Fragments of Grace (Prequel to the Dragonblade Trilogy) (2 page)

Miraculously, they made it
through the gate house without injury.  Considering those who held the castle
were using the murder holes in the gatehouse entry to their advantage, it was
something of a feat.  Bursting into the cluttered and muddy bailey, which was
oddly empty, Keir directed more than half of his men to take the walls while he
took another twenty men with him and headed towards the keep. 

They fought their way through
enemy soldiers, having suddenly appeared from the interior of the keep.  The
soldiers came rushing down at them from the keep entry, down the narrow wooden
retractable stairs that were half-burned, and Keir found himself slugging men
in the face and throwing them over the railing. 

Because the stairs were so
precarious, they could only mount them in single file and Keir was at the head,
taking the brunt of the warriors coming at them.  At one point, an enemy
soldier managed to send him off-balance and he gripped the railing, almost
falling fifteen or so feet down to the muddy bailey, but he managed to hold on
to the broken railing even in the wet rain that was making everything
dangerously slippery.  Pembury, a mountain of a man with enormous fists, pushed
forward and took the lead, throwing men aside with his enormous strength.  De
Velt pulled Keir away from the edge and steadied him and the three knights,
along with their men at arms, continued up the stairs and eventually in to the
keep.

As Keir slugged men with his big
fists and fought off broadswords that were flying at him, he let his rage and
frustration get the better of him. He didn’t want to be here in the midst of
this stupid skirmish and he certainly didn’t want to be tasked with rescuing
women.  He didn’t want to rescue anyone. He wanted to get out of this mess and
return to Pendragon and resume his patrols for Coverdale.  A siege is the last
thing he wanted to participate in, much less be charged with.  As he plowed his
way into the keep and met with more violent resistance, he could only think one
thing.

Damn Coverdale
, he hissed to himself. 
Damn
the man to hell
.

***

She was waiting for them.

Braced in the large bed chamber
at the top of Exelby’s towering keep, she was waiting with an enormous piece of
wood in her hands, the only weapon they could find in the room.  It was her
parents’ chamber, a luxurious place with fine silks, furniture and under normal
circumstances, a warm fire, but this day saw the chamber something of a gloomy
and fearful place. 

Chloë de Geld could hear men on
the other side of the chamber door.  They had been attempting to open it for
the better part of two days but the panel was made from heavy oak reinforced
with strips of iron, bolted together so that it formed a sort of net.  The
enemy had tried to burn away part of the door but it was so dense and old that
it simply smoldered and glowed, falling away piece by piece and filling the
chamber with a thin layer of smoke that hung near the ceiling.  Yet even when
the door burned away, the strips of iron would hold fast and would not allow
the door to be opened.  At least, that was at theory.  Up until today, the
theory had never been tested.

So Chloë stood against the wall
near the door, club held at the ready and struggling to keep her sister calm. 
Cassandra was the skittish sort, like their father, whereas Chloë was calm and
composed, like their mother.  Even now, Lady Blanche de Geld sat in the corner
and worked her needle and thread against an elaborately embroidered piece of
linen, as cool as a lazy cat on a warm summer day. 

Chloë stood near the door,
preparing to beat to death anyone who entered the chamber and wondering if her
mother even understood what was happening.  There was calm composure and then
there was pure apathy.  Chloë had to shake her head at her mother, wondering which
one it really was. 

The door panel suddenly shook
heavily, as if something had been thrown against it.  Chloë and Cassandra
shrieked with fear while their mother barely looked up from her needlework.  
The door rattled again and a huge chunk of it fell away, revealing those on
both sides of the door.  Gloves fingers began to poke through the iron grate,
moving for the lock, and Chloë began clubbing the fingers with wild abandon.

Someone on the opposite side of
the door grunted with pain as his fingers were smacked.  He tried to thrust his
fingers through again and Chloë bashed his fingers furiously.

“Nay!” she shrieked, punctuating
each word with a smack from the club. “Nay, nay,
nay
!”

“Lady!” the knight on the other
side of the door roared. “Cease! I am here to rescue you!”

 Chloë didn’t believe him for a
moment. More fingers were coming through the grate and she smashed at them as
if killing ugly spiders on the wall.
Smack, smack
,
smack
!

“Nay!” she barked. “Go away!”

As Chloë bashed at the grate with
her club, convinced that she was the only thing that stood between her family
and complete obliteration, Keir was tired of getting his fingers smashed so he
shoved de Velt forward.

“Open the door,” he growled.

Lucan looked at him as if he was
mad. “Nay,
you
open the door. I do not want my fingers broken.”

Frustrated, Keir grabbed him by
the neck as Pembury charged at the door, shoving them both out of the way.  He
grabbed at the iron grate and got his fingers smashed for his trouble. He drew
his hands back, shaking out his bashed fingers.

“Foolish wench,” he yelled at
Chloë. “That bloody well hurt.”

On the other side of the
blackened iron, Chloë was unrepentant.  “Touch this door again and I will pound
your fingers into dust.”

Michael stared at her in disbelief;
he could see a portion of her face through the grate and long, shimmering
sheets of deep red hair. One big brown eye was gazing back at him.

“Do you not understand that we
are trying to save you?” he asked, incredulous.

On the opposite side of the door,
Chloë shook her head, gripping the club with white knuckles. “You are
attempting to coerce me into opening this door,” she spat. “I am not so idiotic
that I would believe you.”

“But it is true.”

“Liar!”

Michael put his hands on his
hips, looking to Keir. “Well?” he lifted a frustrated hand at the
half-demolished door. “What do you want to do?”

