By the time Ghislaine reached the men who were pounding on de Lohr, she had a firm plan in mind. De Lohr was being beaten badly and she, once again, had to throw herself between him and the men who wanted to kill him. Alary’s men wouldn’t go out of their way to hit her but they kept trying to strike out at the knight behind her, going around her to grab de Lohr by the hair or club him in his already-damaged ribs. That went on for a while as Alary simply stood back and watched, laughing every time his sister received a blow meant for de Lohr. It was entertainment for him. But for Ghislaine, it only sealed Alary’s fate.
She was going to send the Normans right to him.
As the night went on, the beating stopped and men, exhausted from a day of battle, wandered off to sleep in the forest. Left alone with the wounded knight, Ghislaine did what she could for de Lohr, who was a swollen, bleeding mess at this point. She could only hope the men had gotten their bloodlust out and would leave him alone from this point on but she didn’t really believe that. Still, she couldn’t remain with him because she had something very important to do. It was a task that only she could undertake and, if discovered, could mean her death. If she was caught going to the Norman encampment, then everything Alary had insinuated about her would be believed. She was taking a terrible risk.
But it had to be done.
In the hour before dawn, as the eastern sky began to lighten, Ghislaine moved from her post guarding the Norman knight and knelt down next to him as he lay upon the cold ground, battered and swollen. Leaning over his head, she whispered in his ear.
“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.”