Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 7

  “I am going for help.”

  She wondered if he even heard her.

  CHAPTER THREE

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  Mortal Angels

  The morning that dawned over the field of battle revealed a scene that was straight out of the pages of every story ever told of hell and suffering.

  Clouds the color of pewter hung in the sky as a storm rolled in from the south and a brisk wind whistled over the land. Smoke from the fires of both the Anglo-Saxon encampment as well as the Duke of Normandy’s encampment trickled up towards the clouds, only to be dashed away by the breezes.

  Still, the clouds and smoke couldn’t mask the smell of death that was beginning to fill the air. Even the sea breezes couldn’t blow it away. As Gaetan stood in front of his tent and watched the landscape lighten with the rising sun, he knew that, soon enough, men would have to walk about with kerchiefs over their faces to blot out the smell of rotting bodies. Dead animals mixed with dead men, their blood saturating the earth. The gulls had swarmed inland, already picking through the flesh on the ground and squawking at each other angrily.

  Death was everywhere.

  In the tent behind Gaetan, Harold had been on display for the night as men wandered in to see the corpse of the king. It confirmed to them that the throne of England now belonged to William. In fact, brethren from Rotherfield Abbey and South Malling Abbey had come to view the body, along with Harold’s wife, who had evidently been traveling with her husband’s army.

  As a courtesy, William had allowed Harold’s wife to visit her husband’s body. It had been a difficult moment when Edith the Fair had identified her husband’s battered corpse. Gaetan could still hear the woman’s cries although she had tried very hard to be brave. The priests who had come with her had tried to be of some comfort to her but they had quickly dissolved into confusion when the woman threw herself upon the corpse of her husband.

  That was when Gaetan had stepped in along with Téo, the most diplomatic of his men, and pulled the woman from the swollen body. At the head of the corpse, Jathan had been praying steadily in spite of the fact that the duke had voiced his displeasure at prayers for his enemy. Between the litany of sung prayers and the cries of a grief-stricken wife, it had all made for an uncomfortable and strained situation.

  No one had gotten any sleep that night, for a myriad of reasons. Even as Gaetan stood watch over his prize of Harold’s body with all of the confusion related to it, his thoughts lingered on the man that had yet to return to camp. As he, Téo, and Luc remained to watch over Harold’s body, the rest of the Anges de Guerre and many other men set out to find Kristoph.

  Sometime before dawn, Wellesbourne returned leading Kristoph’s big bay stallion, a flashy and excitable animal that had been difficult not only to catch but to hold on to. Gaetan had been momentarily excited to see the horse and the fact that all of Kristoph’s possessions were still on it, including his sword. But that excitement was short-lived when Wellesbourne said they’d searched the surrounding area where the horse was found to no avail.

  No Kristoph.

  Now, it was dawn and Gaetan was waiting for the rest of his men to return from the search. As much as he pretended to be stoic about the situation, the truth was that he was sick inside. Kristoph was his oldest and dearest friend, and facing the very real prospect of his death was devastating. Gaetan had no desire to tell his younger sister Adalie, who was Kristoph’s wife, that her husband had met his death upon the field of battle. Kristoph was too good for that, too valuable to Gaetan’s war machine. He was a man of vast knowledge and wisdom. Gaetan couldn’t face the prospect of future battles without the man, his second-in-command and someone he very much depended on.

  Already, he was living that nightmare.

  As he fought off the phantoms of despair, de Russe and St. Hèver came into view through the mist of smoke and clouds, fearsome men emerging from the fog like demons on horseback. But they were alone and Gaetan tried not to feel another nail in his coffin of depression. The men slowed their frothing, exhausted beasts to a halt, dismounting wearily as they handed the horses over to their squires who had been hovering near de Wolfe’s tent in their anxious wait for their masters to return. The knights approached Gaetan, removing gloves and helms as they moved.

