of the Lark.
The attack began as a trot, with lances held upright, trumpets blaring and pennons fluttering in the breeze, and the war cry of the English royal House erupting from countless throats, “Dex aie!” It seemed to Geoff that his heart was pounding in rhythm with his stallion’s thudding hooves. This was the way combat was meant to be, not the ugliness at Verneuil, the broken faith and slaughter of innocents. This was a fight between equals, knights trained in war, matching skills and valor. Leveling his lance, couched under his right arm so it was held steady against his chest, he urged his destrier into a gallop as the enemy knights charged to meet them.
His target was a knight on a roan stallion. As the distance narrowed between them, he braced himself for the impact, still more excited than afraid, instinctively putting into practice the lessons learned in years of tiltyard drills. His foe struck first, but his lance hit the edge of Geoff’s shield, sliding off harmlessly. Geoff’s aim was better. He was rocked back against his saddle cantle as his lance shattered upon his opponent’s shield, and then he gave a triumphant shout, for the force of his blow had unseated the other knight.
He hesitated then, not sure what to do next. It never occurred to him to kill the man sprawled in the trampled grass; it would be dishonorable to slay a defenseless knight, and foolish, too, for he’d be forfeiting a profitable ransom. But the battle still raged around him. Shouldn’t he seek out another foe? His dilemma was solved by Fulk de Barnham. As he galloped past, he yelled, “What are you waiting for? Take him prisoner or someone else will!”
The enemy knight was struggling to sit up, holding his arm at such an odd angle that Geoff guessed he’d broken a bone in his fall. Casting aside his damaged lance, Geoff unsheathed his sword. “Do you yield?”
The man’s eyes locked onto that lethal, naked blade. “I do,” he said hoarsely. “I am your prisoner, sir.”
Geoff frowned down into that pale, tense face. He’d heard it argued that it would now be his responsibility to escort his captive to a place of safety, but clearly that was impossible under the circumstances. He had no intention of leaving the battle, and he decided he had no choice but to trust to his enemy’s honor. “You have pledged yourself to Geoffrey Fitz Roy,” he declared, and spurred his stallion away without waiting for a response.
He soon found another adversary, a knight on a lathered chestnut. They exchanged inconclusive blows, but when he circled back to strike again, he was shocked to see the other man had ridden on. Glancing around, he saw that this was occurring all over the field. Men were down, riderless horses milling about in confusion. Leicester’s line was wavering, his knights, outnumbered and hard-pressed, giving ground before the onslaught. And then the line was breaking, and the survivors were in flight, seeking only to save themselves.
“Leicester is getting away!” A knight galloped by Geoff, gesturing and shouting. Catching a glimpse of a streaming checkered banner in the distance, he recognized it as the earl’s device and joined the chase, urging his stallion to greater speed.
“Treacherous swine! Swaggering, misbegotten whoreson! We’ll follow you into Hell if need be!” No one could hear him, of course, but Geoff continued to yell threats, so outraged was he that Leicester would try to save his craven skin by bolting the field, leaving his men to die.
The rebel knights were being overtaken, one by one, for they were fleeing across marshland and they were soon blundering into bogs and sloughs. A ditch loomed ahead, but Geoff’s destrier did not break stride. Gathering itself, it soared up and over, and Geoff gave a shaken laugh, for there was a second horse down in the ditch, one that had not been so lucky, floundering on three legs. He drew rein to catch his breath and heap praise upon his stallion, caught movement from the corner of his eye just in time. A man darted forward, muddied and desperate, and snatched at his reins. Geoff’s stallion was well trained in the maneuvers of the battlefield-Henry had seen to that-and it reared up, dragging the man off his feet. He’d come in from the left, so Geoff could not make use of his sword. Instead, he bashed the knight with his shield, and watched with satisfaction as his assailant reeled backward, plunging down into the ditch with a resounding splash.
A horseman was approaching, very fast, and he spurred his stallion forward. He was confident that this was not one of Leicester’s fleeing knights, for he was going in the wrong direction, and by now the rider was close enough for him to recognize the device on his shield-the insignia of the constable, Humphrey de Bohun.
