“Destiny is for you, Merryn.” He gave in to temptation and twirled one of her soft curls around his finger. He studied it with interest, dreading to tell her about the long separation they now faced.
“I must finish my service to Sir Lovel before we can wed.”
She grew solemn. “That means you will go to France again.”
He nodded, focusing on the curl he toyed with. “There are still battles to fight. Crecy is but five years past and though we have captured Calais, France has yet to capitulate to King Edward.”
“The third of his name to grace England’s throne,” she pointed out. “I have become fascinated with our country’s history.”
“I’ve fostered with Sir Lovel for half a score, first as a page and then as a squire. I hope to fight as a knight when I step foot again in France.”
Merryn smiled up at him. “You are already as tall as any of Father’s knights, Geoffrey. You are broad of shoulder and think quickly on your feet. Sir Lovel would be a fool if he doesn’t allow you on the battlefield.” A frown crossed her face.
“What ails you?”
She lowered her gaze to the ground. “’Tis nothing.”
Geoffrey tipped her chin till their eyes met. “We have no secrets, Merryn. We never did. Tell me.”
She placed her palm on his chest. His pulse jumped at her touch.
“I fear you may not come home to me,” she whispered.
“You’ve seen me spar. I’m quick with a sword or mace.” He cupped her cheek. “I will return to you, Merryn. Nothing could keep me from your arms.”
Geoffrey slipped his hand to the nape of her neck and held her steady. He touched his lips to hers in a gentle, lingering kiss.
Breaking the kiss, he told her, “We’ll have plenty of time for love play in the future. But for now, I hope that you’ll ride Destiny each day. He is my gift to you beyond what the betrothal contracts call for.”
“Thank you, Geoffrey.” Merryn stroked the horse. “You are generous to me.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for you, Merryn. Nothing.”
Geoffrey longed to shower her with passionate kisses that would show her how much he desired her. Yet Merryn was only three and ten. He didn’t want to frighten her. He would complete his service to Sir Lovel and return to wed her. She would be a woman then and more ready to understand the ways of love between a man and a woman.
He led her from the stables. They walked hand in hand, no words necessary between them. They strolled through the gates of Kinwick and over to the meadow. Merryn loved being out in nature. He wanted to remember her this way—standing in a field of flowers, the sun setting her hair afire.
Geoffrey knelt and gathered a few wildflowers from the grass. Lifting her hand, he placed them in her palm.
“I know how much you enjoy picking flowers and herbs. Think of me when you do so. Until I return to you.”
Merryn stared at the flowers a long time and then placed them on the ground. She unclasped the delicate gold necklace she always wore. Standing on her toes so she could reach him, she fastened the chain around his neck.
“I know ’tis suited for a woman, but I hope you will wear this cross. Wherever you go, I shall be close to your heart.”
Her gesture touched him. He brought the cross to his lips and kissed it before tucking it under his gypon.
Geoffrey captured her hand and kissed her knuckles before lacing their fingers together.
“I promise I shall come home to be your husband, Merryn.”
“I’ll wait for you,” she promised. “As long as it takes.”
Chapter 1
North of Aquitaine, France—1356
“I have enjoyed our time together this eve, Sir Thomas. You are a great hero of the battle at Crecy. I’ve learned much from your explanation of this raiding strategy of chevauchée that the Black Prince has chosen to use. It makes sense to weaken our French enemies through burning and pillaging and destroying their livestock.”
Geoffrey raised his cup to acknowledge Felton, a warrior valued by the king and his son.
“You have a keen mind, Geoffrey de Montfort. It was time well spent. One can never be too prepared when facing the enemy. Discussing Crecy and our recent ventures north from Aquitaine helps me solidify what strategies we’ve used. And to plan for what’s to come.”
“Victory, of course!”
Both men laughed.