  “We skirted to the east and to the north, Gate,” Aramis said, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “There is a large contingent of the Anglo-Saxon army off to the east, sheltered in some heavily wooded forest area, but we did not get too close to it. It is possible that if Kristoph is a prisoner, he is there, but we have no way of knowing. The good news is that we did not find his body on our sweep. The bad news is that we did not find him at all.”

  Gaetan merely nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. “I suppose we should be grateful for that,” he said. “How big was the contingent off to the east?”

  “Big enough,” Kye responded as he pulled his helm off. Blonde curly hair, close-shorn, came into view. “We could see their fires at a distance and there were several.”

  Gaetan nodded his head in a northerly direction. “Not all of the army is to the east,” he said. “A goodly portion of it is still to the north. They have been begging for their king’s body all night.”

  “Has the duke agreed to turn it over?” Aramis asked.

  Gaetan shook his head. “He does not want them to have it. He told me to throw it into the sea but I will not do it.”

  “Why not?”

  Gaetan looked at the two men. “Something tells me to keep it. It may be of use to us.”

  Kye looked at him blankly but Aramis seemed to understand. “If we find Kristoph a prisoner…?” he ventured.

  “Exactly.”

  Aramis nodded his head in approval. “An exchange, then.”

  Suddenly, Kye understood their meaning and he lifted his blonde eyebrows at the prospect. “What does Normandy think of that?”

  Gaetan was unremorseful. “He does not know and I have no intention of telling him. He knows that Kristoph is missing. I am afraid I will have to do something drastic if Normandy forbids me to trade Harold’s body for Kristoph.”

  Aramis couldn’t disagree. “If the duke told you to throw the body in the sea then, clearly, he cares not for it. What would it matter to him if you used it to regain Kristoph?”

  “Those are exactly my thoughts. And woe to the man who tries to stop me.”

  It was an extremely touchy situation with Gaetan already planning for the negotiation of his friend’s return. Knowing how close the Anges de Guerre were to each other, and Gaetan and Kristoph in particular, the duke would be taking his life in his hands forbidding his great Warwolfe from regaining one of his captured men by any means possible – even by using the body of a dead king as an incentive.

  Aramis and Kye exchanged glances but neither one of them said anything about it. Whatever happened, they would support Gaetan even if it meant alienation from Normandy. Such were the depths of their loyalty.

  “Well,” Aramis said, putting a hand on Gaetan’s shoulder as he moved past the man in the search for his own tent. “Let us know if we are needed. Right now, I hope to find some food and my bed. It has been a very long night.”

  Gaetan simply nodded as both Aramis and Kye moved past him, seeking some well-deserved rest. As the knights headed to their shelters, Gaetan heard them speaking with Téo as the man emerged from Gaetan’s tent. When the conversation was over, Téo came up beside him, his face pale in the early dawn and his breath hanging in white puffs in the cold air.

  “Aramis and Kye have returned, I see,” he said. “They did not bring positive news.”

  Gaetan shook his head. “Nay,” he said. He sighed heavily in disappointment; he couldn’t help it. “They said that they found a large contingent of Anglo-Saxons off to the east, possibly part of the retreating army, but they did not get too close to it.”

  “At least they did not find Kristoph’s body.”

  “That is what they said. I suppose I sh
ould be grateful for small mercies.”

  Téo could hear the sadness in his voice and he turned to look at the man. “Do not give up hope,” he said quietly. “The others are still out there, still looking – Lance, Marc, and Denis. They may yet find him.”

  Gaetan’s gaze was off to the north where the smoke from Anglo-Saxon fires spilled up into the sky. “I have been tearing myself apart trying to recall where I last saw Kristoph and what could have happened,” he said, reconstructing his memory. “I was off to the northeast; we had both broken through the eastern flank because de Lara had sent word that Harold was dead. Kristoph was right beside me. We came upon a group of men standing around Harold’s body and that is the last I saw of Kristoph. Eventually, we found his horse, but not him. Not… him.”

  “Then it sounds to me as if someone knocked him off the horse.”

