“Gaetan!” she gasped. “That is Lygia! You must help her!”
Before Gaetan could move, Aramis put Ghislaine on her feet and took his sword from her. “Nay,” he said. “Gate, you take your lady to safety. I will handle these fools.”
Gaetan didn’t argue with him. He picked Ghislaine up again and, with Jathan running in front of them to protect their path, carried Ghislaine all the way to the convening hall where he had to beat on the door before someone opened it. Once inside the door, he set Ghislaine on her feet as Jathan and the excited dog came in after him.
“You and Jathan will guard the door,” Gaetan told Ghislaine, handing her a dagger from his waist. “If anyone comes through that door that is not an ally, kill them.”
Ghislaine nodded firmly. “I will, I swear it. I will not let anyone pass that is not a friend.”
Gently touching her cheek in a sweet gesture, it was all Gaetan could manage before charging back out into the night to help Aramis and Antillius. Ghislaine shut the door and bolted it, looking at Jathan to see that the entire event had the priest fairly rattled. But he held his sword tightly, preparing to kill just as Gaetan had ordered. He was, after all, a trained warrior even if those duties were something he struggled with.
Now that they had reached relative safety, there was an odd stillness to it all that was unnerving. Outside, people were fighting for their lives while inside, the frightened and injured huddled. Soft weeping drew their attention and they looked around to see that the convening hall was half-full of women and children, all of them shaken and terrified.
“I will watch the door,” Ghislaine told Jathan. “Mayhap you should pray with these women and comfort them.”
Jathan shook his head. “If Gaetan discovers I have left my post, I will be the one needing prayers.”
Ghislaine grinned at the man but she understood. “Very well,” she said. “When things settle down, mayhap your prayers would be welcome then.”
Jathan could still hear the sounds of the struggle outside. Battle, to him, never became any easier. It was all death and mayhem as far as he was concerned.
“I think I shall pray now,” he said.
“I think that is a good idea.”
He did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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The Sleep of the Dead
He’d picked up the pace, Kristoph was sure, because of him.
Ever since the fight outside of Warwick that had left two men dead and another wounded, Alary had been keeping his distance from Kristoph as they headed north at an increased pace, but certain things had changed. Now, Kristoph found himself chained in the bed of the provisions wagon, secured more tightly than he’d ever been before and, since the death of Mostig, he hadn’t been fed with any regularity which, he suspected, was part of the plan. A prisoner weakened with hunger was less likely to fight back.
But not Kristoph. He was still prepared to fight back and escape, no matter what they tried to do to him.
Still, he had to admit that the hunger was drawing him down. He’d last eaten yesterday morning, a bit of cold and probably rank fatty beef that had been thrown at him. He’d sucked it down, fat and all. Anything to drink had come from the rain that had fallen off and on for the past few days but it hadn’t quenched his thirst much. It had only prevented him from becoming completely parched.
His misery had a name these days and that name was Alary of Mercia. The first thing Kristoph planned to do when he was free was kill the man. For every offense against him, Kristoph was going to make Alary pay many times over. Rather than thoughts of his wife and daughter keeping him alive, now thoughts of killing his captor were feeding that sense of survival.
It was something that Alary surely sensed these days if he didn’t outright know it. A madman at times, he wasn’t stupid. As the wagon bumped down the road on this morning that blended in to the many mornings before this as they traveled north from Harold Godwinson’s defeat, Kristoph thought on his situation, on the man holding him hostage, and on what was waiting for him at the end of this road. The men were hurrying more than ever to reach Tenebris. Kristoph knew he had to escape before they reached it.
It was either that or die.
Somewhere near the nooning hour, the skies cleared and the sun came out, drying up the wet ground as well as a wet Kristoph. He’d had no protection from the rain. The wagon came to a halt at some point and the men around him began to break out rations of biscuits and wine. Kristoph was starving but he knew they wouldn’t give him anything so he didn’t ask; he simply looked away, trying to look anywhere that men weren’t eating and drinking. Inside, his gut gnawed away painfully.
“Norman.”
That was what they called him these days. Norman. He didn’t even have a name to these people. Kristoph turned to see one of Alary’s henchmen standing beside the wagon, coming in his direction. Kristoph knew the man; he was the one who had survived the fight in Warwick, although he was still showing signs of the beating Kristoph had given him. His left eye was still bruised and he was missing two front teeth. Kristoph braced himself because whenever this man was near, bad things happened. He continued to watch the man as he came closer.
“If I unchain your arms to allow you to eat, will you swear upon your oath not to fight?” the man asked, standing out of arm’s length.
Kristoph’s hunger was stronger than his will to resist at the moment. He nodded shortly. “I swear.”
“If you break this promise, you will spend the rest of your life in chains. No one will help you.”
Kristoph simply looked at the man, his blue eyes circled with malnutrition and fatigue. “I told you that I would not. I may be many things, but a liar is not among them.”
The henchman hesitated for a moment before he motioned several men behind him. In a group, Alary’s soldiers moved forward to both watch over Kristoph and unfasten his chains. As a result of his poor treatment and the heavy shackles, both of Kristoph’s wrists and ankles were heavily chaffed and bruised. The skin was so very painful to the touch. As one of the soldier’s removed the binds around his wrists while another handed him a big loaf of dirty brown bread, Alary suddenly appeared at the end of the wagon.
Kristoph saw him and he paused a moment before taking a massive bite of the bread. There was grit in it, and sawdust he thought, but it didn’t matter. He was starving. As he ignored Alary and accepted a bladder of cheap wine to wash down the bread, Alary came around the side of the wagon bed.
Now, he was closer and Kristoph could no longer ignore the man. He was eating as fast as he could, fearful that Alary would grow enraged over something, anything at all, and take his food away, so he was determined to eat it as fast as he could. As he swallowed a massive bite and washed it down with the terrible wine, Alary spoke.