Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(86)

“If that’s the case,” Anders said with a grunt, adjusting the pry bar, “you can afford a new helmet! Our deal still stands, doesn’t it? Half your winnings belong to me?”

The shell of the helmet bent, and Anders pried it off. Fresh air filled Ransom’s lungs. Sweat streaked down his face. Dizziness washed over him. Looking up, he saw a herald wearing the fleur-de-lis of Occitania. The royal herald.

“I’m coming,” Ransom said, rising slowly, hoping he didn’t faint.

The herald beamed at him and dashed from the blacksmith’s tent. Ransom looked at Anders. They’d been friends for years, but their deal had ended years ago.

“How many knights from Ceredigion have ever won a tournament here?” he asked softly.

Anders smiled smugly. “None that I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been here a long time.”

Ransom put his hand on his sword pommel. He gazed at the tent, remembering the years he had spent there, working the bellows for Anders to earn back the price of his armor. On his wrist he still wore the braided bracelet Claire had given him the last time he’d been in Chessy. It was dusty and coming loose in places, but he still remembered the night she’d given it to him. He would never forget it. Every time he passed the castle courtyard in Kingfountain, he would look up at the tower window, hoping for a sight of her. Only once had he been lucky enough to see her looking out. He didn’t know if she had seen him as well.

Anders put his hand on Ransom’s shoulder. “Go claim your prize, Ransom. You earned it. No one has defeated the Black Prince except his personal sword master. After today, everyone will know who you are.”

A sickening feeling clutched at his stomach, but with it came a surge of triumph he’d never experienced before.

“They’re waiting for you,” Anders said, giving him a push toward the opening. “Get out there.”

Ransom walked out of the tent and headed toward the stadium, where the crowd of nobles were sitting. Wooden palisades fenced off the lower-class folk. As soon as they saw him coming, a tumult began, and the cheering was deafening. Knights who had participated in the events saluted him as he plodded on, and the crowd opened so that he could enter the fighting yard. He saw banners congregated at the front of the stands, showing the different crests of those in attendance, including many of the noble houses of Occitania. At the very front, a series of steps had been put in place, leading to wooden platforms for the awarding of the prizes. The center one was vacant, and Ransom swallowed his nerves as he approached it. Prince Estian was not standing on any of the platforms. Since he’d been defeated, he wasn’t entitled to pride of placement. He turned, his black armor spattered in dust, his helmet off. He watched Ransom approach without emotion.

Standing before the platforms were the highest noble ladies in attendance, including Princess Noemie. She held a wreath of silver laurel leaves. The victor’s crown. She betrayed no emotion as she watched him approach, but Devon grinned at him from Noemie’s side. The victory of Ceredigion was an accomplishment worthy of boasting.

The shouts grew louder until Ransom reached the steps and started up them. When Ransom reached the middle of the platform, about a dozen trumpeters raised their long horns and let out simultaneous blasts, which quieted the crowd.

A giddy feeling swelled in his stomach. The champion prize was usually significant, around five thousand livres, depending on the event. This might double what he already had from the ransoms he’d received during the short-lived rebellion. Lord Kinghorn had paid his ransom as promised, even though Ransom had been on the losing side of that conflict. A knight was no knight if he did not honor his pledges. Which meant he could expect something from the Black Prince as well.

Simon now borrowed funds from him instead of asking for money from the Elder King.

The blast of the trumpets ended. The herald of Occitania then stepped forward. “Presenting the victors of this tournament of Chessy! In third place, and winner of two thousand livres, is Sir Rasten D’Orchard!”

Cheers swelled from the audience as the noblewoman standing next to Noemie placed her silver crown on the victor’s head. She kissed him on the mouth before withdrawing. Ransom had forgotten about the Occitanian tradition of kissing the victors. It had totally slipped his mind.

Sir Rasten wiped tears from his eyes. He gazed at the noblewoman with adoration and gave her the knightly salute, which won a throbbing cheer from the crowd.

What do I do? Ransom wondered, feeling a growing sense of dread. Devon’s wife had spent the last two years trying to make him fall in love with her. Sometimes she treated him like dirt. Other times, she flirted with him and hinted that she admired him. Still others, she spoke to him with undisguised coldness. He didn’t trust her, or trust being alone with her, but in his duties for the mesnie, he was often assigned as her protector. It bothered him that she manipulated everyone around her so much, especially her husband.

“The second-place victor, winner of five thousand livres, is Sir Combren of Brugia, third count of Erfrut!”

Another cheer came as a second lady stepped forward to place a crown on Sir Combren’s head. Ransom had beaten the man in the contest of swords. The other knight favored overhanging guard attacks, holding his sword above his head, blade pointed down. It took a lot of arm strength to pull off such a move once, let alone repeatedly, but it gave him a stylistic flair that had won him a lot of praise during the tournament. Until Ransom had disarmed him effortlessly.