Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) (2 page)

Geoffrey
stepped to where Thomas de Beauchamp, earl of Warwick, indicated he stand. The
sun blazed high in the sky. Soldiers turned spectators ringed the field
designated for the trial by battle. Four knights of the prince’s royal guard
stood at each corner.

He wore a
thick, padded jerkin for the contest. The short jacket had no sleeves. He held
his iron cap in his left hand and his wooden stave with steel tips in his
right. John de Vere told him if the tips broke off to keep attacking with the
long pole. He also could retaliate with his fists and feet. Even teeth would be
allowed for the length of the contest.

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 within the time frame, he would be declared the winner and
acquitted of the charge of treason—and his accuser charged with perjury. If
Geoffrey won, Barrett would publicly proclaim himself guilty of the charged
crime.

Most men
convicted of treason would hang and just prior to their death, they’d be
removed from the noose, 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.

Yet
noblemen convicted of the same crime suffered the more genteel death of
beheading, with their lands being forfeited to the Crown. The earl told
Geoffrey if he defeated Barrett, he didn’t know what method of execution the
Black Prince would choose. The prince would need to make an example to his
troops.

He’d heard
often that the prince was known for his open mind and fair nature, so he
assumed Barrett would lose his head.

If Geoffrey
proved successful.

He watched
as William de Ufford, earl of Suffolk, escorted the accused to the field. His
eyes met Barrett’s for a moment. They’d known each other as neighbors but had
never been friends. Geoffrey had found the older boy arrogant and conceited,
much like his father. He was relieved they 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 both
faced with their backs to the field, awaiting the arrival of their judge.

Prince
Edward appeared with several of his close commanders surrounding him. He came
within a few feet of the pair.

“Do you
swear you shall not invoke the aid of demons or evil spirits?” he asked.

“Aye,” they
replied.

“Do you
understand that your pole shall be your only weapon beyond your physical body,
and that no other weapons shall be allowed?”

“Aye.”

“Since my
father fights now in Scotland, you will engage in combat before me, Edward of
Woodstock, called the Black Prince, eldest son of King Edward III and Philippa
of Hainault. I shall be your judge and render my verdict as to which of you
proves to be the victor.”

They bowed
deeply. Oxford signaled for them to rise and indicated they put their iron caps
in place.

The prince seated
himself on a raised stand. The accused and accuser 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. “I shall not down you
and quit. I shall slam you into the ground and place my boot on your throat as
I drive the tip of my steel shaft through your eye. You’ll never see England
again—nor that pretty little wench which you are betrothed to. In fact, I think
I shall take her as my bride. I’d enjoy dipping my wick into her folds.”

Geoffrey
kept his temper in check. He knew Barrett tried to rile him.

“You’ll end
this day marked a traitor for all time,” he replied evenly.

They
reached the middle of the field and separated, moving in opposite directions
several paces before they turned and faced one another. They looked to Edward.

The Black
Prince shouted, “As judge of this trial by battle, I declare you may begin.”

Geoffrey
gripped his pole with both hands and charged. Barrett did the same. He’d
participated in stick fighting as a means of training from the time he served
as a page in Sir Lovel’s household. Hours upon hours had been devoted to this
type of combat. He was comfortable using the weapon—and steadfast in his belief
that right would prevail. He had truth on his side. His word had always been of
highest value to him. His skills would prove Barrett guilty of treason against
England.

Their poles
clashed. The fight was on.

He had a
couple of inches on his opponent, but Barrett had more years of experience in
battle. The two men appeared well matched. Geoffrey knew their encounter might
drag on for hours.

Time and
again, he fended off blows from his adversary. Then the tables would turn, and
he would be the aggressor against his foe. Both landed jabs against the padded
jerkins, but no blows knocked either man off his feet.

Several
hours passed. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them. No cheers came from
the 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. His rival drew back his foot and kicked Geoffrey
hard in the knee.

He fell
back to the ground but kept his pole in hand. As Barrett raised his stick over
his head and heaved it down, Geoffrey rolled to his side. His enemy yanked his
stick from where it stuck in the ground just as Geoffrey jumped to his feet and
thrust the pole into Barrett’s side.

Losing his
balance, the older knight fell to the dirt and dropped his pole. He scrambled
toward it but did not reach it in time. Geoffrey used his pole to knock his foe
away. Barrett landed on his back.

He rested
the tip of the steel above the traitor’s heart and paused. Despite Barrett’s
earlier threat, trial by battle was not intended to end in death.

Geoffrey
looked to the prince, hoping he would render his verdict and declare him the
winner. Then Barrett could make his statement as loser and accept his rightful
punishment. He already knew from Oxford that the French whore had admitted in
the wee hours to being a spy. She provided testimony that Barrett had accepted
payment for willingly providing the 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 with those of the Black Prince as the
combined force marched upon King Jean.

As his eyes
met Edward’s, the prince gave an approving nod. Geoffrey started to step away
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 now.”

“I’d rather
see you executed as the traitor you are.”

