Chapter Fifty-Eight #4
Inside Nottingham, chaos ruled. Ralph and Lord Bruce were positioning the troops to protect the bailey and the castle from the breach, but they were having a hell of a time with all of the peasants running about. Moreover, and most importantly, Dennis le Londe was nowhere to be found.
“Where in the hell is le Londe?” Ralph sputtered to anyone who could answer him. Several of le Londe’s men were assisting at the moment and were unable to answer, feeding Ralph’s anger.
“I am going to gut him when I find him,” he said between clenched teeth, cuffing a soldier who was foolish enough to bump into the sheriff. “That lazy bastard has seen his last day of comfort within John’s protective company, I vow it.”
Lord Bruce, too old to do much fighting, followed Ralph around breathlessly. “Mayhap he is in hiding. At any rate, we shall have to handle this onslaught between us.”
Ralph looked at Bruce scornfully. “You are no good to me, old man. I need le Londe. When this is over with, I am going to kill him myself.”
A young soldier ran up to Ralph, scraping the ground. “The prince demands your presence, Lord Sheriff.”
Ralph hit that soldier, too. “Tell the prince I am trying to protect his bloody hide,” he snapped, then thought better of it. “Tell the prince I am indisposed at the moment. Inform him that Richard’s troops are burning the gates and that I expect them to be breached soon.”
The young soldier, his jaw bruised, bowed again and was gone.
Ralph paused a moment in disgust, watching the boy run away and shaking his head with the damn foolishness of everything.
He was missing the commander of the troops, the prince was demanding his presence like a spoiled child, and on top of everything Lady Dustin had apparently taken ill.
Damnation, why did everything bad always happen to him?
*
The bridge took a long time to burn. It was well after sunset before Christopher, Marcus and David were able to dislodge enough of the cinder to allow a man to pass through.
But the hole was only big enough for one man, and Christopher demanded by rank to be the first one through.
Yet Richard outranked even him, and Christopher found himself following his king through the smoldering opening.
As they expected, they ran headlong into a skirmish line of mercenary troops.
Richard took the full brunt of the line, yet Christopher and Marcus, followed by David and Edward and the rest of the knights, were quickly there to defend their monarch.
Limbs were hacked off, heads were severed by sheer force of sword power, and the mercenary troops began backing off quickly.
With every step they took back, another man from Richard’s force pushed in through the breech. It wasn’t long before there were several hundred crown troops inside the outer bailey, fighting in such close quarters that there was barely room to move.
Christopher was smashed up against Marcus and Edward, fighting a seasoned group.
But his mind was already moving to the castle where his wife was and he was increasingly desperate to get to her.
She was trapped in the hulking structure, extremely ill, and he could not stand it anymore. He had to get to her.
“I am going for the castle!” he yelled to Marcus over the noise. “Take command here.”
“You cannot go it alone!” Marcus yelled back. “I shall cover your back.”
“Nay!” Christopher boomed. “Richard needs you here. I must do this alone.”
Marcus speared a mercenary soldier in the throat before answering. “You cannot take on the whole goddamn castle, Chris. Let me come.”
“I am coming!” David ran over two soldiers as he reined his horse next to his brother; he had heard the entire conversation. “If anybody is assisting Chris, it is me.”
A fresh wave of enemy troops rushed them and Christopher found himself fighting off several men at one time.
He would parry and thrust with amazing speed and skill, goring one man and cutting off his comrade’s head with the same stroke of the blade.
The fighting was furious and wild, but Christopher’s cool demeanor never wavered.
Never was there a finer warrior in the heat of battle.
With the wave of soldiers subdued, Christopher turned his biting, kicking charger for the castle.
Richard was several feet away, under control with Edward and Sean at his side, and Christopher was confident that the king was well-protected.
With that peace of mind, he knew he had to get to his wife.
Marcus saw Christopher break free and head for the inner bailey. He muttered a curse as he impaled another mercenary soldier with his broadsword, fully intending to follow Christopher into the castle.
The further Christopher rode from the heat of the battle, the less the resistance became.
The gates to the inner bailey were completely gone, he noticed, allowing him to pass through unhindered.
A few soldiers engaged him, but nothing of importance, and he thanked God that luck was on his side.
It would seem that the majority of the mercenary soldiers were at the frontline, trying to prevent the mass of crown troops that were pouring in through the gutted front gate.
The battle was raging behind him and he was consumed with reaching his wife as he bailed from his destrier, taking down two soldiers who tried to prevent him from entering the castle.
More soldiers dashed into the doorway just as Christopher was preparing to enter, and he raised his sword to brace himself for another go around.
But, as quickly as they appeared, the soldiers were gone and Christopher did not ask why.
He simply raced into the cool interior of the castle, intent on keeping to the shadows and moving fairly undetected.
He had barely rounded his first corner when somebody grabbed him from behind. His sword came up, crashing down against another blade of equal strength. He heard Marcus grunt.
“Goddammit, I knew you were going to do that,” Marcus said frankly.
Christopher felt relief flood him, but also irritation. “I told you to stay with Richard.”
“Aye, you did, but I did not listen,” Marcus said. “Besides, Richard is well-protected with David and Edward. You need me more.”
Christopher scowled. “All right, then. But keep quiet.”
Marcus did as he was told and they made their way up a flight of stairs to the second floor of Nottingham Castle. “Do we know where we are going?” Marcus asked dryly.
“She has got to be up here, somewhere,” Christopher’s eyes trailed the length of the corridor. “We shall simply have to check every room until we find her.”
Marcus wiggled his eyebrows but said nothing, following Christopher closely as they made their way down the hall.
It was silent and dim, wall sconces offering the only light.
At a junction where one corridor met with another there were four or five bodies in front of them, mercenary soldiers, all bearing Prince John’s colors.
Marcus stepped away from Christopher slowly, sword raised, with his eyes never leaving the menacing group. “I shall take the ugly one.”
“Which ugly one? Be specific,” Christopher snapped, although there was no mistaking the mirth in his voice.
It was as it had been for three years in the Holy Land, two men, the best of friends, fighting side by side and knowing each other as well as they knew themselves. It was the familiar feelings of camaraderie that they never thought to feel again.
“The ugly one on the right,” Marcus snapped back lightly. “In fact, I shall take both of the bastards on the right.”
“You bloody coward, leaving me with the rest,” Christopher grumbled.
Marcus grinned. “You are the one with the reputation, earn it.”
They looked at each other for a split second, silent words passing between them, knowing exactly what was to come next. They had done it together a thousand times before.
At the same time, they raised their swords and let out a spine-chilling yell, charging at their opponents like crazed men.
It rarely failed; the enemy soldiers were startled just enough to give Christopher and Marcus the advantage, and they cut down two men before ever engaging in a sword fight.
Yet even the broadsword battles were short-lived; Marcus disposed of his man a split second later than Christopher.
“You are getting slow in your old age,” Christopher commented.
Marcus opened his mouth in feigned outrage. “You only had one. I had two.”
“Cease your complaining,” Christopher said, looking around to make sure there were no more soldiers waiting to ambush them. “You always did like to complain.”
Marcus shrugged and motioned to the corridor. “After you, sire.”
Christopher eyed him arrogantly. “As it should be.”
Marcus chuckled, following Christopher’s lead down the hall.
It was so strange, yet so completely natural for them to be fighting together, jesting their way through it as they had done for three years in Richard’s service.
The fighting between them, the anger and hatred, seemed like a god-awful far away dream.
It was now as it should be, as it has always been.
It was as if the Christopher and Marcus that had fought over Dustin were two completely alien people.
Now, things were normal again. And they were two men on a mission.