Stories Thread

**woad&fangs** · 07-18-2009, 15:46

1079, Manor of the Earl of Kent

Edward, Earl of Kent looked out across his holdings from atop the wall surrounding his manor. It had been thirteen years since he had crossed the channel with Duke William. Edward looked down at his left hand, reminiscing. His missing thumb served as a reminder of Hastings. He had fought and bled along with the best of the Norman knights that day. Yet, when Duke William set about distributing lands, it was Edward’s older brother, Edmund, who received the earldom of Kent. Edward was relegated to a small barony, a vassal of his elder brother.

But none of that mattered anymore. Two years ago he and his elder brother went hunting. His elder brother had just killed a particularily vicious boar. Then the thought came to Edward. A simple stab and Edward would receive all that he thought rightfully his. The other nobles would suspect nothing. Edmund was well known for his foolhardiness, or “bravery” as the other nobles called it. So without mercy, Edward drove his spear through Edmund’s gut.

Since Edmund’s wife had died during childbirth, Edward was made steward of Kent until Edmund’s only son, Bertin, reached the age of sixteen. However, Edward made sure that none of the other nobles would complain when he failed to pass the Earldom down to his nephew. Rumors quickly spread through the noble court of Normandy that Bertin was fathered, not by Edmund, but by a lowly fishmonger. These rumors were helped along by agents in the employ of Edward. Edward himself was rather persuasive in the matter as well. He had always had a talent for spinning a tale and making it sound believable. Despite the fact that Bertin resembled his father almost down to the last eyelash, he became a pariah in the court. No nobles would even speak with him, let alone stand up for hi. So it came to pass that when Bertin reached the age of sixteen, no one intervened when Edward refused to relinquish the Earldom to Bertin.

1080, suppressing a revolt in the countryside of Kent

Bertin looked with pity upon the rebel army arrayed in front of him. They stood no chance against the sergeant spearmen his uncle commanded, let alone the heavy cavalry that Edward had let Bertin command. For Bertin, this was to be his first battle. He felt none of the thrill that he expected. There was nothing noble in what he was about to do. This was butcher’s work, plain and simple.

Bertin’s sharp eyes spotted his uncle riding up and down the line, encouraging his men. For not the first time that day, Bertin thought about how easy it would be, in the confusion of battle, to slay his Uncle without anyone being the wiser. These thoughts must have made themselves present in his expression because the next moment Odo gave Bertin a scowl that would send shivers down the spine of even the most veteran of soldiers. Odo was Edward’s trusted lieutenant. He was tall, broad shouldered, and quite possibly the ugliest person to cross the channel with Duke William. He was also vicious, block-headed, and completely loyal to Edward.

The two lines of infantry crashed together. Surprisingly, the peasants were holding their own against their superior counterparts. Bertin saw Edward raise the standard of the boar, Bertin’s standard, into the air. Bertin lowered his helm and led his men, first at a canter, then into a full charge at the enemy’s right flank. The enemy line broke seconds after the lances found their first targets. For Bertin, their was no joy in the kill, but neither was their remorse. Quite simply, the battle had to be fought and men had to die. So it was fought. So they died. In Bertin’s mind, there was nothing more to it then that.

1080, at the manor a few weeks after the battle

Bertin cautiously entered the study of his Uncle. Nothing good had ever come from a summons by Edward. Upon entering the study, Bertin saw Edward studying a new tapestry hanging on the far wall. Bertin fingered his dagger as he wished for the hundredth time to plunge it into his Uncle’s back. The sight of Odo polishing his armor in the corner dissuaded Bertin from going through with the deed.

After a barely audible sigh, Bertin inquired, “What to do you wish of me, Uncle?”

Edward turned his attention from the tapestry to his nephew. “I wish to discuss your future. As you well know, I have no desire to let a bastard such as yourself inherit my earldom. The birth of my first son this past month has made you even more expendable. I am afraid that you have no future here. However, in the battle against those rebels, you proved yourself more capable, more disciplined, more loyal than I had expected. I have a proposal for you.”

“I suppose I do not have a choice in this proposal,” interrupted Bertin.

“There is always a choice, nephew. In this case your choices are to accept my offer or to be cast out of this manor without horse or armor. A knight without either of those is about as useful as the average peasant,” retorted Edward.

