1078 AD

The first volley of arrows struck both of the leading guards. The one on the left took an arrow to the neck, tumbled out of his saddle, and quickly bleed to death on the ground. The one on the right stayed on his mount, but with three shafts sprouting from his chest, he could do little more than gasp for breath and die slightly slower.

The two remaining guards were in the rear of the procession and this saved them from the main volley, but Dreux was experienced at ambush and had placed two of his archers to fire from behind. An arrow took one of the guards in the back, but the other spun in his saddle with his shield raised. The shaft meant for him was stopped by the layered wood. The guard kicked his heels into his horse and charged towards the rearmost archers. The distance was short, and the archers were some of the newer men. One got off a second shot, but in his haste it went wide. The second saw the horsed guard bearing down on him and fumbled his arrow.

As the guard rode by, Christophe spun from behind the large tree trunk where he had been hiding, swinging his sword low with both hands for extra power. The blade sliced clean through the left foreleg of the horse, and the mount collapsed in a screaming heap. The guard avoided being crushed, but the force of the landing momentarily stunned him. He was still attempting to rise when Christophe thrust his sword through the man’s back and into his heart.

Four men and one woman now sat alone in the middle of the road. Three of the men had swords in their hands, and the fourth had a dagger, but none had moved and all were clearly frightened. The rest of Dreux’s men had emerged from cover and were circling them with an assortment of spears and blades. Dreux himself was standing in the road, with the four experienced archers beside him, their bows drawn.

“We seek your money, not your lives! Give us what you have and you will leave here in peace.”

“You’ll take nothing from us!” shouted one of the sword wielders, and kicked his horse forward. Dreux nodded to one of the archers, and an arrow was loosed to bury itself in the horse’s neck. The beast reared up in pain and threw the rider to the ground. His leg broke on impact with a dull snap and he howled in pain. The horse ran wild out into the forest and the bandits made no attempt to follow it.

“The next arrow will not take a horse, I swear it. Horses sell well and I will not waste more profit so that you can impress your whore.”

The most finely dressed noble turned to look at Dreux. “Stupid? We are not stupid! The moment we lower our weapons you will kill us and rape my daughter!”

The bandit leader frowned. “We can kill you where you sit right now and do what we please with your woman. If you fight, you will surely bring to pass that which you fear. If you surrender all that you own, we will let you go with your lives, your clothes, and your daughter’s honor intact.”

The noble scowled. “How do we know you will keep your word?”

Dreux shrugged. “You do not, but what choice do you have?” The mounted nobles looked at each other and the two dozen men surrounding them. One by one, they threw their weapons on the ground and dismounted.

“You’ll all burn for this! I’ll hunt you down and kill you all” the man with the broken leg cursed.

The finely dressed noble looked at his downed companion, “Quiet Gervais! Do you want to get us killed?”

At the sound of the name, Christophe’s head spun round and focused on the fallen man. Gervais. It was not an uncommon name, and Perronne was far away, but there was something about the man’s face that looked familiar. He strode over the fallen man who was struggling painfully to straighten his leg. Christophe had not seen his brother since their father had sent him to Arnoul 12 years before, but the more he looked at the man, the more sure he was of his identity.

The fallen man glared up at him. “What the hell do you want?”

“Gervais de Perronne?” asked Christophe.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name, you filthy $#%&? You know, that pig nose makes you look like someone I used to know.”

Christophe did not even blink. In one swift move he lifted his sword and plunged it into Gervais’ throat. Blood flowed thick from around the wound. In the background, the woman screamed, but Christophe cared for nothing but the look in his brother’s eyes as his life flowed out of him. Gervais’ hands slapped at the sword for a while, but his efforts quickly grew feeble. As blood began to fill his brother’s mouth, Christophe leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Say hello to father for me.” A thick croak escaped Gervais’ severed windpipe, and he struggled to move, but soon his eyes glazed over and all motion ceased.

When Christophe finally stood, the woman was sobbing and the rest of the nobles were hastily placing their possessions in piles on the ground. Dreux put a hand on Christophe’s shoulder. “And what was all that about, then?”

Christophe glared at him. “None of your business.” He looked back down at Gervais, and for the first time saw the de Perronne signet ring on his hand: three dogs heads with a chevron. Christophe bent back down, pulled his knife, and sawed through the knuckle joint. When the ring came free, he dropped the finger on Gervais’ face and strode off into the woods towards the bandit camp.