Chapter Fourteen
Manchester
Three days later
It was dawn on a particularly cold morning as Kenton sat in the icy grass beneath a barren oak tree on the south side of Manchester, shackled by the ankles and wrists.
It was actually the first day he could remember being completely lucid since riding to battle against an army of Edward supporters who were trying to invade Manchester so soon after he had secured it.
Kenton had charged into the heat of the fighting and had performed magnificently until someone hit him on the head from behind, so hard that he had pitched over his horse and landed on his forehead.
He’d been wearing a helm at the time, but the blow had knocked him cold.
He’d awoken some time later to find himself tightly bound and quite obviously a prisoner, but he’d lost consciousness again for an unknown amount of time until regaining consciousness within the past hour or two.
He’d awoken, dazed, to a horrific headache and blurred vision on his left side.
He was fairly certain he had a massive bruise or some kind of swelling on his forehead because his face was extremely tender and the blurriness in his left eye seemed to be because he couldn’t open it completely.
It had been dark when he’d awoken, and he’d been lying on his side, but he’d looked around enough to see that he was grouped with other prisoners, men under his command that he recognized.
“My lord?” came a hiss. “Sir Kenton, can you hear me?”
Kenton could see a pair of bound boots a foot or so away from his head. He must have groaned, or moved, or both, because the hiss came again.
“Sir Kenton?” the man said again. “Are you awake now? Can you speak?”
Kenton tried to move his head but it was very painful to do so. He ended up closing his eyes, trying to stave off the nausea. “Who is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“’Tis Lewis, my lord,” the man whispered loudly. “Camden Lewis. I have served you for….”
Kenton cut him off. “I know you,” he said. “You are one of my senior soldiers. You have a brother who fell at Towton.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Give me the situation, Lewis.”
It was a formal request, from a commander to his soldier, because all things in Kenton’s world were formal no matter what the circumstances. He could hear the soldier grunt, more than likely with irony.
“They got us good, my lord,” the soldier muttered. “The garrison from Conisbrough, they are. From what we can gather, they were alerted that our army was in Manchester. We heard them speaking of it. They are looking for you in particular.”
Kenton’s eyes opened and he tried to look around. “How… how long?”
“Have you been unconscious?”
“Aye.”
“Since the battle started two days ago,” Lewis said. “I broke my foot at the beginning of the fight and they caught me easy. They brought you here right after I came, so it has been two days. You have been unconscious for that long.”
Kenton was trying very hard to clear the cobwebs out of his mind. He remembered riding to the south end of Manchester, into a nasty skirmish, and fighting a big knight on a blond steed. But after that, he remembered very little. Flashes of sound and pain, mostly. His anxiety began to take root.
“What is happening now?” he asked.
Sitting up, and watching the St. John guards carefully as they monitored the gang of Warwick prisoners they had spread out in a field on the southeast side of town, Lewis spoke quietly.
“Nothing, my lord,” the soldier mumbled. “The fighting is over. Conisbrough brought fresh men to a fight. They captured many of our men and more than likely killed as many.”
“And my knights?”
Lewis shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “Not with us. I heard some of the Conisbrough men speak of chasing a group of men back towards Babylon, including three knights, but I haven’t heard any more of that.”
Kenton blinked, struggling to think clearly. “Three knights,” he mumbled. “With Forbes gone, it had to be le Mon and Wellesbourne and de Russe. That means they were not killed.”
“I would say not, my lord.”
Kenton felt a great deal of relief at that. “Then I am thankful.”
Lewis stopped himself from replying when one of the St. John soldiers happened to hear conversation and glance back at the group of prisoners to see who was talking. Lewis kept his head down until the soldier lost interest and turned back around.
“Mayhap the knights will summon help from Babylon,” he whispered.
Kenton drew in a deep breath, turning his head slightly and trying to loosen his neck up.
It was so incredibly stiff. “What help?” he questioned.
“I left a mere two hundred men back at Babylon. If we are to be helped, it will not come from them. Warwick is in Wakefield; hopefully, men have already ridden to tell him what has happened. If assistance comes, it will come from Warwick.”
