Chapter Eighteen
Like the horsemen of the apocalypse riding through the gates of Hell, Garret and his men rode into the bailey of The Wix under the cover of darkness.
But it wasn’t simply Garret and his knights, all fully armed for battle.
There were far more people with them than Garret could have ever imagined there would be.
Hubert Walter was one of them. Roused from his bed by a panicked soldier, he was riding in his fine cab behind them.
The man wasn’t even dressed; he’d thrown a heavy leather robe over his sleeping clothes and had come to Westminster only to be confronted by six heavily-armed knights heading to The Wix, one of them being Garret de Moray.
He couldn’t even get Garret’s attention.
It had finally been Zayin who had informed him of what had transpired.
Upon hearing such troubling news, Walter had followed the knights up The Strand, heading to The Wix that was not so far away.
There was also a contingent of soldiers from Westminster following.
Word had evidently spread about Garret’s intentions and there were men that would support him no matter what his endeavor.
Garret de Moray had a deep well of loyalty among his men and there were those who would happily accompany him, straight into death if necessary.
Garret was challenging a man who had beaten the woman he was going to marry, and there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t understand Garret’s need for vengeance.
But it wasn’t just any man; it was a cousin of the king, a duke, and a man beyond reproach of a mere knight.
But that didn’t seem to matter.
Therefore, a group of about fifty senior soldiers followed the knights from Westminster, leaving the younger soldiers behind to man the palace. It made an odd procession in the middle of the night, heading for the iconic manse with the legendary garden.
But it was a manse that had Satan for a master.
All of the men knew of Colchester’s reputation and Garret’s challenge of the man, to many, had been a long time in coming. It was time for Colchester to pay for the vile and terrible things he had been rumored to commit.
Finally, someone was standing up to him.
But if Garret knew of the procession behind him, he didn’t let on.
In fact, he never looked back because he was singularly focused on what he must do this night.
The only thing in his vision was that big manse at the bend in the river.
Lyssa was lying in a bed gravely injured from Colchester’s beating, and perhaps even dying, and nothing else mattered except punishing the man responsible.
But the word of Garret’s challenge was spreading.
People along The Strand were turning out to see a procession of heavily-armed knights and were told why by the soldiers more than willing to discuss such things.
De Moray shall challenge Colchester, they said.
That meant more men were following now, lured by the idea of a grand fight, lured by the rumor of a man who was going to kill Colchester because of what he’d done to his lady.
There were other fine houses along The Strand between Westminster and The Wix, one of them being Hollyhock, the House of de Winter townhome.
The de Winters were great supporters of Richard and Garret was friends with Hugh de Winter the Elder, who happened to be in residence at Hollyhock because he was sending more troops with de Lohr to France.
Hugh was too old to fight any longer but he wasn’t too old to send his army where it was needed.
When Hugh’s soldiers woke him to tell him what was transpiring, he, too, yanked his clothes on to follow.
If that bastard Colchester was about to meet his maker, then Hugh wanted to see it.
He wanted to lend a hand if necessary.
Therefore, the procession up The Strand grew.
It grew in attitude and strength, with men coming along to see what would happen and others coming simply to be part of it.
They were trudging up the road with both purpose and anger, and when the group finally reached The Wix, the gate guards opened the panels wide at the sight of Garret de Moray leading the pack.
They had no reason not to, as word of Garret’s approach had not reached them.
After that, it seemed as if the entire world poured in.
Anticipation was building.
Now, Garret was back at the scene of the crime.
He dismounted his horse in the middle of the vast bailey and unsheathed the broadsword from the scabbard attached to his saddle.
His broadsword was an enormous thing in a world where most swords were not so large.
He’d had it forged in Damascus during his time in The Levant and it was made of Damascus steel, an unbreakable and powerful alloy that was as sharp as a razor.
It was a unique-looking blade, with marbling running through it, and over three feet in length.
With a leather-bound hilt, it weighed as much as a small child but it was a miraculous weapon, much-envied by his peers, and he was quite skilled with it.
As Garret tightened up one of his mail gauntlets, Hubert Walter climbed out of his cab and approached him. It seemed as if he were the only one in the entire group willing to do that. He came alongside Garret, watching the man prepare for the fight to come.
“Zayin told me what happened, Garret,” he said quietly, wrapping his robe around him against the cool, damp wind from the river. “I understand why you are here, but are you sure this is what you want?”
“It is.”
Walter knew that would be his answer, as sad as he was to hear it. “Then I will not try to talk you out of it,” he said, “but you know as well as I do that even if you win tonight, you may very well lose everything.”
Garret wouldn’t look at him. “I am aware.”
Walter sighed faintly, looking to the faces of the men around him; Gart, Rhys, Knox, and Gavin.
They were all dressed for battle, ready to pick up and take over should Garret falter.
Walter knew very well what this all meant; where knights were concerned, there was nothing stronger than their love for each other.
If one suffered, they all suffered. He returned his focus to Garret.
“I will ask you one question and then I will say no more,” he said. “When Richard asks me why you have done this, what shall I tell him? I want your words, Garret. Tell me what I should say.”
Garret looked at him, then. “Tell him that I did it for love,” he said with raw honesty. “Colchester savagely beat the woman I love. She may not survive. What I do, I do for her. I would be only half a man if I did not follow my heart in this matter.”
Walter was deeply troubled, as well as deeply touched, by his words. “And your heart is telling you to kill?”
“My heart is telling me to seek justice. My lady deserves it.”
Walter couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he couldn’t argue with any of this because he knew no matter what he said, Garret would do as he felt he must. It was a sad thought, one filled with unfathomable tragedy.
But in that tragedy, Walter admired Garret immensely.
Knowing what he was facing, knowing very well he could ruin everything he worked so hard for, Garret was still determined to do it.
With the greatest of respect, Walter gave him one final thought before he walked away and to leave Garret to his fate.
“I have known you for many years, Garret,” he said quietly, looking to the weaponry the man was carrying, including the shield slung on the left side of his horse.
He studied it a moment, an old shield with ancient writing around the edges of it.
Greek, it was said, as befitting the Father of the Gods.
“In the battles you have fought in days past, your shield has always been one of righteousness and honor and glory. Sometimes, it was even a shield of vengeance. But never has it been a shield of love that I know of. I pray that your shield of love is the strongest shield of all, Garret. I pray that it brings you victory this night, however you choose to measure that victory.”
With that, he walked away, leaving Garret to ponder his words. I pray that the shield of love is the strongest shield of all. Garret uttered that prayer, too, but the truth was that he’d never felt more powerful in his life because no battle had ever meant so much to him.
He was ready.
Sheathing his sword at his waist, he began to walk towards the manse.
His steps were purposeful and firm, without fear.
As he approached the building, a hush seemed to settle over the crowd because they knew what was coming.
But before Garret could reach the entry, the door flew open and Rickard was suddenly rushing out to intercept him.
When Garret saw his brother, unarmed, he came to a halt.
“Garret,” Rickard said, his voice already full of a pleading tone. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”
Garret’s gaze lingered on his brother. “I must,” he said simply. “Bring Colchester to me, Rickard. Do not make me go inside to find him, for I will. You know I will.”
Rickard could see, very quickly, that this situation was going to go badly if he didn’t get a rein on it.
Even though he’d told his brother not to come, he had to admit that he wasn’t surprised to see him.
But it didn’t change the fact that Garret was about to do something incredibly foolish and, more than likely, incredibly futile.
“Garret, think,” he said, looking at all of the men standing behind his brother, ready and willing to back him up. “Have you lost your senses? Do you truly intend to wrest Colchester out of the manse under force?”