Geoffrey excused himself, exhausted from the day’s activities. As he made his way back to his gear at Sir Lovel’s tent, he spied a figure in dark clothing slinking along the edge of camp. Curious, he followed at a discreet distance.
As he came closer, he saw it was a woman. Nothing odd about that. French whores serviced the English and Gascons who’d come to fight in France at every stop along the way. As long as they received payment, it didn’t seem to matter which side offered them coin.
So why was this one doing her best to blend into the background?
Unless she happened to be a spy for the French.
He continued to track her movements. She scurried past the Black Prince’s tent, where Edward’s key advisers now met to firm up their tactics for when they reached the River Loire and the town of Tours. They’d seen little resistance in their campaign so far and had been able to live off the bounty of the countryside to conserve their supply lines. He had faith in England’s leaders and its young, daring prince.
But this woman’s odd behavior troubled him.
She paused and looked around before she entered a nearby tent. He knew it to be that of John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, one of Edward’s most trusted advisers. The earl would be at the meeting with the Black Prince—so why was this whore in his tent?
Mayhap, she’d been hired to greet Oxford when he returned, but it concerned Geoffrey enough to investigate further.
Geoffrey trusted his instincts and rushed to the enclosure. When he reached its opening, he heard the moans of lovemaking. He stopped. If the earl met with the Black Prince, then who dallied with the whore in Oxford’s tent?
He looked inside. A few candles were lit, allowing him to make out the silhouettes of a man and woman. The woman was bent over a table and whimpered as the man pumped inside her from behind. He started to leave when the man spoke.
Geoffrey recognized the voice of Barrett of Winterbourne, the son of Lord Berold, whose estate lay north of Kinwick. Geoffrey knew Barrett had fostered with Oxford, which gave him some reason to be inside the earl’s tent.
“Here’s coin for your effort,” Barrett said. “And remember, hide the map. No one must know you have it.”
Map?
What game did Barrett play? Why would he give the woman a map? And of what?
Geoffrey moved away, out of sight. He wanted to see what happened next.
Then he heard voices. A group of men headed his way. He spied Oxford and the Black Prince among them.
At that moment, the woman slipped from the tent and hurried away.
“Stop!” he called out to her.
She ignored his command.
“Stop her,” he ordered. “She’s a spy!”
A soldier taking a piss tried to grab her cloak as she ran by, but he missed. Geoffrey raced after the woman. He caught up with her and locked his fingers around her arm. He dragged her back to the earl’s tent, where the Black Prince and his party had stopped. He shoved the woman down and she dropped to her knees. She gazed up at him, a frown on her face, then spit on his boots.
De Vere gave him a questioning look. Geoffrey looked to the prince, who nodded his encouragement.
“Your highness, I believe this woman took a map from the earl’s tent. Search her. You’ll find it.”
Edward gestured at one of his guards. The man forced the whore to her feet, but she resisted as he searched her body for the map. He found the evidence tucked in her cotehardie.
Barrett exited the tent, hoping to avoid attention as he tried to slip a
way.
Geoffrey wouldn’t let that happen. “He gave it to her.”
The crowd turned to where he pointed. Barrett stopped and then haughtily strode toward him.
“I have no idea of what you speak, de Montfort.”
Geoffrey scowled. “I heard you tell her to take the map. What is it? Our troop movements? Are you a traitor, providing information to our enemy?”
Barrett assessed the woman as if he had never seen her before. “You think I gave a map to some French whore?” He laughed. “Will you next accuse me of being a spy for King Jean?”
“I saw you bedding the whore. You told her to hide the map so no one would find it.”
The nobleman continued to deny his involvement. “You’re mad or drunk enough on French wine to make such a foolish accusation.”
“Nay, he is not.” Sir Thomas Felton addressed the prince. “I spent most of my evening with this knight, my lord. Nor is he a fool who would make false accusations.”
“Geoffrey of Kinwick serves in my household,” Sir Lovel added. “I have never met a man more honest and loyal. His word is to be trusted. If Geoffrey says Barrett of Winterbourne has committed treason, then I stand by him.”