Suddenly,
the king’s guard surrounded them. One yanked the dagger from Barrett’s hand.
Another gently pushed Geoffrey and his pole aside. Two more dragged Barrett to
his feet, screaming and cursing as they removed him from the field.

Geoffrey
saw the Black Prince motion to him. He limped over, concerned about the blood
pooling in his shoe.

“You fought
bravely and fairly,” the prince praised him. “Unlike your opponent. I thank you
for rooting out this traitor, Geoffrey of Kinwick. You have helped keep our
enemies in the dark. I shall not forget your courage, nor your conviction. You
are an honorable knight.”

The prince
called over a man in dark robes and whispered a few words to him. He moved to
Geoffrey.

“Come with
me, good sir. I am Ellis, healer to the king. I shall look at your leg and
stitch the wound closed. You’ll need a poultice on it. We can’t afford to lose
good soldiers like you to those who cheat and betray our cause.”

He went
willingly with Ellis. He wanted the injury cared for quickly since he did not
want to miss what happened to Barrett. The healer understood his rush and
handled the wound with little fuss, attaching the poultice to his leg once he’d
cleaned and closed the wound.

“Stay off
it as much as you can. Do you have a horse?”

“Aye.”

“Then I
won’t worry about you marching on it.” Ellis gripped his shoulder. “You were
brave to come forward. Treason is not a charge to bring lightly, but I see you
are a man who will always seek the truth.”

“I thank
you, Ellis.”

Geoffrey
made his way through the camp and found it abuzz. The Duke of Lancaster had
arrived while the healer had taken care of his injury. Additional troops
flooded the area.

It hit him
that Barrett’s father, Lord Berold, fought with the Duke. That meant the earl
had arrived in time to witness his son’s execution.

He made his
way through the crowd gathered. Many recognized him and gave his back a pat or
tossed him a word of encouragement as he pushed forward through the throng.
Geoffrey arrived near the front and saw Barrett being led up a hastily built
platform. His body trembled in fear.

He felt no
sorrow for the man. Barrett had betrayed king and country and would suffer a
just punishment.

A hush fell
as the Black Prince called out, “Barrett of Winterbourne. How do you plead to
the charge of treason?”

No words
came.

The prince
repeated his question. Geoffrey saw his annoyance at Barrett’s cowardice.
Edward waited a moment and then called out his question a third time.

“I will
never admit to guilt. Never!” Barrett spit into the dirt, defiance radiating
from his features.

Edward did
not hide his disgust. “By royal decree, I find you guilty as charged. I sentence
you to beheading, as a traitor to both crown and country.” He glanced to the
knights that supported Barrett. They marched their prisoner across the platform
and forced him to his knees.   

In the end,
the traitor did not go willing. The guards had to hold him down as he
struggled. The executioner’s ax landed its blow once. Barrett screamed in
agony. A second blow silenced him. His head rolled from his body, caught in a
basket by a soldier standing guard at the base of the platform.

The crowd
dispersed without talk. As it melted away, Geoffrey sensed eyes upon him. He
turned and found Lord Berold staring at him. The nobleman came toward him,
hatred burning in his dark eyes.

“
You.
You killed my boy.”

Geoffrey remained
firmly in place, his eyes locked on Berold’s. “Your son proved to be a traitor,
my lord. Death was the only acceptable punishment.”

The earl
stood silently for a long moment. Geoffrey knew no words from him could comfort
this grieving father. He turned to go.

Strong
fingers latched onto his arm and forced him back.

“I shall be
sure you suffer a punishment harsher than death, Geoffrey de Montfort. Mark my
words. I will bring you to your knees. You will beg for death. And I shall not
grant your wish.”

Merryn
decided to ride to Kinwick and check on Lady Elia. She’d heard her deep chest
cough when she visited a few days earlier. It worried her. Elia insisted she
would get over it, but Merryn decided to take some cress to her. She’d crushed
the small plant and would steep it in hot water. Elia could drink it twice a
day over the next sennight. The spicy brew would break up any congestion still
left.

She’d
promised Geoffrey that she would watch over his parents during his absence.
Five long years had passed since their betrothal. She’d been but a child of ten
and three. Now she was a woman who longed for her man to return from his
service in the wars against France.

The news
reaching them led her to believe that her prayers would soon be answered. Each day
she asked the Blessed Lord to keep Geoffrey safe from harm and return him to
her so they could be wed and live as husband and wife.

She missed
him. He’d been her friend and confident for as long as she remembered. When
their fathers decided to unite them as a couple, happiness filled her.

If it
weren’t for the dreaded fighting with France.

Merryn
wondered why men fought in the first place. She didn’t see the point of battle.
Blood spilled for land across the sea? Why couldn’t the king be happy with what
he had? England was a grand, beautiful place. Edward should be thankful for his
blessings.

She knew to
keep such thoughts to herself, though. As a woman, she wasn’t expected to have
an opinion—especially regarding politics. But she had a questioning nature and
was interested in the world around her. And with her father and mother dead and
buried, she managed Wellbury as well as any man, despite her youth.

