Chapter Twenty-Four #2
As Kenton watched with some fascination, it was a blood bath.
He didn’t even know where St. John was; he didn’t even look for the man.
He was fixated on the two massive knights who were charging in his direction and would soon be upon him.
Being weaponless, his only choice was to try to outrun them.
But the fact that he recognized the animals was the only thing that kept him from doing so.
He held his ground as St. John and his army rapidly fell beneath the swords of a well-planned ambush.
“Kenton!”
Someone shouted his name and he turned to see Conor charging towards him. The man was holding a broadsword out to him, hilt-first, and Kenton was seized with the fact that this ambush wasn’t random; suddenly, it began to make sense. This attack, this flood of armed men, was meant for him.
Help had arrived!
Kenton could hardly believe what he was seeing, astonished to the bone.
But in the same breath, he knew that this was Nicola’s doing.
She must have discovered St. John’s plans to deliver him to Edward and, somehow, she’d gotten word to Warwick about it.
Now, days of wondering and darkness were coming to light as Kenton realized the plans they had made, and all that they had hoped for, were coming to fruition.
She did it!
The relief he felt was indescribable. Kenton found himself reliving the conversation they’d had at Conisbrough where he had told her the only real chance to free him was when he would be out in the open, away from the walls of Conisbrough, as he was being transported to Edward.
Although they’d spoken of the plans very seriously and she swore to find out what she could from St. John, perhaps deep down, Kenton really didn’t believe that his extraction could be arranged.
So much was involved, from discovering the plans to notifying Warwick to actually being in the right place at the right time to free him, but somehow, someway, the stars had aligned and there were men fighting for Kenton’s freedom. They were saving him from Edward.
He had to save himself as well.
Kenton took the sword from Conor with a warm, grateful expression. “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” he said. “What took you so long? I have been on the road for hours.”
Conor grinned, displaying his big, white teeth. “We have been here for days,” he told him. “What took you so long?”
Kenton returned the smile but, suddenly, the two enormous knights who had been destroying the front half of the escort were in their midst, bloodied swords in hand. Visors went up and Kenton recognized de Russe and Wellesbourne.
“Are you well, le Bec?” Wellesbourne demanded. “The last we saw you, you were falling off your horse at Manchester.”
Kenton nodded, so incredibly grateful to see his friends and colleagues, men risking their lives to save him. He’d never felt more blessed in his life than he did at that very moment.
“I am well,” he said. “But we need to get out of here. You have done enough damage. Let us retreat to safety.”
It was the logical path now that St. John’s escort was nearly destroyed.
There were still pockets of fighting going on towards the rear of the column and the four men turned to see St. John in a serious struggle with three other Warwick men.
Emerging from the edge of the tree line nearby came another mounted knight, and a few more mounted soldiers, and Kenton recognized Warwick’s armor immediately.
Before he spurred his horse to the man, he turned to his three friends.
“That is Brome St. John, garrison commander of Conisbrough,” he said, pointing out St. John. “Do not kill him. He is to be spared.”
De Russe, Wellesbourne, and Conor strained to see who he was speaking of. “That knight back there?” Conor asked, pointing to the rear of the column.
“Aye,” Kenton said. “Spare him. I will go see Warwick now.”
The four of them separated. Kenton rode straight for Warwick whilst de Russe, Wellesbourne, and Conor headed back to prevent St. John from being killed in his fight against three heavily-armed men.
As Kenton reached the elevation above the road where Warwick was, he turned to see that most, if not all, of St. John’s escort had been killed or wounded.
Bloodied men were lying everywhere on the muddy road.
His gaze lingered on the carnage a moment, feeling incredibly grateful to be alive, when he heard a voice beside him.
“’Tis good to see you again, Kenton,” Warwick said. “How foolish of you to permit yourself to be captured. Do you see what lengths we had to go to in order to get you back?”
Kenton smiled weakly. “I was not captured by choice, I assure you,” he said. “Being hit on the head and falling on my face ensured that I was unable to fight back. Had I had any opportunity to resist, I am sure you know that I would have.”
