Chapter Six #5
The second soldier, his seasoned companion, nodded and dug about in his mail. “Aye, I got it. It was not difficult to steal with all of de Lohr’s and le Bec’s men watching the Stick and Ball game.”
The first man drew forth a small Welsh crossbow, well-made and compact. As he loaded the dual-arrow catapult, the second soldier handed him a large strip of crimson cloth.
The first soldier smiled with satisfaction as he held up the banner. “Excellent. Henry’s own tunic, Leopards of England.” Quickly, he set to securing the strip of material to one of the arrows.
The second soldier peered over his shoulder. “David, I still do not understand why you had me steal the length of tunic. What are you planning?”
David, a Welsh soldier for nearly twenty years, smiled as he secured the banner. “A brilliant scheme to be rid of le Bec,” he said. “You saw how he was always near the girl. God’s Blood, they were inseparable. If we want to get to Henry’s bastard, then we have to be rid of his knight.”
Lyle crouched down beside his comrade, scratching his head. “You still have not answered my question. What are you going to do to the de Rydal party?”
Cloth secured, David rose to his feet and Lyle with him.
“Simple, really. Tad de Rydal was ousted from the celebration for injuring le Bec. In retaliation, le Bec sends some of his men to ambush his enemy,” he held up the crossbow, waving the crimson standard.
“Le Bec announces his vengeance for all to hear. Labeled a murderer, he’s forced to flee to London and we, my friend, are rid of him.
I would suspect that by tomorrow sundown, Richmond le Bec will no longer be an obstacle and by the end of the week, Henry’s bastard will be in Owen’s hands. ”
Lyle sighed; ’twas as good a plan as any. Le Bec and the girl had been together constantly and the Welshmen had been thinking heavily on returning to Owen empty-handed when David had come up with a scheme.
Far down the road, the unmistakable sounds of horses began to permeate the air, echoing off the forest canopy.
Lyle boosted David into a tree, high enough that he would have an unobstructed view of his target, yet not so high that a quick escape would be impeded.
When David settled himself confidently, Lyle ducked behind a sturdy trunk.
Slowly, the de Rydal party passed through the corridor of pine.
Tad was at the head of the group astride his magnificent charger.
His visor was up on his helm and his expression was nothing short of hostile.
Obviously, he was still smarting from being evacuated from Lambourn and, as his manner suggested, he was not taking the rejection well.
The day was beginning to wan and the tall trees were casting long shadows along the road.
Tad was gazing at the path ahead, paying little if any attention to his surroundings.
His mind was still back at Lambourn, dwelling on the fact that he had been deprived of a glorious evening of young women and fine food simply because Richmond le Bec had managed to place himself in the path of his moving stick.
He picked his nose as he rode, disgusted with the entire day.
First came the Lady Arissa’s rejection, followed by le Bec’s timely arrival and subsequent challenge.
Then came the archery match, which he refused to recall in detail because he had lost that contest, too.
And then the Stick and Ball game, resulting in le Bec’s injury.
He snorted softly with humor, wiping his finger on his tunic. He had possessed a perfect opportunity to whack le Bec across his dumb face when the man had stooped down to pick up the ball. One clean stroke, as hard as he could manage, and le Bec had gone down like a stone. Sweet, sweet revenge.
To his right, a flock of birds soared noisily into the winter sky as if suddenly startled from their branches.
Tad gave them nothing more than a passing glance, still lingering on le Bec and the entire de Lohr family.
He hoped he would never again be forced into the company of the Earl of Berkshire and his brood.
Any father who pledged his only worthy offspring to a convent was a peculiar man, indeed.
A smile came to his lips as his charger passed under a low-lying cluster of branches.
His thoughts were shifting from Lambourn to Goring Hall and a certain young serving wench that he was particularly fond of.
He would be home in an hour or two and began to look forward to the evening ahead.
A hot meal, a full wench, and he just might forget about the horrors of Lambourn and Richmond le Bec.
But his thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a searing force suddenly slammed into his shoulder.
He felt himself teetering, sliding from the saddle and unable to steady himself.
As a consuming pain devoured the entire right side of his body, he met the road with a hard, agonizing crunch.
Somewhere, he heard yelling, the shouting of his men as they moved for cover.
Indignantly, he realized that not one of them was moving to assist him.
Cowardly bastards. He’d take a tassel whip to them when he could move again. Fact was, he was not entirely sure why he couldn’t seem to function. Only that there was a great deal of pain and warmth that seemed to touch every part of him. Everywhere, there was agony and a fluid lethargy.
A peculiar bliss settled over him and he did not fight it, staring up at the sky as a mist began to cloud his vision.
The mist grew into a fog, and the fog began to blacken.
He wondered where the fog had come from.
He wondered if it had anything to do with the pain.
Even as he watched, it continued to grow until there was only darkness.