Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,23

that Benedict was one of the vanguard, along with four knights. The group was riding hard and fast toward them.

Ransom kept his lance raised and rode to meet the five of them by himself. If they all lowered lances against him, he was a dead man. But he judged that Benedict was ahead of his army for a reason. It meant he sought more information before he acted.

As Ransom came closer to the group, he felt more confident of his appraisal. Benedict and his men had lances too, but the tips were pointed skyward. No one signaled they wanted to challenge him. Benedict made a signal, and his four companions slowed while he rode on until his lathered horse was right in front of Ransom’s.

“Have I come too late?” he gasped, his cheeks flushed. He pulled off his helmet, spilling out his tangled hair. His beard and his bulky armor gave him a menacing look.

“Too late for what?” Ransom asked. “Are you friend or foe?”

“I am the Duke of Vexin!” Benedict said hotly. He looked at Ransom in disbelief. “I thought Father was coming to fight me—unjustly, I should say. His target was Estian all along?”

“Yes,” Ransom said. “Though Estian was waiting for us here. Somehow he knew.”

“I didn’t know,” Benedict said. “I swear it on the Lady. We came to answer the call to arms. If my father is fighting Occitania, then I will join the assault. Where can we aid you?”

Ransom felt a huge swell of relief. “This is good news indeed.”

“Enough talk!” Benedict said. “Direct us. Where are we needed?”

“Duke Rainor has the left flank. He’s been hard pressed and is giving ground. Add your force to his, and see if you can block the road back to Pree to prevent Estian from escaping.”

“I will do so, Sir Ransom. Are you commanding the rear guard?”

“Yes, my lord duke.”

He shook his head ruefully. “You belong in the thick of the fighting. I should have liked to fight alongside you.”

“Perhaps another day,” said Ransom. “See to it. The battle isn’t yet won, but with your help, the day will be ours.”

Benedict nodded, his eyes burning with determination. “I’m grateful we’re not too late.” He turned and lifted his lance. “To arms!” he shouted.

Ransom watched as Benedict went back to his men and changed their course, leading them directly to the left flank, as ordered. He would have to keep watch to ensure his trust in the duke was not misplaced. If Benedict attacked Rainor’s men, Ransom would have to strike his forces from behind.

But those seedling doubts were only that. The knights of Vexin charged into the fray, clashing violently with the Occitanians. The additional men upended the balance, and the knights of Pree began to give way.

Ransom saw the king with his guard returning with Dearley. The king was breathing hard and had blood-spattered armor, but he looked fresh, enlivened by the energy of the battle.

“Is it true?” the king said, panting. “Did Bennett come?”

“I sent him to the left flank,” Ransom answered. “Look, he’s already breaking through.”

The king grinned with triumph. “I’d almost feared to hope. Look at him! That’s my son!” His grin was tremendous. It was proud. “Good lad. If he’d turned on us, we’d have failed. It’s still . . . it’s still not certain. But this has shifted the tide.”

“Send us to the fight, my lord,” said Ransom earnestly.

“It’s a mess down there,” said the king. “Hard to tell who is who.” For a moment, Ransom thought his request would be denied, but the king shook his head. “Get in there. Help Duke Ashel. He’s taking a beating, but thank the Fountain, he isn’t giving in. Go!”

Ransom nodded and shouted the order to his men. Dearley swallowed and grabbed his lance.

“Stay by me,” Ransom told the young knight.

The younger man nodded in agreement, but he looked greensick. Ransom took off on Dappled, and the knights of the rear guard came after him, their horses’ hoofbeats adding to the cacophony of the battle.

Rather than risk wounding their countrymen—the chaos of battle made it difficult to discern between friend and foe—Ransom led his host to outflank the Occitanians and strike from the side. Shouts of warning came, and the soldiers swung around as the horde of knights from Ceredigion came upon them. Several knights wearing black tunics rushed forward to keep them from crashing into the melee.

Ransom lowered his lance and charged straight at the black-garbed knights. These were Estian’s personal men, the ones who’d