Tender is the Knight (29 page)

The mist shrouded the land like a great cottony blanket.
Dennis sat astride Bucephalus, his breath hanging in the freezing air, his usually-trim beard looking unkempt. It had been a long night of waiting and watching.

“St. Maur is doing this all wrong,”
Dennis finally growled. “He is trying to surround the mound and attack from all sides. What he must do to end this is consolidate his men and charge the mound from one side only. We will drive the Welsh off the mound, not surround them and conquer. No wonder they have been at this for weeks. They are thinking like idiots.”

Riston started at
Dennis, surprised to hear the frustration and anger in his voice.  He knew then how serious Dennis was about ending the siege immediately. Having done battle alongside Dennis as many times as he had, he knew the man had no patience for anything foolish or superfluous.

“St. Maur has been here for quite some time,” Riston said. “Perhaps you should have some faith in the man.”

Dennis snorted. “That’s the problem; he has been here
too
long. Any competent man would have ended this by now. He is blind to what is going on around him.”

“And you can see perfectly what needs to be done?”

“Can’t you?”

Riston gave him a crooked, weary smile. “St. Maur has already lost this battle. If he cannot extract these Welsh, then he cannot help Hastings, and Abergavenny will fall.”

“And the king will be furious.”

“It will reflect badly on the
Earl of Hereford.”

Dennis
suddenly reined his charger into the mist, heading in the direction of the English encampment. The air around them was so wet that it smelled of rot, and the ground oozed under the weight of Bucephalus’ hooves. Their armor, perpetually coated with wet, was rusting easily and Dennis knew he would have to spend hours buffing it off.  He was starting to wish he had brought his squire with him. In fact, he wished he had never left home at all.

That was his problem; he missed
Ryan more with each breath he drew. As he paraded through the mist in search of St. Maur, he knew that the strongest reason behind ending this desire to end the siege was to return to his wife. This war with Wales was a quagmire of Henry’s arrogance and Dennis could already see, having been in Wales for barely two days, that it was nothing as he had expected. It wasn’t some grand crusade for the good of England. It was the complete decimation and domination of the people of Wales.

Now all he wanted to do was get this over with as quickly as possible so he could go home. Still, some good had come of it; Henry’s troops were probably already marching to St. Austell to protect her from the earl.  He had to remind himself that that was the only reason why he was here; it wasn’t to further England’s dominance, or add glory to himself. It was, pure and simple, to preserve his home for his children and grandchildren. 

The English encampment was littered with wet, cold men huddle around fires that spread heavy smoke in the mist. It was almost choking. St. Maur’s tent was located near the rear of the camp and Dennis located the simple structure strung between two beech trees. St. Maur, his blond hair standing on end with sweat and dirt, was trying to clean the damp rot out from his toes.

“M’lord,” Though
Dennis technically outranked him, he nonetheless addressed him formally since he was the commanding officer. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

St. Maur waved him off. “I’d
ask you to sit, but there is no-where to do so,” he rubbed a rag furiously between his toes. “What is it, d’ Vant?”

“May I come directly to the point?”

“By all means.”

Dennis
removed his helm and ran his fingers through his damp, dirty hair. “It would seem to me that we are at a standstill. I hope you will not consider my evaluation offensive, m’lord, but if you will allow me to perhaps interject a fresh opinion into your battle strategy, I would be honored.”

St. Maur looked at him, instant suspicion in his faded blue eyes. “Diplomatically spoken,
d’ Vant,” he said. “What opinion would that be?”

“That perhaps a different tactic is needed at this point.”

St. Maur put the rag down and collected a damp, dirty sock. “Oh? And what is that?”

Dennis
wasn’t sure if he detected animosity, but was nonetheless careful with his words. “That perhaps instead of trying to attack the entire mound, we start at one end and work our way through. By surrounding Abergavenny, we keep the Welsh bottled up.  They have nowhere to go.”

St. Maur pulled on the sock. “So you suggest we run them off the mound?”

“Like a herd of sheep.”

St. Maur cocked an eyebrow at him. “
We have tried that. It was our first tactic.” He pulled on his boot and stood up. “Do you think me for a fool, d’ Vant? I know warfare as well as you and perhaps better. Christ’s Bones, man, I fostered at Rochester.”

“And I fostered at Kenilworth.”