The Black Prince held out his hand and the guard gave him the map. Edward studied it for a long moment. Then he eyed the men standing around him. Geoffrey knew the prince weighed his next words carefully.
Barrett shifted nervously on his feet when Edward looked at him and spoke.
“An innocent man would never disrespect royal blood in such a manner,” Edward said.
“Compurgation!” Barrett cried. “I demand compurgation.” His eyes wildly scanned the crowd. “As the accused, I can be cleared by the oaths of others. I have many present who will swear to my innocence and deny this outlandish charge.”
No one came forward.
“Then trial by battle!” Barrett demanded.
Oxford pulled the prince aside. Geoffrey stood near enough to overhear their conversation.
Oxford asked, “Would the map aid the French, sire?”
Edward nodded grimly. “It’s one you drew up, Oxford. It shows our next lines of attack and where reinforcements would come from. If the French had gained access to the map, it would have proven devastating to our troops.”
The Black Prince announced, “I will grant this request of trial by battle.” Edward eyed Geoffrey carefully. “As accuser, you, Geoffrey of Kinwick, will do battle against Barrett of Winterbourne.”
Though Geoffrey had heard of trial by battle, he had no idea what, exactly, it involved. He had never experienced one. His expression must have told the prince as much.
“I shall preside as judge. We commence at noon.” The prince signaled his guard and then pointed at Barrett. “Confine him until the trial begins.”
Geoffrey watched as the guard escorted Barrett across the clearing.
“Come, Geoffrey,” Oxford said. “We need to discuss your duties for tomorrow.”
Geoffrey followed. And wondered what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 2
Geoffrey stepped to where Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, indicated he stand. The sun blazed high in the sky. Soldiers ringed the field designated for the trial by battle. Four knights of the prince’s royal guard stood at each corner.
Geoffrey wore a thick, padded jerkin for the contest; it had no sleeves. He held an iron helmet in his left hand and a wooden stave with steel tips in the other. John de Vere told him if the tips broke off to keep attacking with the long pole. He also could fight with his fists and feet—even his teeth if that’s what it took to win.
As the accuser, Geoffrey must down Barrett of Winterbourne before the stars appeared in the night sky. Considering the fight commenced at noon, he could be in for many hours of brutal conflict.
If Barrett stood undefeated, he would be declared the winner and acquitted of the charge of treason. His accuser would then be charged with perjury. If Geoffrey won, Barrett would publicly proclaim himself guilty of the crime.
Most men convicted of treason were sentenced to hang, removed from the noose right before their deaths only to be drawn and quartered. Betrayal of the king was kin to blasphemy under English law; the king having been duly anointed by God to sit on the throne.
Instead of hanging, noblemen convicted of the same crime suffered what was considered a more dignified death by beheading, their lands forfeited to the Crown. The earl told Geoffrey if Barrett went down in defeat, the Black Prince might choose either method of execution in order to make an example to his troops.
He’d heard the prince was known for his open mind and fair nature, so he assumed Barrett would lose his head.
If Geoffrey succeeded.
He watched as William de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, escorted the accused to the field. Geoffrey’s gaze met Barrett’s for a moment. They’d known each other as neighbors but had never been friends. Geoffrey found all the inhabitants of Winterbourne arrogant and conceited. He was relieved they’d fostered in different households and had little contact over the years.
Now, hatred shone from his enemy’s eyes as Barrett came to stand next to him. They didn’t speak as they awaited the arrival of their judge.
Surrounded by his entourage of commanders, Prince Edward finally arrived at the field and stood directly in front of the pair.
“Do you swear you shall not invoke the aid of demons or evil spirits?” the prince asked.
“Aye,” Geoffrey and Barrett replied.
“Do you understand that your pole shall be your only weapon beyond your physical body?”
“Aye.”
