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

by Jeff Wheeler

They think we in Legault are a superstitious people, but they throw coins into fountains hoping for favor. I nicked one once when I first came here, but the servant who caught me made me put it back and warned me if I was caught again, I’d get tossed into the river too. After that, I always made sure no one was watching.

Before someone leads, they must first learn to follow. And following is a difficult skill. It’s not one taught in the training yard or on a horse.

“The collier is a symbol. It is the last blow you will receive without being allowed a reprisal. If any man strikes you hence, you have the freedom to strike back.” He held up his finger, which gleamed in the torchlight. “But while a knight may strike back, a true knight will yield that right. He will resist. It is a token of Virtus to be able to exact revenge and to choose mercy instead.”

I believe there might be some ill blood between Sir James Wigant and Sir Ransom Barton. —Claire de Murrow Chessy Field, Kingdom of Occitania

But while everything Sir William said made sense, he still remembered the way the old king had saved his life. He’d had compassion for a little boy, even though he’d known that very compassion would condemn him. Perhaps he had not been a good king, but he’d been a good man. In some ways that was more important.

His sister, Maeg, reached him first, before he even stepped inside. He couldn’t believe how tall she was or the violence of her affection as she leaped at him, weeping and smiling and hugging him tightly. The last time they’d met, he’d been a stranger, or near enough. But no doubt news had reached them about his life since he’d been away. Lady Sibyl, his mother, emerged from the lit interior of the castle then, looking older and more careworn than he remembered. She embraced him as well, and his heart was fit to burst when he felt her tears on his neck. “You’re home,” sighed Maeg, hugging him again, her embrace even tighter this time. “You finally came home!”

I thought perhaps he would serve the Vexin queen, as some call her, since she paid his ransom. But word has spread through the palace. Gossip does fly on quicksilver hooves.

I was able to see Ransom amidst the entourage. He had a limp, which he tried to conceal. But it was an absolute relief to see him so hale. And yes, he was conspicuously wearing a bracelet. It made me smile.

“He is . . .” Ransom swallowed, trying to regain his composure and failing. “He’s a miscreant.” “Oooh, that’s a strong word, Ransom,” she said, eyes shining. “Try being more blunt. He’s worse than a pig’s fart in a tent.”

The ache in his chest hurt worse than the one from his injured leg. He knew how to treat wounds from a battlefield. He had no idea how to cure this one.

Does the fool man know I’ve already chosen him? Maybe I should have written a confession of feeling on a note, bound it to an arrow, and shot him in the heart from the palace walls. He may not understand anything more subtle.

Da has ordered me to secure Connaught and be wary of nobles who would take advantage of the unrest. It is wise counsel, for stupidity is unfortunately contagious.

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.

Apparently, the fool eejit won the tournament of Chessy, and if the rumors are true, he nearly killed the Black Prince.

Suddenly he felt like that little boy again, standing on a barrel with a hangman’s noose dangling before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself turn and look back at King Gervase. The grinning king nodded to him, gesturing for him to put his head through the noose.

“I’ve been stitched and wrapped and fed yarrow root and thyme. But there is no poultice to apply to the wound caused by an ungrateful son. I did not believe that I would outlive him! He looked like a king. The people loved him more than they ever loved me. But how many thank the butcher for the cut of meat they enjoy? No, they thank the cook, who had the easier task.”

for even if told the truth, they will always prefer a lie,

That is the problem with our world. Loyalty has died.