The great hall of Isenhall was actually in the keep, a broad room that was perfectly square in shape and had two massive hearths, one at each end. It smelled heavily of smoke and animals, and there were packs of dogs patrolling the room, waiting for their first scraps of the day. Gallus came off the stairs and headed into the cavernous, well-appointed room.
A man in heavy wools was lingering near one of the hearths, trying to warm his flesh from the chill temperatures outside. He was well-fed, young, and when he saw Gallus, he immediately came away from the fire and headed towards the man. His expression had a nervous edge to it.
“My lord,” he said, his Welsh accent obvious and heavy. “My lord has sent me to beg for assistance. Our people are at the crossroads near the river and under attack. I beg you to help us.”
Gallus eyed the man, suspicious because that was his nature. His trust was very difficult to earn in any case.
“Who is your lord?” he asked, unfriendly. “Why did you come here?”
The man began to wring his freezing hands. “My lord is Gaerwen ap Gaerwen,” he said, sounding strained. “We were returning home but were attacked at the river crossing. Please, my lord, time is of the essence. My lord is under attack and he has his daughter, Lady Jeniver, at his side! Please help us!”
Gallus’ brow furrowed. “Gaerwen ap Gaerwen?” he repeated, suspicion turning to surprise. “I have heard that name before. He is a Welsh prince.”
The servant nodded urgently. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Will you come?”
Gallus’ gaze lingered on the man, debating on just how to react. If it was indeed ap Gaerwen and he refused to help, it could be the wrong move. A Welsh prince who owed him a life debt was something in his favor. Obligations like that were hard to come by, especially with the Welsh. But if this was a trap of some kind….
“How many attacked you?” he finally asked.
The servant shook his head, fearful and frustrated. “I can only say many,” he said. “I do not know for certain.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
The servant was annoyed with the questions, terrified for his liege. “Minutes!” he said, waving his hands. “Minutes, no more than ten or fifteen at the most. My lord directed me straight to you and I have not wavered. Please, my lord, I implore you, save us!”
Gallus was still mulling over his response, but the fact that the alleged victim in this case was an ap Gaerwen made him lean towards the edge of compliance. At the moment, the Welsh were virtually ruling themselves because Henry had more important issues in France that kept him occupied. Incursions and conquest into Wales was at a virtual standstill, which made it seem odd that a Welsh prince was traveling through his lands. The Welsh usually kept to themselves. Still, if what this servant said was true, then Gallus decided he would be willing to act. He was not beyond wanting a Welsh prince to be obliged to him. One never knew when one would have to call in the favor.
With a sigh of resignation, knowing that he was about to expend the effort to save the Welsh prince from the ruffians who tended to roam this land, he turned and motioned to his brothers.
“Mount the men,” he said. “The fifty that are preparing to attend us to London should suffice. We shall head to the river crossing and see what we can do.”
Maximus and Tiberius were always up for a fight, unlike Gallus, who tended to be more cautious about things and less apt to act before thinking. Maximus and Tiberius would fight anywhere, anytime. They needed no provocation. At Gallus’ quietly uttered words, the two younger de Shera brothers were heading for the keep entry, marching with a purpose.
Gallus could hear his brothers as they quit the keep, yelling to the men who were forming ranks out in the pre-dawn bailey. His dark green gaze lingered on the Welshman.
“We will do what we can,” he said. “But tell me why you were on my lands. Where were you going?”
The servant was vastly relieved at the assistance from the big English warlord, but he was wary of the questions.
“Home,” he replied. “Back to Anglesey, my lord.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“My lord took his daughter to London and then to Paris in celebration of her day of birth,” he replied. “She has seen eighteen years now and Lord ap Gaerwen thought to show her something of the world. This attack… it is the first trouble we have seen.”
Gallus eyed the man. “Then this was not some manner of war march?”
The servant appeared shocked and dismayed by the question. “Nay, my lord,” he insisted. “It was a peaceful journey, I assure you.”
“Tell me the truth or I’ll not lift a finger to help you.”
“It is the truth, I swear it!”
Gallus’ gaze, intense and intimidating, lingered on the man to see if such a stare would cause him to break and reveal the truth of their presence, but the servant did not waver. He held Gallus’ gaze steadily. After a moment, Gallus tore his eyes away and headed for the keep entry. He motioned for the servant to follow.
