Word of Honor

by Alexa Aston

  “Nay, he is not.” Sir Thomas Felton addressed the prince. “I spent most of my evening with this knight, my lord. Nor is he a fool who would make false accusations.”

  “Geoffrey of Kinwick serves in my household,” Sir Lovel added. “I have never met a man more honest and loyal. His word is to be trusted. If Geoffrey says Barrett of Winterbourne has committed treason, then I stand by him.”

  The Black Prince held out his hand and the guard gave him the map. Edward studied it for a long moment. Then he eyed the men standing around him. Geoffrey knew the prince weighed his next words carefully.

  Barrett shifted nervously on his feet when Edward looked at him and spoke.

  “An innocent man would never disrespect royal blood in such a manner,” Edward said.

  “Compurgation!” Barrett cried. “I demand compurgation.” His eyes wildly scanned the crowd. “As the accused, I can be cleared by the oaths of others. I have many present who will swear to my innocence and deny this outlandish charge.”

  No one came forward.

  “Then trial by battle!” Barrett demanded.

  Oxford pulled the prince aside. Geoffrey stood near enough to overhear their conversation.

  Oxford asked, “Would the map aid the French, sire?”

  Edward nodded grimly. “It’s one you drew up, Oxford. It shows our next lines of attack and where reinforcements would come from. If the French had gained access to the map, it would have proven devastating to our troops.”

  The Black Prince announced, “I will grant this request of trial by battle.” Edward eyed Geoffrey carefully. “As accuser, you, Geoffrey of Kinwick, will do battle against Barrett of Winterbourne.”

  Though Geoffrey had heard of trial by battle, he had no idea what, exactly, it involved. He had never experienced one. His expression must have told the prince as much.

  “I shall preside as judge. We commence at noon.” The prince signaled his guard and then pointed at Barrett. “Confine him until the trial begins.”

  Geoffrey watched as the guard escorted Barrett across the clearing.

  “Come, Geoffrey,” Oxford said. “We need to discuss your duties for tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey followed. And wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  Chapter 2

  Geoffrey stepped to where Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, indicated he stand. The sun blazed high in the sky. Soldiers ringed the field designated for the trial by battle. Four knights of the prince’s royal guard stood at each corner.

  Geoffrey wore a thick, padded jerkin for the contest; it had no sleeves. He held an iron helmet in his left hand and a wooden stave with steel tips in the other. John de Vere told him if the tips broke off to keep attacking with the long pole. He also could fight with his fists and feet—even his teeth if that’s what it took to win.

  As the accuser, Geoffrey must down Barrett of Winterbourne before the stars appeared in the night sky. Considering the fight commenced at noon, he could be in for many hours of brutal conflict.

  If Barrett stood undefeated, he would be declared the winner and acquitted of the charge of treason. His accuser would then be charged with perjury. If Geoffrey won, Barrett would publicly proclaim himself guilty of the crime.

  Most men convicted of treason were sentenced to hang, removed from the noose right before their deaths only to be drawn and quartered. Betrayal of the king was kin to blasphemy under English law; the king having been duly anointed by God to sit on the throne.

  Instead of hanging, noblemen convicted of the same crime suffered what was considered a more dignified death by beheading, their lands forfeited to the Crown. The earl told Geoffrey if Barrett went down in defeat, the Black Prince might choose either method of execution in order to make an example to his troops.

  He’d heard the prince was known for his open mind and fair nature, so he assumed Barrett would lose his head.

  If Geoffrey succeeded.

  He watched as William de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, escorted the accused to the field. Geoffrey’s gaze met Barrett’s for a moment. They’d known each other as neighbors but had never been friends. Geoffrey found all the inhabitants of Winterbourne arrogant and conceited. He was relieved they’d fostered in different households and had little contact over the years.

  Now, hatred shone from his enemy’s eyes as Barrett came to stand next to him. They didn’t speak as they awaited the arrival of their judge.

  Surrounded by his entourage of commanders, Prince Edward finally arrived at the field and stood directly in front of the pair.

