A Dishonorable Knight(11)
Travel the third day proved no more comfortable than the first two. The late afternoon sun beat down on the entourage as it made its dusty way down the hard-packed road. The ladies drooped in their saddles, unmindful of their bedraggled state. One old man nearly tumbled off his horse as he dozed. The foot soldiers trudged wearily along, too hot and tired to even choke on the ever-present dust. Even the horses lagged, their heads bobbing wearily in time to their slow steps.
Gareth's first sense of danger was a cold prickling on his sweaty neck. Looking up sharply, he stared into the thick forest that began twenty or thirty paces off to the left. Glancing to the other side of the road, he saw no threat: the road fell away to the sharp bank of the river. Turning back to the forest he squinted his eyes, trying to see into the near-total darkness. Nothing. He looked at the soldiers around him. They plodded steadily along, but he noticed that the group had spread out in a long, broken chain. The nearest group of men, which included the king, was far ahead. The procession’s lead horses were so far ahead as to be completely out of sight. Turning to Bryant, he whispered, "Do you feel anything strange about this place?"
"What do you mean?"
"I know not. I just have this feeling that this is an ideal spot for an ambush."
"Who would ambush us?" Cynan broke in.
"Your friend Henry," Gareth replied.
Cynan looked as if he was about to say something and then paused. Slowly shaking his head he said, "No, I don't think the timing is right. Besides, we would have heard something first. Both Bryant and I have sworn to follow your father into battle."
"My father in battle? Sweet Christ!" Looking around, Gareth quickly lowered his voice again. "Since when has he cared about wars more than the ruttings of his flock?" Before either man could answer, he continued. "Never mind that now. How would you even know if these were Tudor's men? You two have been with me the past month. An entire war could have been planned and you two would know nothing about it."
"He's right, Cynan, we'd have no way of knowing if we should fight for or against them."
"Just a minute,” Cynan interrupted. “For or against who? We are working ourselves up over another of Gareth's 'eerie feelings,' are we not? Now here is the plan: if there are just ghosts in these woods, we'll fight 'em off. But if there are goblins too, I say we run for it." Before he could laugh at his own joke, a blood curdling war cry pierced the quiet air.
"By Saint Dafydd, Gareth was finally right!" Cynan gasped.
Confusion spread through the dazed ranks as men scrambled to position themselves in front of Richard and his retinue. When Gareth moved to mount Isrid, Cynan grabbed his arm. "You must wait, Gareth, until we can determine who is attacking."
"No,‘tis you who must wait. I have work to do." Gareth grabbed the reins, but paused to look at his friends before spurring Isrid on. Something he saw in their eyes made him grit his teeth and say, "Alright! You two try to take cover. See if you can retreat back down the road and duck into the forest. Who ever this is should not expect to find you there."
Cynan grinned at Gareth as Bryant tugged on his sleeve, urging him back down the dusty road.
His heart racing as adrenaline pulsed through his veins, Gareth swung Isrid towards the thick of the fighting, which was centered around the king and women. Richard cursed the attackers and tried to swing his sword at them, but was hampered by his own soldiers who sought to protect him. Gareth swore as he saw one lady's horse cut down; to his relief, she was quickly snatched up by the knight nearest her. Digging his spurs into Isrid, Gareth plunged into the fight. Henry Tudor's men or roadside bandits, no lady deserved to die in a man's battle.
As Gareth moved into the thick of the fighting, Richard pushed his great steed out from behind his men, trying to force his way up the road. Some of the attackers followed him and his knights, leaving the group of women. They're trying to draw the enemy away, to protect the women, Gareth thought. But not all of the attackers were following the king. Forcing his way through the brigands with his horse, Gareth drew his sword with his right hand as he fumbled for his helmet with his left.
When he could not undo the buckle that secured it to the saddle, he abandoned it and concentrated on attacking as many of the enemy as he could. Gareth had been in few actual battles in his short career as a knight, but that did not deter him from hacking his blade into sinew and bone at every opportunity. He took out his frustration with his life on the attackers, swinging his sword with such speed that it sang through the air like a Viking scald from days of old. When his sword handle grew slippery with sweat and blood, he only managed to slap one man across the face with the flat of his sword. Isrid, however, trained as a warhorse, quickly trampled the dazed man and moved forward. As his mount surged ahead, Gareth had a moment to look up and assess their position. There were just a few attackers to the number of Richard's men who remained in the road, but these were mostly squires and green knights like him.