Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Gaetan didn’t like that in the least. Camulos may have been a lazy, good-for-nothing dog, but he was nonetheless alert and, at times, had been an excellent warning system. Silently, he lifted a balled fist and immediately, every knight unsheathed his broadsword or at least put a hand to the hilt of their weapon. Up towards the front of their group, Denis de Winter already had l’Espada out, the metal blade gleaming in the weak light.

  They were ready for a fight.

  But Ghislaine was very suspicious about what was going on. The tribes around here were unorganized and rough, but they were cunning in that they used the land to their advantage. The Normans did not; heavily armed, they believed they could withstand anything because of their superior weapons and armor and tactics. They didn’t even try to hide themselves. Perhaps their superiority was true in an open battle, but in covert warfare, it might not be so effective.

  Ghislaine couldn’t stand the thought of Gaetan being cut down because he fought one way while the caro comdenti fought another. He hadn’t seemed to be apt to really listen to her on this journey, instead, relying on his men or on Wellesbourne who, it seemed, hadn’t been home in almost twenty years. Times changed, as did areas and towns in that time. Gaetan and his men were entering this land like warriors on a quest when what they needed to do was be as unobtrusive as possible.

  That arrogance was going to cost them if they weren’t careful.

  The dog was milling around up on the road, sniffing the ground, but he’d stopped barking. He even stopped to look back at the knights behind him, men who had slowed their forward progression considerably. But Ghislaine’s warrior instincts were taking over; she had little doubt that there was someone, or something, waiting for them up in those trees. She could feel it. Men with arrows, perhaps, or axes, both of them sharp projectiles that would come sailing out at the Normans as they passed through. A glance at Gaetan and the others showed that they were ready for a fight, tensed up and prepared. They were waiting for it to come to them.

  But Ghislaine couldn’t wait. Better to draw out what was lying in wait and remove the element of surprise to give the Normans targets to strike at. If there was, indeed, someone waiting in the trees, then it would take away their advantage if she was able to draw them out. And if there was no one waiting… well, she would look like a fool. But it was better than permitting Gaetan and his men to be cut down.

  She had brought them along this road. Perhaps, in a sense, she needed to protect them from it.

  When the dog began barking again, Ghislaine kicked her mare as hard as she could and the horse bolted, tearing up the road and into the collection of trees. She could hear someone shouting behind her, men shouting out her name, but she ignored them. She was about halfway down the shaded path when the arrows suddenly began flying from the trees and she heard men in the foliage, barking like dogs. They were howling and hooting, and an arrow zinged by her head. Gasping with fright, she lay down on the mare, putting her head next to the horse’s neck for protection. More arrows, more barking, and then sounds of a fight behind her.

  And then, an arrow struck her.

  A large yew arrow with a barbed iron head went straight into her right thigh, straight through it, and embedded itself in the mare’s body. Startled by the pain, the mare came to a sudden halt but Ghislaine didn’t fall off because she was pinned to the horse by the arrow. She tried to control the horse with one hand while trying to remove the arrow with the other, but she couldn’t get a good grip on the shaft. Without a weapon, she was vulnerable to the men who were now rushing her from the trees. Terrified that she was about to be captured, she tried to get the mare moving but the horse wasn’t cooperating.

  Her terror was replaced by great surprise when two war horses suddenly appeared and the men who had charged her from the trees were cut down by broadswords that were singing a deadly song as they sailed through the air. The attackers were still barking and Ghislaine caught sight of them, dirty men in leather and loincloths, faces painted with mud and twigs in their hair. Some had iron-head axes and still others had bows and arrows, but even in their greater number they were no match for the Norman knights on horseback.

  Still, it was a battle from the start as Gaetan and his men cut down the savage tribe that ambushed them from the trees. Soon, the road was littered with headless bodies, bloodied limbs, and carnage, but the dog-people didn’t give up. They were tenacious, but so were the knights. There were far more of the dog-people than the Normans and they seemed to come in waves, but the Norman knights handled them easily.

