Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Gaston put his hand back on the lad’s shoulder, pondering the statement. He did not believe in dreams, but he knew Remington did. And Dane’s dream of death did come true, although it wasn’t Gaston’s death he foresaw. Ah, well, he attributed it all to a young man’s imagination.
He squeezed Trenton’s shoulder gently. “And you, young master? May I ask why you are here on this foolhardy mission?”
“Because you might need help,” Trenton said simply.
Gaston raised an eyebrow at the quick, simple answer. He could only imagine the panic de Vere was feeling at the moment, having misplaced the Duke of Warminster’s two sons.
Hand on each boy, the three of them took the stairs into the castle.
Cool, damp musty air met with their nostrils and Dane seemed particularly content.
Gaston took them into the grand dining hall and sat them down, ordering hot food and ale.
As the boys ate, he stood over them with hands on his hips.
The more he thought of them riding all the way north by themselves, the more angry and frightened he became.
“I ought to take you both over my knee,” he said. “The earl must be having fits with you two missing.”
“We had to come,” Dane insisted, mouth full of mutton. “You are going to fight my father, and someone had to protect my mother while you were occupied. And Trenton wanted to assist you in your fight, and….”
Gaston put up a silencing hand. “Enough, Dane. Finish your food and then you may finish your words,” he shook his head, propping a massive boot atop the bench next to Trenton and leaning on his knee.
“I suppose I should commend you for your bravery. ’Twas an astounding bit of luck that you reached me unscathed. ”
“We hid in the trees and stole food from peasants,” Trenton said, rather proudly. “We even stole a rabbit on a spit from a traveling merchant. He fell asleep and Dane snagged his dinner.”
The boys giggled as Gaston frowned, although his expression bordered on amusement. He shook his head. “Thieves. My God, your mother will have fits.”
Dane shook his head. “Aunt Rory was worse. She used to steal from the men-at-arms. Once, she stole a pair of little silver balls in a silk pouch. We never did figure out what the balls were for, but they rolled rather nicely.”
Gaston’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat, choking off a guffaw. He’d seen such balls, although he’d never personally used them on a woman. Tale had it that they were from the continent, far beyond the Teutonic countries, even beyond India.
He took his leg off the bench, watching the boys drain their cups. He found his gaze drawn to Dane.
“Tell me, Dane. Did your father have any close friends in Yorkshire? I mean particularly close?”
Dane thought. “Douglass Archibald of Spofforth was a friend of my father’s. And Lord Botmore. Lord Brimley and his sons used to visit sometimes, as did Lord Tarrington. But that was all.”
Gaston knew of those men and planned to contact them.
He pondered his options as his sons finished the last of their food and drink, wondering where in the hell to begin this most monumental search.
Truth was, he wanted to search every castle and manor house personally, but he knew the impossibility of such a feat, which was why he wanted Nicolas and a good portion of his knights to assist him.
With enough manpower, he could cover all of North Yorkshire and his chances of finding Remington would be positive.
The stab of pain sliced at him again, the familiar cut he was coming to associate with her disappearance.
With each cut, he felt his determination double, triple.
He would find her and he would kill Stoneley, and he would furthermore kill whoever assisted Guy in his dastardly deed.
His fury was beyond anything he had ever felt before. More hatred than he thought possible.
The Dark One’s wrath would know no mercy.
He ordered an older serving woman to see to Dane and Trenton’s comfort as he wandered back to the solar.
Charles had awoken from his slumber and was finishing the final touches on the missive to Nicolas.
Gaston read the missive with satisfaction; Charles was a well-learned young man and Gaston suspected he would make a better scholar than knight, no matter how badly he wanted to fight.
As frail and thin as he was, Gaston made a mental note to discourage the further pursuit of warrior arts.
The sun rose and riders were prepared to deliver the three missives.
Gaston himself saw to the readying of the messengers, lecturing each man on the importance of what he was to carry.
Charles sealed the missives in sheepskin pouches to protect them, carrying them out into the dusty bailey, smelling of manure and urine and dirt in the rising temperature.
