Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,28

it to his mouth. His shoulders quivered. “You s-saved my life,” he croaked. “I cannot thank you enough. But I will try.” He looked at Ransom again. “I swear on the Blessed Lady I will make you proud of me someday. You won’t regret what you did.” He lowered his fist and swallowed. “I swear it. I will be faithful to you in all things.”

Ransom felt tears prick his own eyes. He clapped Dearley on the back, unable to speak for the moment. When he did find his voice again, it was thick with emotion. “Thank you. You helped get me out of there alive. That means something to me as well.”

Dearley flushed with pride. “Well, I wasn’t totally useless. After what you did, I drew my sword. Someone kept striking at you from behind while you were fighting the Black Prince’s knights. I . . . I killed him. And then the one who attacked you with a poleaxe.”

“Did you now?” Ransom said, pleased.

Dearley nodded vigorously. “After what you did to protect me . . . I could do no less.”

They both heard the sound of steps coming toward the tent. Dearley rose, and Ransom heard his stomach growl again. The tent opened, and a stranger carrying a leather bag entered. Lord Bryon came in behind him.

“I brought the barber . . .” Lord Bryon said, then fell silent. The barber saw Ransom sitting up on the cot, and his brows knitted in confusion.

“I thought he was mortally wounded?”

Lord Bryon studied Ransom for a moment, and a small smile came on his face. “No, that was someone else, and he died already. This is Sir Ransom, a member of the king’s council. Just have a quick look at him before he reports to the king.”

The barber frowned in confusion, but he came forward and examined Ransom’s wounds. He prodded his chest with a forefinger and then examined his neck. “He’s about as hale as you’d expect,” he said with a shrug before standing again. “I’m sorry the other man died. I came as fast as I could.”

“Thank you,” Lord Bryon said, reaching into his coin purse and handing some livres to the man. “You’ll earn more by tending to the wounded.”

“Of course! That’s why I came.”

The barber left, and Ransom slowly stood. He felt a certain emptiness inside—one that came from his depleted stores of magic—but his body was growing stronger by the moment.

Lord Bryon looked at him, that secret smile growing. “Can you come to the king’s tent?”

“I think so,” Ransom said, flexing his arm muscles, feeling the health in them.

“A new tunic, perhaps?” Lord Kinghorn said. “Everyone in the camp thinks you won’t survive the night. Many saw your condition when Sir Dearley brought you here.” His smile broadened. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. Well . . . this makes our victory more noteworthy. The legends say King Andrew had a knight that no one could defeat. It would seem your pilgrimage to the oasis has served you well.” He nodded encouragingly. “I’d enjoy discussing it with you someday. Come when you’re ready. There’s much to share.”

“I’ll be there shortly, my lord,” Ransom said.

“I know you will be,” Lord Bryon said, and from the way he said it, Ransom knew he’d finally won the man’s respect. He watched as his kinsman left the tent, and then he turned to Dearley, who had been a silent witness to their exchange.

“I’ll fetch you some food,” Dearley promised, and he left the tent as well.

Ransom stood there in the midday heat. He saw his sword leaning against the armor stand and walked over to it. He gripped it in his hand and felt strength radiate through his arm. Overcome with wonder, he lifted it and slid it into the scabbard.

As the blade screeched against the material of the scabbard, he heard the Fountain’s voice whisper to him again.

The scion of King Andrew will be reborn through an heir of the Argentines. They will try to kill the heir. You are all that stands in the way.

Jon-Landon came to see his mother again. But this time I knew for certain I was the one he wanted to see. He had a fevered quality to his eyes, like a dog following a cook with a juicy bone. Jon-Landon wants power. He wants it at all costs. His hope of becoming his father’s heir has, it seems, been dashed, but the duchy of Glosstyr is still a crown title