That brought Dennis into new light; St. Maur seemed to back down somewhat as he digested that statement. “Kenilworth?” he repeated after a moment. “There is no finer in all of England. How is it that you managed to foster at Kenilworth?”

Because I am the king’s nephew,
Dennis wanted to say but held his tongue.  He wasn’t sure how St. Maur would take it and, frankly, it wasn’t something he wanted to brag about in the middle of the king’s war. Fostering had been a difficult time in his life, leaving home at five years of age and returning when he was fully knighted at twenty-one. Rodrick had, for once, used his royal relations to gain his gentle, soft son the best education he could. He thought the years of training at Kenilworth under the Marshal of England would toughen Dennis up, but it had only made him miserable.  Dennis remembered the years of brutality, but not with the bitterness he used to. On the contrary; he had been grateful for the education his trainers had tried to give him. His only regret was that for as hard as they had tried, his handlers could never harden his manner. It had remained gentle and soft, much to his father’s displeasure.

“Pure fortune, I suppose,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “In any case, it was not my intent to offend you, but to help you. I am here to assist and
obey, m’lord.”

St. Maur gazed at him a moment longer before chuckling. “You are certainly careful how you present things,” he said. “Did they teach you to be so cunning at Kenilworth?”

“Sometimes my life depended on it.”

St. Maur laughed.
“No doubt.” He looked around for his sword in his cluttered, damp shelter. “Truth be told, you know that I am weary of this. If you think you can lead a charge against the Welsh and drive them from the mound, then you have my attention.  Is there a particular variation to this tactic that you would use? Something indigenous to Kenilworth that the rest of us were not permitted to know?”

Dennis
’ gray eyes glittered; now that he had St. Maur’s ear, he knew the rest would be simple.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

The ground was damp from the evening’s dew and the smell of wetness was heavy in the early morning air. The sunlight, though weak, streamed through the dead foliage and littered the dirt with intermittent circles of gold that shone brightly as Clive and Charlotte clipped along the road at a swift pace.  Birds were singing all around them, giving the atmosphere a light feel to mask the seriousness of their journey.  With each passing step, their sense of urgency and panic grew.

They had left
the fortress before dawn, swarming the four inns in the town, terrorizing the patrons until they found a barkeep at the Wart who remembered the beautiful women who had come alone but left with an older, well-dressed man. According to the barkeep, the women hadn’t left the establishment more than three or four hours prior.  With that information, Charlotte and Clive quit the town in all haste, leading their twenty-five heavily armed soldiers on a sojourn northward.  Although they would be passing very close to Launceston, the road wasn’t visible from the castle and they expected, and received, no trouble.  All that mattered now was finding Ryan and Charlotte suspected that even the Earl of Cornwall would support them on that venture.  But it was better not to find out lest they find themselves all in the vault.

The main road through Cornwall leading to London was a cold, desolate thing.   They would eventually pass through Devon, into Somerset, and finally into a more populace area nearing London.  By mid-morning they had been on the road almost six hours and were nearing the border region of Cornwall and Devon.  The pace had been swift, but the horses were hearty and strong. Charlotte would have ridden day and night if it would get her to London any faster, but she knew the chargers needed a nominal amount of rest. Clive never left her side, maintaining silent and alert vigilance as they passed through trees and over the gentle hills. Charlotte was very glad she had insisted on coming. 

“We should be catching up to them shortly,” Clive finally broke the quiet. “I doubt Lady d’ Vant has maintained the pace we have set. I am surprised we haven’t seen them by now.”

Charlotte pursed her lips, wiping the sweat from her forehead beneath her helm.
“As am I. It makes me very concerned that he has taken a different route, or that we have missed them altogether.”

“What route could they have taken? There is only one in and out of Cornwall.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “If this man she is traveling with has decided to keep her for his own, there is no knowing which way they have gone.”

Clive wriggled his eyebrows in agreement.  “True enough. Then what do we do, oh wise and lovely leader?”

He grinned at her and Charlotte blushed furiously. “Keep looking,” she said, hoping the soldiers hadn’t heard Clive’s open flirtation. Truthfully, it wasn’t hard to admit she liked it. “If we arrive in London and still no Ryan, then we shall consider our options.”