Bertin gazed steely-eyed at his Uncle. Although a grimace covered Bertin’s face, Edward’s astute eyes picked up an air of interest in his nephew’s countenance. He continued, “I wish to have a set of eyes in the kingdom of the Franks. I do not trust that pit of effeminate vipers. Vassaldom does not befit the Norman people. We are proud. We are warriors. Yet, are situation is precarious. If the Dukedoms were to unite against us, we could very well be defeated. So I have taken it upon myself to send a spy amongst their ranks. Someone to sabotage, to stir discontent, to inform me of developments. Nephew, I am sending you to France”

Bertin’s dropped his stoic attitude and looked confusedly at his Uncle. Bertin composed himself and stood silently in thought for a few seconds before asking, “Why me?”

“Perhaps,” replied Edward, “I am rewarding you for your skill at combat. Perhaps I think your calm nature is ideally suited for this line of work. You may pick any reason you wish but I have made my decision. A tournament is to be held in Paris. With your skill at arms I am sure you will make a positive impression. Integrate yourself into a Duchy. Inform me of major events. Sabotage any and all plans against Normandy. These are your orders. As to your new identity, my wife’s family is from Montsault. I have…persuaded them… to assist you in creating a credible back-story.”

For Bertin, the chance to escape his Uncle’s grasp, even though he was still in his employ, was exhilarating.

“I will do my best, Uncle.”

“One last thing,” smiled Edward, “Odo will accompany you to France, to make sure there are no…situations…”

Bertin grimaced at this restriction, but as he left Edward’s study, the notion of finally leaving this treacherous manor elicited a barely noticeable smile from the man now known as Bertin De Montsault.

**Rowan** · 07-18-2009, 20:03

French Countryside, 1080

A small band of weary militia troops and peasants proceed from a burning and ravaged keep. At the head of the column a plain looking man walks with an empty expression. He has no need to look behind, even though he is leaving behind both his past and once great future. Around them the few hundred spearmen and archers keep their wary distance, not feeling particularly threatened by this defeated huddle, but not wishing to subject themselves to the desperate charge of some forlorn soldier, who would rather die in a blaze of glory than march on.

It seems the opposing noble will keep his word and these last defenders of the now broken keep are allowed to leave with their lives. How strange that two such chivalric nobles had come to war against each other in the first place. The first, when all hope had finally failed, parlaying with the besiegers to let his people out but staying himself behind. The other, accepting and keeping to his word.

The man at the head of the column had been the master-at-arms of the keep, responsible for it's maintenance and the daily training of the handful of troops stationed there. His lord, who now alone waited for the enemy at the keeps lone tower, had raised him from a meager sergeant to command and ever brighter future after seeing his prowess and skills. Now it was all in vain. His lord had released him and all the rest of these people from their oaths and would be killed by their enemy when they entered the keep. He was again nothing, and he wasn't so young anymore.

But age had brought it's gifts too, the years of patrolling these lands had hardened him and he was a veteran of many skirmishes against the bandits and minor local lordlings. Even this final siege which had broken his lords power had it's bittersweet reward: the endless days of watching the enemy had given him a clear idea of how a siege should be ran, and how alone the defenders felt when all their contact with the outer world was broken. And these were restless times, maybe some higher lord would have a need of a minor noble without land, but some moderate skill in warfare.

And there was talk of the great Tournament in Paris, with everyone who could gathering there to either partake or watch this dangerous play of grown men. Maybe he should go there as well, the alternative was turning to brigandry and that wasn't to his tastes. He knew all too well that even the best brigand groups fell to the first trained army that happened their way.

So maybe he still had a future, if not as certain but at least still in his own hands, thought the man. Maybe he wasn't meant to stay in the countryside to the end of his days, marrying some peasant lass and raising kids.

Mysterious are the ways in which God works, thought Alphonse la Hire.

Where in France did this happen? It doesn't matter. Who were these two warring nobles? It is of no consequence. Why did they war against each other? Knowing that is of no use either. It is merely the background against which the story is told.

**KnightnDay** · 07-19-2009, 00:34

1080AD

As the sun began to set beyond the hills in the distance, Thomas LeFebre de Saint-Amand crept slowly towards the entranceway. The one man who might have taken notice of him was sufficiently distracted. The aroma of the evening repast wafted in the warm summer air. Thomas’ spy had done her work well, as he reached his objective undetected.