Warwick was visually inspecting Kenton, peering closely at his face and still slightly-bruised forehead. “You look well enough to me,” he said. “How do you feel?”
Kenton noticed that Wellesbourne and de Russe now had St. John between them, trying to force the man to drop his sword, which St. John seemed reluctant to do.
“I am well enough,” he said. “I was treated very well, considering. And that man that de Russe and Wellesbourne are attempting to subdue is Brome St. John, the garrison commander of Conisbrough. He should be given all due respect, my lord. He was humane and fair in his treatment of me.”
Warwick turned to see what Kenton was looking at; four knights in a standoff. De Russe and Wellesbourne were trying to convince St. John to drop his sword as Conor got up behind St. John, making sure the man didn’t make any swift or foolish moves.
“That shall be up to him,” Warwick said. “If he does not drop his sword, we cannot treat him fairly.”
Kenton knew that. He spurred his horse towards St. John as the man held off the three heavily-armed Warwick knights. Warwick followed close behind and, as the men came close to the standoff, Kenton spoke out.
“St. John,” he said loudly “Drop the sword. Your escort is finished and so are you. Please do not make this difficult.”
St. John looked at Kenton with resistance, hesitation, and some frustration in his expression. “You know that I cannot surrender, le Bec,” he said. “If I go down, it will be with a sword in my hand.”
“Do you want your sister returned?” Warwick suddenly called to the man. “If you want your sister returned and not sent back to you in pieces, then you will drop your sword.”
St. John looked to the older man behind Kenton, suspecting who he might be simply because of the very fine but well-used armor he wore, and the horse he rode upon was an utterly magnificent beast. He wore the crimson Warwick tunic that St. John had seen, many times and, after a moment, Brome sighed heavily.
He knew he was already defeated but he simply wasn’t ready to give in yet.
He couldn’t believe how sour his luck had turned.
“What do you know of my sister?” he asked.
Warwick shrugged. “I know she is my guest,” he said.
“I know that I sent you a missive telling you that I would exchange your sister’s life for the life of Kenton le Bec.
Now I have Kenton but you do not have your sister.
Swallow your pride and lower your sword, St. John. I will not tell you again.”
The conversation suddenly took an ominous turn in that threat.
Warwick meant what he said. Kenton, who truly didn’t want to see St. John killed, put up a big hand and motioned for him to lower his sword.
It was a plea. St. John looked at Kenton with an expression that suggested he was the one who felt betrayed, as if this entire ambush had been Kenton’s doing as a personal attack against him.
But St. John’s expression also suggested that he wanted to live so, with a heavy sigh, he handed the sword, hilt-first, to de Russe, who took it.
The ambush, officially, was ended.
“Now,” St. John said to Warwick. “Tell me your name and tell me of my sister’s health.”
Warwick eyed the young, strong knight whom Edward had placed a good deal of faith in. He could see the faint resemblance between the man and his sister.
“I am Warwick,” he told St. John. “Your sister’s health is fine. She is doing quite well. I read the missive you sent to me with a counterproposal to my original offer; in exchange for your sister’s life, you are offering to withdraw from Babylon Castle and return it to me.”
St. John nodded, looking and sounded defeated now that Warwick’s identity had been confirmed to him. “Aye, my lord,” he said glumly. “That was my offer.”
Around them, the fighting had stopped now that St. John had surrendered his sword.
Warwick’s men began gathering their own wounded, which there were only two, and the able-bodied began assessing St. John’s wounded.
Men were being picked off the road and brought onto the cold, damp grass, but none of the knights or Warwick seemed to notice.
They were entirely focused on what was appearing to be negotiations for the release of St. John’s sister.
“You know,” Warwick said, leaning on his saddle horn and shaking a finger at St. John, “I could become quite upset at you for ignoring my demand for Kenton. You were taking him to Edward in spite of my threat against your sister. Is it true that you fear Edward more than you value your sister’s life? ”