  “Do you swear you shall not invoke the aid of demons or evil spirits?” the prince asked.

  “Aye,” Geoffrey and Barrett replied.

  “Do you understand that your pole shall be your only weapon beyond your physical body?”

  “Aye.”

  “Since my father fights now in Scotland, you will engage in combat before me, Edward of Woodstock, known as the Black Prince, eldest son of King Edward III and Philippa of Hainault. I will serve as your judge and render my verdict as to which of you proves to be victorious.”

  They bowed.

  Oxford signaled for them to rise as the prince walked to the dais and seated himself. Both men placed their helmets on their heads and strode to the center of the field hand-in-hand, as required by the rules of trial by battle.

  “You will die this day,” Barrett hissed as they marched forward. “Don’t think I’ll merely down you and quit. I plan to grind my boot into your throat as I drive my pole through your eye. You’ll never see England again or the pretty little wench you are betrothed to. In fact, I think I’ll take her as my bride. I’d enjoy bedding her.”

  Geoffrey struggled to keep his temper in check. But he knew the errant lord tried to rile him.

  “You’ll end this day marked as a traitor,” he replied evenly.

  They reached the middle of the field and separated, going to their respective sides, then faced the prince.

  “As judge of this trial by battle, I declare, you may begin.”

  Geoffrey gripped his pole with both hands and charged his rival at full speed. Barrett did the same.

  Geoffrey had participated in stick fighting as a means of training from the time he served as a page in Sir Lovel’s household. Hours had been devoted to this type of combat. He was comfortable with the weapon—and steadfast in his belief that truth would prevail.

  Their poles clashed.

  He had a couple of inches in height on his opponent, but Barrett was a more seasoned fighter. It would take all Geoffrey’s skill and wits to defeat the treasonous bastard.

  The minutes dragged as Geoffrey slammed his pole constantly into Barrett, smashing it against his enemy’s body. The padded jerkin softened his blows, so Geoffrey began jabbing lower, battering Barrett’s legs. He knocked the pole into his opponent’s unguarded arms, spinning Barrett around.

  Barrett kept his head, though, and soon Geoffrey fended off heavy blows from his adversary. A few times, Geoffrey knocked his enemy to the ground, but Barrett’s quick reflexes allowed him to spring to his feet.

  Several hours passed. Sweat dripped into Geoffrey’s eyes, stinging them. No cheers came from the crowd. Only silence as the men watched the lengthy duel continue. Barrett was the first to move away from strictly using the poles. As they struggled, their sticks locked against each other, their bodies close enough to smell the stench of one another’s sweat. Barrett drew back his foot and kicked Geoffrey hard in the knee.

  Geoffrey fell but kept his pole defensively positioned over his body. As Barrett raised his stick over his head and brought it down, Geoffrey rolled to his side, avoiding the blow.

  Barrett’s stake was buried deep in the ground.

  Geoffrey jumped to his feet as Barrett struggled to free his weapon and thrust the sharp end into his opponent’s side.

  The older knight grunted and lost his balance, dropping his pole as he collapsed from exhaustion. Desperate to recover his weapon, Barrett crawl
ed toward it, but he didn’t reach it in time. Geoffrey rained down a steady stream of crippling blows with his pole that knocked his foe away. Barrett landed on his back. He raised his arms protectively over his face.

  Knowing he could end this now, Geoffrey let honor prevail and rested the sharp end of his weapon above the traitor’s heart, then paused. Despite his strong desire to end the bastard’s life, trial by battle was not intended to end in death.

  Geoffrey looked to the prince, hoping to be declared the winner.

  Oxford had already informed him that the French whore had admitted to being a spy. She confirmed that Barrett had accepted payment for providing a map that showed English and Gascon troop movements, especially the tactics that would be employed once the Duke of Lancaster’s forces arrived and joined the Black Prince to march on King Jean.

  The prince gave Geoffrey an approving nod.