  “Or he was hit with an arrow or a spear and fell off.”

  “If that was the case, we would have found his body by now,” Téo said. He shook his head. “Nay, Gate; Kristoph has been taken away. If we have searched all night and have not found his corpse, then the logical conclusion is that the Anglo-Saxon army has him as a prisoner.”

  Gaetan turned to look at him. “Oddly enough, I hope that is true. I hope he is alive and a prisoner. At least if he is alive, there is hope of regaining him and I do not have to tell my sister that I let tragedy befall her husband.”

  Téo put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We will find him,” he said softly, firmly. “Now, you have not slept in almost two days. You must get some sleep while you can, at least until the others return. If they return without Kristoph, then we will need to form a plan of action and you cannot do that if your mind is desperate for sleep.”

  Gaetan knew he was right; Téo usually was. He was older than the rest of them and had seen much in life. His wisdom was a blessing. With a heavy sigh, Gaetan turned for his tent, his gaze moving over the structure.

  “Then I shall go and sleep with a dead man,” he said.

  Téo lifted his eyebrows casually. “He cannot be worse than some of the women you have bedded.”

  Gaetan fought off a smirk. “Cold and smelly. Aye, that describes your sister very well.”

  Téo burst out laughing. “If I was not so exhausted, I would challenge you for that insult.”

  “If I was not so exhausted, I would accept.”

  Gaetan was grinning as he entered his tent, comfortable and well-appointed as usual with the distinct addition of a man in a shroud in the middle of it. Jathan, the priest, was still there, singing soft prayers over the body, reading from a song book he had copied himself in his youth.

  But Gaetan had little patience for noise when he wanted to sleep. He motioned irritably to the priest even as two squires burst into the tent and headed for him, helping him to remove his protection.

  “Enough prayers for now,” Gaetan told Jathan. “I wish to sleep and I cannot do it if you are howling in the background.”

  Jathan immediately ceased his prayers, eyeing his lord as the man headed straight to his padded cot with his squires trailing after him, pulling things from his body.

  “Has de Lohr been located yet, my lord?” Jathan asked.

  Gaetan held out his arms so the squires could untie his scabbard and his belted tunic. “Not yet,” he replied. “But his horse has been found. And not everyone has returned from the search yet. There is still hope.”

  Jathan considered that information a moment before standing up, his joints stiff from having been in a kneeling position for so long. Being the spiritual guide for the Anges de Guerre, he knew what de Lohr’s absence was doing to these men and Gaetan in particular. These were men of war and they knew the consequences of that vocation more than most, but Jathan was convinced that they entered – and exited – every battle believing they were immortal. De Lohr’s death or capture was a serious blow to those ideas of grandeur but more than that, it was a blow to the brotherhood between them all. With the removal of one, they were somehow fractured. Weaker.

  The Anges de Guerre were not immortals, after all.

  “Then I shall pray for his safety,” Jathan finally said. “And for yours, my lord.”

  Gaetan looked at him as the squires pulled off the heavy padded vest on his muscular torso. “Why me?”

  Jathan was moving stiffly to the tent opening. “Because whoever has de Lohr shall surely feel your wrath, will they not?” he said. “God give you strength to do what you must do in order to avenge him.”

  He left the tent, leaving Gaetan mulling over what Jathan had said. It was quite true. In fact, whoever had Kristoph would, indeed, be punished. Wiped from the earth and all of his brethren with him. Gaetan hadn’t much pondered his sense of revenge because he was more concerned with regaining Kristoph but, now, he was thinking of it a great deal.

  Indeed, he would make whoever held Kristoph pay dearly.

  He slept.

  CHAPTER FOUR

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  A Man of Darkness

  “He is dead, you know.”

  The words hung in the air, sharp with their pain, deadly with their accuracy. As three of de Wolfe’s knights stood in a clearing on a rise a mile or two north of the battlefield, those words were like a nightmare none of them wanted to acknowledge.

