Epic Knights of Legend and Steel

Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he rains fell particularly heavy that night, turning into an ice storm as the de Winter army nursed their bruises and wounds after the attack by the Scots. Surprisingly, there were only three dead, Dallan included, and Drake and Devon had wrapped their young brother up in his rain cloak, tying up the body tightly and then putting him in one of the provision wagons.

All the while, Drake and Devon hadn’t spoken to one another. It seemed that there was nothing they could say for something like this went beyond words. The pain of Dallan’s passing was like a great open wound for both of them, so as they gently removed him from his armor, cleansed the dirt from his body, and then wrapped him up, there was no talking, only the gentle and loving gestures of brothers. Drake remained somewhat stoic but tears streamed down Devon’s face the entire time. It was a tragic and painful duty they completed, but once Dallan was loaded into the wagon bed and properly secured, Drake turned to Devon.

“We must take him home, you know,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “We cannot simply send him back with riders. We must escort him home and be present for his burial. I would not have it any other way.”

Devon nodded, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed. “I know,” he said. “Edward may not appreciate the fact that we have gone back to Norwich, but I hope he will at least understand.”

Drake’s nostrils flared. “I do not care if he understands or not,” he said flatly. “Tomorrow, you and I will take Dallan home whilst de Wolfe takes the army on to Hexham. I will make sure de Wolfe tells Edward that we will join his march into Scotland when we can, but for now, I intend to be home with my mother and father when we bury our youngest brother. And my wife, too; I intend to be home with her as well.”

Devon didn’t disagree in the least. “Father will support us in the face of Edward’s displeasure,” he said. “But I cannot truly believe that Edward would be offended by us returning our brother home for burial. God… for his burial… I still cannot believe it even as I say it.”

Drake turned to look at his brother’s wrapped body in the wagon bed. “Nor can I,” he said, feeling the lump in his throat again. “Mother… I cannot even imagine how Mother is going to deal with this. It will destroy her.”

Devon nodded, fighting off the tears welling in his eyes again. “I hope we have the opportunity to tell Father first,” he said. “Let him tell her. I do not want to see her grief, wondering why you and I did not protect her youngest son. I ask myself the same thing but I do not have a good answer.”

Drake looked at him. “There is no answer, Dev,” he said. “Dallan is a knight. He was felled doing what he was born to do. We could not have protected him in any case. The circumstances were not right for such a thing. We were all spread out, all fighting for our lives. What happened to him did not come from negligence on anyone’s part; it simply happened. You cannot blame yourself and neither can I, although I have tried to, as well.”

Devon knew that, but guilt and sorrow had the better of him. “Speaking of fighting,” he said, turning to look off into the outskirts of the camp where they had six captives, all taken prisoner after the fighting had died down. “I wonder what de Wolfe has discovered about those who ambushed us. Mayhap you should join him and find out.”

Drake cocked his head curiously. “Why only me? Will you not come?”

Devon shook his head. “Nay,” he said, moving past Drake and perching himself on the end of the wagon bed. “I will sit here, watching over Dallan. I do not want to leave him alone. You go and see what you can find out about these bastards who did this.”

Drake understood. He patted his brother’s knee as he walked away from the wagon. “I will,” he said. “And then I shall return and relieve you in watching over Dallan.”

Devon shook his head, turning to look at the wrapped body. “No need,” he said. “I will remain vigilant all night. You do not need to relieve me.”

Drake knew it was his grief speaking. Devon was deeply sensitive and not about to leave Dallan alone, even though the man was not in any need of any protection. It was simply the bond of brothers, watching over one another, never leaving each other alone, even in death. Drake and Devon had spent their entire lives watching over Dallan, their lively little brother. This was just another one of those times.

So Drake left Devon sitting in the wagon as he moved off across the clearing towards the area where the prisoners had been staked. Each man had been bound hand, foot, and neck, tied to a stake so they could not escape. Freezing rain pelted him through the canopy as he moved among the cooking fires, offering a word or two to his men, finding out who was injured and who had escaped unscathed.

A few of his men offered sympathies for Dallan, which Drake stoically accepted, but he quickly came to realize that Dallan’s passing wasn’t something he wanted to discuss or even acknowledge. He still hadn’t fully accepted it himself. It still seemed too terribly surreal. Therefore, he began to avoid his men altogether as he passed through the end of the encampment, fearful they would bring up Dallan and fearful he would have to acknowledge it.

He simply couldn’t face it.

