Sir Michael of Weedon might think that his service to the crown was over when the Queen died and he was no longer required as her knight. He was wrong for his qualities as a true and loyal knight meant that he could be trusted. King Henry and the Earl of Suffolk send him to France to recover a pyx. Before he can complete his task, he is conscripted back into the army and finds himself, once more, fighting alongside Sir John Talbot.
This novel is set in the latter end of the One Hundred Years war.
Excerpt
When we left, my son and I, along with our men at arms, wore arming caps and coifs. Our helmets hung from our cantles. My archers had their bows, unstrung, hanging from their cantles. We would be ready for any danger. The road from Denbigh Castle led south and was not a well-maintained one until we reached the Roman Road that led to Holyhead. The two men at arms led the pack animals with our clothes and the four archers were our eyes and ears. I had not worried too much on the way north for we had not told anyone outside of the manor our plans and the journey would not be marked. The conversations with Owen Tudor, not to mention the gossip my men had heard in the warrior hall, meant that we rode south more warily than we had when we had come north. We had thought that the land was at peace, but the burnt-out St Asaph Cathedral showed me that I was wrong. Sir Gruffudd Vychan was still at large and I had hurt him. His pride would not allow that insult to pass unchallenged. Until we reached England we would ride as though to war. We had been advised not to travel through Corwen as that was the heartland of Owain Glyndŵr whose manor, Glyndyfrdwy, lay to the east of it. King Henry had destroyed it but it was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the rebels. The ghosts did not worry me but the thought of disgruntled Welsh enemies did. I planned on seeking shelter at Valle Crucis Abbey in Llangollen.
The ambush, when it came, was just a couple of miles from the abbey. Horseshoe Pass was well named for the road wound up the side of the valley in a large horseshoe. The horses were weary, as were our men, but we were within touching distance of the abbey. We rested at the top after the hard climb and then prepared to descend. There were trees to our left, on the north side of the road. Seth led the archers and but for his nose then the day might have ended in disaster. I did not know what alerted him, but his shout warned us. The ambush was in the trees on the north side of the road. The ambushers had the ridge behind them. The shout did not save poor William, son of Alf the Grim who was plucked from his saddle by a Welsh arrow. The other three archers dropped from their saddles and were already stringing their bows as my two men at arms dropped the reins of the sumpters and raced to our side.
