"I thought yer daughty were gonna be on this hack ol' man?" The plum coloured cheeks of the old Justinian knight flushed and flared in contrast to his impressive white muttonchops.
"P'shaw Martin! The youngster can hunt as she wishes, took her party out the other day. I only said we might come across her." The General responded.
The General, as ever, looked as impressive as he could muster, sat upon his horse in his full dress uniform, self-awarded medals and old House Masseri unit insignia gleaming in the early afternoon sun. In great contrast to his rider the horse was young, agile and beautiful. They made for a peculiar couple.
As was his custom, the General Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmannay Masseri Justinian had ridden out with a small entourage; some two dozen peasant beaters, catering and waiting staff, a token group of a dozen men-at-arms (with associated levied spearmen), his huntmaster, stable boys, and a half dozen regular favoured guests. The Guests were all veteran Justinian Knights and Baronets from local fiefs. All of whom had seen their glory days past and we're either foolish enough to believe The General's tales or impoverished enough to ignore his lies for the free meals and relative comforts of his hospitality.
"Wot we lookin' for ol' fruit? Got a favoured prey for today's hunt? Man of yer mettle must know all the choice sport for miles around." The whiskered knight was keen to ingratiate himself with his host after hearing rumours that his own stipend was to be curtailed by his liege lord, Baron Tochiro Justinian. He need not worry for The General was always eager to welcome new sycophants, flatterers, toadies and boot-lickers.
The General sat even straighter in the saddle and puffed out his chest another inch or so.
"Ravennan pinktail gazelle, old man. Good runners and this time of year they won't be at it like a Decados' whore so we've a chance of a decent chase." Polite chuckles, and a few overly loud guffaws answered The General's metaphor.
"Sir!" The huntmaster was riding back towards the hunt party at speed. He pulled his steed up beside The General, it's nostril's flaring and it's breath heavy.
"What is it Marshal?" The General tried to appear composed and authoritative. Didn't the man see he had guests? But he was an accomplished huntsman and a trusted householder, why had he come back in such a state, panic in his eyes? This wasn't the way things were conducted. This seemed like it would lead to a sudden and unwelcome end to the day's easy ride.
Marshal pointed back the way he had come, over the rolling hills of the plains. "Coming sir...over beyond..."
"Out with it man!" The General's discomfort was rapidly turning to anger. He foresaw a sound beating in Marshal's not too distant future. His day was ruined and he was being embarrassed before his friends. Marshal would pay. Possibly he needed to be taught a permanent lesson...
"Riders sah, and foot soldiers. An 'ole force of arms, General, riding fer the city." The panic and fear in the man's voice was evident to all who could hear. Smack. He felt the back of The General's hand and in shock and surprise fell from his horse.
The General's embarrassment fuelled anger was in full flow now.
"Who are they! What banners! How many men? Tell me, you pile of stinking Vorox excrement!"
"Hawkwoods sah! Dozens o' men led by about 'arf as many riders. Armed fer a fight!"
The General's face ran through emotions like a rapid fire Magic Lantern show, fear, disbelief, confusion, embarrassment. But the knock out blow was still to come.
"An' sah, your son's leading 'em..."
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