  Meanwhile, Ghislaine and the two knights who had ridden to her aid seemed to be boxed in by a swarm of the dog-men but, in short order, the attackers fell away and someone grabbed hold of her horse’s reins, tearing off down the road to get her out of harm’s way. Ghislaine simply held on to the horse’s neck, in anguish with the arrow still through her thigh.

  She watched the road pass beneath the mare’s feet, praying they would make it to safety as the ground whizzed by and rocks kicked up in her face. Time seemed to have little meaning as they ran, but jostling her leg was sheer agony and with every move the horse made, she struggled not to cry out. But soon enough, the horse came to a halt and hands were reaching out to steady her. Someone pulled her into a sitting position and when she looked around, she saw Gaetan bailing off his horse and rushing to her side along with de Moray, his bloodied sword still drawn. De Moray stood guard to make sure they weren’t attacked again as someone slid onto the back of her horse and held her steady.

  “Easy, my lady.” It was Aramis behind her, bracing her right thigh against his enormous right thigh to keep it steady as Gaetan tried to get a look at what had happened. “We shall remove this quickly, have no fear. Stay still.”

  Ghislaine was in pain, in distress. “I am sorry,” she gasped. “I knew there was someone in those trees, waiting for us, and I thought if I drew them out, they would lose the element of surprise.”

  Gaetan looked up at her, an oddly compassionate expression on his face, something Ghislaine hadn’t seen in days. His focus moved to Aramis, sitting behind her and holding her fast, before returning to the arrow.

  “It was a clever move, little mouse,” Gaetan said as he tried to get a look at the underside of her thigh where the arrow had her pinned. “It was also astonishingly brave. But had you told me your plans, I would have sent an armored man in your stead so we would not find ourselves in the position we do now.”

  He was back to complimenting her and rebuking her in the same breath. “Had I told you my plans, you would have stopped me,” she said frankly. “I took you along this road, de Wolfe. It was my duty to protect you when I sensed danger. You do not know these lands; I do. I know what these people are capable of and I could not… I would not….”

  She trailed off, unable to finish. Gaetan didn’t say anything after that. He had his hand on her leg, which was covered with those leather trousers she liked to wear, even beneath the cotes he had given her. In truth, he didn’t trust himself to speak because he still wasn’t over the shock of seeing her risk her life for him and his men. Never in his life had he met a woman of such bravery, but in that bravery there had been great danger. Now, she had an arrow through her thigh, anchoring her to the horse. He could see that it was embedded fairly deeply and he pushed aside any emotion he was feeling to logically address the injury.

  But it was a struggle.

  “It will cause you more pain if I try to pull it out and I am not entirely sure I can because of the way it is embedded in the mare,” he said, hating the fact that he was starting to feel queasy at the sight of her with an arrow in her. “I am going to break the shaft and then we will lift you off of it.”

  Ghislaine was looking at him steadily, pale-faced, with beads of sweat on her upper lip, but her expression was one of faith. Total faith. Gaetan locked eyes with her and, at that moment, something changed for him. This strong noble woman had been trying to do the right thing since nearly the mo
ment they met. Not including their brief encounter on the battlefield, she had been trying to help men she didn’t even know save their comrade. Her motives weren’t entirely altruistic; she wanted to be rid of a half-brother who had made her life miserable. But more than once, she had gone above the call of duty to help men who were, in theory, her enemy.

  But not anymore.

  At this moment, she had proven herself to him.

  “We need more hands to help, Gate,” Aramis said, his voice tense. “I can lift her up but we must have more hands to steady both her and the leg.”

  Gaetan could see his point. He turned to see de Moray standing behind them, sword in hand and legs braced, prepared for anything that might come charging out at them. Back on the road beneath the canopy of trees, he could see his men on horseback and several bodies on the ground. There was still some fighting going on but, as he watched, Jathan and Luc de Lara came shooting out of the chaos, heading in their direction.

  Jathan and Luc were on them quickly but their rush caused the injured mare to dance about nervously and Ghislaine gasped in pain as Aramis tried to hold both her and the horse steady. Gaetan, too, was trying to keep the mare from moving around as Luc and Jathan rushed up to see her injury.