Reaching for his sword, he pulled it free with one hand, and slowly checked the security of the entranceway with the other. Unlocked! And now the moment was at hand, the hour when Metz would be liberated from rebel hands. Taking a deep breath, Thomas held it for a moment, and then…

"For the glory of France! Forward with me!"

Thomas burst through through the entrance, and at that moment a high-pitched shriek pierced the air.

Within a matter of seconds, a half-naked lad bolted from the rear of the barn.

"Thomas, you idiot! What the hell are you doing! Andre wait, it’s only my brother…"

A now highly distraught Renee LeFebre, the tender age of 17, confronted her intruder, quickly throwing her blouse back on. She knew of course that her amorous friend was long gone, scared out of his wits.

Thomas at first was quite shocked by the brief affair, he wasn’t expecting things to go quite like this. He had after all led his victorious- albeit imaginary soldiers in the capture of Metz dozens of times. Never had he encountered anything more than the occasional barn animal in all his exploits. Still, the lad recovered his senses soon enough.

"The enemies of France I give no quarter. Your accomplice was wise to run from here with his skin intact."

"I wish right now that I was an enemy of France so that I could ring that little neck of yours", retorted Renee. She was quick to replace her clothing as this incident was sure to bring about an immediate interrogation.

Thomas now pretended to chastise his older sister. "Choose your words carefully Milady. Soon enough I will be in the presence of our king, and it would be most unfortunate if he were to hear my words of your evil intentions."

Renee was becoming rather amused by such ramblings. "You? Do you really think the King of France will even notice a sixteen year old boy in the council chambers? He’ll probably mistake you for a page or serving boy… "

"Thomas! Renee! What the devil is going on here?" Philippe LeFebre looked sternly at his two teenage children with a deep look of suspicion on his brow.

"Oh father, forgive me. I was, um, taking care of the animals when Thomas broke in and startled me. "

Thomas although only 16 years old, recognized that discretion in this case was surely the better part of valor.

"Yes, I’m very sorry Renee, normally I practice these sort of things earlier in the day. I can help you finish up here."

The elder LeFebre, age 48, still had considerable doubts as to what had truly transpired just then, but had little time to press his children further. "Well the evening meal has been on the table for some time. Both of you leave the animals and get in the house at once. But close the rear door of this barn, we don’t want any of the animals escaping in the night. This is a special night after all. It is our final meal together before Thomas is off to Paris in the morning."

Prior to evening supper, the traditional evening prayers were made, including the usual request to God in Heaven to look after their departed son Robert, two years deceased. All realized that were not for the accident, it would have been a 20-year old Robert making the journey to Paris instead of younger son Thomas.

It had been local peasant farmers who had found the body of the boy, his head cracked open by a large boulder at the edge of the River Cher. The general conclusion everyone agreed upon was that Robert had been thrown from his horse during a particularly violent evening storm on the river’s edge and died almost instantly. It was a terrible blow to the family and to the larger community as Robert had been looked upon by the young man as one with potential for greatness, much as the namesake of the town, Saint Amand. But it was God’s work, and people assumed there was a purpose to all of this. Thus it fell to Thomas to live up to a greater expectation.

The supper meal was an enjoyable one, but there were mixed feelings naturally. Philippe and his wife Julienne were of course feeling some sadness that their one son would soon be far from home. Their daughters Renee and 10-year old Lucie would continue to be with their parents in the coming days. That thought at least provided some solace.

Later that evening, Philippe had some final words for Thomas.

"My son, I will ask of you three things as you begin your journey into manhood. First and most importantly, honor your heritage. That is, do honor to your king, your country, and to your own name. You are not Robert. Do not try to be Robert. You have qualities that will hold you in good stead in the Parisian court. Let those qualities lead you to your own success. Second, be wary of the many temptations that lurk outside. Enjoy life, a sip of wine on occasion, pleasant company, but avoid excess. Third, listen and learn first, and speak second. You will make true friends among some of those in positions of power. Others may speak of friendship, but will try to do you and others harm. Men have their own motives and weaknesses which will be exploited. If you remember the first two things I mention, you will not be so vulnerable. Indeed, you will stand out among the finest men of France."

"Oh, and one thing more. I needn’t remind you that you will be the youngest man in attendance of the council. There is only one other of age among all the generals and nobility that is of your age, and that is Princess Constance. Steer clear of her. There will be many vying for her hand in marriage, and that will be an unwanted distraction for many. The King in particular will be looking for an ideal suitor for his daughter to marry and the simple fact is that you are not one of them. Do not let that thought disappoint you, there are ample paths to success if you heed my words."

