Epic Knights of Legend and Steel

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

T hey had her trapped.

The bastards! She wasn’t going to give up without a fight and she certainly had no intention of surrendering easily to Saesneg scum. They had come out of the trees, shrouded by the early dawn, blending in with the shadows until it had been too late to escape them. The ap Gaerwen party had tried, of course, but they had been quickly caught.

She had been riding her palfrey, a sturdy mare with long legs and a smooth gait, when they had neared the River Avon and the forest around them had come alive with men. At first, she hadn’t realized what was going on because the screeching the men were doing sounded much like birds. Being that it was early morning, she simply thought it was the birds awakening. She soon found out differently when the men around her, her father’s personal guard, went into a defensive stance and a dozen or so men rushed out at them from the safety of the shadows. Given the fact that it was barely light from the rising of the sun, it was difficult to see their accosters and the chaos was instant.

Her horse had bolted and she had tumbled off, surprisingly landing on her feet as the mare fled. But she was without a weapon, or any kind of protection, and she could hear her father calling her name. She shouted in return, answering him, as she struggled to locate the man as the mass of men deteriorated into a fighting, swarming group. Fear consumed her but it did not overwhelm her. All she could think of was finding her father and making their way to safety, wherever that safety might be.

So she pushed her way through the writhing throng, falling to her knees at one point to avoid being struck by an axe. She could see the thing glinting wickedly in the weak morning light and she had no desire to fall victim to its destruction. Crawling through the shuffling legs of men who were fighting for their lives, she was kicked more than once, and a man even tripped over her, but she kept crawling onward, struggling to reach her father who was still calling to her.

“Jeniver!” she could hear the man bellow. “Jeni, to me! ”

Lady Jeniver Tacey ferch Gaerwen was trying. Dear God, she was trying, but dozens of pairs of legs prevented her from gaining much ground. Someone stepped on her hand and she yelped in pain, slowing her progress. After she was kicked for a fourth time, this time in the back, she knew she had to get clear of the fighting. She had to get free and make her way to her father.

The fear she had kept admirably suppressed began to rise when a man grabbed her leg as she crawled through the mass. He yanked hard and, startled, Jeniver found herself on her back, looking up into a figure she did not recognize. He reached down to grab her and, terrified, she kicked at him as hard as she could, catching him in the neck as he bent over to grab her. The man staggered back, hands at his throat, as she scrambled onto her hands and legs and moved as fast as she could, clawing her way out of the fighting.

As she struggled to her feet, anxiously searching for any sign of her father, her gaze inevitably came to rest on the wagon that had been carrying all of their valuables from their trip to Paris, including a puppy her father had bought her. The little beast was called a bandogge and they had purchased it from a woman who bred the dogs. The parents were absolutely massive, black, with huge heads and heavy bodies. Jeniver’s father had purchased it for his daughter for protection, but Jeniver simply loved the puppy, protection or no. She was rather soft when it came to animals in general. Even now, her attention was diverted from the search for her father as she thought of the helpless puppy in his crate in the wagon. She didn’t want anything to happen to it.

So she began to run, running around men who were fighting, running away from men who reached out to grab her. The wagon was being fought over most ferociously as she ran to it, pushing through men who were clamoring for it, managing to launch herself onto the wagon bed in the hunt for her puppy. She could see its crate shoved up under the wagon bench. It was slightly askew but it didn’t look as if anyone had made an honest grab for it. Pushing her way between her father’s men, who were fighting to keep the attackers off the wagon, she snaked underneath the wagon bench and grasped the crate.

The puppy’s big, black face was the first thing she saw through the wooden slats of the crate. She was very close to the cage, close enough so that when the puppy began licking, he licked her right on the nose. She grasped the cage, holding it fast as fighting went on over and around her, and the puppy continued licking her face furiously.

