Chapter 1

I am really not sure what it was that made me look hard to my left, but I will always thank God that I did! I caught a glimpse of the blackguard with the crossbow just in time to duck. Well, if the truth be known, I was in such a hurry to avoid that bolt headed in my direction that I practically fell from my horse. As I went over to my side, I kept a death's grip on the saddle horn and managed to hit the ground in a standing position.

The bolt went whizzing over my left shoulder. It would have caught me just under the ribs on my left side, and probably have killed me very painfully in a day or so, provided the shooter and his friends let me live that long. My companions drew their swords and rushed to my side. My squire, Rolf Harker, was the first to reach me. "Sir Geoffrey, My Lord, stay where you are until we have located all of the bastards!"

That was damned good advice, and I might have taken it. Unfortunately, I was always a bit of a hothead. Normally, I carried a bastard sword (a sword to be used with one or two hands) in a baldric over my shoulder so that I could draw it with either hand. I am something of a giant among my fellows, 6'-3" tall and weighing a bit over 15 stone (212 pounds). I am strong enough to swing a claymore with one hand, but that is too long a sword to wear comfortably while riding; therefore, I compromise with a bastard sword.

At that moment, another bolt fired from behind me pinged off my helm, and that proved that I had best disregard my friend's advice and look to enemies on all sides. I drew my sword and took my shield as I turned to face this new foe. My trusty steed would remain where he was to guard my back while I faced in the new direction. My shield was enough to absorb crossbow bolts, so I had no fear of them if I could spot them soon enough, but that could be a chancy thing. The best defense against an attacker with a crossbow was to run him down while the shooter was laboring to cock and reload his weapon.

Rolf and Elbert Humphrey were still mounted, so I left it to them to tend to the blackguards who were too far away for me to reach while afoot. I took off as fast as I could run to the tree where the second shooter had been hiding. He was just about to take aim again when my sword removed his left arm. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Fortunately, I was through with him for the moment, but I suddenly had three men to attack me with swords and mace.

I used the tree to protect my back as I blocked the first swing of the mace with my shield. At the same time, I used the length of my sword to reach far enough to stab one of the other men just above his cock. That man fell away from me, so he pulled my sword loose before it could become entrapped by his body. Some days, I can understand why so many people call me "Lucky Geoffrey."

Nevertheless, I was pulled a bit away from the tree by the weight of the falling man, and that was again an example of my fighting luck. I was able to block another swing from the mace with my shield as I lurched forward, and the other man with the sword stabbed the tree instead of me.

By the Grace of God, I was able to backhand with my sword the man who had tried to stab me and cut his throat, and that let me concentrate on the man with the mace. A mace is not a weapon that allows for a lot of grace and finesse in its use nor in defense against it. Therefore, I did not concern myself about the artistry of my sword play.

I blocked another swing at my head from the mace, and used the momentum to swing my sword at the attacker's thigh. Yes, he was wearing a soldier's armor, so I did not cut him, but I did knock him sufficiently off balance to give me the time I needed to stab him in the gut. Between my strength and the weight of my sword, I was able to penetrate his armor and to skewer his bowels. I was not able to make a slash of it, but I did manage to twist my sword to do a lot of damage to his internals. I now had four men lying at my feet, and I quickly turned about to find someplace else that my sword might be of use.

This was when I saw that Rolf and Elbert had each dispatched two of the attackers. I thanked them for their fine work and looked more closely at our attackers. Dammit, they were wearing the colors of Alfred Bushton, the Baron of Blakeslee Keep! That was ridiculous! Baron Bushton and my father have been friends since they were children. It is simply unreasonable that Bushton would want me dead. There was something going on here that was well beyond the normal head-knocking that Bushton and my father did as jokes on each other. My father must know of this as soon as possible!

But first, we needed to ask some questions. At least one of the ambushers was still alive, though barely so. The man who had lost his arm was not dead yet; perhaps he could be induced to answer a few questions. We returned to him, and I pissed on his face until he returned to consciousness.

He obviously was in considerable pain and begged for us to cut his throat so that he could escape the pain. I promised to grant him that boon if he would answer some questions. At first, he refused to talk, but a little pressure applied just south of his crotch caused him to change his mind. He and his companions had been hired in a tavern to ambush us. The plan was for me to be killed, but the other two men to be left alive as witnesses. They were to see the Bushton colors and that was supposed to make them believe that this had been ordered by Alfred Bushton. If my father had believed it, this attack would have started a blood feud between Springfeld and Blakeslee. Who would gain from that?

As promised, I cut the blackguard's throat. We gathered the weapons and rode back to Springfeld Keep. On the way, we discussed this strange encounter, and none of us could figure out an explanation for it. Perhaps, Father would have some ideas.

When we entered the Keep, I sent a page to find my father and to tell him that I needed to talk to him as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Rolf and Elbert went into the kitchen to arrange for bedwarmers for the night. I told them to pass the word to Beth that I would expect her after supper, and to wash herself before she showed up. I knew that would thrill her: every maid in the keep hoped to bear one of my bastards so that she would have a permanent station for life. I had two of them already, and all of the maids knew how well they were cared for.

I had only 10 minutes to wait before Father called me into his presence. He was in a jocular mood, but that changed quickly when I told him all of what had happened this afternoon. He began to curse immediately, but, like me, he refused to blame his friend Bushton. "What sort of evil mischief has Satan cooked up to cause this to happen? I thank God that all three of you are safe! Son, do you have any ideas?"

I had to admit that the three of us had talked of nothing else on our way to the Keep, and none of us had been able to come up with anything that made sense, and I was not going to believe that Bushton had anything to do with this attack.

Father nodded and said, "Son, you know that this can happen again. I can not keep you locked up to protect you, so all I can do is ask that you not take any foolish or unnecessary risks. Meanwhile, I will send a message to Alfred to tell him what happened to you, and that I know that he had nothing to do with it."

"Father, please allow me to take the message. If I do, that will only reinforce what you say."

Father laughed and said, "Ah, Geoffrey, that is a good idea. Also, I am sure that you will also manage a few moments with Gwendolyn Bushton while you are about it!" What could I do but bow my head?

That evening after supper, Father wrote the message to his friend, and I would deliver it in the morning. However, I had an interesting appointment scheduled for that night. On the way to my room, I stopped a page and had him order a bath for me in my room. The word had gotten ahead of me, and water had been heating ever since Beth had been told to bathe. Ah, there are no secrets in the Keep!