Chapter Twelve #3
The young man nodded. “I believe they are, but I do not know what it is, my lady,” he said. Then, he set the cup aside and grabbed at his shoes and coat. “I must return. I must tell them our plans.”
Nicola helped the young man dress in his wet, warm clothing, her manner now somewhat hesitant.
Plans were in motion and she felt as if she were being swept along with evil by her own design.
Of course, it was by her own design. She had sent word to Conisbrough and they had responded.
Soon, Kenton le Bec and his men would be a memory at Babylon and nothing more.
Soon, the nightmare would be over and her recollection of Kenton le Bec would be those of a man who had helped her to feel more, to understand more about herself, than anyone had ever done for her.
If nothing else, she was grateful for what he had done for her.
Betrayal or no, enemy or no, he had done this for her.
Think nothing else of the man, she told herself. You are not allowed to think anything else of the man!
Her heart, a fragile and protected thing, wasn’t listening.
This night, to her, would forever be the night that she betrayed the man she loved.
*
A week after beginning the siege of Manchester, Kenton and his army was beginning to make ground.
Their attack had come from the northeast and was designed to allow the town’s inhabitants to escape the carnage before the real show of force began.
Kenton and his men gave the town exactly one day before they began to launch their attack in earnest, and on the dawn of the second day, they plowed into Manchester and began to sweep the city, subduing those who didn’t flee and flushing out soldiers and other armed men who didn’t belong there.
The Earl of Derby, who had been encamped to the south of the city, put up a serious fight on the third day when Kenton and his men were midway into the city.
There was terrible fighting in the streets, alleyways, and even in houses.
De Russe and Wellesbourne, always the advance team, got into a serious battle alongside the two hundred men they were commanding with a contingent of Derby’s men just past Market Street, to the southwest on King Street.
Derby had set up an ambush that ended up killing about ten of de Russe and Wellesbourne’s soldiers, which spurred the knights into a bloody frenzy.
No man was safe at that point, and de Russe in particular drew upon his bloody reputation and single-handedly put down eleven of Derby’s men that he caught in a bathhouse. The bathhouse became a blood house.
The bloodshed continued to roll into a fourth and a fifth day after that.
Fighting upon a field of battle versus fighting in close-quarters combat in a city was much different, and more exhausting, Kenton believed.
As he had Gerik hold the northeast section of the city, he moved parallel to de Russe and Wellesbourne.
While those two moved to subdue the southern part of the city, Kenton and Ackerley moved into the western section of the city and even secured the two main bridges over the River Irwell.
With the bridges secured, Kenton personally moved into the small portion of the city that was to the north of the river and struggled for two days to secure it.
There were many people willing to fight back in this portion of the city and Kenton met with serious resistance.
It was a brutal onslaught of attacks and counterattacks.
The sixth day of fighting saw most of the city under Kenton’s control although there were pockets of fighting that seemed to move around throughout the city, making them difficult to quell.
The biggest blow came when Ackerley took an arrow to the neck, a mortal blow that saw the man bleed to death as Kenton and a few other soldiers struggled to save him.
There was nothing anyone could do even though they tried, going through the motions of trying to save a man who was beyond help.
Kenton, his hands covered in Ackerley’s blood, held the man’s hand as he had drown in his own blood, speaking quietly to him and assuring him that his wound wasn’t mortal.
He assured the man that he would be saved and that they would enjoy some time in London when the battle was over.
Ackerley had died with a smile on his lips, thinking of alcohol and round women and the pleasures of London.
It had been a difficult death for Kenton to accept.
Now, the trio of Trouble, More Trouble, and Lucifer’s Brother was without Lucifer’s Brother – the three friends of Conor, Gerik, and Ackerley were no more.
Gerik had been informed of his friend’s passing when the man’s body had been sent back to Kenton’s encampment on the north side of town.
The wagon bearing Ackerley’s body had passed by Gerik as the man held his post, and he had stopped the wagon a moment, touching his friend’s still face one last time before waving the wagon onward.
After that, it was back to his duty bearing a broken heart.
But war was war and he accepted that men died; it was just difficult to accept that one of those men had been Ackerley Forbes.
Ackerley’s death greatly affected Kenton and Gerik even though they tried to pretend otherwise, but those who had fought alongside them for any length of time could tell.
Even Wellesbourne and de Russe could tell.
More than that, they understood and they stepped up their service.
Wellesbourne took Ackerley’s place next to Kenton, carrying out even the smallest order that Kenton may have had, while de Russe remained in control of the southern portion of the town.
Day seven dawned to see Kenton nearly in complete control of Manchester thanks to his skill as a commander and also thanks to his knights, who had worked very hard to ensure victory.
The death of Ackerley seemed to spur something in them, something deep, and even though his men as a whole were exhausted and physically beaten, their spirits were good and the casualty rate had been surprisingly low.
Of the nearly one thousand men he’d brought with him, having left two hundred in Rochdale, he’d only lost sixty, which he considered rather low for such a bloody battle.
Finally, by the end of the seventh day, Kenton was confident that he could declare victory.
But there were details in that victory, both good and bad – Derby’s men had been chased off and their encampment to the south end of town raided and burned, and Kenton now found himself with several very fine horses, tents, clothing, rugs, and even coinage from Derby’s camp.
He was quite pleased with the booty and allowed his men to divide most of the treasure trove among them, although Kenton kept the horses and the coinage.
As evening finally fell on the seventh day and the fighting, for the most part, had ended, Kenton set up a perimeter around the majority of the town and declared Martial Law.
People began coming back into the town, into their homes, to see what was salvageable.
Kenton had not permitted his men to raid homes so what possessions that hadn’t been inadvertently destroyed were still there, and the citizens were grateful for small mercies.
A peaceful night followed, a night that saw Kenton sleep heavily for a few hours with dreams of Nicola on his mind, until he was awoken before dawn by a panicked soldier.
It would seem that a large army was already on the southern side of town and had managed to break through their perimeter.
Kenton’s soldiers were dying, now fighting for their lives against a fresh army, and de Russe and Wellesbourne were already riding to the south side of town to assess the situation.
Assessment or not, Kenton knew that the introduction of a fresh army against his exhausted one was a very bad thing indeed.
He was dressed in a flash, with mail and plate armor, and he and Gerik began organizing their men to resist whatever army was now invading Manchester.
Exhausted men, and wounded men, began forming lines against what was coming.
There was a palpable sense of doom in the air, of coming death, but Kenton’s men were ready for it.
With le Bec leading the charge, their courage was limitless in the face of adversity.
Even so, Kenton wasn’t fully prepared for the news that de Russe and Wellesbourne ultimately brought back to him; an army flying the standards of Edward and Fitzalan and Saxilby was now tearing through the southern end of town, with several mounted knights and men who hadn’t been fighting for a week solid.
Kenton’s soldiers were dying left and right, and Wellesbourne had ordered the entire southern perimeter to retreat and fall back to Kenton’s base camp.
Based on that information, Kenton knew it was about as bad as it could get.
Mounting his heavy Belgian warmblood, a fat rouncey who was bred for battle, Kenton charged southward and straight into the mouth of hell.