The same St. John soldier turned around because he heard conversation a second time. Lewis dropped his head, pretending to be dozing, until the soldier turned back around once more.
“We must keep quiet, m’lord,” he said. “They know you are a knight and they hope you are one of Kenton le Bec’s knights. I do not think they know they have le Bec himself but they keep asking the men if you are le Bec. No one will confirm it.”
Kenton lay there, thinking of the loyalty of his men, feeling like such a complete and utter failure.
He had been fighting since seventeen years of age.
He’d seen several major battles in that time and had survived all of them.
To allow himself to become captured in a mere skirmish was insulting at the very least. He could still hardly believe it.
Still, it was dangerous for his men to deny who he was.
Soon enough, whoever his captors were would start using strong-arm tactics to gain answers and his men would suffer.
This Kenton could not allow. In order to save his men, and perhaps even himself, he had to announce his identity.
At least his men would be spared if he told them who he was. At least, that was the hope.
“Lewis,” he whispered, “are there Conisbrough soldiers around?”
Lewis eyed the gang of them several feet away. “Aye, my lord.”
“Call them over.”
Lewis looked at him, shocked. “But… why?” he asked. “You don’t want to engage them, my lord.”
Kenton tried to lift his head, to look at Lewis, but it was just too painful. “Call them now. I will not tell you again.”
Lewis was quickly growing distraught. He had no idea what le Bec had in mind but he knew he didn’t like it. “Please, my lord,” he hissed. “They are looking for you. They want to use you, probably as an example to the others. They may even want to send you as a prize to Edward. Surely you cannot…!”
“If you do not call them, I will.”
Lewis gazed at the man, feeling a good deal of sorrow.
He couldn’t stomach the thought of the great Kenton le Bec in Edward’s hands but it occurred to him that le Bec might have something else in mind.
He hoped that was the case. Eyeing Kenton as the man tried to lift his head, Lewis turned with great reluctance to the group of soldiers about twenty feet away.
“Oy!” he yelled. “You, there! Come over here!”
Several of the soldiers turned to look at him, frowning. “Quiet, you,” one of them threatened, holding up a balled fist. “If I come over there, you are not going to like it.”
Lewis pursed his lips ironically. “I already do not like it,” he said. “’Tis not my idea to ask you over here. I have been told to do it.”
Now, he had the attention of most of the soldiers who were standing in the group. “By whom?” one of the men demanded.
Before Lewis could reply, Kenton spoke in that deep, commanding boom that his men knew so well. It was a tone not meant to be disobeyed.
“By me,” he said. “You want le Bec? I will turn him over to you.”
Lewis’ worst fears were confirmed. He began hissing at Kenton, shaking his head. “Nay, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth. “You mustn’t!”
Kenton ignored Lewis as four or five Conisbrough soldiers made their way over to him, wandering amongst the captured Warwick soldiers.
By their expressions, it was clear they were wary, looking at Lewis and the enormous knight who was lying beside him.
The soldier who seemed to be in charge scowled.
“Where is le Bec?” he demanded.
Kenton peered up at the soldier, a seasoned man, bearing a tunic of yellow, blue, and red, which were Edward’s colors. He could see the shields and lions. Before he could open his mouth, however, Lewis spoke.
“Here,” he said quickly. “I am le Bec.”
The warrior bearing Edward’s tunic looked at Lewis, his brow furrowing. “You?” he repeated in obvious disbelief. “You are an old and broken fool. You are not le Bec.”
Lewis geared up to argue but Kenton spoke, more loudly, which positively killed his aching head. “He is not but I am,” he said. “Tell your commander that Kenton le Bec wishes to speak with him.”
The group of Conisbrough soldiers was much more inclined to believe that the massive knight with the head wound was Kenton le Bec.
In fact, their expressions held varied degrees of surprise and pleasure with a fair amount of hatred mixed in.
The soldier bearing Edward’s tunic crouched down next to Kenton, looking him over thoroughly.