With that, father and son rose. "I have heard what you say, father. I will not disappoint you."

Philippe smiled. "I know you won’t. Now, kiss your mother good night and off to bed with you. A new life awaits you come morning."

**Rowan** · 07-19-2009, 20:53

French countryside, 1080

Their luck had held and the defeated band hadn't been attacked by the watching troops. One by one, family by family, the peasants peeled off to see what had become of their little homesteads and villages. In the end there was only a score of more veteran troops left.
"So, what do we do now", asked one of them as they were having a break.
"I was planning on continuing all the way to Paris to take part in the Kings Tourney", replied Alphonse.
"It's a long way to walk, and the roads aren't safe for a lone traveller."
"The news of lord's abdication couldn't have reached very far yet. With luck we could get ourselves horses from one his steadings... it is only our right since we weren't allowed to take our warhorses from the keep. That is... if you want to keep following me. I might have been the master of the castle but alone in the woods we are all equal."
"But what about after the tourney, it ain't cheap living in the capital."

Slowly a consensus was reached: they would form up a company, with Alphonse leading, and offer their services as free lances to a noble that would have them. If they were succesful in the Tourney, maybe even the king would notice them...

**Ituralde** · 07-20-2009, 08:46

Outside of Paris, 1080

Gerome rolled over and groaned. Would he find no rest tonight? He deserved rest that was sure.

He was an important man after all, responsible for manning the toll station of his Lord. The sturdy stone building and its outhouse supported the iron chain that crossed the road at this point, which made sure that every passing carriage paid the required tolls to pay for eventual repairs to the road. And also for Gerome, if you took it exactly. While the main building had a spacious common room and also some lodging hardly anyone ever stayed here.

Some said it was due to Gerome, who wasn't a beacon of hospitality, but the more likely reason was that Paris, capital of the Realm, only lay a short distance from the toll station. Short enough that most people moved on to enjoy the adventures of the city rather than stay at the dull toll station.
All the more irksome that the young nobles had stayed for the night since their destination clearly was Paris. For hours now Gerome had to listen to their talking through the night.

They had arrived late the evening before, five young Knights by the looks of them, who had met from half across France if their stories were to be believed.
Said they had an audience with the King himself, as if that wasn't clearly a lie. Gerome was good at spotting those kind of things. Apparently they had some things to discuss before they wanted to move on, to meet the King, and had decided to stay. And they had discussed at great length and often volume. They had laid out parchments on the tables and talked about some Charter and some Oath. For hours they were talking now, quite animated too.

It seemed less that they disagreed, they were just quite fervent at agreeing with each other. And then the topic of their conversation. Chivalry, pah! Those virtues were all very well if you didn't have to worry about putting food on the table for a family of five. Not that Gerome had to worry about that. He couldn't believe his bad luck as suddenly the voices rose once again.

"Now speak after me! I, am a Knight of France! And hereby swear! To fear God and maintain His Church! To serve my liege and..."

Gerome groaned again, he could only hope that they did indeed travel on to Paris as they promised for he was not sure he would survive another night with them staying!

**TheFlax** · 07-20-2009, 20:47

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Outskirts of Paris, 1080

It was a midsummer day, a cloudy midsummer day. Foul weather was surely coming, but no such thing would dampen the spirits in Paris and all around the city. In a few days time a grand tournament, the likes of which had never been seen in France, would be taking place. Lords ranging from far and wide throughout the kingdom had already arrived at the capital in droves to attend. For many of the nobility, these were days of festivities, but for Constance each day was unbearable. She felt as if all the eyes of France were suddenly upon her, an unpleasant reminder that she was now of age to marry. At least, with all the commotion in the city she was able to escape the oppressive environment of the court.

Riding her powerful destrier and clad in a coarse brown cloak with a bliaud of the same tone, Constance made her way to a nearby forest at a gallop. Once more, she had eluded her escorts, but they were fast becoming more than a match for her. She needed to be cautious today in particular, because for all his love, she was certain her father would approve of the illicit meeting she had planned. Once in the forest, hopefully safe from prying eyes, the wayward princess pulled on the reins of her mount to bring him to a slower pace. In these thick woods, a gallop would be ill-advised and while Constance was not one to shy away from risks, she still possessed some measure of common sense.

