in the past. She was not near him, but she was somewhere in the crowd. He turned to the side, trying to catch sight of her, but his helmet blinded him.

Prince Estian tried to sit up, struggling to breathe, and Ransom used his boot to knock him down on his back. He put his sword to the prince’s chest, running the tip of the blade higher until he reached the edge of his helmet. He twisted his shoulders until he could somewhat see the prince below him. He could feel the woman coming closer.

Was she here for Devon? Or was she merely keeping watch, as she had done in Ceredigion? For all he knew, she was simply there for the show. This could be proof that the woman was, in fact, Occitanian.

Although he doubted Devon was ready to hear it.

“Are you going to kill me, Sir Ransom?” Estian asked.

“Yield,” Ransom said, his voice echoing inside his own helmet. He didn’t know if he’d spoken it loud enough, so he shouted it. “Yield!”

No one had defeated Prince Estian before. Not in a tournament.

He knew what it felt like to be humiliated, so he could imagine what the prince must be feeling. Would his sense of honor prevent him from submitting in defeat? Ransom worried about leaving Devon unguarded for very long.

“I yield!” the prince finally thundered.

Ransom backed up a few steps, lowering his sword arm, feeling dizzy. Then Devon was there, still astride his destrier and laughing with joy. They’d grown even closer after the rebellion. Ransom considered him a true friend. And while Devon was prone to emotional decisions, something Ransom attempted to steer him away from whenever possible, he was a good man. He turned again, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive person he could still sense. But she had not come closer—indeed, she was slipping away.

“We did it! We won the melee! Well done, Ransom! Is your neck broken? Can you even see?”

Ransom felt for the king’s horse and the shushing noise of the waterfall began to recede. He wanted to tell the king about the woman, but he suspected Devon would be no more ready to hear it now than he had been two years ago. He was protective of his wife, and he wouldn’t take kindly to the supposition that her father was scheming. He would have to think more on it before he approached his friend. “I can’t see a thing,” he said. “Get me to Anders. I need a blacksmith to get this helmet off.”



“The dent in this thing is the exact shape of a horseshoe,” Anders said, chuckling, while wrenching with a pry bar.

“Just get it off,” Ransom said, kneeling on the dirt floor of the forge tent, his head extended sideways on the anvil.

“I saw the fight,” Anders said. “Most of it. You kept calm after falling off your mount. Most knights panic when that happens.”

“I was panicking.”

“It didn’t look like it. The crowd . . . I’ve never seen them so lusty. They were cheering for you, even though you’re a knight from Ceredigion. Even though you bested their prince. Mark my words, today you were a hero.”

He groaned. “Just stop talking and get this helmet off me.”

Ransom felt the strain on his neck. What if the helmet was too badly damaged to be removed, and he had to walk around with a crooked helmet on for the rest of his life? It was a ridiculous thought and made him start to laugh.

“You think this is funny, Ransom?”

“No . . . I was just picturing going back to Kingfountain like this.”

“You think you’d make it that far? You’d ride into a tree.”

“The horse can see even if I cannot.”

The metal groaned, and Ransom winced as he felt yet more strain against his neck.

Another voice sounded from the tent door in Occitanian. “Where’s Sir Ransom Barton?”

“Do you think this suit of armor I’m wrestling with is empty? This is the man.”

“The helmet still isn’t off?” asked the newcomer.

“Would you like to have a go at it? I’m trying not to break his neck.”

“You must hurry. They’re all waiting.”

Ransom gripped the horn of the anvil and tried to turn so he could hear better. “Who’s waiting?” he asked.

“Sir Ransom, you’ve been named the champion of the tournament! Everyone is waiting!”

It felt like a thunderclap had struck him. Ransom blinked in the darkness of his helmet, not sure he had heard correctly. Not daring to believe it.