Clive continued to grin and wriggled his eyebrows at her in a blatantly leering fashion. Charlotte was about to respond,
albeit good or bad she wasn’t sure yet, when the brush to their right suddenly crackled and gave way.  The chargers startled and several swords were immediately drawn.  Clive, his weapon defensively aimed, almost placed himself in front of Charlotte but thought better of it when he suspected she might take offense to his chivalrous action and stab him in the back with her own sword.  But that did not prevent him from reining his charger beside her and preparing to take on the enemy. 

To the side of the road, the dead winter brush shook again and this time a small moan came forth.  The soldiers were a bit spooked at the sound of the grunt but held their ground; at any minute they fully expected to be ambushed by hundreds of bandits.   But still, as they hovered and wait
ed with blood in their eyes, the bush rattled again and a dark head suddenly popped up.

Charlotte was the first person to react. “Patrizia!” she hissed. Sliding from her charger, she raced to the woman’s side where she lay in a heap of dirt and blood. It was a horrifying sight and Charlotte could feel the threat of panic in her veins. “My God, what happened to you?”

Patrizia’s head was caked with blood and grass. Her beautiful dark eyes lolled back in her head as she tried to maintain consciousness.  “He… he hit me,” she whispered.

Clive was kneeling beside her, inspecting her head as Charlotte tried to comfort her. “Who is
he
? And where is Ryan?”  Her head came up and she began to look around furious. “Christ, we must search for Ryan. Perhaps she is around here, too!”

Patrizia was having a difficult time speaking. Clive ran his fingers along her scalp, his jaw ticking furiously. “Her skull is fractured,” he whispered to Charlotte. “
She will  not live much longer. We must discover what has happened!”

Several soldiers were down from their horses, frantically
searching the dead bushes for their liege’s wife. Charlotte’s sense of urgency was about to explode; she tried to be gentle with Patrizia, but it was difficult. “Tell me who has hit you. And where is Ryan?”

Patrizia could only open one eye; the other one seemed to have a mind of its own. “He took
Ryan,” she murmured. “Hit me… when I wasn’t looking. He had to… kill me.”

“
Who
had to kill you?” Clive demanded softly. “Patrizia, you must make sense!”

Patrizia’s eyes closed. “My father,” she breathed. “He knew I was going to tell her.”

She still wasn’t making any sense.  Charlotte resisted the urge to scream and shake her all at the same time.  “Your father? I do not understand.”

Patrizia
did not say anything for the longest while.  Charlotte shook her gently, but it was of no use. A tremendous sense of doom settled, knowing that Patrizia was dying and now they would most likely never find Ryan. But Patrizia abruptly opened both eyes again and focused, quite clearly, on Charlotte.  It was an eerie, startling gesture.

“My father is Miguel the Pirate,” she said with surprising clarity. “He pretended to be a traveling merchant so he could get close to
Ryan.  I do not know how he found us at the inn, but he did, and now he has Ryan.”

Charlotte felt as if she had been struck in the face and it was difficult for her to catch her breath.  She looked at Clive as if searching for any sign that this was all a horrible sick joke, but his face was pale and taut. “Your father is Miguel the Pirate?” she murmured.

“Aye.”

“But….” Charlotte was at a loss for words. “Why
did not you tell…?”

“Now is not the time, Charlotte,” Clive interjected quietly. “She must save her strength.”

“Save it for
what?”
Charlotte snapped at him. “I want to know why she never told us who her father was!”

“Does it matter? Truly, the only thing of importance now is finding
Ryan, is it not?”

An instant, sinister thought crossed Charlotte’s mind and her blazing stare moved back to Patrizia. “You haven’t by chance had a hand in all of this, have you?
The attack, and now this?”

Patrizia tried to shake her head. “No,” she whispered. “My father sold me off to pay his debts. I have
not seen him in years.”

Charlotte
could not explain why, but she believed her. The situation they had all feared had indeed come to pass and Charlotte’s first thought was how devastated Dennis would be by all of it.  The man’s desire to enact a peace treaty had evolved into something so twisted, so hideous, that it would have been better if he had never tried. It was almost more than she could bear.

“Where is Miguel taking
Ryan?” she finally asked.

Patrizia’s eyes dimmed. “I
do not know.  But he said something about bringing the hunted to the hunter with the proper bait.”

“But why did he harm you? I
do not understand.”

Patrizia’s mouth was pasty and she licked her dry lips. Clive signaled sharply for water to be brought. “Because he knew I would tell her who he was given the chance.  He could not risk losing her, not when he wanted her so badly.”

“Why does he want Ryan so badly?” Charlotte pressed.

