Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,115

himself vulnerable.

The king gazed back at his son, a mixture of admiration and pain on his face. Ransom knew what he had to do. He barked Dearley’s name, causing him to turn his head.

“Protect the king and the prince!” he shouted. “Get them to Glosstyr!”

“What are you going to do?” Dearley demanded, eyes wide with surprise.

“I’m going to stop Bennett,” Ransom declared.

They were going at full gallop, and so Ransom had to convince the beast to slow before it could be turned. He wrestled with it a bit before turning around and plunging back the way they’d come. He met Marcus’s questioning gaze with a nod as he passed, then spurred his horse to ride hard at Benedict. Ransom positioned the lance, cradling it, preparing to take aim.

Benedict rushed headlong at him. He wore no helmet. In fact, Benedict didn’t even have armor, although his tunic was drenched from crossing the river. No doubt he and his men had doffed their armor before crossing in case any of them fell in. The man also had no lance, only a sword, and was thus utterly defenseless against his charge.

Fountain magic bubbled up inside Ransom again, sharpening his senses and lending him strength. The two were on a collision course, but this wasn’t Chessy. One of them could die. Ransom sensed the duke’s weakness. There was no armor protecting him from a lance. He’d ridden ahead foolishly, determined to capture his father. He’d jeopardized his own life in the process.

Ransom lowered the lance into position as his destrier picked up speed.

Memories battered at him in the crucial moment. Once again, he felt the strange cyclical nature of time. Years before, he’d ridden toward Auxaunce with Queen Emiloh, and they’d been chased by DeVaux’s men. The constable, Lord Rakestraw, hadn’t been wearing armor that day, and Ransom had watched as he’d been impaled on a lance.

Ransom knew that the queen would not want her son to be killed in the same way. And truthfully, the young man’s father wouldn’t want that either. Ransom had witnessed the king’s grief when the Younger King and Goff had died. No matter how strained their relationship was, Benedict was still his son. One of only two left.

“Are you going to kill me, Ransom?” Benedict shouted worriedly, seeing Ransom’s lance aimed right at him. “By the Lady’s legs, I’ve no lance!”

No one could have stopped Ransom from doing so. It was just the two of them facing each other, coming together like a clash of worlds.

Ransom felt the thrum of the Fountain in his heart. He couldn’t kill the prince. He knew it would be a wicked act. But he wouldn’t let the lad capture his father either.

“I won’t,” Ransom said as the two horses rushed at each other. “Let the Deep Fathoms take you where it will!”

He shifted his aim from Benedict’s chest to his horse at the last moment. The horse died on the spot, pierced by the lance in the breast. Ransom released the lance, which hadn’t shattered, and veered away. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as Benedict fell over the horse’s head to the ground with a jolt. The beast collapsed, but the duke rolled a few times before coming up again to his feet. Although clearly stunned and dizzy, he managed to find his sword in case Ransom came at him again.

Their eyes met, and Ransom tapped his own breast in the salute that knights gave one another. Benedict stood in the meadow, powerless to give chase as Ransom rode away. There could be no doubt between them who had won.

He wondered what Benedict’s feelings were in that moment, his eyes blazing as he stared at Ransom riding away from him. Was he grateful his life had been spared? Humiliated at his defeat? Benedict’s recklessness and impulsiveness had nearly cost him everything. Ransom could have tried to capture him—something that would have ended the conflict—but he knew the duke would have resisted, which would have given his men time to arrive and capture Ransom.

When Benedict did become king—for surely it would be a matter of when and not if—Ransom would be punished, which would once again leave him without someone to serve. He could be banished from the realm forever, or even killed. Yet he felt a calm assurance he’d done the right thing, that he had performed a final act of loyalty to his king.

With sadness chafing in his heart, he left the meadow behind as the other knights of the