For a moment, no one spoke. The soldier on his knees next to Kenton seemed to be drawing it all in, the sheer size of the man, digesting the image before him and coming to realize that he believed him.
The knight was older, which they knew le Bec to be, and the equipment they had stripped him of had been expensive and well-used.
Aye, it was easy to believe this injured man was who he said he was.
The more the soldier looked at him, the more pleased he became.
“So you are the great Kenton le Bec,” he said rhetorically, though not impolitely. “You have a good deal of courage admitting it.”
Kenton stopped trying to lift his head; there was too much pain and he was bound so tightly that he couldn’t get his balance even if he could sit up. So he lay there, gazing up at a man who would just as easily kill him as speak with him. Kenton had never felt so vulnerable in his life.
“Not courage,” Kenton sighed. “I am being practical. You are going to beat the information out of my men, anyway, so I am saving you the trouble. Tell your commander I wish to speak with him.”
The soldier’s gaze lingered on him. There was still a chance that the knight could be lying but there were those that knew Kenton le Bec on sight; Saxilby, who had been wounded in the battle, claimed to be one of them but the man was unable to move because of a bad gash to his back and hip.
The soldier presumed he could discover if the big Warwick knight was being truthful easily enough.
“I’ve a better idea,” he said, motioning to the soldiers who had accompanied him. “We will take you to him.”
Four men reached down to lift Kenton up as one of them unshackled his ankles.
If they wanted him to walk, he couldn’t do it with his feet bound.
Kenton bit off a groan of agony as he was lifted up, fighting off the pain and dizziness that swamped him.
He couldn’t stand on his own so the Conisbrough soldiers nearly completely supported him as Kenton tried to gain his bearings.
It was clear that he was in terrible shape.
It was a status that didn’t go unnoticed by Kenton’s men and they began to protest the treatment of their brave commander. Lewis in particular was very concerned.
“Be careful with the man,” he demanded. “Can you not see how badly injured he is? Take care with him!”
Around him, other men began to shout, louder than before.
Soon, an entire chorus arose, demanding that the Conisbrough soldiers be cautious with le Bec.
Kenton, hearing their cries, labored through the swaying and nausea, trying to stand on his own feet.
The voices in support of his condition infuriated him.
“Enough!” he roared at his men. “You all bellow and whine like old women! Shut your mouths allow me my dignity!”
The men instantly ceased their protests, which told the Conisbrough soldiers that, indeed, the big knight they were dragging away was a man of respect.
More than that, he had given an order that was instantly obeyed.
Only a man in command would require such obedience and it was clear that his men loved him.
That was blatantly obvious. That being the case, the soldier in command slapped the colleague who was holding Kenton up by the right arm.
“Be careful with him,” he said pointedly. “He has a bad wound to the head. Where is the surgeon?”
One of the four men supporting Kenton spoke. “Last I saw he was in Saxilby’s tent,” he said. “Are we taking him there?”
The soldier in command nodded firmly, eyeing the bruise on Kenton’s forehead.
Now he, too, was inclined to be careful with the man now that the realization of his identity was confirmed by dozens of prisoners, men who were clearly subservient to him.
Kenton le Bec in the flesh, the soldier thought.
If he were to admit it, he was a bit awed.
He never thought he’d meet such a legendary knight, a man among men in the annals of the battle for the throne. Aye, he was awed, indeed.
“We are,” he finally said. “I think there are a few people who would like to meet him.”
The last Kenton’s men saw of him, he was being dragged off towards a cluster of tents set up on the south side of Manchester and there wasn’t one man in witness who didn’t have a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
They all knew why le Bec had revealed himself because le Bec knew, as they did, that sooner or later, the Conisbrough men would try to beat le Bec’s identity out of them.
They had all been resolved to resist but Kenton had other ideas; he wasn’t about to let his men take a beating protecting him. That wasn’t how Kenton le Bec operated.
Heroics often went beyond mere battlefield behavior. Heroics were in the character of men and in their sacrifices.
Kenton had sacrificed his safety for the sake of his men.
Now, all his men could do was pray.