It seemed to be safer beneath the wagon bench and she held tight to her puppy’s cage, watching her father’s teulu , or personal guard, fight off the bandits who seemed intent on robbing them of the contents in the wagon bed. It was a bad fight, vicious, with her father’s teulu and their spears and short blades against men who bore crossbows and longer-bladed swords. Not big, heavy broadswords like Saesneg knights used, but effective blades nonetheless. In her hiding place beneath the bench, she could see a good deal. And she could see men falling, bloodied, into the dewy morning grass.

Jeniver had no idea where to go for help. They had camped for the night not a half hour from where they now did battle, a quiet camp that had folded up well before dawn as they made their way home from what had been a memorable and wonderful trip. She knew that there was a big, fortified manor about an hour’s ride to the east because they had passed it on their travels. She had also heard her father speak of a mighty castle to the north, Isenhall he had called it, but she’d not caught sight of it in the rather flat lands of Warwickshire upon which they were traveling.

But a castle would have soldiers. She thought perhaps to try and get her horse to make a run for the castle but she wouldn’t leave the puppy behind. As foolish as it sounded, she was terrified the bandits would kill it and eat it, and that fear compromised her own safety. There was also a town to the south of them. They could see the smoke rising from it in the pre-dawn hours. She could have made an attempt to make it to the town for help, but there was no guarantee the villagers would do anything to assist them. People were apt not to get involved in a violent situation unless, of course, they were trained for battle or there was something in it for them. The town’s folk, English at that, would more than likely ignore her.

Therefore, she was back to thoughts of the castle. Warriors were there, men with weapons who would help them fend off the bandits. At least, she hoped so because the fight was dragging on and she was terrified that, at some point, she would be pulled into it or spirited away as a prize. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She had to do something.

So she lay there, waiting for the opportunity to move. The wagon was in the heart of the fighting and men were crawling all over it, weapon in hand. She lay there for quite some time, tucked up underneath the wagon bench and hoping for a window of opportunity to run. At one point, the wagon driver was brutally stabbed right in front of her and she watched the man fall to his knees with a big dirk in his chest. The attacker ripped the dagger free and kicked the man over, where he lay upon the slats of the flatbed wagon and bled profusely.

Having nothing to help the man with other than her cloak, gloves, and scarf, Jeniver yanked the woolen scarf off her neck and tugged on the driver’s arm, pulling him in her direction as she tried to apply pressure with her heavy scarf. Men were in the cart now, grabbing at things, including her, so she was forced to let the wagon driver go in order to slap away the hands that were grasping at her. They had her cornered but she wouldn’t let the bastards get her. Not while there was breath left in her body.

Trapped!

Jeniver fought and kicked at the hands grabbing at her. Now, there were more than just a few. There were several, reaching around the wagon from all sides. Someone grabbed her hair, dark strands the color of a raven’s wing, and she screamed because it bloody well hurt. Clutching the puppy’s cage with one hand and fighting off the bandits with the other, she screamed again when someone grabbed her leg and pulled hard, nearly yanking her out from underneath the bench. Jeniver clawed at the wood, breaking her fingernails and driving splinters into her fingers as she resisted. She would not let them have her!

Somehow, she managed to scoot back underneath the wagon bench, back to the puppy who had no idea what was going on around it. All it knew was that Jeniver’s face was next to the crate once more and little puppy paws came out from between the slats, trying to touch her. But Jeniver didn’t notice. She was utterly terrified. She couldn’t see her father and it seemed as if no one was trying to help her. She felt very alone, wondering if she was about to meet her fate here on the flat fields of England. Grief swept her.

But that grief quickly turned to wild curiosity when one of the men grabbing at her suddenly screamed and fell away. She could hear the sing-song swish of a weapon of some kind over her head where she couldn’t see anything, but suddenly another man fell away and she caught sight of a very big knight astride a big, hairy charger. The sing-song swish was coming from the broadsword as it sailed overhead. Help had unexpectedly arrived.