Her thoughts drifted to the man she had arranged to meet in secrecy; Alan de Rohan, Duke of Bretagne. Years ago they had met on more than one occasion, as children. Last she had seen him, he had been chasing her through the gardens at her mother's behest. Constance remembered vividly those moments, she had found some of Louis' old clothes and had changed into them. Dressed as a boy, she had fled her protesting mother, only to be tackled down by a young Alan. Those were the times she cherished, old enough to wander about, young enough to remain a child. Now, she was a princess and he was a Duke. Being only four years her senior, Constance was impressed with him and when she had heard he was coming to Paris, she had decided he would be a key to her future.

After a short while, she finally reached the clearing where he would be waiting. With a practiced hop, Constance dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby tree before making her way to the center of the small glade.

Alan was leaning on a tree as she approached, at twenty he was tall, slim and certainly handsome, however he had not filled out physically even though he was fully practiced in the martial aspects of his station. He still seemed more boyish than manly, his personality however was the difference. It was large.

He momentarily thought about her. At sixteen she was already a woman, the young girl he had known was rapidly disappearing both physically and in personality. She was certainly turning out exactly as he had dreamed she would. The rough exterior and tomboy looks did not fool him as it had fooled others. Their physical contact and “rough housing” had receded over the last few years as her developing figure had lead to far fewer places to “rough house” with.

Smiling broadly as she approached, he pushed himself off the tree and, with a practiced flourish of a courtesan, bowed.

“Your Highness, it is most excellent to see you. Your radiance is a sight to behold as always.”

His grin gave the words overly exaggerated formality, something she was familiar with.

Constance smiled warmly upon seeing him and flushed slightly at his compliment, she still wasn't accustomed to those kind of compliments, especially with Louis reminding her what an inappropriate woman she was.

"Duke de Rohan." She said in a mock formal tone while nodding. "The title fits you nicely." The princess added as she appraised him, head to toe.

Noticing the scrutiny he spread his arms wide and look down at himself. His riding clothes were an easy fit on his long frame, the exceptional quality hidden by the plain cut and colors.

“Do I pass?”

She chuckled. "What do you think?"

Laughing at her quick reply he winked at her.

"I'd say I've smashed the pass mark and are making excellent progress towards a distinction by the look I'm getting!!

You're such a charmer my dear, I really need to keep that in mind. Plus the scraps and scratches all over you just add to the look."

Glancing at her figure.

"You could pick up the dress code a little though, this whole peasant revival things being a little over done don't you think?"

"Its more practical for what I have in mind." Constance shrugged.

Tilting his head like a dog unsure of what is going on Alan replied.

"And what may that be my dear?"

From the folds of her bliaud, she revealed a long knife with a jewel encrusted gold hilt.

"My father gave me this, for my protection. I'd like to actually be able to use it."

Alan's face turned serious for a moment, before slipping back into his usual humorous expression.

"If you're serious Constance, then I have to ask. Are you prepared to kill someone? Because if you cannot commit to that then there is no point. Keep in mind this is all about your intent and nothing to do with skills I may teach you."

He was more than earnest in his tone.

"I... Am I prepared to defend myself? Yes. Am I ready to kill a man?... I don't know. Even if I said yes, I don't think I would truly know that answer until I was face to face with that decision."

The young Duke held her gaze for a moment, clearly assessing her response. After a long pause his green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Fair enough, your brother and father will skin me alive for this you know."

His grin indicated he was not particularly concerned.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Alain began to teach Constance how to fight with a blade, or at least tried to. The girl was as much a menace to herself as she was to her opponent. Using fallen tree branches to spar, she took her branch in a tight two-handed grip and immediately started flailing about wildly, never even coming close to land a blow. It was obvious she was trying to compensate her lack of skill with sheer aggressiveness. As expected, she tired after a time and Alain had little trouble passing through her meager defense to tap her shoulder with his stick.

The other attempts followed a similar pattern, but slowly the young Duke was teaching Constance the proper grip and more importantly, control. By the end of the afternoon, the girl was still largely inept with a blade, but she had caught onto the basics and could probably become at least competent if she practiced more than occasionally. Despite all the effort involved and her repeated failures, Constance was beaming. With a dirty hand she wiped some sweat from her brow and addressed Alain, still panting from the exertion.

