Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

There was no questioning of Ransom’s sudden departure. His men trusted him, and he counted on their obedience and discretion.

They rode all night long, trying to reach Tatton Grange by dawn. Some of the knights’ horses went lame from the punishing pace, so they were down a tithe in men by the time they arrived at the king’s camp. It was midmorning when they rode in, and the looks on everyone’s faces showed grimness and defeat. Some of the knights shook their heads at Ransom with haunted expressions.

“What happened?” muttered one of Ransom’s men.

Ransom dismounted Dappled—whose strength had far outlasted the other mounts—outside the king’s pavilion. Although he was weary from the fighting the previous day and the all-night ride, he immediately marched to the tent and opened it.

The smell of sickness wafted to him at once.

King Benedict lay on a pallet, sweating profusely, his face pale but for the dark smudges under his eyes. The smudges weren’t from lack of sleep. It was dried blood. The sight so viscerally reminded him of the deaths of Benedict’s father and brother that his insides clenched with dread. He glanced at the king’s barber, who knelt by the pallet, and the man gave him a helpless look. “He took a crossbow bolt in the shoulder yesterday,” he said, his voice trembling. “I pulled it out straightaway, but it’s infected. The king said . . . the king said he’s been poisoned.”

Ransom knew it to be true. His stomach shriveled as he knelt by the king’s side, his hand falling to his Raven scabbard as the king’s feverish eyes opened.

“Is that you, Ransom?”

Ransom gripped his hand. “I came. I felt the summons.”

“Sir Gordon? Did he bring you the chest?”

Ransom wrinkled his brow. “I’ve seen no one. No one came.” He looked around the tent and noticed his brother, Marcus, among the few gathered. The look of sadness and agitation on his brother’s face showed they all knew the truth.

The king would soon die.

Ransom didn’t think he could save him. He’d attempted to use the Raven scabbard to heal the Elder King, and it hadn’t worked.

Benedict shut his bloody eyes. “She was here, Ransom,” he croaked. “I saw her piece on the board.”

Ransom knew what that meant. He referred to Lady Alix, the Fountain-blessed poisoner related to both the Argentines and the Vertuses. She’d killed Benedict’s brother and his father, and now she’d given him a death sentence too. A feeling of helplessness and outrage thundered inside Ransom’s heart. If she’d been there, he would have twisted her neck and killed her with his bare hands.

“I’m as weak as a pup,” Benedict said.

Ransom glanced at Marcus. “Did you send for the queen dowager?”

“Aye,” Marcus said. “But it’s days to Kingfountain and back.”

The king squeezed Ransom’s hand, drawing his attention. “I’m dying, Ransom. I’m going to the Deep Fathoms . . . to be with my brother . . . my father.” Benedict’s fevered eyes bore into him.

Ransom swallowed and maintained a firm grip on the king’s hand. “What is your will, my lord?”

Benedict coughed, and there were flecks of blood on his lips. “Estian has my nephew in Pree. He made Constance . . . marry one of his knights. The boy is lost to us, and Brythonica too. My brother is my heir. All of you are witnesses. Jon-Landon will be King of Ceredigion. Swear your loyalty to him. I beg of you. It is my will, my last command as your king.”

Ransom squeezed harder, his stomach twisting with resentment. The other men he’d served—he’d believed in them, however flawed they had been. But Jon-Landon? He didn’t know if he could serve such a man. He unbuckled the scabbard and laid it on Benedict’s chest. The other men gathered wouldn’t understand the significance of the gesture, but none questioned it. Ransom watched the raven sigil, hoping it would start glowing. It did not.

There was nothing else he could do to save the king.

Returning the scabbard to his belt, he bowed his head. The Fountain had made his duty known to him. He was meant to protect the Argentine line, to ensure Jon-Landon’s unborn son rose to the throne. The boy’s descendants would hearken the return of King Andrew’s glory.

“I swear it,” Ransom said firmly, looking Benedict in the eyes.

“I so swear,” said the other knights and lords assembled in the pavilion.

The strength left Benedict’s grip, and his head sagged to one side. “Good,” he sighed. “Send someone to my brother. Tell him to come claim his crown. I want . . . to go into the river, Ransom. Not the palace. Here. Like my father. His curse won in the end.”

Tears filled Ransom’s eyes.

“My lord,” said one of the knights, putting his hand on Ransom’s shoulder. “Who should go tell Jon-Landon? May I?”

Ransom hardly knew the man who’d asked the question. He turned to his brother, Marcus. “Take your knights to Averanche. Tell Jon-Landon his brother is dying and to come at once.”

Marcus nodded and left the tent without a word.

It was the last time Ransom saw his brother alive.





One of Ransom’s knights arrived today. He didn’t bear a written message for fear of it being intercepted by the Occitanians. The king is dead. The Wizr board is lost. It was an ominous message, even more so because ill tidings often come in threes.

—Claire de Murrow, Queen of Legault Connaught Castle





CHAPTER ONE


Wounds of the Heart


It was the third time Ransom had waited for a king to die. Benedict was moved from his tent to the sanctuary of Our Lady at Fountainvault, where he lingered, suffered, and bled. At least Ransom did not hold the vigil alone this time. But he did take a moment to craft a note to Queen Portia, who had never returned to Kingfountain following the truce with the East Kingdoms. And now she never would.

The king’s mother had raced from Kingfountain at breakneck speed and arrived to offer a little comfort. Emiloh sat by his deathbed, gripping his hand and stroking his brow. And then he was gone, his final ragged gasp a whisper of love to his mother before the Deep Fathoms reclaimed him. Ransom did not weep, but his heart weighed heavier than a boulder within his chest. Emiloh wiped her eyes on her velvet sleeve and then lifted the coverlet to cover her son’s face. When she rose from the bed and looked at Ransom, her shoulders were hunched with grief and she looked to have aged ten years since the beginning of the ordeal.

“Would you walk with me, Ransom?” she asked.

He offered his arm and felt her frailty as she touched him. The constant pressure of worry and war had taken a toll on her. For a moment, she looked as if she might faint, and he paused. But she closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose, and then left the chamber with him and ventured into the deconeus’s garden.

“I feel this moment keenly,” Ransom said to her. “I can’t imagine what you are enduring.”

“Grief is an old friend,” she told him. “We’ve long been companions. I will be all right. I’m glad you are here.”

“Where else would I be?” Ransom said. “My duty is here.”

She patted his arm. “There is much to discuss before Jon-Landon arrives. Still no word from Sir Gordon?”

Sir Gordon was the knight to whom Benedict had entrusted the Wizr set. He and the knights who rode with him had vanished.

“It’s been three days,” Ransom sighed. “I thought at first that we might have passed each other in the dark. I sent someone back to Josselin, and he’s already returned with word from Captain Baldwin. Sir Gordon never arrived.”

Emiloh’s lips pursed. “Then we must assume it’s been stolen. Alix must have guessed Bennett would send the Wizr set away after he was attacked. There was probably an ambush waiting for Sir Gordon and his knights. Bennett should have kept the board with him.”