  But they were more than likely true.

  Aramis de Russe, Lance de Reyne, and Denis de Winter were resting their horses after a grueling day and night and then day again of working the animals into a froth with very little rest. But the animals were growing increasingly sluggish so the knights knew they had to rest them or risk losing them. Even though the knights had brought other horses with them, these were their premier horses, expensive and highly-trained beasts they had taken into battle with them, and no one wanted to risk them.

  Therefore, they paused in this hour before dawn when the sky was starting to lighten enough so they could douse their torches. But the mood between them was heavy with sorrow.

  “It was so dark last night we could have easily passed him if he was injured and unable to call out to us,” Denis replied to Aramis’ grim statement. “Just because we have not found him does not mean his is dead.”

  “If Kristoph was alive, he would have found a way to return already,” Lance said what the other two were already thinking. He knew his comrades well enough to know what was on their mind, what they were trying not to say. He looked at the two men, their faces pale in the cold and gray dawn. “You know I am right. If he had any strength left in him, he would have returned to us.”

  Denis shook his head; he wasn’t willing to give up as easily as the others were. “Not if he was too injured to move or speak,” he said, increasingly passionate in his stance. “Think what you want, but I will not give up looking for him. He would not give up so easily on us.”

  “No one is giving up, Denis,” Lance said. He was an even-tempered man, rational. “But there will come a point when we must face the facts.”

  Denis, a bit more emotional than the others, cast his friend a long look. “Until we find a body, he is still alive,” he said. “You know Gaetan feels the same way. That is why he has sent us out to look for him. Would you give up on me? Or Téo? Or any of us? Then we rest the horses and we keep looking until we find something.”

  It was the way the others felt as well, only reality and exhaustion were starting to set in, leading them to depressing conclusions. They were brothers-in-arms, all of them, and the loss of one was a heavy blow to their morale no matter how hard they tried to be logical or philosophical about it. Aramis, the most grimly pragmatic of the three, looked out over the landscape, turning shades of green and gray as the clouds above began to fill with light.

  “Wellesbourne is to the east,” he muttered. “St. Hèver and de Moray to the west. Téo and Luc are back in camp keeping Gaetan sane, which is no easy feat.” He turned to look at his friends and colleagues. “We should split up now that light is upon us. We will cover more ground an
d be able to see better if we do. I suggest we comb back the way we have come and cover the battlefield from the north. It is even possible that Kristoph is mixed in with the Anglo-Saxon wounded.”

  The grim man was grasping at strands of hope but no one questioned that. They agreed with him. “I will head into the Anglo-Saxon camp,” Denis said. “I will inspect their wounded to see if he is there.”

  The other two nodded. “Beware you do not end up as part of their wounded,” Lance said. “Even wounded men can still kill. We do not want to have to go looking for you, too.”

  Denis nodded as he inspected his horse to make sure the horse had been given enough rest, at least in the short time they’d had. “I will be cautious,” he said. “But if Kristoph is not there and we still cannot find him, then we must be willing to consider other possibilities.”

  Aramis paused in the process of mounting his own weary horse. “What?”

  Denis tossed the reins over his horse’s head as he prepared to climb into the saddle. “That he has been taken away,” he said. “I would be happier to know that some Saxon lord has taken him away and is preparing to ransom him. Men held for ransom are valuable commodities and not usually injured or abused.”

  It was a happier thought than the one they were currently facing. As the men mounted their horses, Denis reined in his horse and turned to the others before leaving.

  “Et pro Gloria dei,” he said quietly. For God and Glory.

  “Et pro Gloria dei,” the other two repeated quietly.

  It was their battle call, something they always said to one another before heading into battle or into a risky situation. It was a blessing to each other, a giver of strength, something that belonged only to them. Never did they bid one another farewell, for that was a finality in a sense. Et pro Gloria dei was all they ever said when parting from each other, a parting well-made and encouragement. They were words of hope.