It was a fine, warm spring day as Lady Margret trotted her horse up the winding country lane. The young noblewoman was dressed in the armor of a knight: a surcoat of red and gold over a coat of fine mail links, greaves and vambraces and on her head a steel helm, covering her golden locks. She had a lance in her right hand and on the left a broad heater bearing her family crest: three gold orbs across a blue and white check. A long straight-edged sword was belted at her waist.
When the young knight came to a fork in the road, she let the reins slacken and her horse take its preference down the left-hand way. It made no difference to her. Lady Margret was content for the time being to follow the path of the questing Knight, trusting to fate to lead her to adventure and glory, whether it was monsters to slay, treasures to seek…
“Or a fellow knight to try my hand against.” She muttered quietly as, ahead of her on the path, another knight slowly spurred his own dun destrier out of the woods and onto the path. He was armed and armored in the same fashion she was, his own shield bearing the device of of red bull’s head, but splashed across it diagonally from the top left a black line: the bar sinister.
The sinister knight’s helm turned in Margret’s direction. As soon as he saw her, he turned his steed to face her and began readying his lance. She likewise adjusted her placement in the saddle, steadying her position on the warhorse and took a tighter grip of the lance. In these times of peace, there were plenty of knights like her, wandering the lands in search of adventure. When two happened to cross paths, combat was inevitable.
As soon as both knights were ready, they leapt forward at about the same time. Margret calmly lowered her land, aiming the tip, which bopped with each gallop of the warhorse, at the other knight’s shield and its bar sinister. She was confident, a feeling borne from countless victories in previous encounters such as this, one quick pass would leave her opponent knocked from the saddle and sprawled across the dirt road. She was looking forward to the moment when she dismounted and removed her helm, letting her long tresses spill free so the defeated knight would know he had been bested by the wayward daughter of Lord Kentford.
The two lances met, with a tremendous crack, the stout oak staves cracking under the force of the pass. Margret lurched back from the mighty blow, but she dug her legs into the saddle and managed to stabilize herself and keep upright. As she wheeled her warhorse around, she was displeased to find her opponent had likewise kept his seat atop his destrier. The bar sinister had a nasty gash across its front, where the tip of her lance had gouged splinters from the wood, but otherwise he was no worse for the pass. Tossing his broken lance aside, he was already drawing his sword. Margret hurried to do the same.
Spurring their steeds, the two knights met once more, steel ringing on steel as they crossed blades. For a time they traded parries and cuts, what blows they managed to land turned aside by their armor. The contest seemed destined for a stalemate, when the other knight suddenly swung his horse around, turning his sword arm away and bringing the other close to Margret. The whole thing was done so swiftly she had no time to react.
Through the slits of her helm, she saw his shield arm swinging towards her, the black bar sinister growing larger until it connected with her. This time, she was unable to correct herself and the young damsel toppled from the saddle, falling to the ground. Stars filled her vision as she met the dirt road and all went dark…
When Lady Margret regained consciousness, she was unnerved to find herself once more in the saddle of her warhorse, but instead of being seated upon it, the knight found herself shamefully thrown across it on her belly like a sack of grain. She would have rectified this at once, had she not discovered, to her dismay, her hands and feet were bound with what felt like leather cord, with her wrists crossed behind her back. A further length of rope was passed from her knees under the belly of her steed and across the back of her neck before looping back around, to ensure she was not likely to slip out of the saddle, whether by accident or design.
Compared to the dishonor of being lashed like a common criminal on his way to gaol, the fact Lady Margret had been stripped of not just her arms, but her armor was well, leaving her clad in naught by her padded gambeson was a trifle, but still distressing for the knight. Glancing over, she saw her missing arms and armor taken in baggage upon the steed of the knight who had bested her. He was riding it as well, with the reins of her own tied off behind so it would follow.
“Sir Knight!” Lady Margret cried, once she’d regained her wits enough to speak. “I confess, thou hast bested me in fair combat and quite manfully done indeed, but this ungentlemanly binding of me is, I assure thee, quite unnecessary. I will certainly give my honest parole as a vanquished knight and hold myself to whatever ransom or terms thou whilst set, if they be honorable, shouldst thou set me at liberty.”
The Knight of the Bar Sinister said nothing, but a stiffening of his pose told Margret her words had been heard. After a second, his reply came back, echoing slightly from his helm. “Alas, fair maiden, I’m afraid I cannot set thee at liberty, for I knowest the terms I must set are those which thou are’t sworn not to obey. For thou seest, I hath been charged by thy father, Lord Kentford with the return of his wayward daughter, so that she may givest up her wayward questing and fulfill the pledge he hath made to Sir Daven of Wiltshire, your betrothed…”
“shit…”