Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(9)

Lord Barton was a big man and a stern one. He’d lost an eye in one of the battles of the civil war and wore a patch over the socket that had a lead ingot sewn into the leather. His hair was mostly gone, but he had a scraggly brown beard streaked with gray. He had big arms, a short temper, and a slightly menacing look.

He paused at the threshold for a moment, looking around the room in confusion before his eyes settled on Ransom. When they’d last seen each other, Ransom had been a child. Now he was nearly the size of a man.

“The runt sprouted,” his father said with a gruff chuckle. He strode into the hall, claiming it with his outsized presence. Behind him came a broad-shouldered young man, one who also had a wispy beard. The father and son had clearly been hammered from the same forge. Ransom’s appearance had always favored his mother, although he had his father’s bulk.

The brother gave Ransom a wary look, a warning look.

“Hello, Father,” Ransom said, grateful his voice hadn’t broken again.

“‘Father’ is it?” said Lord Barton. “Now you claim me, after your true father is dead?”

“John,” said Lady Sibyl, her voice drenched in pain, “our son was a hostage.”

“Did you ask to come back to the Heath, lad? Or were you, as I’ve heard, happy to eat from the king’s table? What do you call yourself, lad? The name I gave you, or the name you were given there? We’ve heard all about you, Ransom.”

The young man’s guts twisted with dread and humiliation. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the utter lack of love or concern coming from his father. A stifled sob made him turn his neck, and he saw tears dripping down Lady Sibyl’s cheeks. Maeg was hiding behind her mother’s skirts, looking at their father with an expression of fear.

When Lord Barton relinquished his son to the king’s custody, he had clearly barricaded his fatherly feelings behind a wall of stone. Ransom had known enough to dread his return—his father had not been affectionate before the incident at the Heath, and he’d certainly made no overtures since then—but even so, he’d expected more. He’d expected something. Filled with shame and anger, he was tempted to dash out of the hall, fetch Gemmell, and ride hard after Sir William. But he’d parted from the knight hours ago, and he had no idea how to find him.

Lord Barton sniffed and went to the table, searching for something to eat or drink. He turned his face to Ransom, the lead ingot flashing in the firelight. “Best to put it bluntly. I have nothing for you, lad. I’ve been loyal to Devon Argentine for years, and someday I hope he’ll make me an earl. But that title would go to Marcus, along with the Heath. All of it. I have a little dowry for Maeg too, but building this castle has cost me everything.” He grabbed a goblet and filled it, taking a long, slurping drink. “You brought a horse, I saw. A nag, by the looks of him. And that sword at your belt is cheap. Gervase didn’t reward you very much, did he? May he drown in the Deep Fathoms.” His voice throbbed with bitterness. “I’ve nothing for you, lad, and given the state of things, I may be called upon at any moment to help defend the realm again. There have been skirmishes with the Atabyrions up in the North, and Brugian ships have been marauding our southern coast since Gervase died.

“You can stay the night. I’d grant that hospitality to any stranger, for stranger you are. In the morning, be on your way.”

Ransom’s throat felt thick with tears, but he refused to show emotion. He nodded to his father and went by the hearth, pretending to warm his hands. The flames fed his anger. He still remembered being that little boy, brought to stand on a wooden barrel in front of the Heath. He hadn’t truly understood what was going on, although he remembered being afraid. Someone had teased him later that his father hadn’t wanted him, that he’d left him to die, and Ransom had punched the boy in the mouth. He wanted to punch the rock wall beside the hearth, but he didn’t. He stared at the sizzling flames, the red tongues lashing the logs.

Lord Barton began to talk again, addressing his wife and then his son, giving instructions about the work that needed to be done. He slurped down some more drink and made a fuss about the poor quality of the venison the woodsman had caught in the nearby forest. After he was done eating, he left, saying not another word to Ransom before going.

The sound of steps came, and Marcus joined him near the hearth. “You can sleep in my room if you want,” he said in a low voice.

Ransom turned and saw the look on his brother’s face. Was it guilt? Ransom didn’t trust his tongue, so he simply nodded. Marcus left the hall, and his mother and sister quietly did the same. A few servants came to start cleaning up the mess of the meal. Some bread and gravy were tossed to the hounds, and Ransom squatted down and rubbed both of them while they noisily ate.

The great hall was so tiny in comparison to Kingfountain. Everything felt small and tight, like a stone dungeon. His seething emotions calmed, but the resentment he felt cut deep. He couldn’t wait for morning. He’d leave first thing and try to find Sir William. He’d learned some Occitanian at the king’s court and thought there might be ways he could be of service.

He sat down and leaned against the wall near the hearth. The stone was warm against his back. One of the dogs, an older one he’d known as a child, came up and curled up next to him, the wolfhound laying his muzzle against Ransom’s leg. He smiled at the dog and scratched his ears.