Already late June, the heat of the summer was beginning to announce itself loudly.
A sentry on the wall let out a call of an approaching rider.
Gaston instinctively stiffened, thinking Stoneley was indeed closing in on Mt.
Holyoak and he was wildly gleeful with the surprise that awaited the man.
But the soldiers on the wall indicated only one rider, and his heart sank a little.
If it were indeed Stoneley, then he was sans Remington.
And he would only be without her if she were de….he broke out in a cold sweat.
The rider was bearing Ingilsby yellow and gray. Gaston called for the portcullis to raise and greeted the rider just inside the entry.
The knight, young with wide brown eyes, saluted sharply.
“My lord,” he greeted loudly. “Thank God I have found you. Lord Ingilsby suspected that you might be at Mt. Holyoak, but we were not entirely sure. With Stoneley running loose, we….”
Gaston grabbed the reins of the destrier, his eyes wide and his massive body rigid. “What do you know of Stoneley’s escape?”
“We know that he abducted his wife and brought her north,” the knight replied. “He sold her to Ripley’s captain at a tavern in Stanford-on-Avon and….”
Gaston cut him off by grabbing him sharply, yanking him completely off the destrier. The young knight struggled to his feet, still in the iron grip of the Duke of Warminster. When he turned surprised eyes to the duke, he was met with a glare of such anger that it frightened him.
“Cease with your prattling tale,” Gaston hissed, mere threads away from snapping the knight’s arm in half. “Where in the hell is Remington?”
The knight winced as Gaston twisted his arm even tighter, but a faint glaze of a smile managed to twist his lips. “That is what I am trying to tell you, my lord,” he said quietly. “She’s at Ripley, safe and whole.”
Gaston’s mouth went agape and every last bit of color drained from his face.
He stared at the knight as if he did not comprehend him, or at least he thought mayhap he heard only what he wished to hear.
But the knight was smiling, whipping him back to his senses as he realized that, indeed, he had heard correctly.
“She’s at Ripley?” he echoed, his voice a whisper.
The knight nodded. “Aye, my lord. Sir Hubert Doyle saved her from her husband.”
Gaston blinked, slammed with the news. He let go of the knight’s arm and put a hand against the entry wall to steady himself; he could feel himself weaving with shock. “She’s all right?”
“Not a scratch, my lord,” the knight replied.
Gaston gazed at the knight a moment longer and closed his gawking mouth, licking his lips that were dry. He could hardly believe what he had just heard, but believe he did. Excitement and relief exploded in his chest, coming forth as a loud exhale of pure disbelief.
When he turned to Roald, he was aware that his whole body was shaking with pure assuagement. “My destrier,” he ordered hoarsely.
Roald was already moving, bellowing for the duke’s mount and ordering an escort readied to accompany him. Gaston turned away from the knight, his mind consumed with Remington, but he retained enough of his manners to stop before he rudely departed.
He faced the young knight. “Thank you for delivering the message, my lord. Might I have your name?”
“Sir Adam Nelson, my lord,” the man said. “And it was my pleasure. Lord Ingilsby and Sir Hugh surmised just how frantic you would be. As soon as Lady Remington arrived, I was sent on my way.”
Gaston looked pale and shaken. He was elated beyond believing; in fact, he still had difficulty grasping the situation. “Not a scratch, you say?”
Adam shook his head, smiling broadly. “Nary a mark. She is tired, of course, but that is all.”
Gaston nodded slowly, his eyes becoming distant. But not before he extended his gratitude one more time. “Thank you.”
Within a quarter hour, he was mounted and riding for Ripley.
*
The plan was simple. Lay siege to Mt. Holyoak, distract the army inside, and slip in through the secret entrance Guy had built into the wall by the kitchens.
It was an entrance seldom used by the peasants because of the sheer fifty-foot drop to one side of the two-foot-wide path.
When Guy had it built, it had originally been constructed as an escape route should the drawbridge ever be compromised.
He never dreamed he would use it to breach his own fortress.
Problem was, that only one man at a time could enter through it.
This would lay them open to snipers by the greater forces inside, when and if the breach was discovered.