A knight! Her mind screamed. Then, there were two knights in her field of vision, both of them going after the bandits with a vengeance. Men were falling back but they weren’t leaving completely. They were regrouping as they continued beating on the Welsh and were now going after the English knights as well. But it was a futile attempt. The knights were skilled and powerful, and the bandits began to shift around, creating pockets for the knights to chase, but they still came back around and continued attacking. It would seem that they were reluctant to surrender.

Jeniver watched, terrified and fascinated, as the big English knights battled the onslaught of bandits. Unfortunately, they couldn’t distinguish the Welsh from their attackers, and Jeniver saw two of her father’s men fall to the English weapons. The battle went on for several long minutes until, abruptly, there were more big men on horseback everywhere. A sea of English warriors had flooded into their chaos, swamping them.

Jeniver could hear men screaming as their lives were cut short. As she watched, the bandits began to scatter and she dared to poke her head out from beneath the wagon bench, watching the swarm of English soldiers dispatch those who had attacked her party. But when she saw one knight bring his sword up against one of her father’s men, she cried out in protest.

“Nay!” she cried, holding out her hand as if to physically stop him. “Do not hurt him! He is not an outlaw!”

The knight turned to look at her, the visor of his helm down. All she could see was a fearsome Saesneg warrior, clad from head to toe in mail and weaponry, and the fear in her heart renewed. He was a massive man with enormous shoulders, and she could hear the armor and leather creak when he moved. As she watched him turn in her direction in an action that looked suspiciously like stalking, a thought began to occur to her. Perhaps these men weren’t here to help at all. Perhaps they had come to take what goods they could for themselves. Apprehensive, she sank back down on the wagon bed as the knight lowered his weapon and approached her.

“Are you Lady Jeniver?” he asked, his voice muffled behind the lowered visor.

Suspicion flickered in her eyes. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The knight flipped the visor up and dark green eyes gazed steadily at her. “I am Gallus de Shera, Earl of Coventry and Lord Sheriff of Worcester,” he introduced himself and all of his glorious titles. “Now, answer my question. Are you Lady Jeniver?”

An earl! Startled, and still somewhat confused, Jeniver nodded unsteadily. “I am,” she replied. “How do you know my name?”

The knight’s gaze lingered on her. Had Jeniver not been so unsettled by the situation, and fearful of the man in general, she might have noticed the rather curious reflection in his eyes. Curiosity bordering on interest.

“One of your father’s men came to me, asking for help,” he finally said, tearing his eyes off her and looking around at the dwindling fight. “Where is your father?”

Jeniver was back on her feet again, leaning against the wagon bench for support as she gazed out over what remained of her father’s escort.

“I do not see him,” she said, concern in her voice. “He was behind the wagon before all of this started. God’s Bones, but everything is in utter shambles now. My father was riding a white gelding. Where could he be?”

There was increased distress in her tone and Gallus turned his gaze from the men who were upright to the men who were lying on the ground. There were several of them, including horses, in a bloody mess on the road but he didn’t see a white horse. He pointed to the dead and injured on the ground.

“Is he amongst the wounded, my lady?” he asked.

Jeniver looked to the ground, the road upon which they traveled, and saw a gory twist of men. Her stomach lurched and she quickly looked for her father before turning away from the sight.

“Nay,” she breathed. “He is not there. He must be among us, somewhere.”

Gallus emitted a piercing whistle between his teeth, causing Jeniver to jump at the sound. Quickly, two knights appeared at his side, men who well understood the de Shera summons, and Gallus addressed them.

“I have the lady in hand, but we cannot locate the father,” he told them. “Find ap Gaerwen and bring him on to Isenhall. Have the men round up what is left of the traveling party, including the wagon, and return everything to the castle.”

The two knights nodded swiftly and were gone in opposite directions in their quest to carry out de Shera’s order. When they were sufficiently away, Gallus returned his attention to Jeniver. He opened his mouth to say something to her but she spoke first.

