The rider hadn’t been playing a jape on his captain when he had said their patrol had caught a tiger by the tail. The force they had run into, while not a proper army, was a sizable raiding party that would, if given the chance, disrupt and in some cases even destroy the supply and communication lines that Sir Edward had so painstakingly set up over the last four years. Only two things kept Sir Thomas’ patrol in the fight. The first was that both sides were caught by surprise and Thomas had been the first to react, charging the enemy formation and breaking through before they had even spanned their crossbows. The second was Sir Edward’s belief in overwhelming force. His patrols were not small affairs of a few archers winding through the woods, but units of eight to ten lances, up to forty men and women well mounted and ready to react to any threat. This limited their vision somewhat and small groups of brigands could pass through the woods relatively unmolested as they stayed ahead of such patrols, but the trade off was worth it to the Captain to avoid the losses he had taken their first days within the boughs of the Wald. Sir Thomas had rallied his men quickly, and like the veteran man-at-arms he was, he had split his force, dividing his archers and men-at-arms into distinct units to take turns covering the retreat, while his pages rode for all they were worth to get clear. The men-at-arms would form and charge their pursuers, hold for perhaps thirty heartbeats, then break and run while the archers paused to let fly with three shafts each. It was a running battle, and it could not last. The first of the men-at-arms fell on the second charge, gaffed from his saddle by a spear and pulled to the earth with a clatter of harness and the scream of his horse. While Sir Thomas retreated to the west, sir Edward arrived from the south, and the patrol was on its last legs. The archers were all but spent, each holding their last shafts, more a threat than anything real, while Sir Thomas turned his remaining thirteen men to prepare for their next charge. Edward read the intent in a moment and drew his own force into a rapid formation. If nothing else the last four years had achieved a level of training and cohesion that few mercenary companies could boast, and the men following Edward filed out by twos to form line from column, spreading out from the centre like the wings of some great predator.

“We don’t have the numbers to end this here,” the captain said to his standard bearer, mounted to his right, “on my signal we charge them in the flank, our surprise won’t last long, just make them flinch, give Sir Thomas space to get clear then we break for it back to the Keep, and send a message to Duke Felix, how’d an army get through here?” He shook his head to clear the useless questions for now.

With his line formed, three deep with knights to the fore, squires behind and men with less armour in the third, Sir Edward made a tight circle with his lance and put spurs to Bohemund. If they hadn’t been seen yet, the sound their hooves made on the earth put any surprise they had to bed. The company charge was like a living thing, and once begun it ran away from Sir Edward’s control as they collided with the enemy flank with all the power of an avalanche and the sound of all the pots and pans in the world crashing against each other. Men and horses screamed at impact and Edward’s lance drove his first target to the ground, man and horse both crashing to the loam while the great knight himself continued on. His lance remained somehow unbroken and so he unhorsed two more with deft strikes before he turned his lance out like an oar and struck a further two from the saddle somewhat unchivalrously. The spear tip of the company charge had driven deep into the flank of the Vallarese force, and Edward felt more than he saw, their entire line flinch back from the sudden strike.

Lance gone from his hand Edward drew his sword and began to cut about himself as the enemy men-at-arms fell back and gave the company access to the less armoured militia who accompanied them. Edward must have appeared like some steel clad demon from the lower circles of the abyss to these village trained men in their borrowed maille as he came upon them on a tall horse with a sword already red to the hilt. He was scarcely the only threat either as more and more of his knights piled into the gap they had created and Bohemund himself lashed out with steel shod hooves like an equine pugilist, each blow killing or maiming men who would never hold a plow again.

No matter how devastating the initial impact was, a charge of less than a hundred men can not truly break an army that numbers in the thousands. So it was here and Edward had to pull hard on the reins to get Bohemund under control once more, the great stallion was prone to going wild once he had the scent of blood in his nostrils. “Hold!” He roared to bring his men back under his hand, he could see the tail end of Sir Thomas’ retreat, Thomas himself the last man out with another pinned across his saddle, “withdraw!” His voice did not break as he drew his men back, the first six strides backing their horses before giving the enemy their backs and rushing for the cover of the trees before they could span their crossbows.

The harsh fact is that you don’t see your fallen when you advance, but when you quit the field you take notice of the empty saddles and the crumpled bodies. Edward saw half a dozen men at arms were missing, heavy losses for less than a hundred heartbeats of hot work. Like the professionals they were his men gathered the horses they could and Edward looked to see if any of the fallen were alive, he would send a herald to request the ransom demand and offer to cover it, after all there were rules and to abide by these rules ensured that they would be bestowed to you as well in turn. With a sigh, he got his visor up and allowed the cool fresh air of the forest to wash away some of the stink that always came with the sweat and blood of combat, and turned Bohemund’s drooping head for the Keep.

-------------------------------------------

The Keep’s courtyard was in a frenzy of activity when the men of the company returned. Sir Thomas had beaten them back and was already overseeing the efforts to save the wounded who had made it back, including a pair of Vallarese knights that the patrol leader had managed to take prisoner Edward noted with surprise. Pages ran back and forth with wine and salves and linen bandages as the Keep’s barber went about them with hot irons to cauterise wounds where he could, lending the whole courtyard the slightly unpleasant scent of roasting pork.

