De Wolfe Pack 05 - Walls of Babylon (21 page)

Even so, Kenton wasn’t fully prepared for the news that de Russe and Wellesbourne ultimately brought back to him; an army flying the standards of Edward and Fitzalan and Saxilby was now tearing through the southern end of town, with several mounted knights and men who hadn’t been fighting for a week solid. Kenton’s soldiers were dying left and right, and Wellesbourne had ordered the entire southern perimeter to retreat and fall back to Kenton’s base camp. Based on that information, Kenton knew it was about as bad as it could get.

Mounting his heavy Belgian warmblood, a fat rouncey who was bred for battle, Kenton charged southward and straight into the mouth of hell.

Babylon

It started with a fire off to the northeast, a fire in the distance on the cold and snowy night that immediately created a brilliant spot of light across the barren landscape.

The gatehouse of Babylon faced northwest; therefore, the men at the gatehouse were turned away from the main gate by the sight of the fire in the distance. It was an extremely odd occurrence, one that had every man on the wall peering at the blaze in the distance, wondering what it could be. There were a few farms up in that area, farms that helped supply Babylon with cattle and other products, and there was also a small forest that they could see clustered up on the horizon. Other than those few landmarks, there was nothing else of note and certainly nothing that would create or otherwise warrant a fire the size of the one they were seeing.

Conor, wrapped heavily in wool and furs, watched the fire from the battlements. He had both of his scouts on the wall with him as well as the soldier who had originally come to give him the scouts’ report. Word had spread through the men that a large army had been sighted well to the south, heading to Manchester, so the men knew that there was activity in the area.

The very air at Babylon was tense, knowing that danger was lurking about but uncertain as to what, exactly, that danger was. All they knew was that they could feel it in their veins and as the bright moon shone down upon them, a silver disc in the freezing night, there wasn’t one man at Babylon that didn’t sense the approach of something wicked and deadly.

Something terrible was coming.

Conor could feel it most of all. He had been charged with the safekeeping of Babylon, after all, and he wasn’t a man to fail at his post. He suspected that the fire in the distance was meant to draw them out, to see what was happening, and he had no intention of opening the gates to send out scouts. Therefore, he remained on the wall, watching the fire as it burned steadily. His curiosity was great, of course, but so was his sense of suspicion. Greater still was his sense of self-preservation. The fire in the distance wasn’t a natural phenomenon; therefore, it would stand to reason that someone had created it.

So he stood there with his men, monitoring the fire in the distance as well as keeping watch over the gatehouse and the walls. The wall walk reached around the entire perimeter of the castle, including back near the slope of the hill where there were trees and a path from the river up to the kitchen’s postern gate. The gate was heavily fortified, with an iron grate on the exterior of the wall as well as the interior of the wall, and it was very small, so much so that only one man could pass through it at a time and even that man had to be crouched down to go through it. It was purposely built to make movement difficult so any enemy trying to pass through would immediately be at a disadvantage.

When one passed through the postern gate, they were immediately in the outer ward, literally an area of space between the outer and inner walls that was no more than fifteen feet deep. Then there was a second opening cut into the interior wall that led to the kitchen yard beyond, which was the vast open space between the interior wall and the keep.

Conor kept men not only on the battlements, but also patrolling the space between the inner and outer walls. A soldier checked the postern gate with regularity, but this was where Conor made his grave mistake - he had the same man check the gate repeatedly, a solitary sentry who roamed alone because most of the men were on the wall. When that man was knocked unconscious by Nicola with a large fire poker so that she could unlock the postern gate and allow the Conisbrough men inside, no one knew anything about it until it was too late.

By then, the damage was done.

The first Conor realized there was trouble was when men in the inner ward bearing crossbows began firing at the sentries on the walls. Conor was barely missed by an arrow but the soldier standing next to him and one of the scouts who had seen the big army to the south weren’t so lucky; they fell immediately, as did scores of other men hit by the barrage of arrows. As Conor and the others took cover on the walls and began to return fire, the men in the ward that had initially fired the arrows then charged the gatehouse, and the gate, and the battle for control of Babylon was on.

Conor could hear the fighting as he labored to stay low, away from the flying arrows, but even as he struggled to assess what had happened, deep down, he already knew. Somehow, someway, men had breached Babylon, and he made his way on his hands and knees towards the gatehouse to defend it. He was stunned to realize that men were able to enter Babylon in spite of the safeguards he had set up and it confirmed to him then that the fire in the distance had been a ruse. It had been meant to attract, and keep, their attention, which it had. While they had been watching the flames, the enemy had evidently mounted the walls.

