All the lords north of the Humber had been requested by the King to send soldiers to New Castle to help fend off bandits coming over the border. The Scottish crown denied it, but everyone knew these ‘bandits’ were really highly trained soldiers, probably sent to weaken the northern English forces, ready for another, larger, invasion.
“Forgive me, m’lord. The day’s events have taken their toll on me. It’s just… it’s angered me.” The merchant was choosing his words carefully. “I’ve worked hard, I’ve brought my children up to do the same. I pay my taxes. And then someone comes along to try and take all that from me. All they do is steal and kill, and where did it get them? They got nothing from me and got themselves killed by the spirits of the wood. No respect for the people. Or the land.”
Sir Denys didn’t know how to respond. Charging full tilt at an opponent on horseback in front of a cheering crowd was easy. Talking to peasants, merchants or otherwise, about their insignificant problems was hard. He may be a knight, and one of the best fighters in the area (which he wasn’t afraid to tell everyone), but it was up to his lord father to deal with this. Patrolling the roads for bandits was beneath a knight like him, but maybe the promise of a word with his father would put the merchant at ease somewhat.
“I’ll speak to my father, see what can be done. Maybe an agreement can be made with other local lords to create a regular patrol of the road. A few bandits is no problem for someone such as myself, but I understand now how afeared one such as yourself would be.”
“Oh thank you m’lord, thank you…” The merchant’s words were cut short by a whistling sound and then the dull thud of an arrow hitting the side of the cart. Followed by another. And another.
“Take cover,” shouted Sir Denys, grabbing his shield and jumping off the cart. His eyes darted across the treeline ahead. Two… no, three men charged at him, another three still in the trees, probably the archers.
Blocking the next wave of arrows with his shield, he unsheathed his sword, lifted it high, and, blood now pumping, brought it down on the first bandit, cleaving the man in two from neck to waist.
Blood flooded the air.
He stumbled back in shock. Jousting and tourney fights were one thing, but Sir Denys had never seen this amount of blood before. The tourneys weren’t like they were in his forefathers day, rules had been brought in to appease the church, and although the odd accidental death happened, they were a much less violent place than the battlefield, which he himself had never experienced.
More arrows whistled through the air.
His armour now more red than green, he looked up to see a second man charging with a large axe, bringing it down swiftly on Sir Denys. But age and use had made the axe weak and rusted. Blocking it with his sword, Sir Denys twisted sharply, shattering the old axe into a hundred pieces. He quickly pulled his sword back and thrust it into his opponent’s belly, twisting it. The man screamed, blood pouring from his mouth, before Sir Denys withdrew his sword and in one strike took the man’s head.
Once again blood flooded the air like red rain.
No armour. Old weapons. Obviously untrained. Why would they attack a knight? These were desperate men. Probably hoping they could overwhelm him, take his armour and sell whatever else they were hoping to find in the cart.
The third man turned and ran towards the trees. Sir Denys wasn’t one to stab a man in the back. He wiped his sword on one of the dead men’s shirts, as the surviving bandits quickly disappeared into the thick woodland ahead.
Once he was sure they were gone, he turned back towards the cart. “I think it’s safe now, Stephen the merchant, though we best be going as quick as possible now. Less than an hour and we’ll be home.”
The old man didn’t respond. He sat slumped in the cart, two arrows in his chest.
In silence, Sir Denys laid him down in the back of the cart.
He pulled himself up onto the seat at the front and sat for a moment, looking at the old man and then at the bodies of the two bandits whose lives he took.
Years of training as a boy in his father’s castle. Squiring for his uncle at the tourneys. Becoming a knight and fighting in the tourneys himself. None of that prepared him for actually taking a life. And now he had taken two, and allowed another to die under his protection.
He picked up his helmet, staring at the large ivy leaf in the centre, and swore to himself he wouldn’t let anything like this happen to an innocent man ever again.
Before setting off home he took one last look into the treeline, thinking he could hear screams and drums in the distance. Whoever, or whatever, had saved the old man earlier was out there, somewhere, in the Ryngwoode.
The End
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