With his back against the wall, he breathed out slowly, trying to calm himself. The Brugian knights were taking his road after all. And he was totally alone. He held up a hand soothingly to Gemmell, lest the horse betray their position with an ill-timed snort. The knights were trying to tread carefully, but it felt like a crowd. He heard a few snickers, the garbled tongue of their people as they bantered with one another. He recognized a few of the words, but James had always been better at languages.
He was supposed to raise the alarm—something that would, in this case, ensure his death. But if he did nothing, they would hit Lord Kinghorn’s knights by surprise. He blinked, trying to tame his rampaging thoughts. One of the knights might search the barn anyway and discover him cowering by the window. That wouldn’t do. He steadied himself, trying to quell the rising panic. He was part of Lord Kinghorn’s mesnie, wasn’t he? He’d been knighted. He owed loyalty to his lord, no matter what the personal consequences.
Ransom quickly went to Gemmell, grabbing and donning his helmet, and then stepped up on a chopping block he’d used to dismount. Gemmell nickered in anticipation, sensing his master’s change in mood. He had no lances, so he unsheathed his sword and gripped it tightly in one hand. He could hear the tromp of knights outside the barn, heading toward Menonval. Ransom licked his lips, casting a thought toward Claire de Murrow, realizing he’d never see her again. He pictured the curious coloring of her hair, the slightly mocking smile on her youthful face.
A strange feeling rippled through his soul. Then he heard the distant churn of the waterfall of Kingfountain. He pictured King Gervase’s body, stiff and gray, hefted in a canoe atop a row of staves. He thought of Sir William, who had been part of the guard who had honored the dead king. No one would be there for Ransom. He’d be buried near a barn.
But he would die in pursuit of his duty. There was honor in that.
Clenching his teeth, he raised the visor of his helmet and nudged Gemmell to the door. For an instant, the world went still. He felt and heard his own heartbeat. As his steed reached the open door of the barn, he saw the Brugian knights spread out before him, blocking the road and stretching far into the distance. A knight pointed an arm at him. Someone shouted in warning.
“Attack!” Ransom screamed, hoisting his sword into the air as if he were leading an army himself. “Attack! Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!”
He slammed his visor down and kicked Gemmell hard, leaning forward in the saddle as his steed burst forward. He was on the enemy knights in a moment, clashing swords with the first of them. Gemmell shrieked in the fury of battle, hooves flailing. The rushing noise of the falls filled Ransom’s ears as he toppled one man off his charger. Then another. Whipping around, he screamed the battle cry again, brandishing his blade. Some of the knights had turned and started to ride away. Others converged on him. Ransom fought like a madman, butting into his foes with his knees. He felt steel blades hammer against his back, his arms. Still he fought, lashing out at anyone within reach, slicing through greaves, striking with the butt of his bastard sword, using Gemmell as a weapon too. He saw Gemmell take a bite out of another horse.
Thunder rumbled. Ransom thought that strange since the sky was so blue. He clashed with another knight, disarming him in a single blow, and the man kicked out of his stirrups and leaped off his horse, scrambling in the dust to get away. A blow struck the back of Ransom’s helmet, hard enough that it should have dazed him. It didn’t. He turned and caught another attack, blocking it with his blade.
And then he saw Lord Kinghorn riding toward him at a full gallop, surrounded by the knights of Averanche. The thunder he heard wasn’t from the sky, it was from the hooves of his companions. Ransom felt a spark of hope. Maybe he wouldn’t die this day after all. A burly knight bore down on him. The man looked strong, and he wielded his weapon well, but Ransom felt no fear. He thrust his blade into the man’s helmet.
“Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!” called the others as they descended like eagles to strike their prey. The Brugians broke ranks and fled.
The constable of Westmarch was a knight named Dyron Rakestraw. He had been a knight of Devon Argentine’s mesnie for many years and many seasons. Although Lord Kinghorn was older, the constable outranked him, and now that he and his men had arrived, he was in command. He had also summoned both Lord Kinghorn and Ransom to call upon him, a fact that made Ransom feel both anxious and excited as the two stood opposite the constable’s command tent. The guards posted outside it opened the door and bid them enter. As they did so, Ransom took in the well-lit interior of the tent, which had luxurious fur rugs and a hefty camp cot for its occupant.