Or perhaps they dug holes beneath them or even launched themselves over them. Whatever the case, Babylon was now compromised. Feeling very foolish, and very angry, Conor drew his broadsword and charged down the narrow spiral staircase of the gatehouse, only to be blocked by several of his soldiers who had already tried the same thing. They were dammed up by men at the entrance to the gatehouse down below, fighting to keep them from all coming down off the walls.

Conor began shoving men aside in his attempt to get down to where the fighting was. He was near the door and could see the battle going on beyond, near the portcullis. The great portcullis itself had already been partially lifted and men were pouring in through the breach. Conor had no idea where the enemy army had come from because he and his men had been keeping careful watch of the surrounding countryside. They even kept watch of the River Black, which ran to the south and west of Babylon, but there was vegetation on the banks of the river and Conor came to understand that the enemy army must have used the river itself to their advantage. While the fire burned, the army had moved in stealth upon Babylon and now, for their lack of awareness, Conor and his men were paying the price. God’s Bones, he felt like such an idiot.

He had let Kenton down.

That was the worst dishonor he could possibly imagine, letting down le Bec, a man he so greatly admired and a man who had been kind to him. And man who had survived so much and had fought many great battles. The fury of Conor’s failure breathed new life into his resolve and he shoved men aside, moving in between them, scratching and clawing to get free of the gatehouse stairs and to where the fighting was taking place. He was able to shoot through the doorway and into a tide of incoming hostiles. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. Conor had to find a way to stop them or die trying.

As the battle for Babylon was in full swing, a ragtag army headed towards Babylon from Rochdale, a group of beaten and fleeing men who had another group of men pursuing them. There were no standards flying, from anyone, and therefore no way to know that the ragtag army was what was left of Kenton’s fighting force after the route at Manchester. There were three knights in the lead who, after seeing the siege of Babylon as it was illuminated by the big, silver moon, took their beaten and exhausted army to the south, to a minor road the ran towards the east.

There was no returning home for the fragments of Kenton le Bec’s army so the remaining knights in command acted wisely and bypassed the besieged Babylon, choosing instead to take the remains of the army to safety elsewhere. Beaten and shattered, if they wanted to survive, they had little choice.

But neither Conor nor his men saw any of it. He was too busy trying to reclaim Babylon from the men that were quickly gaining the upper hand. With only two hundred men to defend Babylon, the battle was over almost the moment it started, but Conor never gave up. Not even when he was swarmed with enemy soldiers, who managed to disarm him and beat him fairly badly did he give up. He was still fighting until the last, until someone mercifully landed a heavy blow to his unprotected head which stilled the big, red-haired knight once and for all.

Then, and only then, did Conor stop resisting.

For him, it was over.

Manchester

Three days later

It was dawn on a particularly cold morning as Kenton sat in the icy grass beneath a barren oak tree on the south side of Manchester, shackled by the ankles and wrists. It was actually the first day he could remember being completely lucid since riding to battle against an army of Edward supporters who were trying to invade Manchester so soon after he had secured it.

Kenton had charged into the heat of the fighting and had performed magnificently until someone hit him on the head from behind, so hard that he had pitched over his horse and landed on his forehead. He’d been wearing a helm at the time, but the blow had knocked him cold. He’d awoken some time later to find himself tightly bound and quite obviously a prisoner, but he’d lost consciousness again for an unknown amount of time until regaining consciousness within the past hour or two.

He’d awoken, dazed, to a horrific headache and blurred vision on his left side. He was fairly certain he had a massive bruise or some kind of swelling on his forehead because his face was extremely tender and the blurriness in his left eye seemed to be because he couldn’t open it completely. It had been dark when he’d awoken, and he’d been lying on his side, but he’d looked around enough to see that he was grouped with other prisoners, men under his command that he recognized.

“My lord?” came a hiss. “Sir Kenton, can you hear me?”

Kenton could see a pair of bound boots a foot or so away from his head. He must have groaned, or moved, or both, because the hiss came again.

“Sir Kenton?” the man said again. “Are you awake now? Can you speak?”

Kenton tried to move his head but it was very painful to do so. He ended up closing his eyes, trying to stave off the nausea. “Who is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“’Tis Lewis, my lord,” the man whispered loudly. “Camden Lewis. I have served you for….”

Kenton cut him off. “I know you,” he said. “You are one of my senior soldiers. You have a brother who fell at Towton.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Give me the situation, Lewis.”

It was a formal request, from a commander to his soldier, because all things in Kenton’s world were formal no matter what the circumstances. He could hear the soldier grunt, more than likely with irony.

“They got us good, my lord,” the soldier muttered. “The garrison from Conisbrough, they are. From what we can gather, they were alerted that our army was in Manchester. We heard them speaking of it. They are looking for you in particular.”

Kenton’s eyes opened and he tried to look around. “How… how long?”

“Have you been unconscious?”

“Aye.”