At least
the Black Prince, only a score and six but a master at the game of war, had led
their troops to a huge victory at Poitiers. Rumor had it that he’d captured
many prisoners, including the king of France himself. Surely, that would mean a
break in the war, as France would need time to raise the ransom asked for their
king’s return.

Merryn
longed not only to see Geoffrey but her brother Hugh, who fought with King
Edward in Scotland. She hoped he would return happy and whole and choose a
bride. Wellbury needed children running through its halls. Hugh would make a
fine father and husband, and she could leave the care of their ancestral home
in his capable hands and move to Kinwick upon her marriage.

She mounted
the saddled horse and thanked the stable boy. He gave her a cheeky grin and
wished her a good day.

The early November
day proved overcast and damp. Merryn was happy she’d chosen to ride and not
walk since it looked like rain might occur. She galloped across the meadow,
taking her favorite shortcut. She spent many hours in the meadow and
surrounding forest, gathering herbs and flowers. Before she passed on, their
healer Sephare had taught her all she knew about herbs and which ones could be
used for various ailments. Merryn took the lessons to heart. Her reputation as
a knowledgeable healer grew every year.

She drew
close to Kinwick and stopped to take in the castle and its beauty. One day she
would serve as its mistress. Pride swelled within her. Though Wellbury was a
wonderful estate in its own right, Kinwick Castle and its surrounding lands had
some of the best farmland in the south. Merryn smiled, happy to be a part of
Kinwick, even if in name only.

Betrothal
was such a curious custom. She legally belonged to Geoffrey and his family, but
she wasn’t his lady. Many girls who became betrothed moved from their own
family homes to live in the house they would marry into. Her father and Lord
Ferand had decided against that action. With her mother dying in childbirth only
three years after Merryn’s own birth, the men thought it best for her to remain
at Wellbury and use her woman’s touch to help maintain the estate. Geoffrey’s
mother could see to the running of Kinwick until her son returned and they
married.

As she
started to nudge Destiny on, she heard hoof beats approaching in the distance. A
rider topped the hill and stopped. She watched as his head turned to drink in
the view.

Geoffrey!

Her heart
sang as she kicked her heels. Destiny took off like the wind, bringing her
closer to her beloved.

“Merryn!”

She heard
his call and watched him gallop toward her. Her heart beat fast. Would he be
the same? Would he still care for her? She’d loved him since she was a child.
She knew that love had been returned before he left. The one, chaste kiss
they’d shared had been her sweetest memory these past five years.

They
reached one another. He leapt from his saddle as she dropped her reins. Before
she could dismount, he grabbed her waist and pulled her from her horse.

His mouth
crashed down on hers. In hunger. In longing. In need. Merryn gave up to his
kisses willingly. She wrapped her arms about his neck. He parted her lips and
plunged in, his tongue mating with hers, his mouth dominating her, his arms
tightening about her.

She felt
her knees weakening as he left her breathless. Suddenly, he swept her off her
feet. His mouth never left hers as he twirled round and round. She grew dizzy.

So must he,
for he slowed and set her back on her feet. He broke the kiss and gazed at her
so lovingly, she knew nothing had changed.

Except it
had.

Her entire
body now vibrated, humming with tension. His kisses had awakened a sleeping
giant within her. She’d watched animals mating in the woods. She was ready to
do the same. Desire for him flooded her.

“I thought
you’d never come home,” she said breathlessly.

“I thought
I’d never be home.” He laughed. “But here I am.” He pulled her close. Her
breasts pressed against his broad chest. They seemed so sensitive beneath her smock
and kirtle.

They stayed
in an embrace some minutes, happy in their very nearness. Finally, Geoffrey
pulled away.

“I am home
for good, my love. You should have seen the action at Poitiers. Our archers fired
arrows every five seconds in a dizzying shower.” His eyes lit with excitement.
“Though the French armor proved invincible, with arrows sliding off or
shattering, their horses’ armor was another story.”

She stiffened.
“They shot the horses?”

He gave her
an odd glance. “Yes, in the flanks. We stopped their cavalry charge that way. A
falling horse destroys the cohesion of enemy lines. It devastated their troops.
They never penetrated the protective hedge we used to our advantage.”

It saddened
her that so many animals had been slaughtered as well as men in order to win
such a great victory. She knew at that moment she would never understand war.

“Our
infantry moved in. I won’t lie to you, Merryn. Combat proved fierce. But at the
right moment, the Black Prince brought out his mobile reserve hidden deep
within nearby woods. They circled around and attacked the French bastards in
their flank and rear. The dauphin and two of King Jean’s sons fled, while the
king and his son Philip remained and fought.”

“We have
heard that King Jean was captured. That he will be held for ransom in London.”

“Aye,
indeed.” He kissed her hard. “’Tis why I’m here. For now, our war is over.”

Giddiness
filled her. “And we can now marry?” Merryn asked.

He grinned.
“As soon as possible, my love.”

Geoffrey
captured her mouth with his again.