“Since my father fights now in Scotland, you will engage in combat before me, Edward of Woodstock, known as the Black Prince, eldest son of King Edward III and Philippa of Hainault. I will serve as your judge and render my verdict as to which of you proves to be victorious.”
They bowed.
Oxford signaled for them to rise as the prince walked to the dais and seated himself. Both men placed their helmets on their heads and strode to the center of the field hand-in-hand, as required by the rules of trial by battle.
“You will die this day,” Barrett hissed as they marched forward. “Don’t think I’ll merely down you and quit. I plan to grind my boot into your throat as I drive my pole through your eye. You’ll never see England again or the pretty little wench you are betrothed to. In fact, I think I’ll take her as my bride. I’d enjoy bedding her.”
Geoffrey struggled to keep his temper in check. But he knew the errant lord tried to rile him.
“You’ll end this day marked as a traitor,” he replied evenly.
They reached the middle of the field and separated, going to their respective sides, then faced the prince.
“As judge of this trial by battle, I declare, you may begin.”
Geoffrey gripped his pole with both hands and charged his rival at full speed. Barrett did the same.
Geoffrey had participated in stick fighting as a means of training from the time he served as a page in Sir Lovel’s household. Hours had been devoted to this type of combat. He was comfortable with the weapon—and steadfast in his belief that truth would prevail.
Their poles clashed.
He had a couple of inches in height on his opponent, but Barrett was a more seasoned fighter. It would take all Geoffrey’s skill and wits to defeat the treasonous bastard.
The minutes dragged as Geoffrey slammed his pole constantly into Barrett, smashing it against his enemy’s body. The padded jerkin softened his blows, so Geoffrey began jabbing lower, battering Barrett’s legs. He knocked the pole into his opponent’s unguarded arms, spinning Barrett around.
Barrett kept his head, though, and soon Geoffrey fended off heavy blows from his adversary. A few times, Geoffrey knocked his enemy to the ground, but Barrett’s quick reflexes allowed him to spring to his feet.
Several hours passed. Sweat dripped into Geoffrey’s eyes, stinging them. No cheers came from t
he crowd. Only silence as the men watched the lengthy duel continue. Barrett was the first to move away from strictly using the poles. As they struggled, their sticks locked against each other, their bodies close enough to smell the stench of one another’s sweat. Barrett drew back his foot and kicked Geoffrey hard in the knee.
Geoffrey fell but kept his pole defensively positioned over his body. As Barrett raised his stick over his head and brought it down, Geoffrey rolled to his side, avoiding the blow.
Barrett’s stake was buried deep in the ground.
Geoffrey jumped to his feet as Barrett struggled to free his weapon and thrust the sharp end into his opponent’s side.
The older knight grunted and lost his balance, dropping his pole as he collapsed from exhaustion. Desperate to recover his weapon, Barrett crawled toward it, but he didn’t reach it in time. Geoffrey rained down a steady stream of crippling blows with his pole that knocked his foe away. Barrett landed on his back. He raised his arms protectively over his face.
Knowing he could end this now, Geoffrey let honor prevail and rested the sharp end of his weapon above the traitor’s heart, then paused. Despite his strong desire to end the bastard’s life, trial by battle was not intended to end in death.
Geoffrey looked to the prince, hoping to be declared the winner.
Oxford had already informed him that the French whore had admitted to being a spy. She confirmed that Barrett had accepted payment for providing a map that showed English and Gascon troop movements, especially the tactics that would be employed once the Duke of Lancaster’s forces arrived and joined the Black Prince to march on King Jean.
The prince gave Geoffrey an approving nod.
Geoffrey raised his pole and stepped back when pain shot up his leg. He looked down to see a baselard embedded in his calf. Barrett yanked the knife out. Before he could inflict another stab wound, Geoffrey brought the steel tip to the other man’s unguarded throat.
“Do it,” Barrett hissed. “Kill me.”
The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection Page 34