“Since the battle started two days ago,” Lewis said. “I broke my foot at the beginning of the fight and they caught me easy. They brought you here right after I came, so it has been two days. You have been unconscious for that long.”

Kenton was trying very hard to clear the cobwebs out of his mind. He remembered riding to the south end of Manchester, into a nasty skirmish, and fighting a big knight on a blond steed. But after that, he remembered very little. Flashes of sound and pain, mostly. His anxiety began to take root.

“What is happening now?” he asked.

Sitting up, and watching the St. John guards carefully as they monitored the gang of Warwick prisoners they had spread out in a field on the southeast side of town, Lewis spoke quietly.

“Nothing, my lord,” the soldier mumbled. “The fighting is over. Conisbrough brought fresh men to a fight. They captured many of our men and more than likely killed as many.”

“And my knights?”

Lewis shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “Not with us. I heard some of the Conisbrough men speak of chasing a group of men back towards Babylon, including three knights, but I haven’t heard any more of that.”

Kenton blinked, struggling to think clearly. “Three knights,” he mumbled. “With Forbes gone, it had to be le Mon and Wellesbourne and de Russe. That means they were not killed.”

“I would say not, my lord.”

Kenton felt a great deal of relief at that. “Then I am thankful.”

Lewis stopped himself from replying when one of the St. John soldiers happened to hear conversation and glance back at the group of prisoners to see who was talking. Lewis kept his head down until the soldier lost interest and turned back around.

“Mayhap the knights will summon help from Babylon,” he whispered.

Kenton drew in a deep breath, turning his head slightly and trying to loosen his neck up. It was so incredibly stiff. “What help?” he questioned. “I left a mere two hundred men back at Babylon. If we are to be helped, it will not come from them. Warwick is in Wakefield; hopefully, men have already ridden to tell him what has happened. If assistance comes, it will come from Warwick.”

The same St. John soldier turned around because he heard conversation a second time. Lewis dropped his head, pretending to be dozing, until the soldier turned back around once more.

“We must keep quiet, m’lord,” he said. “They know you are a knight and they hope you are one of Kenton le Bec’s knights. I do not think they know they have le Bec himself but they keep asking the men if you are le Bec. No one will confirm it.”

Kenton lay there, thinking of the loyalty of his men, feeling like such a complete and utter failure. He had been fighting since seventeen years of age. He’d seen several major battles in that time and had survived all of them. To allow himself to become captured in a mere skirmish was insulting at the very least. He could still hardly believe it. Still, it was dangerous for his men to deny who he was. Soon enough, whoever his captors were would start using strong-arm tactics to gain answers and his men would suffer. This Kenton could not allow. In order to save his men, and perhaps even himself, he had to announce his identity. At least his men would be spared if he told them who he was. At least, that was the hope.

“Lewis,” he whispered, “are there Conisbrough soldiers around?”

Lewis eyed the gang of them several feet away. “Aye, my lord.”

“Call them over.”

Lewis looked at him, shocked. “But… why?” he asked. “You don’t want to engage them, my lord.”

Kenton tried to lift his head, to look at Lewis, but it was just too painful. “Call them now. I will not tell you again.”

Lewis was quickly growing distraught. He had no idea what le Bec had in mind but he knew he didn’t like it. “Please, my lord,” he hissed. “They are looking for you. They want to use you, probably as an example to the others. They may even want to send you as a prize to Edward. Surely you cannot…!”

“If you do not call them, I will.”

Lewis gazed at the man, feeling a good deal of sorrow. He couldn’t stomach the thought of the great Kenton le Bec in Edward’s hands but it occurred to him that le Bec might have something else in mind. He hoped that was the case. Eyeing Kenton as the man tried to lift his head, Lewis turned with great reluctance to the group of soldiers about twenty feet away.

“Oy!” he yelled. “You, there! Come over here!”

Several of the soldiers turned to look at him, frowning. “Quiet, you,” one of them threatened, holding up a balled fist. “If I come over there, you are not going to like it.”

Lewis pursed his lips ironically. “I already do not like it,” he said. “’Tis not my idea to ask you over here. I have been told to do it.”

Now, he had the attention of most of the soldiers who were standing in the group. “By whom?” one of the men demanded.

Before Lewis could reply, Kenton spoke in that deep, commanding boom that his men knew so well. It was a tone not meant to be disobeyed.

“By me,” he said. “You want le Bec? I will turn him over to you.”

Lewis’ worst fears were confirmed. He began hissing at Kenton, shaking his head. “Nay, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth. “You
mustn’t
!”

Kenton ignored Lewis as four or five Conisbrough soldiers made their way over to him, wandering amongst the captured Warwick soldiers. By their expressions, it was clear they were wary, looking at Lewis and the enormous knight who was lying beside him. The soldier who seemed to be in charge scowled.

