Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Jeff Wheeler



There is a storm at sea, which has prevented us from leaving Glosstyr. Every time I see clouds in the morning, I long to curse the Aos Sí for whatever conflict beneath the waves has caused such a commotion in the water. Ransom is more patient than I. He rises with the sun every morning to practice in the training yard. He works so hard all the day long as he seeks to learn how to be a duke of the realm. His fear of failure drives him to spend hours poring over records, reading missives—even the ones I’ve already gone through and answered. He wants to know the why of things. I’ve enjoyed teaching him.

Emi has stayed with us here in Glosstyr. She didn’t return to Kingfountain with King Benedict or his council, and that is because he has given her his most important charge: to find him a wife to be his queen and rule Ceredigion with him. He told her that he trusts her judgment, her wisdom, and her canny sense of politics to find someone suitable. She has chosen to seek an alliance with Genevar, and thus she waits for the seas to calm before she voyages west. She will stop in the Vexin on the way now that she is its duchess once more. In all honesty, I’m grateful she has been delayed. She’s been my closest friend and confidante for years, and the separation from her will be painful. Thankfully, I have Ransom to fill that void.

I’m grateful to him. For him. I had lost hope that we would be together, but he has always brought hope back to me. And yet, he is so quiet. So reserved. He’s still hurting from the death of the Elder King. Whatever happened, at the end, he’s kept to himself. He carries a wounded heart. I hope I shall be able to heal it.

—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr

(watching the ships from the window)





PROLOGUE


Master of the Wood, Keeper of the Gradalis

The call of a seabird came in through the open window, rousing Ransom from a fitful sleep. He opened his eyes, confused by the smell of the salty sea air. In his dream, he’d been back at Tatton Grange, enduring the scent of sick and sweat in a stuffy bedchamber, curtains shut, as King Devon lay dying from poison. The horror of that scene had chained him to the nightmare, and once again he was a knight about to lose his master, worried about a possible future in exile, listening to the morbid groans of a dying man.

Ransom sat up in bed, breathing hard, trying to shake off the lingering feelings the dream had evoked. The sun was rising in the east, early still, for it was late spring, and light glowed through the silk curtains hanging on the windows on that side of the room. On the other side of the chamber, the window was open, and he could hear the surf crashing against the shore. He loved falling asleep to that sound each night.

Looking next to him, he saw Claire fast asleep still, and his heart ached with a feeling of joy as well as the fear that this might be the dream and not the other scene. Her beautiful hair was nested against the pillow. Bending down, he gently kissed her shoulder, not wanting to awaken her. She murmured in her sleep, shifting slightly, and then the faint whistle of her breath resumed. His heart nearly burst with feelings of tenderness and gratitude. She was his wife, his duchess, and soon—so very soon—his new queen.

Ransom eased himself off the bed, moving carefully and quietly. He dressed in his breeches and a tunic, then tugged on boots and belted the Raven scabbard holding his bastard sword around his waist.

As he dressed, a feeling of danger, of warning, began to bubble inside his chest. He walked to the window, staring out at the seabound horizon. Not a cloud in the sky anymore. The storm had finally moved on. He glanced at the ships docked in the harbor, ships from the Vexin, a few from Brythonica, and the vessel waiting to bear him and Claire to Legault, where they would reclaim the title that was Claire’s birthright.

All looked well, but something felt wrong. It twisted inside his stomach, making the peace he’d felt upon seeing Claire sleeping beside him vanish. He did not sense the presence of Lady Alix, the poisoner who served King Estian of Occitania. This was something else, a preternatural warning unanchored to any specific object or person. Was it from the Fountain?

Ransom left the room and walked down the hall. The servants were already hurrying about, preparing for the day. Although nothing seemed unusual or out of order, the strange feeling did not lift.

When he reached the training yard at the castle, he noticed Guivret sparring against one of the other knights. Each wore a hauberk, bracers, and a helmet. Others were practicing beyond them, some doing drills, some dueling with each other. A few were even preparing their horses to practice lance work, something they accomplished by hitting a wooden target fixed with a counterweight.

Ransom’s mesnie had grown considerably since King Benedict had made him Duke of Glosstyr. Almost all the Elder King’s household knights had asked to join his mesnie—men like Sir Harrold, Sir Axien, and Sir Thatcher. But others had come too, seeking the favor of the man who had overnight become the most powerful lord of Ceredigion. He had more than enough income to pay for their service, but he did not allow the knights of his mesnie to lay abed and dream. Discipline was his expectation, for them and for him.

When Guivret saw him arrive, he stopped his duel with the other knight and joined Ransom as he approached a table to the side of the yard that held pieces of armor and weapons. Ransom put on a hauberk, and Guivret helped him buckle on a pair of bracers.

“May we fight, Lord Ransom?” the young knight asked. He had become Ransom’s squire after the death of his former master, Sir Terencourt of Brythonica.

“Just the two of us?” Ransom queried.

“Yes, my lord. I think I’m going to win today.”

“You expect so? A knight should be more humble.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

Ransom could hear the smile, although he couldn’t see it through Guivret’s helmet visor. He picked up his own helmet and put it on; then he and Guivret made their way to an open corner of the training yard. They drew their bastard swords and faced each other.

Ransom admired the lad’s pluck, but the nagging feeling in his chest had doubled. What was causing his unease? He glanced around the training yard, but all appeared as it should. With his Fountain magic, he sensed Guivret was about to attack him and raised his blade as the younger man lunged.

As their weapons clashed, a peal of thunder boomed over the cloudless blue sky. It was so loud, Ransom backstepped, swinging up his visor, his sword arm going down. Had lightning struck the castle? He looked up at the sky but found nothing to warrant such a sound. Not a single wisp of white lay above. A quick glance revealed the other knights were still going about their business, practicing alone or fighting. As if nothing had happened.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” Guivret asked, lowering his weapon.

“Did you hear that?” Ransom asked him.

“Hear what?” Guivret also raised his visor, a look of confusion now evident on his face.

“Thunder,” Ransom said, turning around in a circle.

Recognition dawned in Guivret’s eyes. “Get ready, my lord,” he said. “Prepare yourself.”

“What is happening?” Ransom whispered, feeling a strange nausea in his stomach. Wind began to kick through the courtyard, swirling fallen leaves and debris. It whistled past the stones.

“I should have warned you about the summons,” Guivret replied sheepishly. “Here, let’s go over there, where we’re less likely to be seen.”