“To get to
Dennis,” Clive answered, his voice cold as stone.  When Charlotte looked at him, she saw nothing but fury in his eyes. “Understand what has happened, Charls. First, the earl has Miguel attack St. Austell. Now Miguel has somehow found Ryan and has tried to kill his own daughter in order to keep a very dark secret”

“What secret is that?” Charlotte asked, though she suspected.

“That he is intent to destroy your brother,” Clive put a hand on Charlotte’s arm in a comforting gesture. “The earl has been trying to do just that since the inception of this alliance and longer. Now he has Miguel to help him.” He looked at Patrizia with a good deal of pity. “Look at what lengths he will go to achieve his end.  He has tried to kill his own daughter.”

It was a bone-chilling thought that so ruthless a man would stop at nothing to accomplish his wants. “But why should Miguel want to destroy
Dennis? My brother has done nothing against him.”

Clive shrugged. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with
Dennis personally. Miguel is a mercenary, is he not? Perhaps the earl is paying him very well to destroy his enemy.”

“Why bring Miguel into this? Why isn’t the earl doing it himself?”

“He’s tried, many times.”

Patrizia stirred in Charlotte’s arms.  Her eyes were glazed as she stared up at the two knights. “
Dennis is the only one who can stop my father and save Ryan,” she whispered. “My father is capable of terrible things. His failure to destroy Dennis on his first attack has only inflamed his determination, I fear. That is why he has taken Ryan. You must… find Dennis and tell him.”

She passed mercifully into unconsciousness. Clive swept her from Charlotte’s embrace and gently handed her over to a soldier with orders to return her to St. Austell immediately.  He doubted she would survive the trip, but he simply
could not stand by and do nothing.

Charlotte was pale and silent when Clive returned to her. She was still standing in the brush where they had found Patrizia.  Clive gently took her by the hand and led her up to the road where the destriers were nibbling on the dead grass.

“What do we do now?” Charlotte asked him.

Clive paused, collecting the reins of Charlotte’s horse. “I think Patrizia gave the best advice. We must find
Dennis.  He must know what has happened.”

Charlotte accepted the reins he was handing her, but her face was lined with strain.  “
Dennis will think we have failed him,” she muttered.

“To not inform him of what has happened would be to fail him,” Clive had to practically shove her onto her charger. “The sooner we find him, the better.  And I would suspect for the moment that
Ryan is unharmed; it’s Dennis Miguel wants, not Ryan.”

Charlotte was deep in thought as Clive mounted his own horse beside her. “Would the earl go to such great lengths to destroy my brother?”

Clive collected his reins and lifted his arm in a silent order for his men to move out. “It’s not your brother he’s destroying.  I would suspect it’s a harbor he’s gaining.  Beneath all of this war and treachery, it is my belief that the motives behind this are purely mercenary. With Rodrick gone, I believe the true motive of the game has now changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rodrick and the earl battled because of Rodrick’s hatred for the crown, among other things.  Now that Rodrick is gone, the earl probably sees this as an opportunity to test Dennis and win.”

“For the harbor and her money?”

“Why not? With Rodrick gone, the earl probably believes Dennis will be simple to defeat. Surely any man who wants peace is a weak warrior.”

“
Dennis is stronger than father ever was.”

“I know. But the earl doesn’t.”

The chargers moved out.  The situation was growing more complex by the minute.

***

God, please help me.
She had tried to run, once, but he had simply caught her, tied her hands, and slapped her across the face for good measure.  To make things go from bad to worse, her attempt to flee had tightened her lungs and it was now an effort to breathe.  The injury from the arrow those weeks only made it worse.  But Miguel did not care; for whatever she did, however she resisted, he simply slapped her.  And any complaints were met by silence.

The landscape was dead and colorless in the throes of winter.  They were traveling a road
Ryan had never seen before and in a direction she could not have guessed.  Patrizia was dead, she was sure, having seen Miguel hit her on the head with the butt of his sword and listening to the sickening crack fill the air.  It had all happened so quickly too; Patrizia and the man they knew as Michael had been riding side by side in conversation with Ryan a few feet behind  them on her white palfrey.  The voices grew louder and suddenly Miguel drew his sword, striking Patrizia in the forehead. The woman had tumbled to the ground and Ryan had watched, in shock, as Miguel had turned to her, swept her onto his big brown warmblood, and rode furiously into the distance.