The Iron Knight (The De Russe Legacy Book 3) (14 page)

Two miles northeast of Tisbury

I
t was a
vicious battle from the onset.

Having been informed by his men regarding the ambush of the carriage carrying Lady de Gournay and her daughter, St. Michael du Ponte took a precious hour to berate and beat his men before demanding they return him to the scene of the ambush so they could, at least, collect the carriage.

Du Ponte was fairly certain that the ladies had been taken by the outlaws but he at least wanted his carriage back. It was expensive and made a good presentation when arriving at the homes of friends or potential allies, even if it had been stolen from the north and brought far south to him as a prize. St. Michael didn’t miss a trick when it came to making himself look better than he was. Therefore, he wanted his carriage back.

The women were of little concern at that point. Screaming and yelling the entire time, he rode from Gillingham with forty of his men, racing back the six or seven miles back to the small lake where the ambush had taken place. He had expected to find a sunken carriage and a scattering of possessions, but what he found when he arrived was quite different – more men were swarming the wreckage and he quickly realized that he wasn’t the only one who had an interest in the half-submerged carriage and its cargo.

The lake was crawling with soldiers and at least one knight when he returned with his men. Outraged, du Ponte didn’t even stop to ask who they were or what they wanted; they had the carriage half-out of the lake at that point and men were bringing wet trunks to the shore.

It was clear that they were claiming St. Michael’s prize and he ordered his men to attack without any planning whatsoever. He hoped to overwhelm the thieving soldiers by the sheer surprise of the move, but what he didn’t realize was that there had been about twenty more soldiers he hadn’t seen, hidden by a line of trees. Once his men attacked, they were immediately outnumbered.

But du Ponte didn’t back down. He wanted his ill-gotten carriage and he would fight for it, so he put his men on swarming the vehicle, enough to chase away the soldiers who were trying to steal it. He didn’t care about the trunks belonging to his potential wife and he didn’t particularly care about her in general. In fact, he was rather relieved that she was gone. He didn’t want to marry, anyway, and his agreement to look over the widowed woman had come to him in a moment of weakness when the lady’s father had gifted him with a butt of Malmsey wine.

But that had been months ago and his interest in the widowed Lady de Gournay had cooled. The wine was long gone and so was his honor as far as his promise went – he didn’t want a wife and certainly not a widow with a child. He must have been mad to consider it. The promise of Malmsey will do that to a man.

So du Ponte remained somewhat behind the battle as his men went to work and the fight ensued. He mostly shouted orders to them, berating them for not making short work of the men trying to steal his carriage, but a few minutes into the skirmish he noticed something interesting – he was noticing the tunics worn by the enemy and he recognized the colors. In fact, he was very familiar with them – the colors of Lord Tytherington, Lucien de Russe, who was a nearby neighbor. The tunics were brown with a gold Teutonic cross on the front, signifying the men of The Iron Knight.

The Iron Knight!

Everyone knew that tunic as one of the most recognizable in England and the awareness that de Russe was behind the thievery infuriated du Ponte. How dare the man try to steal from him! Was it possible that de Russe was behind the initial ambush and that the women in the carriage had been confiscated by him? The thought caused du Ponte to jump into the fray without thinking, enraged by his neighbor’s boldness, but he was very quickly driven back by a de Russe knight, a big and very skilled man. He very nearly cut du Ponte’s head off and it was at this point that du Ponte realized he was fighting a losing battle. De Russe’s men were winning and he was about to lose his precious carriage.

Damnation!

Frustrated, du Ponte was forced to back off. At least four of his men had been badly injured and he knew if they continued that more would be hurt. He didn’t want to lose men, not now. He would have to return to Gillingham and regroup, to plan for his next move against de Russe, and he would need every healthy man he had.

So he barked commands to the two knights he’d brought with him, men who weren’t particularly reputable but they were loyal. As long as he continued to pay them well, they were extremely loyal. Those knights, in turn, relayed commands to the others and soon, the du Ponte men were retreating, skulking back into the trees and fields from whence they came, heading back towards Gillingham Castle like insects retreating back into their nests. The swarm, so quickly descended, was now equally as swiftly gone.

The group raced back to Gillingham, carrying their wounded, frustrated that they’d been forced to retreat. But no one was more frustrated than du Ponte; he was positively livid and utterly blamed the failure on the weakness of his men. If they had done their duty and protected the carriage in the first place, none of this would have happened. That was du Ponte’s attitude all the way back to Gillingham, where the great portcullis lifted to admit him and his men, lowering with a resounding clang once everyone had come through. Dust flew and dogs scattered as the contingent came to rest inside the bailey.

It was dusk now at the small, fortified castle next to the River Stour. It was essentially a manor house surrounded by a giant wall with an equally giant gatehouse that would have been better suited to protecting a much larger castle, but all it protected was an eight-room manor house, kitchens, and a fairly large stable area because du Ponte liked horses. Still, it was du Ponte’s domain in all of its small scale and du Ponte marched into the house bellowing for wine and food. Behind him, his two knights trailed.

“Damnation!” du Ponte roared as he entered the great common room, strewn with old rushes and more dogs. He kicked one out of the way as he plopped onto his seat at the head of the big feasting table. “Do you know who that was? Did you
see
who that was?”

The two knights had the countenance of scolded children. They were older men who had seen a good deal of action but men who had never made a name for themselves. They were mediocrity personified. The first knight, a heavy-set man with shaggy graying hair, nodded reluctantly.

“De Russe,” Ossian de Fey said. “I saw the colors.”

