Chapter Sixteen #2
Warwick’s gaze lingered on Pollard for a moment before rising from his chair again, this time with a purpose.
He had plan in mind, or at least the beginnings of one.
He seemed fueled by something, perhaps an undigested sense of vengeance that was always lingering in his belly when it came to the battle for England’s throne.
Sometimes he hungered for enemies of Edward and sometimes for enemies of Henry, but at this moment, he was hungering for something against the commander of Conisbrough Castle if, in fact, it was the man and his troops who not only reclaimed Babylon but captured Kenton le Bec. The agitation was in the not-knowing.
He had to find out.
“Send twenty men to Bradley Manor,” he instructed his advisors. “If the St. John girl is there, I want her. Tell Lady Holland that the girl’s brother has taken ill and has asked for her; anything to take the girl peacefully. I do not want her damaged… yet.”
Lord Pollard lifted an eyebrow. “But the information, coming from you, might seem strange,” he pointed out. “You do not fight for the same cause that St. John fights for.”
Warwick waved him off. “I have been on St. John’s side before,” he said. “Who is to say I am not again? Do as I say, now. Go get the girl.”
The advisors were already on the move, without question, but Wellesbourne and de Russe seemed uneasy about what was happening. Wellesbourne caught Warwick’s attention.
“For what purpose would you take this woman?” Wellesbourne asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.
But Warwick fixed on him factually. “Simple enough,” he told the young knight. “If le Bec is at Conisbrough, mayhap we can exchange the life of St. John’s sister for that of Kenton le Bec. Surely the man would not let his sister die.”
It was a ruthless act in a war that had been full of ruthless acts, although no one was particularly thrilled with introducing a woman into that mix.
Wellesbourne turned to look at de Russe, to see what the man’s reaction was to all of this, but de Russe was characteristically emotionless.
He seemed to be focused intently on Warwick, however.
“So you take St. John’s sister hostage if, in fact, she is even at Bradley,” de Russe said to Warwick. “You exchange her for le Bec. But what do we do about Babylon and Manchester?”
Warwick fixed on the big, young knight quite seriously. “We take them back,” he said flatly. “Did you truly believe I will leave both of those valuable assets in Edward’s hands? Of course not. We go and take them both back, starting with Babylon.”
It was the order Wellesbourne and de Russe had expected, one they had hoped for. But there was one thing in both of their minds, and probably Warwick’s, too, that had not yet been resolved.
“What about the traitor?” Wellesbourne wanted to know. “If he happens to be one of the men who survived and is still in our ranks, he could send word on to those who hold Babylon. We cannot let them be forewarned if we are to succeed in regaining the castle.”
Warwick was well aware of that. “You say that only le Bec’s inner circle knew of his plans?”
“To my knowledge, the knights were the only ones who knew.”
Warwick’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the tent, a serious and deadly cast. “With Forbes dead, le Bec presumably captured, and de Birmingham presumed dead at Babylon, that leaves you and de Russe and le Mon,” he said.
“I suppose we have narrowed the field down to find out if there is a traitor among the knight corps.”
He meant either one of them and they weren’t too terribly insulted by it.
Warwick didn’t trust anyone implicitly, and they knew they had nothing to hide, so they weren’t worried.
Still, the thought of a traitor among them was unpleasant at the very least. If it wasn’t either one of them, that left le Mon, and they couldn’t imagine the man to be a traitor. But stranger things had happened.
As they left Warwick’s tent to prepare their mounts to depart once again for battle, Matthew muttered to Gaston.
“Do not say anything to le Mon about this,” he said quietly. “Let us keep Warwick’s plans between ourselves and only tell le Mon when we have to. If it is he who is sending word to Edwards’s camp, then we must discover it before he does any more damage.”
Gaston was silent as they walked across the frozen earth, heading for the corral where their horses had been tethered. The sky above was pewter as a storm rolled in and bad weather once again threatened.
“I do not believe it is any of the knights,” de Russe finally said. “For all we know, only the knights had been told of Kenton’s plans. But we cannot control who else Kenton told.”
Matthew looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Gaston cast him a long glance. “Who was Kenton close to who had ties to Edward?”
Matthew scratched his head. He replied without hesitation. “Lady Thorne.”