“Did you ride?” Gallus asked. “Or did you come on foot?”
The servant scurried after him, his leather-soled shoes making scuffling sounds against the wood. “I rode, my lord.”
Gallus’ thoughts were already on the task ahead. “Then mount your horse and take us to your lord,” he said, ushering the man through the door but pausing himself when he caught sight of one of Isenhall’s many servants. He whistled to the man. “You there, tell my mother we have gone to the river crossing. We shall return shortly.”
The Isenhall servant nodded swiftly and was gone, fleeing up the stairs to the upper floors of the box-shaped keep. Gallus, meanwhile, moved through the entry, down the heavy wooden stairs of Isenhall that could be retracted or burned in time of trouble, virtually sealing off the keep from any encroaching enemy. Below him, in the bailey that was shaped like a rectangle contained within the circular walls that protected Isenhall, were fifty mounted soldiers and six knights, including his brothers.
In the pre-dawn hour, everything was colored purple and gray. Shadows were long, struggling against the clouds and the rising sun. It was very cold and foggy breath hung heavy in the air as Gallus moved to his horse, a heavy-boned rouncey that had been bred in Belgium. The horse was vivid red with a cream-colored mane, a finer beast having never lived. He had more stamina than the chargers as well as more speed. Gallus adored the animal, patting him on his thick neck before mounting heavily. As he adjusted his stirrup, he glanced at the knights around him.
“Did my brothers tell you of our mission before we depart for London?” he asked.
To his left were two very big men. Sir Scott de Wolfe and Sir Troy de Wolfe were twins, sons of the great northern border knight, William de Wolfe. Scott was big, blond and brawny, while Troy took after his father with dark hair and hazel eyes. Yet for their difference physically, they both shared the same de Wolfe wisdom, cunning, and power, even at their young age. Troy was the first to respond.
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, his voice baritone-deep. “Trouble at the river crossing.”
Gallus nodded as he gathered his reins. Then he looked to the knights surrounding them. “Stefan and Garran,” he addressed two of the men. “Ride on ahead and determine the situation. The pack of us will move more slowly than just the two of you, so be well gone with you now. When you arrive, you will locate Gaerwen ap Gaerwen and the Lady Jeniver. Put them under your protection immediately.”
Sir Stefan du Bois, a son of the renowned knight Maddoc du Bois but also descended from the powerful House of de Lohr on his mother’s side, nodded shortly. He was very young, having seen twenty-three years, but he was an old, wisened soul. It was a du Bois trait. He was also built like a bull and his strength was uncanny. His counterpart, Sir Garran de Moray, was the son of the illustrious, tournament knight Sir Bose de Moray, once the captain of King Henry’s guard long ago. Garran had his father’s enormous size and coal-black eyes but his mother’s temperament, which made him rat
her volatile at times. He was the first one into a fight and the last one to leave, which made him a particular favorite of Gallus.
“Aye, my lord,” Garran said, gathering his reins and holding his horse steady when it twitched excitedly. “We shall see to it.”
Garran spurred his horse forward but Stefan remained, just for a moment. “Ap Gaerwen?” Stefan repeated. “They are the hereditary Kings of Anglesey.”
Now, it was all coming back to Gallus and he nodded with recollection. Stefan’s father was Welsh so it stood to reason that the lad knew the history of his heritage.
“I knew they were of some import but I could not place the family name,” Gallus told Stefan. “Thank you for reminding me. On your way with you, now. We shall be coming up behind you shortly.”
Stefan nodded and spurred his big, bay charger forward, thundering through Isenhall’s two-storied gatehouse and out onto the road beyond. The sky, though still shades of pewter, was starting to lighten and delicate rays of sunshine began to stream out from between the folds in the clouds. Gallus could see Garran in the distance, heading down the road, and Stefan not far behind him. With the two knights well away, he motioned to the rest of the contingent.
“Let us depart,” he roared.
Taking the helm that one of his squires extended to him and plopping it on his head, he spurred his horse in the direction of Isenhall’s gatehouse, passing through the narrow passage, and out onto the rocky road beyond.
Little did he know that the next few moments in time would change the course of his life forever.
CHAPTER TWO
They 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.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 2
