Jack Whyte - Standard of Honor

His horse surged easily up and over the crest of the hill, and Henry pulled it to a halt at the start of the downward slope on the other side, sitting easily in the saddle as he examined the scene spread out ahead of him. Half a mile away, to his left, on a rocky knoll surrounded by massive beeches that concealed an encircling river, sat his family’s stronghold, its tall, square, hundred-year-old donjon jutting up from the bare rock crest, surrounded and protected by high, thick crenellated walls that could accommodate all his tenants behind their solid bulk in times of danger, and a drawbridge across the deep river gorge that could be raised to secure the donjon itself in time of attack—although the presence of the huge beech trees proclaimed that no serious attack had taken place here since they were planted, nigh on a century earlier. From the castle gates, a hard, wide, beaten roadway struck directly for a mile to the high road that bounded his lands on the east. He turned in the saddle to look back towards the south, hoping to see André approaching from that direction, but the road was empty. Turning back, he glanced idly towards the point where the road from the north crested a distant ridge, then stood upright in his stirrups as he saw movement—increasing movement—where he had expected none.

Three mounted men, two of them recognizable as knights by their shields and plumed helms, had already crossed the ridge and were riding down the hill towards him. Behind them the third man, less richly dressed and clearly a military sub-commander, rode at the head of a strong phalanx of marching men, in ranks of six, that was only now coming into view, its files stretching back and out of sight beyond the ridge. Henry knew they could not have seen him yet, high on the side of his hill, and so he sat there and watched their approach. The tenth and last rank of the phalanx of men-at-arms crested the rise, their pike blades reflecting the light, and immediately behind them the high box of a passenger carriage came into view, rising towards the summit of the road. It was followed by another and then a third, each carriage flanked by a pair of mounted knights flaunting the colors of their individual houses like peacocks. Three more vehicles followed the carriages, heavy, flat-bottomed wagons drawn by teams of mules and piled high with cargo, securely covered and strapped down, and a second formation of infantry, the same size as the first and preceded by another pair of knights and a sub-commander, brought up the rear. By the time the last men marched into view the leaders were nigh on a half mile down the hill.

Henry was intrigued, but not alarmed by the approaching party, for despite its strength it was clearly not a warlike group. The great road they were traveling had been built hundreds of years earlier by the Romans. It ran straight south and west towards Marseille, and, much like a river of stone, collected tributaries leading from all the cities of the northern half of France, from Brittany and Normandy, Artois, and Paris itself, the home of King Philip Augustus. These travelers were obviously wealthy and important, judging by the number of vehicles and the strength of their escort, and he found himself wondering who would need six score men-at-arms, with officers and no fewer than ten fully armed knights. A senior prelate with his staff, perhaps a cardinal or an archbishop, was his first thought, or perhaps the wife of a powerful baron or a duke, with her household.

He spurred his horse gently and angled it down the hillside to where he could come within hailing distance of the cavalcade, then reined in on the edge of a coppice, casually concealed within twenty paces of the road and surprised that no one had drawn attention to his approach. He was on his own land and in full chivalric armor, so he had no fear in presenting himself, but he had misgivings about not having been seen, for that meant the men leading the advance party were riding carelessly, and coming into their view too suddenly might provoke them into overreacting, out of guilt and surprise.

Moments later, the first of the two leading knights came into view, resplendent in black and yellow trappings, and Henry’s back straightened in astonishment before his face broke into a smile. He had not seen this man in years, but he had trained him as a youth and had promoted him to be his own adjutant, fifteen years earlier.

“Sir Francis!” he called out at the top of his voice. “What would you do now were I a squad of archers instead of but one watching old man?”

The effect of his shout was salutary, for the marching men behind the two knights crashed to a halt instantly and then, at a snapped command from their mounted officer, the first four ranks spread out across the roadway. Twelve of the men knelt as they aimed their swiftly loaded crossbows towards the sound of Henry’s voice, and twelve more behind them aimed over their heads. The leading knight, whose name Henry had shouted, must have been half asleep, for he pulled sharply on the reins and brought his horse rearing up on its hind legs, then spun it completely around, and by the time the animal’s front hooves returned to earth he had his bared blade in his hand. His companion had spun away, too, and now sat his horse with his spear couched, its butt firmly gripped beneath his armpit.

“Who goes there? Show yourself!”

“Happily, Francis, if you will tell your men not to slaughter me on sight.”

The knight called Francis frowned, but he raised his sword and waved down his men, bidding them hold, then called again to Henry to come out. Henry nudged his horse forward slowly and enjoyed the amazement that dawned in Francis de Neuville’s face as he recognized the man approaching him.

“Sir Henry? Sir Henry St. Clair? Is that you?”

“Of course it is. Did you think you me a specter, in broad daylight?”

Both men slipped down from their saddles and embraced in the middle of the road. “By all the saints in Heaven, well met, Sir Henry. How long has it been, ten years? What are you doing here, so far from anywhere?”

“Twelve years, Francis, and I am riding my boundaries. This is my home. My castle is close by, over the hill there.” He waved towards it, then indicated the motionless procession stretching back up the hill. “What are you doing nowadays, escorting churchmen?”

“Churchmen?” Sir Francis looked perplexed again. “Why would you think that? There are no churchmen here.” He glanced at the other knight who had been riding with him. “William, you’ve heard me talk about Sir Henry St. Clair who was Master-at-Arms to Aquitaine when I was a boy? Well, this is the man.” As Henry and Sir William exchanged nods, Sir Francis continued, “So you live nearby? I thought somehow you were in the north, towards Burgundy.”

They were interrupted by a clatter of hooves as a trio of men came spurring down the hill to find out the cause of the delay. One of them, a black-browed giant of a man mounted on an enormous horse, scowled ferociously at Henry before turning his displeasure on Francis de Neuville, demanding in a surly, ungracious voice to know why the entire column had been brought to a standstill.

De Neuville looked at his questioner and managed to give Henry the impression that he had responded with a very Gallic shrug, although he was fully armored. “I stopped to speak to an old friend,” he said. “And I have not yet finished greeting him. Move them on, if you wish. We will draw aside and I will catch up with you when I am ready.”

“You should have done that without waiting to be told.”

De Neuville’s right eyebrow quirked as he raised his eyes to look at the mounted questioner. “And how would you know that, Mandeville? I doubt if you have ever had a friend to stop for in your entire life.” He stepped to his horse and took its reins in his hand, then beckoned with his head to Henry. “Come, Henry, we can talk over there as they pass by.”