“Although I thank you for your kindness, we cannot return to your castle,” she said, rather apologetically. “We must be along our way. We are heading home.”

Gallus shook his head. “You are not going anywhere with your traveling party in shambles,” he said. “We will return to my fortress, tend your wounded and fix your wagon. You will, of course, be honored guests.”

Jeniver’s eyes lingered on him a moment before turning her attention to the mess around her. It was in shambles, all of it. Men were thrashed, the wagon was destroyed, and she realized she was devastated by the sight. There was blood on the road, in the grass, and those possessions that they had retained were spread out everywhere. As if the reality of it suddenly hit her, she sank to her knees beside the wagon bench. She felt quite weak and light-headed.

“God’s Beard,” she muttered. “This is such a terrible end to what was a lovely journey. I simply cannot believe that… forgive me. You do not care about any of this, do you? Surely we must help my father’s men first. There appear to be many wounded.”

Gallus nodded his head patiently. “My men will gather them and bring them on,” he told her. “It is my duty to get you and your father to safety first. Collect what you wish to take with you and we will be on our way.”

Jeniver ran a shaky hand over her head, thinking that perhaps he was right. She couldn’t do much tending to the wounded here on the open road. It would be much safer at the earl’s fortress. After a moment, she nodded. “As you wish,” she said. “I will collect what I can and come with you.”

Gallus eyed her lowered head. In fact, he’d done little else since the moment he first laid eyes on her. Pale skin, red lips, and long, dark hair had him instantly captivated, but it was her eyes that drew him in, pulling at him where there should be no pull. They were the color of a cat’s eye, a pale brown with a hint of red that was utterly stunning. He’d never seen anything like it. The Lady Jeniver ferch Gaerwen was a beauty to behold like none other and Gallus, in spite of everything, struggled not to think on the woman. He didn’t want to. But the allure was like nothing he’d ever experienced.

“Do you have a horse, my lady?” he asked, trying to shake off whatever spell she had cast upon him. “There are some gathered off to the east. If you point out the animal, I will retrieve it for you.”

Jeniver looked over her shoulder towards the east where several horses had been corralled. She saw her leggy mare among them.

“Aye,” she said, pointing. “The gray mare with the long legs.”

Gallus spied the horse. “Remain here,” he said. “I will return.”

He thundered over to the area where several horses had bunched up against a grove of trees, now nibbling at the damp green leaves. They were skittish were but held in check by two of his soldiers, keeping them contained. Gallus collected the reins of the mare and went back over to the wagon where Jeniver was now standing on the wagon bed, waiting for him. As he drew close, he noticed she had something in her arms. As he came near, he saw that it was a big, black puppy.

The dog was nestled contentedly in her arms as he came alongside the wagon and handed her the reins to the mare. She went to mount the horse, as she was nearly level with the saddle from her position on the wagon, but Gallus stopped her.

“Would you like me to hold the dog, my lady?” he asked, purely out of politeness.

Jeniver deftly mounted the horse, still holding the dog against her breast. “No need, my lord,” she said, gathering her reins. “I am quite capable.”

Gallus watched her confidence with the horse and with the animal, and wasn’t hard pressed to agree that she was indeed capable. But when he tried to direct her away from the wagon, turning her in the direction of the fortress, she balked.

“But what of my father?” she wanted to know, looking around. “I do not want to leave without him.”

He gathered his reins. “You heard me order my men to find him,” he said. “They will bring him along.”

Jeniver was still leery to leave, confused and overwhelmed, but she supposed she had little choice. Besides, she had a puppy to think about and, truth be told, she was somewhat eager to go somewhere safe and protected. Gallus de Shera had promised her safety and she would take it. At least, she hoped it was safe and that the man really wasn’t the king of the outlaws instead, determined to trick her. She was about to find out.

Allowing de Shera to lead her back along the road, they took another road towards the northeast, heading off across the green, flat fields of Warwickshire towards safe haven.