  “I cannot remove this arrow, as it is embedded in the horse,” Gaetan explained to them, quickly. “It has her pinned. I am going to break the shaft and then we will try to lift her off of it. Luc, get on her other side and prepare to help lift her up on my command. Jathan, find something to stanch the blood flow. We will need to bind the wound.”

  The priest, pale-faced with the rush of battle, went running back to his horse to collect bandages from his saddlebags as Gaetan prepared to break the shaft. He looked up at Aramis to see if the man had Ghislaine properly braced.

  “Do not let her move,” he told Aramis quietly, steadily. “Hold her fast. Luc, help him steady her while I break this.”

  Ghislaine had her head turned away, hearing Gaetan’s words. She had never been more terrified in her life. She was in excruciating pain as she felt hands on her left leg and thigh, holding it still, while Aramis wrapped his enormous arms around her to keep her from bolting once Gaetan jostled the arrow. They’d all had their share of wounds enough to know how painful something like this was, so once Aramis nodded briefly to Gaetan to signal he had a good grip on the lady, Gaetan went quickly to work.

  Grasping the shaft of the arrow just above her thigh, he snapped the shaft in half. As Ghislaine bit off her cries of pain, he took hold of her right leg and, with Aramis shifting his grip and lifting, pulled her leg off the arrow that was still stuck into the side of the horse. Ghislaine screamed in pain as they did so, made worse by the fact that it wasn’t a clean removal; something had her leg stuck to the arrow so the first attempt at removal was only partial. Gaetan had to grasp hold of the underside of the arrow to hold it steady and had his men lift again, this time with de Moray’s help, to pull her right leg completely off of the shaft. Finally, her leg came free.

  Aramis handed her down to Gaetan, who cradled her against his chest as Jathan rushed up with a wad of boiled linen and a bladder of wine that was part of their provisions. As Luc and Marc went to work removing the remainder of the arrow from the poor little mare, Aramis went to assist Gaetan and Jathan in wrapping the lady’s leg. Aramis took a close look at the wound before he let the priest put bandages on it.

  “’Tis a dirty wound, Gate,” he said grimly. “I can see bits of her cote and other debris in it. It must be cleaned.”

  Gaetan shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “We must get her to safety before we clean the wound. Douse it with the wine and wrap it. We must get out of here.”

  Aramis knew that; they all did. He eyed Ghislaine, who was trying very hard to be brave, before taking the wine bladder and dousing the liquid onto the wound. It was the only thing they had to clean it at the moment but the sting of the alcohol had Ghislaine biting off her screams in her hand. It was horrific battlefield medicine. With great haste, Aramis and Jathan then proceeded to bind the leg tightly as the rest of the knights began trickling down the road.

  “How is the lady?” Téo asked, pulling his worn horse to a nervous halt.

  Aramis was binding the leg so tightly that Ghislaine was weeping softly in pain, hand over her face and her head against Gaetan’s shoulder. Gaetan turned to glance at Téo, an expression on his face that suggested he was becoming ill.

  “Injured,” he said simply. “The arrow has been removed but the wound must be tended. We cannot do that here. Has the fighting stopped?”

  Téo nodded. “For the most part,” he said. “St. Hèver and Wellesbourne are dispatching the wounded, but many of those fools ran off. They will return for their dead and we do not want to be here when they come back.”

  “Agreed. Is anyone injured?”

  “Only the lady.”

  Gaetan was relieved, at least in the aspect that none of his men had been wounded. “De Moray!” he barked.

  Marc appeared at his side. “Aye, Gate?”

  “The mare?”

  De Moray turned to look at the little animal as Luc patched up the puncture. “The mare’s wound is deep but it did not puncture anything vital,” he said. “But that was not an arrow from a tree-dweller. It had a heavy iron head on it that had barbs to embed it in whatever it struck. That is why you could not remove it easily.”