  Geoffrey raised his pole and stepped back when pain shot up his leg. He looked down to see a baselard embedded in his calf. Barrett yanked the knife out. Before he could inflict another stab wound, Geoffrey brought the steel tip to the other man’s unguarded throat.

  “Do it,” Barrett hissed. “Kill me.”

  “I’d rather see you hang for the traitor you are.”

  Suddenly, guards surrounded them. One yanked the dagger from Barrett’s hand. Another gently pushed Geoffrey aside. Two more dragged Barrett to his feet, screaming and cursing as they removed him from the field.

  The prince called Geoffrey over.

  Bleeding and in pain, he limped to his leader.

  “You fought bravely,” the prince praised him. “Unlike your opponent, you are a fair man. I thank you for defeating this traitor, Geoffrey of Kinwick. I won’t forget your courage. You are an honorable knight.”

  The prince leaned over and whispered in the ear of a man in dark robes. Then the stranger approached Geoffrey.

  “Come with me, good sir. I am Ellis, healer to the king. I will cleanse and stitch your wound. We can’t afford to lose good soldiers like you to those who cheat and betray our cause.”

  Geoffrey gladly went with the healer. He wanted the injury cared for quickly since he didn’t want to miss what happened to Barrett.

  Sometime later, after his leg was bandaged, the healer released him. “Stay off it as much as you can. Do you have a horse?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I won’t worry about you marching on it.” Ellis gripped his shoulder. “You were brave to come forward.”

  “I thank you, Ellis.”

  Geoffrey left the healer and spotted Sir Lovel, who slapped him on the back.

  “You made me proud today,” the knight told him. “You fought with tenacity and skill. Come. Let’s make our way to the traitor’s execution.”

  As they walked through the camp, Geoffrey found the number of men present had doubled. That meant the Duke of Lancaster had arrived with the expected reinforcements. Barrett’s father, Lord Berold, had arrived with the duke’s reinforcements. He would witness his son’s execution.

  Geoffrey arrived in time to see Barrett being led to a hastily built platform.

  Fear showed on the guilty man’s face.

  But Geoffrey felt no pity for the criminal. Barrett had betrayed king and country and would suffer a just punishment.

  A hush fell as the Black Prince addressed the crowd. “Barrett of Winterbourne, how do you plead to the charge of treason?”

  No answer came.

  The prince repeated his question and still received no response.

  Edward repeated the query a third time, his face reddening in anger.

  “I will never admit to guilt. Never!” Barrett spit into the dirt, defiance radiating from his features.

  Edward’s murderous glare ended the traitor’s rebellious attitude. Barrett’s body began trembling uncontrollably.

  “I find you guilty as charged, you despicable coward,” the Black Prince declared. “I want your blasted head displayed on a stake. Let every man here witness what happens to a Judas who betrays my father and England.”

  The prince motioned to the knights that detained Barrett. They marched the prisoner to the block and forced him to his knees.

  In the end, the traitor did not go willingly. The guards had to hold him down. The executioner’s ax landed once and Barrett screamed in agony. The second blow silenced him forever. His head rolled from his body, caught in a basket held by a soldier standing guard at the base of the platform.

  The crowd dispersed. As it melted away, Geoffrey sensed someone staring at him. He turned and found Lord Berold.

  “You. You killed my boy.”

  Geoffrey remained firmly in place, his eyes locked on Berold’s. “Your son was a traitor, my lord. Death was the only acceptable punishment.”

  The earl stood silently for a long moment.

  Geoffrey knew no words could comfort this grieving father. He turned to go, but the earl latched on to his arm.

  “You will suffer a punishment harsher than death, Geoffrey de Montfort. Mark my words. I will bring you to your knees. You will beg for a quick death, but you will find no mercy, no relief.”

  Chapter 3

  England—November, 1356

  Merryn finished crushing the small plant with her mortar and pestle and wrapped the pressed leaves in a linen cloth. Lady Elia’s deep chest cough concerned her. Geoffrey’s mother had insisted it wasn’t serious, but Merryn wanted to bring the woman a remedy to vanquish the cough before it turned into something more severe. Elia would need to allow the cress to steep in hot water to extract the herb’s healing flavor and then drink it twice a day over the next sennight.

