“Are you sure your sergeant knows what he is doing?” demanded Sir Aumary de Breteuil, spurring his splendid destrier forward so that he could ride abreast of Geoffrey. “The King will not be pleased if he hears you have led me astray.”
“I did not ask you to travel with us,” said Geoffrey, finally nettled into irritability by the other knight’s continual complaints. “If your messages to the King are so vital, why did he not send an escort for you from Portsmouth, instead of leaving you to fend for yourself?”
Aumary shot him an unpleasant look. “Secret business of state,” he said pompously. “I was directed to make my appearance at the castle in Chepstow as unobtrusively as possible, in order to mask the momentous nature of the writs I carry.”
Not for the first time on their six-day journey from the coast, Sir Aumary patted the small leather pouch that was tucked inside his surcoat, a self-important smile on his face.
“You have done an admirable job,” said Geoffrey dryly, taking in the other knight’s handsome war-horse, exquisite cloak, and gleaming chain-mail. “No one would ever guess you are a knight of some wealth and standing.”
“Quite so,” said Aumary smugly, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey’s tone. “And it has not been easy, I can tell you-I have had no servants to care for my needs, and I have been forced to ride in the company of Holy Land ruffians.” He looked disparagingly at Helbye and the two men-at-arms behind him who, like Geoffrey, wore the cross on their armour that marked them as Crusaders.
“I do hope you are not referring to me,” said Geoffrey mildly.
He lifted his shield from where it lay over the pommel of his saddle, and slid his mailed arm through its straps. Sir Aumary was right to be apprehensive about the area, and Geoffrey was considering turning around and riding back the way they had come.
“Of course not!” said Aumary quickly, mistaking Geoffrey’s precautionary action as a threat.
In contrast to Aumary’s immaculate appearance, Geoffrey was clad in a hard-wearing, functional surcoat, stained with travel and with its Crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back. His chain-mail was stronger, heavier, and had seen considerably more use than Aumary’s, while his broadsword, Aumary knew, had edges that could slice as easily through armour as through butter. Aumary had no intention of fighting the younger knight when he knew he would lose. He turned to address Helbye, to remove himself from a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.
“Where are we? How much farther is it to Goodrich Castle?”
“We are on the correct road,” insisted Helbye, growing weary of Aumary’s constant questioning. “We turned right at Penncreic; straight would have taken us to Lann Martin in Wales.” He shuddered. “And the Lord knows we do not want to be there!”
Geoffrey could not agree more, and continued to scan the dense, still forest for something he might recognise. Surely, he thought, he could not have forgotten so much about his home during his twenty-year absence? The silence made him uneasy: he did not recall the lands around his father’s manor ever being quite so soundless, even during the winter. His wariness began to transmit itself to Robin Barlow and Mark Ingram, his men-at-arms, and Geoffrey saw them draw their daggers. Trotting at the side of his horse, Geoffrey’s dog growled deep in its throat, as if it could sense something amiss.
Suddenly, the silence was rent by an ungodly howl, and it was only the backwards start of his horse that saved Geoffrey from the arrow that hissed past his face. His raised shield protected him from the next one, deflecting it harmlessly to the ground. Behind him, Sir Aumary fought to control his own destrier, since, for all its splendid looks, it was a poorly trained beast and was whinnying and bucking in alarm at the speed of the attack. Geoffrey hauled his heavy broadsword from his belt, and wrenched his horse’s head round, yelling to his men to retreat the way they had come. Barlow blocked his way, his mount insane with terror and pain from an arrow that protruded from its neck.
“Go back!” shouted Geoffrey to Aumary, Helbye, and Ingram, thinking that they might yet escape the ambush, even if he and Barlow could not. Then Geoffrey’s attention was away from the bewildered soldiers, and he was fighting for his own life. Men darted from the forest, rising from where they had been crouching behind tree-trunks, or lying under piles of leaves. Geoffrey did not take the time to count them, but began to strike out, wielding his sword with one hand, and using his shield to fend off attacks with the other.
The air rang with yelling and howling, and dirty hands clawed and grabbed at Geoffrey’s legs and reins, trying to drag him from his mount. He clung tightly with his knees, knowing that to fall might mean his death. A Norman knight on horseback was a formidable force, but on foot he was slow and encumbered by the heavy chain-mail that protected him.
He smashed the hilt of his sword into the shoulder of the man who was attempting to hack through the straps of his saddle with a knife, and kicked another, catching him a hefty blow on the chin that sent him reeling. Seeing their comrades down, the ambushers backed away, knowing that they were helpless against the superior fighting skills of a fully armed Norman warrior. Instead they formed a circle around him, muttering menacingly and brandishing their motley assortment of weapons.
Given a moment to observe them, Geoffrey saw that they were not hardened outlaws at all, but just villagers, nervously clutching a bizarre arsenal of ancient swords and crudely fashioned staves in a way that suggested they were not familiar with their use. He seized his opportunity, and spurred his horse forward, sending them scattering before him to escape the thundering hooves.
Meanwhile, Barlow had abandoned his dying horse, and was backed up against a tree, struggling to keep the wild stabs of his attackers” knives and hoes at bay with a sturdy cudgel. Geoffrey galloped towards him, using his sword to drive away those who did not flee from his furious advance. He hauled the gasping Barlow up behind him, and urged his horse back the way they had come, looking for his companions.
Helbye and Ingram had not managed to travel far. They were surrounded by a gaggle of triumphantly shrieking villagers, but at least they were still mounted. Without decreasing his speed, Geoffrey tore towards them, grimly satisfied as the would-be ambushers dropped their weapons and ran for their lives.
Someone was shouting in Welsh, and Geoffrey, who recalled enough of the language from his childhood to understand it, heard that it was a desperate call to retreat. He homed in on the voice, and leapt from his saddle.
It was over in moments. Seeing Geoffrey’s sword at their leader’s throat, the villagers immediately abandoned their fight, and the ambush fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Breathing hard, Geoffrey waited until Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow were ranged behind him, and then studied the face of the man he held captive. The chief villager was sturdily built, and had curly black hair and dark eyes. His clothes were plain and practical, although they were cleaner and of a better quality than those of his men. He met Geoffrey’s curious gaze with a hard stare of his own.
“What are you waiting for?” said Ingram in a hoarse whisper that carried to every one of the villagers who watched the scene with a combination of defeat and fear. “Why do you not strike him dead, Sir Geoffrey?”