  An iron arrowhead with spines in it was a dastardly piece of equipment, designed to maim. “Our tree-dwellers have had some contact with tribes who know how to make weapons to not only kill but to inflict great pain in doing it,” he said ominously. Then, he shifted Ghislaine in Marc’s direction. “Now that we know that, we will be more careful bringing an army into this land. Here, take the lady while I gather my horse. You will take charge of the mare.”

  De Moray gently took Ghislaine from Gaetan, holding her in his big arms as Gaetan went for his war horse and Aramis finished binding the leg. By the time de Russe was finished with the dressing, all of the knights had joined them, all of them greatly concerned for the lady who had taken the arrow to her leg. As they jockeyed for position to see the extent of the damage, Gaetan vaulted onto his war horse and rode alongside de Moray, extending his arms for the lady. When she was carefully handed up to him, he settled her across his big thighs and gathered his reins, digging his spurs into the sides of his animal and tearing off down the road as his men followed closely.

  At breakneck speed, the knights made their way to the safety of Evesham Abbey.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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  That Dark Sky

  Tavern of the White Feather

  Bicester

  It could have been worse.

  That’s the way Kristoph looked at the situation with his finger. It was healing very well thanks to the wine he soaked it in almost every night, given to him by the same man who had been giving him food and drink this entire time. At night, wherever he was chained – usually on the wagon and with the livestock – the soldier would bring him food and sit next to him. For the first few nights, the man didn’t say a thing, especially after the episode that saw Kristoph lose the tip of his finger, but a couple of days ago, the man actually began to speak to him.

  At first, it was small talk, but last night, it was an entire story about daughters he had lost to the Danes. Mostig was the man’s name and Kristoph listened to the man tell a horrific story about watching his daughters’ abduction and his home going up in flames. Injured, sick, he’d wandered until he’d been found by Edwin of Mercia’s people, who took him in and sheltered him in exchange for his service as a soldier.

  Mostig didn’t mention how he came into the service of Alary and Kristoph didn’t ask. In fact, Kristoph didn’t ask anything because he didn’t want his curiosity to get back to Alary. The less antagonizing the man, the better. Kristoph didn’t want to lose another finger.

  It was a misty night in the village of Bicester, a densely-populated berg w
ith poorly constructed homes crowded in around each other and torches burning near the town square in a vain attempt to stave off the darkness. The mist was creating a wet coating on everything but the torches had been soaked in fat, which meant more heavy black smoke than flame was pouring from them on this night. It was a very dark night, in fact, with the moon obscured by the clouds. All was eerily quiet and still as the residents of the town huddled behind their locked doors, preparing for sleep.

  Kristoph sat on a bed of old straw beneath the wagon, watching the night beyond the livery yard where Alary had stabled his horses for the night. There was a tavern across the street, simply called The White Feather from the sign scratched above the doorway, and he’d seen Alary disappear inside when they’d arrived in town earlier that evening.

  Kristoph was expecting his soldier friend to come out of the tavern at some point to give him something to eat but the man hadn’t made an appearance yet, so he sat beneath the wagon and watched the mist fall, his thoughts wandering to his wife and daughter as they so often did these days. Hardly an hour went by that he wasn’t thinking of Adalie and their daughter, Chloe.

  It was the only thing that kept him strong enough to stay alive.

  Kristoph glanced at his left hand, his long and strong fingers beneath the weak light. The little finger was the one that Alary had cut and he’d been mercifully unconscious when it had happened so he never felt a thing. He’d awoken to a bandaged hand and a little finger that had the top knuckle removed. It really wasn’t all that bad as far as amputations went; it could have been the whole hand and he wouldn’t have known until it was too late, so he was grateful for small mercies.

  Still, he wasn’t feeling so merciful towards his captor.

  He tried not to think of Alary at all, a man who kept him heavily chained at all hours of the day and night. Alary might have been an arrogant arse with delusions of grandeur, but he wasn’t a fool. He guessed that his captive would try to escape so he kept him tightly bound, always secured to something that was heavier than he was so he couldn’t easily run off. Even now, as Kristoph tested the chains that were secured to the axel of the wagon because testing the anchor of his chains had become a habit, he heard the door to the tavern open.