Sir Edward dismounted slowly and handed Bohemund’s reins to a waiting servant, “please see him well attended lad, I’ll curry him myself in a moment,” he told the boy with a warm smile, as William began to disarm him. Had he focused more he may have noticed the distraught look and downcast eyes of his squire, but Sir Edward’s gaze was fixated on the state of the courtyard and the mass of wounded who took up the flag stoned area. It wasn’t until he had found Sir Bjorn and begged him to return to Duke Felix with the warning of the army that had come under the Wald’s eaves to strike at their less protected rear, that he final saw the cause of his squire’s distress.

Sir Thomas knelt by the man that Edward had seen pinned to his saddle in the escape, and his eyes widened when he realised he recognised the coat of plates that were embroidered with his own arms. Murk lay with his hand clasped in Thomas’ own. With his leg harness and sabatons still pointed to him, Edward sprinted for his fallen squire, because he knew there was only one outcome awaiting the young man, because he could see the flights of three crossbow bolts poking out of the boy’s torso like accusatory fingers.

Edward fell to his knees with a crash on the stone as he took the boy’s free hand in his own. Murk met his eyes although he could tell they were dimming already, he had held on so long already just to make it back to the Keep alive, a feat of truly herculean strength in of itself, “sorry my lord, not sure I can help with your leg harness just now,” the boy said with a weak smile, marred by the crimson leaking from the corners of his lips and the fearful tears just starting to break free of his eyes. Edward snorted all the same at his squire’s rare assay at humour.

“I think I can let you off this once,” he answered, his mind hardened as he saw more of the vital fluid escape his squire’s body, he met the boy’s eye and made sure he was still with him, “if Sir Thomas helps, can you sit up?” Murk simply nodded.

“Aye my lord,” he looked to Sir Thomas, “will you help me sir?” Thomas never spoke, he only braced the young man’s back with his left hand and helped him rise to a seated position as Sir Edward stood and drew his sword.

“May all those here present pay heed and witness this moment!” Edward’s voice roared across the courtyard, drawing the eye of every man and woman and only the pages continued their frantic pace as they continued to run back and forth with whatever was needed to keep the wounded alive. “Ruprecht has been my squire for some years and in that time I have done my best to form him as a knight, and yet in that bright soul that burns within him, he has always been such,” Edward’s voice held a challenge, he didn’t know who he challenged, but every man and woman of arms who stood about watching held their breath and felt their hearts expand with the promise of chivalry that the words held.

“Ruprecht, do you promise to defend the weak, honour thy lord and war down the strong in service to you Captain, King and all the worthies in such ways as brings honour to all?” Edward asked.

“I do,” the boy croaked, the few tears of pain were now entirely washed away by tears of wonder that all but poured down his face.

“Birth ennobles, but nothing ennobles like the life of arms, the penance of your harness and the dedication to your training have proven such, and you are a most noble man Ruprecht,” Edward’s voice finally caught as he said his Squire’s name. He struck the boy’s shoulder lightly with the flat of his blade, “by my right as a knight of the realm and a lord of the Empire, I dub thee Sir Ruprecht,” Edward fell to his knees and embraced his friend, careful not to put any pressure on the bolts that still stood proud of his flesh.

Even as he embraced Murk, he felt the limpness in his shoulders. Like a breeze across a meadow in the spring, the newest knight of the company’s life left him, and Edward knew there would be only tears that night. Sir Thomas in turn put his arms around them both and held his Captain as sobs shook him. William embraced his master and his former squire brother from the other side, and then the flood gates were opened. The men and women of the company, those not immediately required for the duty of caring for the wounded, all came to lay their arms upon the fallen squire and their captain.

Murk had been a popular man within the Company and his passing was an event of great sorrow. Sir Edward personally lifted his squire, harness and all, into his arms and carried him to the small chapel that stood off beside the stable, they had dedicated it to Roland the patron Worthy of Arturia when their company had taken command of the Keep, and he laid Sir Ruprecht on the altar. Unsure what to do next, the captain simply began to clean the body, and William ensured that the chapel was barred to anyone so that his lord might be alone with his grief.

Sir Bjorn watched it all with a look of wonder on his face, unable to tear his eyes from the display of love that had been shown to his friend as Captain. He found Ser Guillaume by his side and shook his head, “they love their captain, this company is something else Guillaume,” he managed through a slack jaw.

“He’s earned their love a dozen times over,” Ser Guillaume answered, “but he’s more than their captain, every member of the company has a house and land within his demesne, he’s their lord, and he looks after them,” Guillaume slapped Bjorn’s shoulder, “best let him have his grief for now, you need to get word to Duke Felix.”

The words broke Bjorn’s reverie as surely as a bucket of ice water and he turned on his heel to find a fresh riding horse, “you’re right, please pass on my condolences to him, I’ll return with reinforcements to see this done.”