“Onward!” shouted Lord Rakestraw. “In the queen’s name!”
The constable led the charge. The destriers snorted and plunged their hooves into the dirt. Ransom gritted his teeth as Manhault surged forward in the second row. He felt the lapping waters inside his chest, heard the noise of the falls in his ears. As one, the eight warriors of Westmarch charged against the larger host. Ransom’s fear left him. He stared at the front row of enemies, wondering which knight he’d face first.
The two groups collided. Ransom saw the tip of a lance come through Lord Rakestraw’s back as it hoisted him off his horse. He blinked in shock, unable to believe it. A man of the constable’s rank would be worth a hefty ransom. Who in their right mind would kill him straightaway?
That’s when he realized that they were all dead men.
I’m sick inside. Ransom is gone, and no one knows what has become of him.
I sought him out the morning of the tournament, hoping to spend a little time with him, but his tent was empty. His page said he went out for a morning ride with a fellow knight and never returned. When there was still no word of him by nightfall, I asked Sir James to come to our camp and demanded to know what he’d done. He looked confused, the rogue, and claimed he’d not seen Ransom since meeting him at our tent. Although he promised to have his men search for Ransom. I’d much sooner trust the knights of Glosstyr.
Da thinks I’m being foolish, but something is very wrong. Maybe someone doesn’t want him competing in the tournament, afraid he will win the day. If that’s all it is, I can abide such a disappointment. But if he’s been wounded or killed because of this, I won’t be able to bear it. What are these feelings? Why am I so anxious to see him well? It’s probably nothing. But my heart whispers he has fallen into great danger.
—Claire de Murrow
Chessy Field, Kingdom of Occitania
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fountain-Blessed
Ransom lowered his lance into place as the sounds of battle flooded his ears—the terror of colliding horses, the grunts of angry warriors, the strife of steel, and the splintering cracks of the lances. His own lance found a target and unhorsed an enemy knight. The man was flung from his saddle and landed with back-breaking force, but Ransom’s triumph was short-lived as another knight aimed for him. He tried to swivel his lance to engage on the other side, but the lance was already coming, too hard and fast to be avoided.
Ransom felt a gut-wrenching dread that he would be impaled like Lord Rakestraw. He leaned in his saddle to dodge the thrust, but the knight had aimed poorly, and the lance struck Ransom’s destrier instead. He felt the shudder of muscle between his legs as the horse took the full brunt of the charge. It was a death blow.
He knew what happened to the riders of horses who were killed.
Manhault shrieked in agony and reared up, which hoisted the enemy knight out of his saddle since he was still holding fast to the lance. Ransom pulled his leg free of the stirrup, feeling his world tilt as his destrier tumbled, blood gushing from the beast’s muscled chest. Ransom felt himself falling and tried to leap free. He grimaced in anticipation, half expecting the beast to fall on him and snap his bones, but it didn’t happen. Ransom managed to land on his feet, but he was buffeted by another horse charging through the wreck of men.
He stood amidst a nightmare. Swords banged on armor, and men fell all around him. To save his own life, he quickly drew his bastard sword from the scabbard at his belt and spun around. He saw the glint of dirtied armor and knew the man as an enemy since none of Lord Rakestraw’s men had donned a full suit. The knight was clashing with Sir William, sword to sword, when Ransom found an opening and struck him from behind. The knight gurgled in pain, clutching his side before he slumped off the saddle. William, surprised at the sudden victory, looked down and saw Ransom there.
“Behind you!” William shouted.
Ransom whirled as a knight charged at him, lance lowered. He deflected the tip of the lance, spun around, and slashed the man’s destrier as he tried to ride past. His aim was true, and he severely injured the beast.
It was a maelstrom of chaos, but Lord Rakestraw’s final order had been burned into his mind. Protect the road. Save the queen from capture. Ransom fought from his feet, lunging from knight to knight through the commotion, but he felt no fear. An enemy knight charged at him on foot, armor begrimed with blood and dust. Without his own confining armor, Ransom had to be faster. Returning blow for blow, Ransom hammered against his opponent, driving him back until the knight tripped over a dead horse and sprawled backward, opening himself up for a death blow from Ransom’s sword.