De Wolfe had kept the prisoners well segregated from the main encampment area, surrounding the captives with guards he had personally chosen. Drake hadn’t paid any attention to what de Wolfe had done with the prisoners, mostly because he’d been singularly focused on preparing Dallan for the trip home, but as he came upon the cluster of trees where de Wolfe had the prisoners gathered, he could see that all of the prisoners were bloodied and battered.

Every single man looked as if he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, which pleased Drake a great deal. There was great satisfaction in seeing that de Wolfe, or his men, had exacted revenge for Dallan’s death out of the prisoners’ hides because that was exactly what Drake intended to do. He wasn’t a brute by nature. He was always well controlled and ethical, but he saw nothing among these slovenly, beaten men that warranted fair treatment. They had killed his brother and weren’t even worthy of doing so. All he could feel as he came upon them was rage and he fully intended to demonstrate it.

De Wolfe, however, had other ideas; he had seen Drake approach from the clearing so he was able to intercept him before he drew close. Drake came to a halt as de Wolfe put a hand on his chest to stop him from going any further.

“How is Devon?” de Wolfe asked. “Where is he?”

Drake pointed back to the clearing and the wagon with Dallan and Devon on the other end of it. “Back over there,” he said. “He will not leave Dallan. I told him I would see to the prisoners and report back to him.”

De Wolfe studied Drake a moment. “And how are you?” he asked quietly. “Please permit me to express my deepest condolences on the death of your brother. I came to like Dallan a great deal in the short time I knew him. He will be missed.”

Drake swallowed hard, fighting off the lump in his throat yet again. “Aye, he will,” he said softly. “Thank you for your sympathy. But I am more concerned with what information you have been able to glean from the captives. Who are these bastards and why did they attack us?”

De Wolfe sighed heavily. “We were able to capture seven men,” he said, turning to glance at the group. “I managed to discover they are Maxwell and Douglas men. At least, that is what six of them will admit to. They said they were ordered to ambush the de Winter army by none other than Eustace Maxwell. But the seventh man… we must get him off alone, Drake. We must interrogate him without the others.”

Drake felt a bolt of shock run through him. “Maxwell?” he repeated. “This far south?”

“Aye.”

A hand flew to Drake’s mouth as if to cover his astonishment. “They were ordered to attack us by Eustace Maxwell, Lord of Caerlaverock?” he clarified, watching de Wolfe nod grimly. “And what about this seventh man? Why must we interrogate him alone?”

De Wolfe’s expression was ominous. “Because he is English.”

Drake blinked, startled by all he was being told. Nothing made sense in the least and his grief-hazed mind was struggling. His patience was wearing thin. He snapped his fingers at de Wolfe.

“Then bring him to me,” he growled. “Bring me this English traitor and let us hear what he knows or, with God as my witness, he will not be able to handle the pain I will deal him.”

De Wolfe was already on the move. He went to the circle of trussed-up prisoners and grabbed one man by the arm, dragging him along the frozen, rocky ground and over to where Drake stood. De Wolfe dumped him at Drake’s feet. Being tied neck to hands to feet did not afford the prisoner much ability to sit up or even move, so as the prisoner struggled to pull his face out of the frozen earth, Drake put a massive boot across the man’s back, right between the shoulder blades.

“Do you feel that?” he rumbled, digging his hard heel into the man’s back and listening to him groan. “That is what my brother felt when some bastard Scotsman drove an axe into his back. Does it hurt? Shall I make it hurt more so you can feel the pain my brother suffered?”

He was putting most of his weight on it now, watching the prisoner gasp and squirm with pain, but to the man’s credit, he said nothing. He dug his heel right into the man’s spine, hard, until the man finally let out a yelp. Then, he removed his foot and kicked the prisoner squarely in the gut.

The captive grunted with pain, his face turning vibrant red. Drake rolled him onto his back, crouching down to get a look at his face. He was fair-haired and young. Drake’s jaw ticked.

“I want you to listen very carefully to me,” he said. “I am without mercy so it is best for you to listen to my instructions without question, delay, or refusal. Do you comprehend me so far?”

The prisoner was still gasping for air but managed something that looked like a nod, made difficult because of the rope around his neck. Drake continued.

“I have questions that you will provide answers for,” he said. “If you do not, I will continue kicking you in the same spot until your guts liquefy and you die a slow, horrible death. Is this in any way unclear?”

The prisoner coughed, bringing up some blood. He struggled to breathe, but somewhere in all of that pain was another nod. Drake’s gaze moved down the man, at his tattered clothing, inadequate against the frozen temperatures.

