“They’re flying yellow and gray standards, my lord,” he lowered his spyglass. “Not Botmore.”
“Yellow and gray,” Gaston repeated. “I am expecting no one and am not familiar with those colors. I wonder who it is?”
One of the men on the wall was an old soldier of Stoneley’s, an aged warrior who had served Guy and his father. He cleared his throat loudly.
“If I may, my lord de Russe,” his old voice cracked, well aware that the men-at-arms were forbidden to speak to Gaston.
“’Tis Lord Ripley, of Ripley Castle. His keep is west of Scotton Woods.”
Gaston looked at the old man. “Enlighten me. Where is Scotton Woods?”
“North and west of Knaresborough,” the soldier replied. Seeing that he had not been reprimanded for speaking out of turn, he added: “He and Lord Stoneley held little love for each other, but Lord Ripley and Lord Botmore are allies. Ripley Castle is a massive keep, nearly as large as Mt. Holyoak. ’Tis even larger than Crayke.”
Gaston raised a faint eyebrow, watching the small dots in the distance grow larger. He digested the information from the old soldier. “Lower the drawbridge, but keep the portcullis down. I want two companies of archers on the outer wall aimed at the incoming party.”
Roald nodded sharply and began issuing quick orders. Gaston leapt to the ladder and took two rungs before pausing a moment.
“You there, soldier,” he said to the old man. “What is your name?”
The old man almost choked on his own tongue. “Martin, my lord. Martin Sals.”
Gaston almost smiled at the name; had not he just been speaking of a “Martin”? Instead, he looked at Roald. “Reward him for his information, Roald. Anything he desires.”
He descended the ladder, leaving the old man astonished.
He moved quickly to the troop house and proceeded to don several pieces of armor, cursing himself because he had left the majority of his armor in his bedchamber. Sending one of his squires off at a run to retrieve the pieces, he managed to cover himself quite completely with the help of his remaining squire and a tunic of mail. The mail tunics were nearly obsolete in lieu of full plate armor, but it was all he had at the moment.
Patrick and Antonius met him at the portcullis as the approaching army reached the base of the hill. Four menbroke off from the main body and began a slow ascent to the drawbridge.
“Who are they?” Antonius asked, in full battle armor.
Gaston crossed his thick arms, watching the approach with narrowed eyes. “I was told they are flying Lord Ripley’s colors.”
“Did you send a missive to him for a meet?” Patrick asked.
“Aye, I did, but he has not responded as of yet,” Gaston eyed the four riders. “Apparently, this is his response.”
The four horsemen came to a halt at the end of the dirt path, just shy of the drawbridge. The destriers snorted and danced, tossing their heads about as the humans astride them scrutinized the occupants of Mt. Holyoak through the closed portcullis.
“My lord de Russe?” one of the men addressed Gaston.
Something inside Gaston’s head recognized the voice, but he could not place it. “Who asks?”
The knight flipped up his visor. “Sir Hubert Doyle, my lord. I saw you in Ripon a few weeks ago.”
Gaston felt a bit more comfortable, but he was still properly leery. “Who are you serving, Doyle?”
“Sir Alex Ripley, my lord,” Hubert replied, indicating the man next to him.
Gaston watched as the man raised his visor, meeting Gaston with curious eyes. He was older, his eyebrows graying. “My lord de Russe,” he said formally. “I have come in answer to your writ. It would seem we have much to discuss.”
Gaston uncrossed his arms and approached the portcullis. “You have caught me at an unfortunate time, my lord. I am due in London as we speak,” he waved his hand and the portcullis went up; he saw no danger at all. The four horsemen were not even armed with swords. “Have your men set camp at the base of the hill. I will give you what time I can.”
Hubert, Sir Alex and another man dismounted while the fourth man turned and descended the hill. The hooves of the destriers made hollow sounds as they clopped across the drawbridge.
“We were told of Sir Arik’s untimely accident,” Hubert said as he reached Gaston. “Boroughbridge can speak of nothing else. And I understand one of the ladies was killed as well.”
Gaston nodded slowly. “An ambush by Lord Botmore.”
