On the other side of the hill pass, save for the carriage making entry difficult, all seemed quiet. Along the sides of the road were ditches; now empty, meant to channel the Ostwen’s waterways when the river swelled during later seasons. If one were to check below, they would be in for a shock: Men inhabited the ditches, close to a dozen, all armed with small iron shields and short swords, donning scale armor similar to lamellar. Except for one.

Sweat emerged out a thin forest of salt & pepper hair and dribbled down, filling wrinkled lines etched across a bed of skin. It rolled past furrowed brows, reaching crows' feet as it bent the corner around hazelnut eyes, kind, and full of smile lines. Before being soaked up by the well-groomed bristles of hair perched atop thin lips.

Ser Boudicat pressed the sweat-stained handkerchief against his mustache for the eighth time in a row. The sun had positioned itself west, facing them, so it might grace their presence. He would have preferred it better without the surcoat he wore beneath the cuirass encasing his torso—and the gorget, pauldrons, and other pieces of plate armor also included.

“Merde, il fait chaud ici.” Boudicat muttered under his breath. He was getting old no matter how much he denied it, but that wouldn’t stop him from carrying out duties or enjoying life. The men near him smiled; it was a shared misery, cramped inside this dirt oven, waiting for the signal.

The vineyards of Franleux were far away. He had come to this land a year ago, hoping to see an old friend, Baron Carson, after retiring from the life of a chevalier. Only to find him dead, and the son embroiled in a dispute between lords. The son, unlike his father, had no experience in battle. The opposing Lords’ men captured the river crossings. Dressed as bandits, they searched anyone who attempted to cross; killing messengers and cutting trade to the Baron’s lands off from the outside. Save for the town guard stretched thin, trying to defend the overlying villages since raids started occurring, Baron Carson had no other forces.

‘That should be a good lesson for Maxwell. So greedy to save coin, he dismisses his father's previous household guard.’ Noble houses had a group of trusted bodyguards well paid, equipped, and trained to protect and serve their families. Maxwell, the new Baron Carson, believed the town guard sufficed just as well at a lower cost.

“Ser Boudicat.” A scout skidded down next to him. Dirt covered his face, mixed with sweat. The man hastily brought a fist over his chest while catching his breath.

“Report.”

“There’s a—a complication. Bandits, m-more than we expected. P-preparing attack now,” he wheezed, “The bridge.” The scout croaked, swaying unsteadily, “Other side.” He slid against the dirt wall, “People coming...”

“Quick, this man needs water.” Someone passed him a canteen, Ser Boudicat immediately tore off the cap, pouring water into the dehydrated scout. “Good Wyner, rest now.” He patted him on the shoulder and rose, ignoring his knees popping under him.

“Gentlemen.” Ser Boudicat smiled, “Circumstance changes our plan. Already, traveleurs are coming once again, and now the robber baron’s scum has reared their ugly heads. Alas, Captain Brant and his men were to join us in this ambush, but no matter.” Boudicat had gone with a small party to scout and secure the hill pass. His second-in-command was some distance away, alongside the rest of their men, protecting the supply wagons.

The former chevalier walked, hands clasped behind him, nodding to every single one man. “What say you? Shall we save these traveleurs and hold the miserable curs until reinforcements arrive?” He pivoted, pleased to see them standing at the ready.

An air of confidence hung over Baron Carson’s new guard. While the Baron had spared no expense for weapons and armor, it was Boudicat who inspired them. He, a foreign knight from Franleux, met with everyone personally despite their lower status. Learned their names, trained alongside them, was harsh but not cruel with punishment, and fair in his treatment. True, they swore loyalty to his lordship as Houseguard, but the men were proud to fight for their families under Ser Boudicat.

“What say you?” The Chevalier demanded, louder this time. A dozen fists slamming against hardened leather sounded in reply. “If so, to arms!” Ser Boudicat brandished his rapier, an elegant silvered thing, and began clambering out of the ditch.