Du Ponte sighed sharply. “So did I,” he said as if Ossian was an idiot. “Was it
his
men who ambushed the carriage with the women inside? John, you were there – was it de Russe?”

Sir John l’Evereux stood up straight when he was addressed. He was a big, strong man but something of a simpleton. Only a fine family name had managed to get the man his spurs.

“Nay, m’lord,” he said. “Those who attacked us were not organized. They came from the trees like… like animals. They rushed us without reason. They were not de Russe men.”

Du Ponte was drumming his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. “How do you know for certain?”

John blinked at the question as if he didn’t quite understand it. He looked at Ossian, confused, before finally replying. “Because they were not wearing de Russe colors, m’lord.”

Du Ponte stopped drumming his fingers. Then, he smacked the worn table in frustration. “He has my carriage,” he said. “He probably has the woman meant for me, too. I cannot simply allow him to take them both. I must get them back. I care not for the woman but I care for my carriage. Still, it will look ridiculous if I lay siege to Spelthorne simply to regain my carriage. I suppose I shall have to ask for the woman’s return, too.”

Ossian and John were listening carefully, which is something they had learned to do. Often, their orders were in du Ponte’s ramblings and they had to be vigilant. Asking questions only served to enrage their volatile liege.

“I will gather the army, then,” Ossian said, thinking that was what du Ponte wanted him to do. “We have five hundred men. However, de Russe carries thousands. We will not get very far if we attack him.”

Du Ponte looked at him, his jaw ticking furiously. “Then we need more men,” he said simply. “Sherborne Castle is a half-day’s ride from here. I will go to the garrison commander and tell him what de Russe has done. Surely he will help me regain my possessions. Surely he will act on my behalf and we may not even have to lift our arms against de Russe. Sherborne will do it for me.”

Ossian nodded, relieved. He didn’t want to get into a futile battle against de Russe. “I agree that would be the better course of action,” he said. “Shall I ride for Sherborne?”

Du Ponte pondered the question. He was feeling a bit calmer now as he thought on having the entire garrison of Sherborne Castle behind him. It was a very big garrison of crown troops, men that would undoubtedly be loyal to de Russe, but men who might be swayed if du Ponte could convince them that de Russe had stolen from him. It was a chance he was willing to take.

But he had to sweeten the deal; he had to make it worth their while, at least for the garrison commander, whom he did not know. Bargaining and sweetening deals were simply the way his mind worked.

“Go to the stables, Ossian,” he said thoughtfully. “Select one of our younger stallions. Not the best, but a very good one. We shall bring the horse along as a gift for the garrison commander at Sherborne. Surely the man will be flattered enough to see my problem and help me do something about it.”

Ossian watched as du Ponte went from wildly angry to quite calm all in a matter of seconds. As long as the man felt things would go his way, his anger was often sated.

“Aye, m’lord,” he said. “When will we leave?”

“Tomorrow before dawn. I want my things returned and I do not want to wait any longer than necessary.”

Ossian was already heading from the room, leaving John behind to absorb any more of du Ponte’s anger. But du Ponte wasn’t angry any longer; he was actually very sedate and confident at the moment, a man with mood swings that were both violent and swift. Therefore, John still stood out of arm’s length because that was the safe thing to do.

“What would you have of me, m’lord?” he asked.

Du Ponte eyed the big knight. “It is your fault we have to go to this trouble to begin with.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“If you had only put up a stronger fight, I would not be chasing my fine carriage all over Wiltshire.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Du Ponte rolled his eyes irritably. “Leave me, idiot,” he said. “Arrange for a party of twenty men to leave at dawn. We should make Sherborne in a few hours if the weather holds.”

John simply turned and walked away, leaving du Ponte alone at the head of the big feasting table. It was quiet at this hour, before the evening meal, and the dogs were milling about, growing hungry, but du Ponte ignored the beasts just like he ignored everything, and everyone, else. There was nothing more important in his world than his own wants and desires, and he was frankly humiliated that de Russe had managed to capture his fine carriage.

But not for long. He would have it back soon. Even if Sherborne refused to help him, he had an entire network of outlaws and brigands in the area that might have the opportunity to get it back for him. That’s what was so odd about all of this; usually, the outlaws near Tisbury worked for him. There were two roving gangs in that area and he had done business with both of them, so for one of the gangs to attack his carriage didn’t make sense to him. It was true that they weren’t, as a whole, the most trustworthy bunch, but he’d never had a gang turn on him.

Until now.

Still, he found it hard to believe that they would, which made him think with more certainty that de Russe was behind the ambush. But for what purpose? What could the man possibly get out of it other than two worthless women and a fine carriage? Given de Russe’s honorable reputation, it was a baffling question.

One that kept him up most of the night.

*

“We were attacked
by du Ponte,” Gabriel of Pembury was saying. Exhausted, in full armor, he had just climbed off of his horse to be met in the bailey by Lucien. “One moment we were lugging the carriage out of the water and in the next, du Ponte and his men swarmed us with weapons drawn. I tried to yell to the man, to tell him of our mission, but he either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. I could not get close enough to him to tell him to cease his attack because he remained on the outskirts for the most part, bellowing orders.”

Lucien was listening to his frustrated knight, his expression grim. “But you are certain it was du Ponte?”

Gabriel nodded, pulling his helm off and handing it to his squire when the boy darted near. “I know him on sight,” he said, “as do you and de Royans and many other men here at Spelthorne. I have no idea why he attacked us but he seemed particularly upset that we were pulling the carriage from the lake. He attacked the men and horses that were pulling it forth. It was almost as if… as if he did not wish to have the carriage pulled free. As if he wanted us to leave it in the water.”