“Then if you do not wish to die, you will answer me,” he said. “I am told you are English. Is that true?”

The prisoner lay there with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. “I… I was born in Peterbrough,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I am not English. My family is Scots.”

“You speak with an English accent.”

“My family is Scots.”

Drake wasn’t quite sure what to make of it other than the man was declaring his loyalties and they obviously weren’t to the country of his birth. That was evident by his actions. Drake hoped the man wasn’t going to try and give him obvious answers, things they already knew, by phrasing the answers differently. The situation would not go well for him if he did.

“Then if your family is Scots, yet you were born in England, what are you doing running with these Scots savages?” Drake asked.

The captive’s eyes opened and he looked at Drake. There was no fear in his eyes, which was impressive, but it only served to fuel Drake’s fury.

“They are my kin,” he replied in yet another obvious answer.

Drake’s patience was gone. He stood up and kicked the man in the belly again, twice, so hard that he managed to kick all of the air out of the man’s lungs. Then he went for the groin, kicking that hard, too. That blow elicited what sounded like a strangled scream from the man. Finished kicking for the moment, Drake bent over him.

“I already know you are Scots and that you are running with your kin,” he said. “If you do not tell me something I do not know, such as your name and how Eustace Maxwell ordered this attack against us, I will kick you so hard that I will drive your bollocks all the way through your body so that you will have to shite them out in order to take a piss. Now, let us try this again– what is your name and why are you here? How did Eustace Maxwell know we were going to be here, enough so that he ordered an attack against us? Well? I will not wait forever. I will give you until the count of five and then I start kicking again.”

The captive was struggling desperately to breathe. It was clear that he couldn’t take any more kicks to the belly or groin, but that didn’t matter to Drake in the least. Drake started counting and by the time he got to four, the captive gasped.

“Davey,” he grunted. “My name is Davey.”

Drake crossed his big arms expectantly. “What is your surname, Davey?”

“Maxwell.”

Drake glanced at de Wolfe now that the answers they sought seemed to be coming. “Is Eustace your uncle?”

Davey shook his head, saliva and blood running out of his mouth and onto the frozen ground. “A cousin of my father’s,” he said, barely audible.

“Who is your father?”

Davey hesitated and Drake lifted his boot. Davey caught the movement and spoke quickly. “Hamish Maxwell.”

Drake lowered his boot. “How did Eustace Maxwell know my army was going to be here?” he asked. “Has someone been following my army and reporting back to him? Tell me now or my foot starts swinging.”

Davey couldn’t take anymore kicks. He was terrified now that a wrong word or a delay was going to send the big knight’s boot into his manhood again. He wasn’t a soldier. He’d never trained as one. He was a farmer, turned into a spy by his father. This kind of madness was foreign and frightening to him. He began to talk.

“He received word from my father that the de Winter army was moving north,” he said. “I carried the message from my father to Eustace.”

Drake’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “How did your father know the de Winter army was moving north?”

Davey knew he was about to incriminate his father but he was frightened and in pain. He wanted to save his life if he could. His red-rimmed eyes opened to look at Drake.

“If I tell you, will you let me go?” he asked.

Drake cocked his head. “Why should I?”

“Because I can tell you how my father knew about your army,” he said, his voice raspy. “If you kick me to death, you will never know.”

He had a point. Drake pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Very well,” he said. “If you tell me the truth, all of it, I will let you go.”

“Swear it?”

“I told you I would. Do you doubt my word?”

Davey hadn’t wanted to offend the big knight; he simply wanted to guarantee a way out of this situation. Either way, he had no choice. He had to tell the man if he wanted to save his privates and his life.

“My father has a cousin in France who was once married to Eustace’s uncle,” he said. “The woman’s husband was killed by Edward and she has a vendetta against him. She has worked tirelessly and spent much money to gain information to use against Edward. She recently married her granddaughter to an English knight and it is through her granddaughter she received information about the de Winter army. She sent my father a missive about it and my father sent me to tell Eustace. That is all I know, I swear it. If my father knew more, he did not tell me.”

Drake stared at him, absorbing the information. He didn’t even ask any further questions for the moment. He simply stood there and stared at him. After the day he’d had, compounded by the death of Dallan, his mind was slow to process what he was being told. But as Davey spoke, the words in the particular order he arranged them sounded very familiar to Drake. In fact , too familiar. It sounded very much like what had happened to him recently, marrying the granddaughter of a Frenchwoman. Drake’s mind churned, grasping for bits of information, struggling to remember something Elizaveta had told him once. Her mother was born in Scotland because Mabelle had married a Maxwell.