Keir’s frustration was driven
beyond endurance. He was struggling to accomplish an unwanted assignment and
meeting with great resistance. It would have been extremely easy to walk away
and tell Coverdale that the women were beyond recovery.  But he gave it one
last try. He’d come this far. Moreover, he wasn’t accustomed to failure and to
walk away would mean surrender.  He moved to the grate, shoving Michael aside.

“Listen to me and listen well,”
he growled to the brown eye staring back at him. “My name is Keir St. Hèver and
I have been battling to free Exelby for the better part of two days.  We have
chased off, killed or captured most of the fools who invaded your castle and
the last thing I need is a foolish wench resisting my efforts to help her. I
can just as easily walk away and leave you here to rot if that is your wish.”

“Walk away, then! We do not need
or want your help!”

Keir clenched his teeth,
struggling with his temper. “You are behaving most ungratefully towards men who
have risked their lives to save you.”

As Keir spoke, Lucan moved up on
his right side and, with stealth, reached for the iron grate.  As Keir held the
frightened lady’s attention, Lucan managed to get his fingers through the grate
with great care and carefully lift the bolt.  Keir was barely finished with
what he had to say when Lucan suddenly threw his big shoulder into the door and
the panel popped open.

 Cassandra screamed as Chloë began
swinging the club with all her might.  She caught Lucan on the back of the
head, sending the man to the ground. 

Keir charged in and made a swipe
for the weapon, but Chloë was fast and she darted out of his range, jumping on
the fluffy bed in the middle of the chamber and swinging the club with all her
might.  Keir put up an arm to deflect the blow but she still managed to clip
not only his elbow but his head. 

Furious, Keir grabbed the club
from her hand and tossed it away, hitting Pembury in the process.  As Michael
grunted from the blow to his chest, Keir leapt onto the bed as Chloë tried to
jump to the floor and he caught her around the waist, a wisp of a woman with a
head full of intense red hair that tumbled to her knees. The straight, silky
strands were over them both as he lost his balance and fell back onto the
straw-stuffed bed.  In fact, there was hair in his mouth and all over his face
as he struggled to get hold of Chloë as she fought for her life.

“Lady,” he grunted as she twisted
and fought. “Cease your struggles. I swear that you will come to no harm. We
serve Lord Coverdale and have come to rescue you.”

Chloë was in a world of panic.
The knight that had her was easily three times her size and she managed to turn
in his arms, throwing a hand up into the open faceplate of his visor.  Hit in
the face by her fists, Keir did nothing more than grunt.  He tried to stand up
with the snarling wildcat in his grip but he ended up tripping on her surcoat
and they both fell to the floor.

Keir fell on top of Chloë, who
ended up on her back. It was a hard fall that momentarily stunned her.
Moreover, Keir was an enormous man and his full weight came down on her, armor
and all. Suddenly, they were in a very intimate position and when Chloë
regained her senses, she went mad, beating at his head and shoulders with her
little fists. 

“Get off me!” she howled. “You
foul beast, get
off
!”

Keir was trying to capture the
fifty slapping hands that were flying at his face from all directions.  He
managed to capture one only to be struck by another. Chloë began gouging at his
eyes and he closed them both, pressing his face into her chest as he grabbed
for that one final hand in the darkness.  Beneath him, the lady’s body was soft
and supple, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about trying not
to go blind from her frantic fingers.

“Cease!” he finally roared as he
captured the last errant hand.  He pinned her arms on either side of her
slender body, daring to open his eyes and gaze down into her hair-covered face.
“Did you not understand me? We are here to rescue you.  We are not here to harm
you in any way but from the way you are fighting, it will more than likely be
me who ends up injured.”

Chloë wasn’t ready to surrender
to the strange knight with the smooth, deep voice. “Get
off
,” she
commanded.

“Not until you stop fighting me. 
I have no desire to be maimed by a foolish girl.”

“I am not foolish,” she grunted
as she tried to dislodge him.

He watched her creamy face
contort with effort. “You are indeed foolish when you fight against someone who
is attempting to help you.”

She looked at him, barring her
straight white teeth. “I do not know you. You could be lying for all I know, an
enemy with the devil’s tongue.”

“Yet I am not,” he said as he
cocked an eyebrow at her. “I told you who I am – I am Keir St. Hèver, a much
decorated warrior who has served Edward Longshanks in the wars in Wales.  I am
an honorable knight from a long line of honorable knights and your refusal to
believe my word is a direct insult. I do not lie and I certainly would not lie
to a lady.  In any case, you are trapped by a man who is a good deal larger and
stronger than you are so if I were you, I would no longer resist. It is
futile.”

Chloë’s struggle ground to a halt
and she gazed up at Keir with baleful eyes.  He could only see two big brown
orbs through the mess of long red hair that was all over them both.  Keir could
see the turmoil in the brown depths, swirling like a maelstrom, but in that
same thought, it occurred to him that they were the most beautiful eyes he had
ever seen.  The thought startled him.

“Do you understand what I have
told you?” he asked again, somewhat less hostile, wondering why he was so
mesmerized by those eyes.

Chloë nodded unsteadily.  “Are
you going to strike me again?” he asked.

She shook her head.  Keir
immediately let go of her arms and, out of necessity, began pulling strands of
long red hair out of his mail so he could stand up and not pull hair from her
scalp.  Chloë watched him with some fear as he pushed himself off of her.  Then
he took her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.

Now that the atmosphere was
somewhat calmer and the women realized that the enemy had not captured them
after two days of hell, Chloë seemed rather weak and unsteady. It was as if the
fight had taken everything out of her.  He slumped against the wall, exhaling
heavily as she pushed her hair from her face and tried to smooth it down.  The
long, luxurious red hair was her pride and joy, something she was almost as
well known for in the shire as her beauty. To those in West Yorkshire, Chloë de
Geld’s radiance was the stuff of legends.