“Where is le Bec?” he demanded.

Kenton peered up at the soldier, a seasoned man, bearing a tunic of yellow, blue, and red, which were Edward’s colors. He could see the shields and lions. Before he could open his mouth, however, Lewis spoke.

“Here,” he said quickly. “I am le Bec.”

The warrior bearing Edward’s tunic looked at Lewis, his brow furrowing. “You?” he repeated in obvious disbelief. “You are an old and broken fool. You are not le Bec.”

Lewis geared up to argue but Kenton spoke, more loudly, which positively killed his aching head. “He is not but I am,” he said. “Tell your commander that Kenton le Bec wishes to speak with him.”

The group of Conisbrough soldiers was much more inclined to believe that the massive knight with the head wound was Kenton le Bec. In fact, their expressions held varied degrees of surprise and pleasure with a fair amount of hatred mixed in. The soldier bearing Edward’s tunic crouched down next to Kenton, looking him over thoroughly.

For a moment, no one spoke. The soldier on his knees next to Kenton seemed to be drawing it all in, the sheer size of the man, digesting the image before him and coming to realize that he believed him. The knight was older, which they knew le Bec to be, and the equipment they had stripped him of had been expensive and well-used. Aye, it was easy to believe this injured man was who he said he was. The more the soldier looked at him, the more pleased he became.

“So you are the great Kenton le Bec,” he said rhetorically, though not impolitely. “You have a good deal of courage admitting it.”

Kenton stopped trying to lift his head; there was too much pain and he was bound so tightly that he couldn’t get his balance even if he could sit up. So he lay there, gazing up at a man who would just as easily kill him as speak with him. Kenton had never felt so vulnerable in his life.

“Not courage,” Kenton sighed. “I am being practical. You are going to beat the information out of my men, anyway, so I am saving you the trouble. Tell your commander I wish to speak with him.”

The soldier’s gaze lingered on him. There was still a chance that the knight could be lying but there were those that knew Kenton le Bec on sight; Saxilby, who had been wounded in the battle, claimed to be one of them but the man was unable to move because of a bad gash to his back and hip. The soldier presumed he could discover if the big Warwick knight was being truthful easily enough.

“I’ve a better idea,” he said, motioning to the soldiers who had accompanied him. “We will take you to him.”

Four men reached down to lift Kenton up as one of them unshackled his ankles. If they wanted him to walk, he couldn’t do it with his feet bound. Kenton bit off a groan of agony as he was lifted up, fighting off the pain and dizziness that swamped him. He couldn’t stand on his own so the Conisbrough soldiers nearly completely supported him as Kenton tried to gain his bearings. It was clear that he was in terrible shape.

It was a status that didn’t go unnoticed by Kenton’s men and they began to protest the treatment of their brave commander. Lewis in particular was very concerned.

“Be careful with the man,” he demanded. “Can you not see how badly injured he is? Take care with him!”

Around him, other men began to shout, louder than before. Soon, an entire chorus arose, demanding that the Conisbrough soldiers be cautious with le Bec. Kenton, hearing their cries, labored through the swaying and nausea, trying to stand on his own feet. The voices in support of his condition infuriated him.

“Enough!” he roared at his men. “You all bellow and whine like old women! Shut your mouths allow me my dignity!”

The men instantly ceased their protests, which told the Conisbrough soldiers that, indeed, the big knight they were dragging away was a man of respect. More than that, he had given an order that was instantly obeyed. Only a man in command would require such obedience and it was clear that his men loved him. That was blatantly obvious. That being the case, the soldier in command slapped the colleague who was holding Kenton up by the right arm.

“Be careful with him,” he said pointedly. “He has a bad wound to the head. Where is the surgeon?”

One of the four men supporting Kenton spoke. “Last I saw he was in Saxilby’s tent,” he said. “Are we taking him there?”

The soldier in command nodded firmly, eyeing the bruise on Kenton’s forehead. Now he, too, was inclined to be careful with the man now that the realization of his identity was confirmed by dozens of prisoners, men who were clearly subservient to him.
Kenton le Bec in the flesh,
the soldier thought. If he were to admit it, he was a bit awed. He never thought he’d meet such a legendary knight, a man among men in the annals of the battle for the throne. Aye, he was awed, indeed.

“We are,” he finally said. “I think there are a few people who would like to meet him.”

The last Kenton’s men saw of him, he was being dragged off towards a cluster of tents set up on the south side of Manchester and there wasn’t one man in witness who didn’t have a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. They all knew why le Bec had revealed himself because le Bec knew, as they did, that sooner or later, the Conisbrough men would try to beat le Bec’s identity out of them. They had all been resolved to resist but Kenton had other ideas; he wasn’t about to let his men take a beating protecting him. That wasn’t how Kenton le Bec operated.