"That..." She paused to catch her breath. "That was harder than I expected."

Smiling broadly he replied; "Next time we are going to take a few lessons on footwork and balance. Something you might be more familiar with in these initial stages. A good bladesman or woman must first practice poise and foot positioning before the rest. It will be more like dancing than swinging at a gate with a stick. We will focus on speed and technique rather than strength.

Is that to your liking Your Highness?"

"I think I can manage that." Looking at the fading sun, she added. "I should be leaving now, lest my presence be overly missed. I take it you will be participating in the tournament?"

"Indeed Your Highness, I'm looking forward to see the nobility of France gathered to compete and then begin the first of the new formalized Council meetings.

Your father and brother are making excellent in roads towards ending the petty squabbling and fighting that has held back this kingdom for too long."

Pausing, Alain's face grows more serious.

"Be careful you are not drawn into issues as a method of leverage or power Constance. If you truly wish to have some influence over who you marry I would recommend you be proactive with your father lest he starts to listen to those who whisper in his ear as to their recommendations.

Whether you like it or not, you are of marrying age now, and therefore as daughter to the King, you represent a direct passage to favor and power."

Constance grimaced at the mention of "marriage", but nodded nonetheless at the Duke's words.

"Take care also and I wish you well in the tournament."

She then turned to leave the clearing.

**AussieGiant** · 07-20-2009, 21:15

Paris 1081

It was a modest estate by the standards of the young Duke, forty rooms, council chambers for his private business, a training ground and established gardens to ease the eye.

The Duchy's Paris quarters would have to do for the tournament however his trained eye did catch something through a window as he dismounted.

"Pierre Yves, is zat a w'ite sheet in the window or do I see ze 'ead groundmans' arse?"

Pierre Yves, the Duke's man servant, gazed at the second floor window in question.

Clear for all to see was plainly clothed man's very white backside, his trousers were around is ankles and clearly engaged in an act of procreation.

A pause followed by a very dry response.

"I do believe that is a white sheet blowing in the wind my lord. Someone must have left the window open."

A completely nonplussed look etches itself across the Duke face as the rest of his retinue wait to see if the answer will be accepted or not.

Glancing back up at the rapidly moving rear end the Duke says.

"Well w'at are you wait for man? Get up zere and close ze window!! You know I can't stand a drafty bedroom."

**econ21** · 07-20-2009, 23:54

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Lending dignity to a vulgar brawl

Reims, 1080

“Mauvoisin - what kind of dumb @*!^& name is that?” the large knight sneered. “You from Switzerland, you @*!^&ing pansy? Or did your mother do the dirty with some visiting Swiss @*!^&?”

Hermant stood by the side of the tavern, watching the drunken knight gesticulate at him - only a few yards away. Hermant was a tall, fine figure of a man but had a kind of sickly pallor which together with his elegant manner of dress suggested a strange, almost consumptive vulnerability. His tormentor - the large knight - was as tall as Hermant, but had a ruddy complexion encouraged by drink and his dominant body language signalled a man capable of great violence.

The large knight was enjoying himself, cheered on by a score of brawny retainers. Only one of Hermant’s men was with him, his squire - a timid looking youngster of only sixteen, who seemed to be clinging to Hermant. Whether Hermant was shielding the squire or the squire was restraining Hermant, it was hard to tell. The rest of the tavern watched the scene warily, but without much interest - obviously, they had seen the large knight hold sway in this fashion before.

The large knight laughed at the approval he was receiving from his men and buoyed on by Hermant’s lack of response, continued his invective: “Lake Mauvoisin in Switzerland, isn’t it? I bet you used to piss in that when you were a kid, did you, you little @*!^&? And then I wager you let your mother drink from the Lake too, eh? You dirty little Swiss @*!^&.”

Hermant waved his hand casually to the side, as if brushing off a lazy fly. The large knight laughed again and turned to receive more applause from his retainers about his great wit. He was only dimly aware of an incoming rush of sound and from the corner of his eye, caught a blur of motion. Hermant had leapt across and grabbed his tormentor, the violence of the attack sending them both hurtling through the tavern, scattering tables, stools and patrons in all directions.

The large knight’s retainers were on their feet. One pinned the Hermant’s young squire and the rest moved menacingly towards the duo that was now rolling round the floor, fists and legs flying.