The man reined in a few feet away. He was splattered with blood, whether his own or not, Geoff could not tell, and his chest was heaving, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. “Do you have a wineskin?” he wanted to know, and when Geoff unhooked it from his pommel and tossed it over, he drank in gulps, then removed his helmet and poured the remaining liquid over his head. “God Above, it is hot!”
It was a cool autumn day, but Geoff agreed with him; between his mail and his exertions, he felt downright feverish. “What is happening?”
He’d assumed de Bohun’s knight was acting as a courier and the man confirmed it now with a flash of white teeth as he replaced his helmet. “We caught Leicester, and as easy as snaring a rabbit it was, too. He did not even try to fight us off, the milk-livered, mewling pisspot! My lord sent me to get word to the Earls of Cornwall and Gloucester.”
His last words floated back on the wind to Geoff, for he was already galloping off. Geoff was tempted to continue on, so greatly did he want to witness Leicester’s capture and humiliation. But common sense reasserted itself, and turning his horse around, he rode after the courier. The battle was not yet won, for there were still Leicester’s three thousand Flemish routiers to deal with.
He’d not gone far, though, before he saw several horsemen gathered beside a water-filled trench. What drew his attention was their laughter, not something he’d expect to hear upon a battlefield. They turned as he rode up; one of them was a knight in Roger Bigod’s household, and he assured the others that Geoff was on their side. It occurred to Geoff that warfare would be easier if all the combatants wore identifying colors or devices. A baron or lord’s knights would bear his insignia on their shields, but not always, and in the heat of battle, mistakes could be made, and sometimes were. That was what had most surprised Geoff about combat: the chaos and confusion.
He started to ask the knights what was going on, but by then he was close enough to see for himself. A slight figure in chain mail was struggling in the water, while on the bank one of the knights was removing his helmet and sword before sliding down into the trench. It made sense to Geoff that they’d attempt a rescue; why not get wet for the chance of a goodly ransom? He was puzzled, though, that the would-be rescuer’s companions were so amused by his efforts, and even more puzzled now when the trapped knight lurched away, refusing to take his outstretched hand.
“What…he’d prefer drowning to capture?” he asked incredulously and, oddly, that sent the other men into further paroxysms of mirth.
“Not ‘he,’” one managed to gasp. “She!”
Geoff’s jaw dropped. Once he understood what they were saying, he swung from the saddle and hastened toward the ditch, eager to see the Earl of Leicester’s notorious Amazon countess. The other knights were still laughing, cheering the Good Samaritan on with cries of “Go, Simon, go!”
So far, Simon was not having much luck. “Come on, my lady,” he said coaxingly. “You’re getting in over your head. Surely you do not want to drown in a ditch like a dog!”
“Yes,” she hissed, “I would rather drown than let you put your hands on me, you lumpish, poxy lout!”
This sent Simon’s comrades into hysterics; one almost unseated himself, he was laughing so hard. The countess had gone under, came up sputtering and coughing, and when she did, Simon lunged forward. But she was as slippery as an eel and slid out of his grasp. “This is crazy, my lady,” he insisted, edging closer to make another grab. “So you’ve lost. War is always a question of losing and winning. But if you kill yourself, you’ll burn in Hell for all eternity!”
For the first time, she seemed to be listening to him, to hear what he was saying. She looked from him to the watching men, and there was such despair on her face that their laughter momentarily stilled. When Simon stretched out his hand, she hesitated, then began to splash toward him, and he’d soon pulled her to safety. But when he was about to boost her up the bank, she suddenly began to resist again. Tugging frantically at the jeweled rings adorning her fingers, she slipped them off before he realized what she was doing and flung the rings out into the depths of the ditch.
“There!” she cried triumphantly. “I’d rather the fish get them!”
With that, Simon lost all patience. “Bitch!” he growled, shoving her up onto dry ground before plunging into the ditch again, where he dove repeatedly into the murky water, seeking in vain to recover the countess’s rings.
Geoff understood Simon’s frustration, for there’d be no ransom for the Countess of Leicester. It did not