… a Maxwell!

The ground began to rock beneath Drake’s feet and he stood up, unsteadily, every emotion of horror and grief he could possibly feel pouring over him. He simply couldn’t believe it; he couldn’t believe any of it. But this captive, this man who had no idea who he was, had just spelled out something so horrific, so deeply devastating, that Drake was reeling. He couldn’t stay on an even keel.

“A… a Frenchwoman?” he repeated, sounding breathless. “Her… her granddaughter married an English knight?”

Davey nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “The knight must serve de Winter because all of the information my father received was about the de Winter army and joining Edward in Hexham.”

Drake lost it. Whirling around, he plowed into the tree behind him with his shoulder and vomited the contents of his belly out all over the frozen ground. Gripping the tree, he continued to heave until there was nothing left, ending up on his knees.

De Wolfe came up behind him, deeply concerned. “Drake?” he asked, a hand on the man’s back. “What is the matter, man? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Drake couldn’t even speak. He was beyond rational thought. Struggling to regain his composure, he pushed himself off the tree even as de Wolfe held on to him, concerned about the man’s behavior. Drake staggered back over to the captive on the ground.

“What…,” he started, swallowed hard, and started again. “The name of this woman who gave your father the information. What is her name ?”

Davey had no idea why the big knight suddenly appeared so unsteady. In fact, the man looked ghastly. “Mabelle,” he replied quietly.

“You are certain?”

Davey nodded as much as he was able. “I have heard her name before,” he said. “My father has received information from her before.”

Drake didn’t need to hear any more because he frankly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Shocking wasn’t the word he had in mind; horrifically shattering was more like it. Everything in his world on this day had been shattered and all that was left was the shell of a man who used to have confidence in his path in life. He used to be supremely confident in his abilities as a knight and with the event of a wife, he had been looking forward to a life filled with her beauty and their children. He had thrown his entire being into that confidence, positive that nothing could come between him and his hopes and dreams. But something had shattered that confidence, an enemy that had destroyed him more surely than if she had rammed a broadsword down his throat.

The enemy was Elizaveta.

He was betrayed.

Dear God, but she had been clever when she lured him into a false sense of security with her flirtatious ways and her lies. She had deceived him every minute of every day, a sorceress who had cast a spell upon him and tricked him into believing that she may have felt something for him. That she was happy to be married to him. Aye, she was happy… happy because he had so unguardedly fallen for her charms. He had fallen for her . And with a besotted husband, it has been so very easy for her to gain information for her grandmother’s cause. Even as he repeated it over and over in his mind, he could still hardly believe it. But the evidence before him was undeniable.

The missive to her mother.

The recollection hit him like a battering ram. Drake thought back to recall any point in time when Elizaveta could have sent information to her grandmother and the one and only glaring opportunity had been right before they’d left Spexhall. She had asked to send a missive to her mother and he had agreed. He had even summoned the messenger and handed the rider the missive personally.

Dear God…

He had sealed his brother’s death when he did it.

Drake wanted to blame Elizaveta. He wanted to blame her badly for Dallan’s death, but he couldn’t seem to do it because it was he who had handed over the missive to the rider. He should have read the missive but, at the time, he saw no reason to. He hadn’t wanted to pry in any business between his wife and her mother, but in hindsight, he should have. He should have read it because then he would have seen what she had really been writing her mother– plans of Edward’s movements straight from the lips of de Wolfe and de Winter. It had been prime information and Mabelle, that French bitch, had used it. Nay, Drake couldn’t be angry at Elizaveta.

He could only manage to be angry with himself.

Without another word, Drake turned away from Davey and from de Wolfe and headed off into the forest, losing himself in the trees. De Wolfe called after him a few times but Drake didn’t respond. He simply kept walking.

He didn’t return to camp until dawn the next day, looking as if he had battled all night with the Devil. When de Wolfe took the army, and the Scottish prisoners including Davey, north to Hexham, Drake and Devon took Dallan’s body, on one of the provision wagons driven by two de Winter soldiers, southward for home. On the silent move south, before de Wolfe and the army were even out of view, Drake had already decided one thing. He’d spent all night agonizing over it, coming to one firm conclusion.

This is the last time the Scots will ever receive any information from Mabelle Maxwell.

Their flow of information would be dammed and Eustace Maxwell would have to get his intelligence from another source.

Drake would make sure of it.

This was the end.