It was Guy’s hope that he could lead enough men through the opening to effectively quell de Russe’s men and reach the greater goal of opening the portcullis and drawbridge.
Keith Botmore was more than eager to mount two hundred men for the reclamation of Mt.
Holyoak. After Guy convinced the man that they both had suffered so terribly at the hand of de Russe, and after they had drunk a good deal of wine and discussed Derek’s entire life, Keith was over-anxious to go to war against the Duke of Warminster.
He was a foolish man, rash to seek revenge before stopping to think of what he was doing.
He knew full well of de Russe’s reputation, of his strength in aiding Henry.
He knew de Russe led an army of a thousand and he furthermore knew the man wielded mayhap the greatest military power in all of England.
But he was still eager to overrun Mt. Holyoak and regain it for his ally, escaped prisoner though he might be.
He simply saw that he was exacting revenge for his son; Guy saw it for what it was, and that was regaining what was morally his.
Guy was using Botmore for what the man could do for him; as long as Botmore agreed to Guy’s demands, Guy was his very best friend. But any refusal on Botmore’s part, and Guy would turn on him like a viper.
In armor that had once belonged to Derek, Guy sat astride a powerful gray destrier next to Keith as the lord’s army was assembled.
He felt a distinct pull of power, the days of old when he led his own army against the Tudor.
In a sense, he was doing it again, only this time the adversary was far more powerful.
He would rid de Russe from his keep once and for all.
Guy and Keith led Botmore’s army from the confines of Knaresborough, edging the town of the same name on their trek northeast to the Vale of York.
The peasants turned out en masse to witness the army mobilizing, wondering if the War of the Roses had not yet ended, in fact, and they were due for another series of battles.
The fact that their liege was moving to overtake another Yorkist keep never occurred to them.
The army moved along the vacated road, not a town nor an obstacle between them and their destination. They veered northeast just south of Boroughbridge, trampling the early summer grass in the fertile vale. The closer they drew, the more Guy’s adrenalin began to flow.
Mt. Holyoak would soon be in his grasp. He predicted no more than twelve hours before the fortress fell and her gates opened wide for the invading army.
The design was rudimentary; Botmore would create a diversion and lay siege to the bridge of the keep, drawing the attention of the army inside.
Meanwhile, Guy and 75 men would build ladders to straddle the moat.
When the makeshift bridges were complete, they would lay them across the deep moat and crawl across to the small footpath that bordered the wall.
From there, they would breach the small wall gate and file in.
Simple enough, but Guy knew they were likely to lose a great many men against de Russe’s skeleton force.
Moreover, he wondered if de Russe wasn’t already there; spies had returned stating that activity was normal, which meant additional men led by the duke had not arrived.
If, in fact, de Russe was bringing a massive army to rescue Remington, he could quite possibly have come alone, the idea of which intrigued Guy.
Why would he come alone to rescue his whore?
Why would not he bring all of bloody England to assist him?
He still could and Guy knew it, which was why the quick recapture of Mt. Holyoak was imperative. Guy wanted to be in complete control when de Russe arrived.
The very top of his revered keep came into view shortly after noon.
Men moved into battle-heightened positions, shields raised and swords drawn, as they continued to march.
The knights, only six of them, slung their shields over their left knee for quick access.
Guy felt the familiar surge of battle flush through his limbs, the excitement that finally, he would regain his home.
Even as they drew nearer to the keep and they could see the drawbridge hastily rising, he felt the thrill of the fight like a potent aphrodisiac. It excited him like none other.
There was no pretense, no words exchanged. Botmore led the majority of his army up the narrow road to Mt. Holyoak and let loose a barrage of Welsh archers, flame arrows to the drawbridge. Most fell, a few stuck, and the burning began.
Down in the surrounding trees, Guy was whipping his smaller army into a frenzy cutting down trees and stripping saplings. He could smell the smoke from the bridge and he could hear faint shouting and he smiled; battle always made him smile.
Finally the time was upon him and his redemption was at hand; the redemption of his pride. Turning back to his sweating soldiers, he whooped words of encouragement.