Chapter Thirty-Six #6
Jeffrey led the way to the southwestern portion of the village, where the church stood.
Even as they arrived, the Welsh raiders were intently attacking the place of worship.
Christopher grabbed his crossbow, taking aim at the five or six bandits who were charging the front door.
A well-aimed arrow from him and from Leeton took down two of the villains while the rest fled in terror.
But there were plenty of them to go around.
They hooped and hollered like animals as they ran and sometimes fought the soldiers and knights who were surrounding them.
They were a dirty, verminous lot of scruff, peasants and rabble who populated border towns.
Christopher felt as if he were herding a band of unruly children as he chased the swarthy men down and killed them mercifully.
Surprisingly, their chaotic appearance seemed to be some sort of ploy to confuse and unbalance the English, hoping that the complete irrationality of their attack would throw them off guard, for they continued to stay and fight instead of escaping back across the border.
Christopher fought off the dirty men who tried to charge him, using his huge feet to kick them away or a giant mailed fist to cave their faces in.
He set up a perimeter around the church and, for the moment, the parish and her winter stores appeared to be holding.
He was focused on driving the Welsh bastards back where they came from.
Off to the side of the melee, standing near a line of trees, was Edward. He appeared to be observing the entire clash, occasionally fighting off anyone who ventured close to him, but for the most part he was not involved in the scuffle.
Christopher was enraged; he had spoken with Edward, even practiced with the man and his knight showed every sign of returning to the competent warrior he had been before his injury.
Confident in Edward’s recovery, Christopher had not pushed him in any way, but now to see Edward standing clear of the fight had infuriated him and he would not stand for it.
He spurred his destrier toward Edward, running over several Welsh as he charged.
Controlling the destrier with pressure alone from his thighs and knees, Christopher drew his sword and raised his shield.
Edward saw him coming, merely watching Christopher approach.
Yet, in hindsight, he should have known better when he saw the broadsword go up and the shield move into a defensive stance.
He and Christopher had known each other since they had been pages and he never truly believed his friend would attack him, not even when he hit the ground in a painful crunch of bone and steel did he believe it still.
Christopher loomed over Edward as he lay on the ground, grunting loudly with the shock of the fall.
“You will raise your sword and plunge into that battle this moment, de Wolfe, or you can gather your things and be gone before the sun sets,” Christopher said icily. “I will coddle no bastard coward in my ranks.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Edward who struggled to rise and struggled to come to grips with his phobia.
He had never heard Christopher use that tone with him and he was as ashamed of himself as his liege was.
Finally on his feet, he staggered to his destrier and mounted, swallowing hard before spurring his steed forward into the heat of the brawl. He knew he had no choice.
Christopher forgot all about Edward as Max was taken down by several raiders who had ganged up on him.
The destrier screamed as it went over on its side, trapping Max even as Christopher and Leeton fought their way to him.
The man received a good pounding but was spared any real injury thanks to his armor.
Back on his horse, he was distressed to see that the animal suffered a terrible gash above his fetlock and blood was gushing onto the hoof.
“What did you say to Edward?” David reined his dancing charger alongside his brother.
“Where is he?” Evasively, he answered his brother with a question of his own.
“Fighting off a group of raiders, fighting as I haven’t seen him fight in a long time.” David’s helmet turned in the direction of Edward.
Christopher felt a small amount of satisfaction, although he was still disappointed in his knight. He did not bother to turn and look. “Damnable bastards are heading for the church again,” he said, spurring his animal forward.
The skirmish that should have been handled in mere minutes turned into a scuffle that lasted all afternoon. The Welsh were like crazed dogs, moving about in waves and vandalizing cottages and businesses more than actually destroying anything.
It was frustrating to chase the wily bastards about and Christopher finally had enough; he sent to Lioncross for one hundred reinforcements and before the hour was up, they had the raiders turning tail for the border.
He sent the majority of his knights chasing after them, not only to make sure they retreated across the border, but also to check the border garrison he kept manned.
Max and Sir Guy accompanied him back to Lioncross.
The very moment he entered the gates, Gowen was there to meet him.
“It is Dustin, Chris,” he said as the man dismounted.
Christopher ripped off his helm and nearly tore his head off with it. “What?” he asked, panicked. “What’s happened?”
“Her pains started nearly three hours ago,” Gowen replied. “Griselda and Burwell are with her.”
All of the color drained from Christopher’s face as he charged past Gowen, oblivious to everything in the world except the plight of his wife and child.