Luc and Lance nodded and began to tend to the body, looking for some section of cloth or tunic left upon the field of battle to wrap him up in. Luc, seeing the squires and priests hovering over near the edge of the battlefield to the east, sent a soldier running for one of the priests that had been following the Anges de Guerre, a fighting priest known as Jathan. He was a big man, with a crown of red hair, and he managed de Wolfe’s squires and pages as well as served in a religious capacity to all of de Wolfe’s knights. These days, men accomplished many tasks in the service of Warwolfe and Jathan had proven himself a valuable asset.
Gaetan noted that his priest and two squires, including le Mon, were heading in his direction but he was more interested in mounting his horse and finding the duke. As he swung himself up into the saddle, he began to look around, making note of his men as he could see them. Although the battlefield was a vast place, it was his usual habit to take a head count of his men to ensure they were all whole and sound. They had all attended many battles together and, by the grace of God, had emerged unscathed. Gaetan, a particularly religious man, said many a prayer for such blessings.
De Lara, de Winter, and de Reyne were accounted for. He had seen de Moray, Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Russe as they continued to move through the destroyed Anglo-Saxon lines, subduing pockets of fighting. Du Reims was the only one he hadn’t seen because he was somewhere off to the west with the duke, so Gaetan didn’t worry over him. He knew he would see Téo soon enough. He’d seen de Lohr earlier, as well, and but a perusal of the area showed that Kristoph was nowhere to be found. Before Gaetan spurred his horse off to the west, he turned to Luc and Lance.
“Where is Kristoph?” he asked. “He was right behind me when we broke through the eastern flank. Where has he gone?”
Luc and Lance were in the process of wrapping up Harold’s body with a cloak that Jathan had been wearing. It was the priest who spoke.
“I have not seen him, Gaetan,” he said, looking around as the knights handled the battered body.
Gaetan was looking off to the south where part of the Norman army still lingered and the encampment beyond. “You did not see him ride away?”
Jathan shook his head, his fat jowls trembling. “Nay, I did not. Shall I send a man for him?”
Gaetan’s gaze moved over the field of battle for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Nay,” he replied. “He is around here, somewhere.”
Jathan simply nodded his head and bent over to help the knights with the corpse. Gaetan, with thoughts of de Lohr quickly fading, headed off to the west where William, the Duke of Normandy, would be told that Harold was dead and that he was now king.
Normandy wasn’t difficult to find, in fact. He and Téo were found deep in the Anglo-Saxon encampment rounding up prisoners, a task that Gaetan helped with after he delivered his important news. Oddly enough, the duke wasn’t willing to believe his Warwolfe until he saw Harold’s body, which was much later in the evening when the battle had ended for the most part and the Norman army trickled back to camp.
It was almost a ceremonial event, this viewing of Harold’s body. It took place in a dim tent belonging to de Winter, a body wrapped in Normandy’s colors that, when unwrapped, revealed a gruesome sight. As the Anges de Guerre and the duke’s Companions gathered around in the cold dark tent, William grimly viewed the body of Harold Godwinson and, as such, declared himself king on that very night. It was a night for celebration, for rest and reflection, but for Gaetan, it became a night that would change the course of his life.
Kristoph de Lohr did not return to camp that night. When morning came and he’d still not returned, it became apparent that he was either dead or otherwise missing. The dreadful news began to spread over the duke’s camp, the news that no fighting man wanted to hear. They’d brought ten great knights with them to England, men who were the greatest warriors of them all, but now only nine were accounted for.
One Anges de Guerre had been lost.
CHAPTER TWO
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I Met My End Bravely
They’d beaten the Norman knight fairly severely, so much so that she ended up covering the man with her body and chasing away those who were trying to kill him. Although she never thought she would have protected a Norman knight, there was something in her that simply couldn’t stand by and watch it happen. When some of her brethren began aiming clubs at the knight’s head, she covered his bare head with her arms.
“Enough!” the woman ordered. “You will not kill him!”
She had to fight off those who refused to listen to her, but men who knew and respected her called off those unwilling to obey her command. Slowly, the violence eased and they all stood around, looking at her as she literally lay upon the injured Norman knight to protect him. But still, the men were edgy. It was the end of a most important day and they were all still riding high on the scent of battle.
It had only been a few hours earlier in the battle against the Normans when the rumor began to spread quickly through the Anglo-Saxon ranks that Harold had been killed by a Norman arrow. He’d been close to the lines at the time and when he fell, wounded, he’d been trampled by his own men. It had been a chaotic scene as some of his advisors tried to carry him away, shielding him from the soldiers because they knew that once it was known that Harold had been killed, the Anglo-Saxon army would lose faith and fracture.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what had happened even as some of Harold’s army still tried to fight back and hold off the Norman tide. But the shield wall had failed and the Normans broke through, many of them swarming right to the spot where Harold had lain. And the Norman knight on the ground….
He’d been one of those who had seen Harold’s body and had called forth more Normans to partake in the triumph of a fallen king. He’d been a well-armed, powerful knight, but as he moved about, confident in a Norman victory, he’d made a terrible mistake – he’d traveled alone and without the company of others. He seemed more intent to linger near the Anglo-Saxon lines that were breaking up. For the Anglo-Saxons fleeing the battlefield, the lone Norman knight had been a target of their vengeance.
Knocked off his horse by a nasty club strike to the back of the head, they’d tied the unconscious knight to a horse by his leg and dragged him away as they’d fled. Now, they were several miles to the west in a vast and dense forest, regrouping with some of their dispirited army. The Norman knight was on the ground, dazed, as men took their rage out on him.
But the woman had stopped them.
Even now as she lay sprawled over him, she’d taken a few blows from her own men who had refused to heed her command. An older soldier, seasoned and trying to gain control of the others, held back some of the more aggressive men.