  Five years ago, she’d promised Geoffrey that she would watch over his parents during his absence, never dreaming they would be separated for so long. Merryn had grown from a child of ten and three into a woman while the war against France dragged on. In constant prayer, she asked the Blessed Lord to keep her beloved safe from harm.

  She missed him more with every passing day. He’d been her confidant for as long as she remembered. Their betrothal had brought happiness to them both. Merryn longed for the day they could live together as husband and wife.

  Recent news from London revealed that the Black Prince had led his troops to victory at Poitiers, demolishing the French army and capturing many prisoners. Even the king of France was now in English custody.

  Merryn hoped it meant a long break in the war. France would need time to raise the ransom asked for their king’s return.

  As she left the room off the kitchen where she prepared and stored her herbs, Merryn headed toward the stables. She’d never understood the point of battle. Why couldn’t the king be happy with what he had instead of spilling blood for land across the sea? England was a vast, beautiful country. Edward should be thankful that he ruled such a bountiful land.

  She knew to keep such thoughts to herself. Women weren’t expected to have an opinion—especially regarding politics. But her curious nature caused her to be interested in the world around her. And with both her father and mother dead and buried, she managed Wellbury as well as any man, despite her youth.

  Merryn longed to see her brother, Hugh, who fought with King Edward in Scotland. She hoped Hugh would return soon and choose a bride. Her brother would make a fine father and husband.

  Wellbury needed children running through its halls again. With Hugh’s return, she could leave the care of their ancestral home in his capable hands and move to Kinwick once she married.

  At the stables, she asked a stable boy to saddle her horse. She mounted Destiny with his assistance and he wished her a good day.

  The early November day proved overcast and damp. Merryn was glad she’d chosen to ride and not walk since rain might fall soon. Her horse galloped across the meadow, taking her favorite shortcut to Kinwick. She spent many hours in this meadow and surrounding forest, gathering herbs and flowers. Merryn had first come here with Sephare, the healer at Wellbury. Sephare had passe
d on her knowledge of herbs and plants to Merryn and taught her which ones could be used to cure various ailments.

  Merryn took the lessons to heart. Her reputation as a knowledgeable healer grew every year.

  She reined in Destiny and came to a halt as she approached Kinwick. The castle’s beauty always moved her. One day she would serve as its mistress. Pride swelled within her. Kinwick and its surrounding lands had some of the best farmland in the south of England. It would be a privilege to live there as a de Montfort.

  Though many betrothed girls moved from their own family homes to live with the family they’d marry into, her father and Lord Ferand decided against that action. Merryn’s mother had died in childbirth when Merryn was three years old. The men thought it best for her to remain at Wellbury during Geoffrey’s absence abroad and use her woman’s touch to help maintain the estate as she grew older.

  The skies darkened. Before Merryn could nudge her horse on, she heard hoof beats approaching in the distance. A rider topped the hill and stopped. She would know him anywhere. His profile. The way he sat on his horse.

  Geoffrey had finally come home.

  Her heart sang as she heeled her mare forward. Destiny took off like the wind, bringing her closer to her beloved.

  “Merryn!”

  She heard her name and watched him gallop toward her. Her heart beat fast. Would he be the same? Would he still care for her? She’d adored him since she was a child. The sweet memory of their kiss had sustained her these past five years.

  They reached one another. He leapt from his saddle as she dropped her reins. Before she could dismount, he grabbed her waist and pulled her from her horse.

  His mouth crashed down on hers, with hunger and longing. In desperate need. Merryn wrapped her arms about his neck. He parted her lips with his tongue and plunged in, his mouth dominating hers, his arms tightening about her.

  Her knees weakened as he left her breathless. Suddenly, he swept her off her feet. His mouth never left hers as he twirled round and round, joy evident on his face.

  Merryn grew dizzy.