Chivalrous (32 page)

She surveyed their makeshift unit. Most of them lacked their helmets. Randel held his lance in his left arm. She did not even wear the uniform of a soldier, merely her chain mail. Unless someone came to support them soon, it would be David versus Goliath all over again.

Just one more furlong now.

Galloping along the curving mountain ridge, Warner saw Edendale spread below him to his left like a treasure for the taking. He could barely believe his eyes; the gates were closed and all the soldiers within the walls. Would they give up so easily? The idiots! The fools!

He and his men could besiege the place and wait. Wait for Marshall and the king to take one look at this city in disarray with its incompetent council and declare him the new duke.

Snickering with delight, Warner leaned farther over his horse's whipping mane. He settled into the exuberant rhythm. He would savor the wind rushing against him, the leather reins biting into his palm, each and every hoofbeat. He wished to recall this, his most triumphant moment yet, long into the future. With great anticipation he galloped around yet another curve in the winding road that would lead him to his prize.

They entered a final passage surrounded by cliffs, and no one stood in their way. They rumbled through without a single
obstacle. But as they exited the other side, a pathetic collection of North Britannian knights blocked the path.

Ha!
The imbeciles.

Gwen tucked her lance firmly to her side and prepared for battle. Their line held tight as DeMontfort's men swarmed through the fissure in the rock and filed into place before them. At least fifty men filled the clearing with as many or more pressing at their backs. Warner DeMontfort, surrounded by swaying banners in black and green, stopped thirty yards away. Even over the distance, Gwen detected his smug satisfaction as he took stock of their motley collection.

With the lift of a single finger, DeMontfort sent a troop twice their size crashing their way. Allen likewise signaled for them to charge. She surged forward upon Andromache. Much as she had always dreamed of battle, suddenly faced with life and death, all glory faded away. Only the horror, the seriousness of the moment, remained.

She tangled lances with her first opponent, but both weapons flipped through the air. As she moved closer and began to swing her sword, she realized one of them would likely die on this field. Still atop Andromache, she blocked and parried. She pulled on the reins to skitter sideways and attack from a different angle. But she could see her foe's eyes through the slit of his helmet and did not relish watching the light go out in them.

Even if she could kill one, two, perhaps three men, they could not win.

She would meet her Maker this day, but she was ready now, and she would go out fighting for something she believed in. Steeling her courage, she pressed on.

Allen's opponent struck his sword hard upon Allen's thigh, but his chain mail held firm against the long side of the blade. Still, his leg throbbed with pain, along with his heart. He had led these men, not to mention his beloved Gwendolyn, to sure destruction.

As he battled off yet another onslaught of blows, he caught sight of two North Britannians falling from their horses, although he could not say which ones. Several of DeMontfort's men had fallen, as well, but were quickly replaced.

Valiant though his group might be, this fight could not last long. How he hated that DeMontfort would win and ride on to blockade the city. Allen had felt so sure his decisions were sound, yet they had led to disaster upon disaster. At least Gwendolyn could not be forced to wed Gawain from the grave.

His arm faltered at the thought, but he caught himself in time to fend off a blow from his right.

And that is when he saw them.

Warner cackled as yet another member of the miniscule North Britannian contingent crashed to the ground. Too easy! Almost no fun at all.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the king's blue-and-red army streamed down a hillside from the south. Rushing to support the North Britannians.

Warner braced himself against the awful sight. They could not give up. “Attack!” he shouted.

All around him soldiers thrust their horses forward . . . and then slowed and faltered as they realized the king's own troops stood in their path. The very army that Warner had believed would support them in the end. The very king whom his men
hoped to please. Now standing against them in a shocking turn of events.

“Onward, you fools!” he screamed. “Never surrender! Never retreat!”

That darkness he had come to embrace enshrouded him, wrapped about his heart.

Even the soldiers already on the battlefield dropped their weapons and pulled back.

One by one his men fell behind him, but he pressed onward. A frenzied drive overtook him. He could not go back, could never be a poor vanquished knight again. Never face Morgaine's haughty disdain. He had nothing to lose.

The remaining North Britannians snatched up lances from the ground and re-formed their line before him.

Though his horse balked, he kicked it hard in the sides and continued forward. The king's men closed ranks, while the North Britannians blocked the road.

He would strive for everything or for nothing at all.

Spotting a single knight not wearing the hated crimson and black, Warner veered in that direction.

Completely alone, Warner met his foe.

He looked down in both wonder and awe as the pointed lance of the unmarked knight found its way through the loops of his chain mail and sliced into his chest. He gasped as he felt it drive through and exit the other side. He screamed as his horse galloped away leaving him pinioned in the air.

And then he felt nothing at all.

Gwen held tight to her lance with all of her strength, but after the briefest moment, the weight of her foe ripped it from her arm and he slammed to the ground.

His visor flipped open upon impact. Warner DeMontfort would trouble them no more. Though not long ago she had hated the man for murdering the duke, ruining her chances with Allen, and kidnapping Merry, all she experienced at the sight of him lying dead upon the ground was sadness for such a robust life wasted over envy and selfish ambition.

The rest of his traitorous soldiers had halted at the sight of the king's army surrounding them.

Gwen had not thought they could ever survive, though she had battled on until the very end. But the king's men must have been there, ready and waiting to deliver them all along. She spotted Allen, then Randel, safe upon their horses, though some from the group lay scattered upon the ground.

From behind her came a call, “Seize them!”

Gwen turned and spied Fulton, along with her father and a few soldiers heading their way.

“Would you imprison the men who saved your dukedom?” Allen asked.

“No, but I will most certainly seize you and Lady Gwendolyn, who caused this debacle,” Fulton said.

“You have gone too far this time, Gwendolyn,” her father added with a snarl.

She gripped tight to her reins. She had followed her convictions, and she would allow the man to bully her no longer.

All around them, the king's troops rounded up Warner's followers, yet Fulton stayed focused upon his mission to imprison his own faithful citizens.

Gwen turned to Allen. “Should we fight?”

“No.” He lowered his lance. “This time we must face our consequences.”

As the North Britannian soldiers circled around them, Allen
reached into a small sack at his waist and removed a piece of paper. “For you,” he said, “in case I never see you again.”

Gwen took the offered gift and pressed it to her heart. She would treasure it until the end of her days. Which might yet come sooner rather than later.

“In you go, wench.” Gwen's captor chuckled. “I would not wish to be you this day. Young ladies should stay in their place. You brought this upon yourself, you know.”

The hand digging into her arm shoved her into the gaol cell. She slammed to the floor and caught herself on her forearms. The links of her chain mail pressed into her flesh.

“Mind your own business, you brute,” Gwen said, even as he slammed the bars shut.

This could not be happening. Her mind still could not grasp that she was being imprisoned for saving the dukedom. For doing what any chivalrous knight would. But the whole of North Britannia had lost their collective minds this day.

Longing for any respite, she opened the note Allen had given to her in the battlefield. It looked to be a poem, written in his own hand.

Flowing curves rush my senses,

Like waves in a sea.

Golden hair, streaming waterfall,

How it beckons to me.

Those eyes, pools so blue quench—

Intoxicate, such bliss.

While lips, seashell's fairest pink,

Beg a lover's tender kiss.

So bold, so true you stand,

Athena in splendor arrayed.

Bedecked in steel or finest silk,

Your essence still aptly displayed.

A valorous woman who can find,

A tower of virtue and might?

Such a wonder at my side,

Would be my heart's greatest delight.

My soul in your hands for all of my days,

Guard well with your own sweet, fierce care.

Though fate be determined to keep us apart,