Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,29

to be given away. Jon-Landon wants it. But I don’t want him. Oh how it galls him that his father cannot order me to accept him. Well, he has tried to do just that, but I have a voice and I have a will and I will not be bound to such a tick-bitten dog. Jon-Landon wants to threaten me. I can see it in his eyes, yet he’s not that foolish.

The only news he had of the battle was that the Elder King had been pressing the flesh of Estian, jabbing a bruise that was already painful. Both sides lost a lot of good men. Still no word about or from Ransom. So I don’t know whether I should weep for joy, relief, or misery.

—Claire de Murrow, Queen in Her Own Right

(from forsaken Legault)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Temptation

With some food in his belly and a fresh tunic, Ransom walked to the king’s tent, only to find that he had already gone south with Benedict. Ransom fetched Dappled and rode hard after them. Peasants were gathering the remains of the dead, and the cheery banter of the folk contrasted strangely with the solemnity of the moment.

Ransom knew the road, for he had ridden it before. It led to Pree. He passed soldiers marching with spears and halberds, heading to catch up with their king before dark. The faces he saw were grim and determined. There was no fear in their eyes, only a strong drive for vengeance. The king’s rhetoric before the battle had worked well—the hackles of Ceredigion had been raised. A mood to conquer pervaded the air. He passed the front ranks and rode ahead alone, wondering how far the king had ridden.

His answer came as some knights barred the road ahead. He sensed them before he saw them in the shadows, and he reined in, hand going to his sword.

“Who are you?” one of them asked.

The king’s voice erupted from the shadows clinging beneath some yew trees. “It’s Sir Ransom, you dolt. Let him through.”

The knights parted, and Ransom passed between them, earning nods from both men. Their armor was battered and blood-spattered. Both had seen hard fighting that day.

The king was in his full armor as well, a chain hood on his head with the hollow crown resting atop it. Benedict rode next to his father on one side and Lord Kinghorn on the other. A few other knights lingered in the shadows. Ransom sensed them all, and now that he was back in the presence of the king, of the man to whom he’d sworn an oath, he felt the trickle of energy flowing back into him.

“Look at you,” said the king. “All that fuss and nonsense over a few scrapes. They almost had me believing you were ready for a boat and a trip down the falls to greet the Deep Fathoms.”

“I feel much better,” Ransom said, trying not to smile.

Benedict eyed Ransom with a look teetering between jealousy and awe.

“Indeed you should,” the king said. “We defeated Estian’s army, but he wriggled out of the net like a slippery fish. Now he’s nearly back in Pree.”

“Where are Duke Ashel and Duke Rainor?” Ransom asked, noticing that neither of them were present.

“I sent Ashel westward with his army. No one is opposing us. He’s to wait at the border of Bayree for orders. And Rainor took a nasty blow during the fighting. He’s in his tent back at the camp. But we have all the leaders we need right now.” He glanced at his son and gave him a proud smile.

Benedict nodded solemnly.

“It will take time to bury the dead,” Lord Bryon said.

“Let the dead bury the dead,” the king snapped. “No, we’re going to Pree.”

Lord Bryon frowned in concern. “We don’t have siege engines. There is no way we can conquer that city without them.”

“I know that, Bryon. Estian knows it too. He’s no fool. But if our army is camped outside his walls, it limits his options. I’m not leaving Occitania without getting what I want. And I want the duchy of Bayree. Its duke is dead—he no longer needs it. I want it and payment for the widows and fatherless we’ve gained in this skirmish.”

Benedict gasped. “You’re going to ask him to pay you to leave? If he summons the rest of his forces, we’ll have no choice but to flee!”

“I am not leaving without taking something that will hurt him,” said the king with an intensity bordering on madness. “I’m weary of this