Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(2)

“B-but I have Barton’s son,” Gervase said, his voice suddenly strangled with emotion. “I have his little brat as a hostage.”

The look in Gilbert’s eyes was cold. “I know, my lord. Which leaves you with one choice: you must kill the cub to tame the bear. John Barton clearly doesn’t believe you will execute his son. You must prove him wrong. If you don’t, you will lose every bit of leverage you have with the other hostages. You think Archer will still stand by you? He dotes on his daughter, but he’s not afraid of you. None of them are. Because they don’t think you have the spleen to do the hard thing. Prove them wrong, my lord. Or give that empty crown to Devon now and save us more needless bloodshed.”

Gervase saw the palms on the table turn into quivering fists, saw the knuckles bleach white with the strain. Lord Gilbert had no soul left. This civil war had destroyed not only the morale of the men—it had destroyed the men themselves. No one was faithful. Everyone wanted to see him fall. He shut his eyes, unable to bear the accusing look coming from the other man, his distant cousin, who had lost sons of his own in the conflict.

“You have to,” Gilbert said dispassionately.

The words echoed within the clanging noise of his brutal headache. Gervase Hastings, King of Ceredigion. He’d loved the sound of it twenty years ago. Now it was a curse. He should have let someone else claw after the prize. Even with his eyes closed, he felt his eyelid twitching still.

So be it. His enemies thought he was weak. He had to prove them wrong. The thought of that innocent boy’s face came into his mind amidst the hammer strokes. When Gervase had brought the boy, Marshall, to Kingfountain, the child had held his hand as they walked the main corridor of the castle, something children did out of a natural instinct of trust. The memory of that touch plunged a knife of despair into his heart. A little groan almost came out, but he stifled it, knowing it would further unman him in Gilbert’s eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Gilbert said evenly, his voice like chunks of ice from Dundrennan, that distant stronghold Atabyrion still held. It should be part of Ceredigion, but he hadn’t the strength to win it back. “What are your orders?”

Gervase opened his bloodshot eyes, lifting lids that felt swollen. A dull pain sizzled in his abdomen, and his heart clenched with dread. He glared at Gilbert. “What does Barton call that castle again, the Heath?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“We leave at dawn for the Heath. Send the trebuchets tonight and my riders to protect them. When they get there, tell them to start building a gallows within sight of the walls. We’ll hang the boy first. Then the sire.”

He picked up his goblet of tepid wine and nearly choked trying to get his next sip down. Gervase knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. He might never sleep again if he followed through with the plan.



A cheer went up from the men as King Gervase of Ceredigion rode up to the war camp encircling the cursed keep. It was nearly midnight, but he hadn’t wanted to stop along the way. The Heath lay due west of Kingfountain, although not far enough west to be in the borderlands, where he’d fought so many battles—of will and of might—with both Occitania and his rival for the throne. He was saddle sore from the ride and grateful to see his people had already put up the royal pavilion for him. The banner of House Hastings hung limp from a pole in the central spoke of the tent. Limp, how fitting. Wherever Devon was camped that night, there was probably a little breeze to rustle his standard. Curse him.

The knights of Gervase’s mesnie dismounted and began preparing for his arrival in the tent. Squires tended the horses. Gervase loved his mesnie, these men who had fought with him and for him for so many years. Yet the sight of some of the younger faces brought back painful memories of those who had died. How many from his original mesnie were left—five or six? His brain felt like bread pudding. He couldn’t think straight. Although he mourned the loss of those who had come before, these knights were young and ambitious. They’d tied their hopes to him, for a lord owed his mesnie rewards for their faithful service. Some had defected to the Argentine brat, but those who had stayed were loyal. Tried and trusted. He cared for them as if they were his own sons.

After dismounting, he limped toward his tent, tugging off his gauntlets as he went. Of course he’d ridden to the Heath fully armored. Even though his men offered him protection, he couldn’t risk an ambush or a Gaultic archer skulking in the woods with a longbow, just waiting for an opportunity. Gervase didn’t have the manpower to rid the woods of bandits and thieves. Every boy age fifteen or more was fighting on one side or the other. He caught a glimpse of Marshall Barton as he approached his pavilion and quickly went inside.

Lord Gilbert was there, wearing a hauberk and gloves but no battle armor. As a couple of knights hastened to remove Gervase’s armor, he grunted and looked to Gilbert. “Did Barton do anything when he saw the siege engines coming?”

Gilbert pursed his lips and shrugged. He folded his arms, looking at one of the burning lanterns. “His men saw us building the gallows today. It’s right in front of the camp, my lord. He thinks you’re bluffing. He’s not sent a single word.”

From the way he said it, it was clear Gilbert thought so too.

The buckles were undone one by one and the straps loosened, helping Gervase breathe properly again. He was getting too old for this nonsense, even though he was only in his fifties. The ache in his chest was worrisome.