Suddenly a third knight emerged from the gloom at the back of the tavern to intercept the retainers. He was younger than either of the two brawlers, but had scars on his face that revealed no lack of experience with combat. The scarred knight moved confidently, holding up his hand to the large knight’s retainers.

“Steady lads, let’s not do anything too hasty…” the scarred knight warned.

“Gaeten.” one of the retainers said with a mix of irritation and respect: “This is not your fight - stand aside.”

Gaeten’s face was relaxed and he gestured lightly to the two combatants still rolling round the tavern behind him, locked in a struggle that showed no signs of being quickly resolved: “Lieutenant, it looks like your liege does not need your help. It’s a fair fight. What say you, I buy you all another round?”

The large knight’s lieutenant looked unsure - he had a score of armed men behind him; Gaeten seemed to be alone. There was a crash behind Gaeten and a woman screamed. Gaeten looked at the lieutenant earnestly, gesturing down with his hands: “Wait” and then ran to the back of the bar.

The two brawlers had somehow become separated and the large knight had drawn his sword and was whirling it around the tavern in a rampage. Hermant - unable to draw his blade in time - tried to fend off the blows with whatever furniture was to hand. A serving maid was cowering in fear, the large knight’s twirling blade sending air blowing through her hair.

Gaeten ran to the maid, and pulled her safely behind him. The rampaging large knight strode past and almost imperceptibly Gaeten stuck out his leg to trip up the marauder. For the second time that evening, the large knight was sent sprawling across the tavern. Gaeten moved quickly to bring the maid to safety behind the bar.

In his absence, the large knight’s retainers had been released from their quandary and now were surrounding Hermant, lifting him up and pinning his arms while others helped the large knight get to his feet and retrieve his sword. The belligerent knight ignored Gaeten - his eyes had only been on Hermant and he had been unaware of any of Gaeten’s subtle interventions. He strode towards the captured Hermant.

“Now you @*!^&ing Swiss @*!^&, we’re going to show you some real French hospitality.” Helpless, Hermant looked at the knight with a kind of bemused contempt and then spat a large gobbet of phlegm into his enemy's face. The large knight roared in anger and drew back his sword arm, about to strike.

Gaeten seized the sword arm and spun the large knight round - “Steady, Sir Pierre - you’ve had a little too much to drink. Let’s not do anything we will regret in the morning.”

Pierre, the large knight, took a few moments to understand that the situation had changed. “Gaeten - you know this @*!^&?”

Gaeten looked at Hermant. He had never seen the outsider before and his identity was completely unknown. “Of course, he’s an old friend of the Duc’s - here on some official business or other. You probably don’t want to annoy the Duc by running through his official guest.”

Pierre seemed visibly to deflate. His tensed sword arm dropped. He fired a vicious look at Hermant, who cast back a sickly smile. “You @*!^&!” Pierre spat at Hermant. “Better hope your business goes well with the Duc or you’ll be all mine when you leave.”

Pierre’s retainers released Hermant, who looked casually at Pierre. “When my business with the Duc is over, do look me up. By then you might have sobered enough to be able to take me without needing twenty of your men.”

Pierre seemed to grow larger and started to move, but felt Gaeten’s arm on his shoulder.“Sir Pierre, I offered your men the next round. Please see that they get it and put it on my tab. I need to talk urgently with our guest.”

At that Gaeten quickly hurried Hermant out of the tavern. When they had reached a safe distance, Gaeten stopped. “Please forgive Sir Pierre, his manners are deplorable but he fights well and France needs every blade at this hour.”

Hermant looked impassively and said coldly: “No, France is in the state she is precisely because of men such as Sir Pierre.” Then he managed to break free from his reverie and a semblance of humanity entered into his voice: “I am sorry, kind knight, I have not thanked you for your aid in there. I am Hermant Mauvoisin and I am in your debt.”

“Hermant Mauvoisin?” Gaeten asked with surprise. “I am Gaeten de Rethel - you wrote to me about joining a company of knights.”

Hermant’s eyes lit up: “Ah, brother knight! It is well met indeed!”

“But why are you in Reims?”

“Well, you said that you needed to consult your Duc for permission to join the company. I wanted to make sure the consultations went in my, err, our, favour. I am so glad your Duc agreed to be a patron of the Order and that you will be joining us. After tonight’s display, I cannot think of a man I would rather have at my side!”