“What if he told her his plans and she is the one who sent word to Conisbrough?”
Matthew simply shook his head. He didn’t have an answer for that, mostly because it made perfect sense. “But why?” he wanted to know. “She seemed as fond of him as he was of her. Why betray him?”
De Russe’s gaze lingered on the horses up ahead, his manner weary and serious. “It is possible she only pretended to be fond of him,” he muttered. “It is possible she was using him for information just as le Bec claimed he was using her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
The men continued on in silence, thoughts lingering on the lovely Lady Thorne.
Was it possible that she had only used Kenton for her own means?
Was it possible they were both simply using each other?
Of course, it was. But what seemed odd to both Matthew and Gaston was the fact that Kenton seemed to let her use him quite freely.
Never did the man have his guard up around her from what they had seen.
That being the case, he wouldn’t be the only man to fall victim to a pretty but vicious face.
It would seem that even great men like Kenton le Bec had a weakness when it came to a beautiful woman.
A viper in disguise.
*
He’d been asleep again.
Startled awake, the first thing Kenton realized was the very strong smell of cloves in the air.
The air itself was warm and stale, smelling of that rotted smell of fabric that had become wet and not dried out properly.
It was a heavy scent, mixed with the cloves, making the entire atmosphere wholly unpleasant.
Kenton lay there a moment, staring up at the canvas ceiling.
The cloth was oiled, and draped, and he began to remember where he was: Saxilby’s tent.
He remembered being brought here, put onto a pallet, but that was the last he recalled.
A hand moved to his forehead where he had fallen and he gingerly fingered the lump there, although it wasn’t as sore as it had been.
His vision was clear, too. As he lay there and fingered the bump, he heard a quiet voice.
“So you are awake?” a man said. “I was wondering if you ever would awaken. That was a nasty bump on your head.”
Kenton turned in the direction of the voice, seeing an older man seated upon a rather sumptuous bed. Kenton noticed that his neck didn’t hurt like it had earlier, either, and he was able to move better than he had in days. He shifted slightly to gain a better look at the man who was addressing him.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said formally. “It is not usual for me to greet someone lying on my back. The bump on my head feels better but I am not entirely sure I can sit up.”
The man smiled faintly. “You look strong and healthy enough to me, Sir Kenton,” he said, his gaze moving over Kenton’s supine form. “You are, in fact, Kenton le Bec?”
With great effort, Kenton managed to roll onto his right side and realized that all of his pain hadn’t gone away, after all. He was still very sore.
“I am,” he grunted, breathing heavily. “Would you be so kind as to introduce yourself so I know who I am speaking with?”
The man on the bed stood up, stiffly. “John Saxilby,” he replied. “Finally, we meet in person. I have faced many a battle against you, le Bec, and I even saw you once, but I will admit that when you were brought to my tent, I did not recognize you. You appear quite different with your armor on.”
Kenton smiled, though it was without humor. “I can only imagine that I do not look like my usual handsome self,” he said. “It also seems that my armor and weapons were taken from me, however, things that would make me recognizable.”
Saxilby nodded. “I will make sure your things are returned to you,” he said. “But you should know that you are now my prisoner.”
“I assumed as much.”
“My physic has tended to your head for the past two days. He says you will recover.”
Very slowly, Kenton managed to push himself up into a sitting position. He was unsteady, and the world rocked a bit, but all things considered, he didn’t feel all that bad. More than anything, he was simply exhausted and hungry, with perhaps a bit of apprehension for the immediate future.
“You have my gratitude,” he said. “May I inquire to the status of my men? I saw that many were prisoners. What do you intend to do with them?”
Saxilby was moving stiffly because of the gash to his buttocks and hips.
Sixty-nine black catgut stitches were holding the skin together.
He shuffled towards a collapsible table, scratching gingerly at his arse.
“Damn stitches,” he grunted. “They itch like the devil. I will have such a scar across my backside that not even my wife will find me attractive any longer. More is the pity.”
Kenton watched the man pour a measure of wine into two cups. He then collected the cups and headed to Kenton, extending one to the man. Kenton took it gratefully.
“Women are strange creatures, I am told,” he said as he gulped down the very tart wine. “Mayhap she will surprise you.”