He left the tent, leaving Gaetan mulling over what Jathan had said. It was quite true. In fact, whoever had Kristoph would, indeed, be punished. Wiped from the earth and all of his brethren with him. Gaetan hadn’t much pondered his sense of revenge because he was more concerned with regaining Kristoph but, now, he was thinking of it a great deal.
Indeed, he would make whoever held Kristoph pay dearly.
He slept.
CHAPTER FOUR
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A Man of Darkness
“He is dead, you know.”
The words hung in the air, sharp with their pain, deadly with their accuracy. As three of de Wolfe’s knights stood in a clearing on a rise a mile or two north of the battlefield, those words were like a nightmare none of them wanted to acknowledge.
But they were more than likely true.
Aramis de Russe, Lance de Reyne, and Denis de Winter were resting their horses after a grueling day and night and then day again of working the animals into a froth with very little rest. But the animals were growing increasingly sluggish so the knights knew they had to rest them or risk losing them. Even though the knights had brought other horses with them, these were their premier horses, expensive and highly-trained beasts they had taken into battle with them, and no one wanted to risk them.
Therefore, they paused in this hour before dawn when the sky was starting to lighten enough so they could douse their torches. But the mood between them was heavy with sorrow.
“It was so dark last night we could have easily passed him if he was injured and unable to call out to us,” Denis replied to Aramis’ grim statement. “Just because we have not found him does not mean his is dead.”
“If Kristoph was alive, he would have found a way to return already,” Lance said what the other two were already thinking. He knew his comrades well enough to know what was on their mind, what they were trying not to say. He looked at the two men, their faces pale in the cold and gray dawn. “You know I am right. If he had any strength left in him, he would have returned to us.”
Denis shook his head; he wasn’t willing to give up as easily as the others were. “Not if he was too injured to move or speak,” he said, increasingly passionate in his stance. “Think what you want, but I will not give up looking for him. He would not give up so easily on us.”
“No one is giving up, Denis,” Lance said. He was an even-tempered man, rational. “But there will come a point when we must face the facts.”
Denis, a bit more emotional than the others, cast his friend a long look. “Until we find a body, he is still alive,” he said. “You know Gaetan feels the same way. That is why he has sent us out to look for him. Would you give up on me? Or Téo? Or any of us? Then we rest the horses and we keep looking until we find something.”
It was the way the others felt as well, only reality and exhaustion were starting to set in, leading them to depressing conclusions. They were brothers-in-arms, all of them, and the loss of one was a heavy blow to their morale no matter how hard they tried to be logical or philosophical about it. Aramis, the most grimly pragmatic of the three, looked out over the landscape, turning shades of green and gray as the clouds above began to fill with light.
“Wellesbourne is to the east,” he muttered. “St. Hèver and de Moray to the west. Téo and Luc are back in camp keeping Gaetan sane, which is no easy feat.” He turned to look at his friends and colleagues. “We should split up now that light is upon us. We will cover more ground and be able to see better if we do. I suggest we comb back the way we have come and cover the battlefield from the north. It is even possible that Kristoph is mixed in with the Anglo-Saxon wounded.”
The grim man was grasping at strands of hope but no one questioned that. They agreed with him. “I will head into the Anglo-Saxon camp,” Denis said. “I will inspect their wounded to see if he is there.”
The other two nodded. “Beware you do not end up as part of their wounded,” Lance said. “Even wounded men can still kill. We do not want to have to go looking for you, too.”
Denis nodded as he inspected his horse to make sure the horse had been given enough rest, at least in the short time they’d had. “I will be cautious,” he said. “But if Kristoph is not there and we still cannot find him, then we must be willing to consider other possibilities.”
Aramis paused in the process of mounting his own weary horse. “What?”
Denis tossed the reins over his horse’s head as he prepared to climb into the saddle. “That he has been taken away,” he said. “I would be happier to know that some Saxon lord has taken him away and is preparing to ransom him. Men held for ransom are valuable commodities and not usually injured or abused.”
It was a happier thought than the one they were currently facing. As the men mounted their horses, Denis reined in his horse and turned to the others before leaving.
“Et pro Gloria dei,” he said quietly. For God and Glory.
“Et pro Gloria dei,” the other two repeated quietly.
It was their battle call, something they always said to one another before heading into battle or into a risky situation. It was a blessing to each other, a giver of strength, something that belonged only to them. Never did they bid one another farewell, for that was a finality in a sense. Et pro Gloria dei was all they ever said when parting from each other, a parting well-made and encouragement. They were words of hope.
Right now, they needed all the hope they could get.
Ghislaine wasn’t entirely sure this was a good idea any longer.
Having made it back to the battlefield before dawn, it was swarming with Normans and she had approached a soldier demanding to speak with a knight named Gaetan de Wolfe. Luckily, she spoke their language but her heavy accent gave her away and the soldier grabbed her by the arm and began to drag her over to some of his cohorts, shouting that he had a Saxon captive.
It wasn’t what Ghislaine had expected. She had expected the de Wolfe name to open doors for her, in peace and respect. Therefore, her shock in the Norman soldier’s reaction turned into full-blown fear when several Norman warriors headed in her direction, all of them drawn in by the shouts of the man who had her by the arm. He was hurting her. But she knew she would be hurt much worse if she let these Norman hounds paw at her. Therefore, she started shouting louder than the man holding her.
“Kristoph de Lohr!” she screamed. “I have come on behalf of Kristoph de Lohr! I must speak to de Wolfe!”
She had to say it two or three times before it registered to one of the older soldiers what, exactly, she was saying. Her accent was so heavy that they hadn’t understood her, but an older man with missing teeth and a nose that had been broken repeatedly understood her. He pulled her from the man who had a death-grip on her.
“What do you know of de Lohr?” he snarled at her, his face in hers and his foul breath filling her nostrils. “Where is he?”