The Lady and the Minstrel by Joyce DiPastena

Author:Joyce DiPastena [DiPastena, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: medieval fiction, historical fiction, medieval romance, historical romance
Publisher: Joyce DiPastena
Published: 2015-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

The attack came completely unexpected. The swarm of armed knights spilled out of the woods on both sides of the road, rending the air with their battle cries. The king had ordered Gunthar to take with him all the men Gunthar had brought to Poitou, hoping a parade of force on the way to meet the Count of La Marche would intimidate those Poitevin barons who still stood aloof of the king’s cause. But someone had clearly anticipated them. Gunthar saw almost at once that his men were outnumbered. He watched with horror as the ambush swept his footsoldiers down like flies. He had returned Robert’s sword and dagger and set the minstrel among them. Had he—?

Gunthar had no time to search for the minstrel’s dark face. He danced and whirled his horse with the expertise of a lifetime’s training and beat back the hail of steel blades that swooped at him, left and right. Though Gunthar had armed himself and his knights in mail beneath their surcotes, his head, like those of his men, was bare. Their assailants wore helmets, Gunthar guessed to conceal their faces. He glimpsed no insignia on their tunics, they carried no banner with them. Gunthar saw his own standard bearer weaving in and out of the chaos, doggedly holding the earl’s banner, the prancing stallion, aloft so that Gunthar’s men should not lose their courage.

Gunthar blocked and parried and knocked three men from their saddles, two of them with sword thrusts that broke through iron links to sink deep into flesh. An arrow sang past Gunthar’s right ear. The bolt thwanged home in the thigh of a squire with sunny yellow hair battling bravely only a few feet from Gunthar. Gunthar saw the young man’s reflexive jerk, his startled glance at the shaft in his leg, and the spear in the hand of an enemy aimed at the distracted young man’s back.

Gunthar shouted and spurred his horse. His sword caught the spear tip and thrust it away from its murderous aim. He maneuvered his mount alongside the spearman, shifted the hilt of his sword, then drove his pommel into the flap of mail that protected his opponent’s windpipe. The blow would not kill, but it shut off the man’s air. Gunthar heard the man’s scraping gasp for breath as he reached over and pulled off the man’s helmet. Gunthar did not know the man’s face. But he would if he saw it again, for it would bear the flattened nose of his fist from the blow Gunthar drove into it.

Gunthar did not wait to watch the man hit the ground. He whirled his horse to the squire’s side. Sir Edward Keynes’ squire. He had given the young man permission to join Gunthar’s company, hopeful the Count of La Marche might have news of Keynes’ safety.

“Tollerton! De Vexin!” Gunthar shouted. “Get this boy off the road.”

The fathers of Gunthar’s own principle squires spurred forward.

“Sir, Hastings is down,” Tollerton said. “And Fitzalan and Warci.”

Gunthar cursed. There was no time for more, for another wave of men in helmets drove at them.

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