Chapter Eighteen #2
“So you thought you’d catch me from behind, did you?
” Shand said, stalking Atlas as the young man tried to scramble to his feet.
“I was your father’s knight for many years.
I have eyes in the back of my head, Atlas, or at the very least, I am aware of my surroundings.
I saw you dismount your horse and slip into the trees. I knew you were coming for me.”
Atlas was in a great deal of pain, bleeding all over the place because Shand’s cut had sliced him deep.
Pieces of mail and tunic were embedded in the gash, which ran across his chest, from one side to the other.
But his fear of Shand overruled the pain and he finally managed to get to his feet, wielding his grandfather’s broadsword in front of him.
“You bastard,” Atlas hissed. “Trastamara is mine. It is mine by rights and heredity. You have no right to it, no matter how much you want it. I showed you mercy when I sent you away. Know that I will not make the same mistake twice.”
Shand smiled thinly. “I realize you showed mercy,” he said. “That is why I did not kill you just now. But my mercy is only extended once. The next time I slash this sword at you, it will be to cut your head off.”
Atlas believed him. Truth be told, he was increasingly unnerved and trying desperately not to show it.
He knew that Shand was an experienced knight who had fought in many battles and, strangely enough, in the times that Atlas had contact with his father over the years when Shand was present, the man barely said two words to him. He’d always seemed silent and obedient.
But it had been an act.
Atlas could see now that beneath that obedient surface was a man of great determination and ambition, which included Trastamara. Atlas had tried to use the element of surprise to kill Shand, but he had failed.
If he wanted to keep Trastamara, he was going to have to fight for it.
“You can try,” he said, backing off and circling around as Shand tracked him. “But I do not understand why you feel you have any right to my hereditary home. Don’t you have your own home to return to?”
Shand’s humorless smile never left his face.
“Do you want to know how I became a knight?” he said.
“My father was a wool merchant in Norfolk and a wealthy one. I have five older brothers and having no use for me, he essentially sold me as an apprentice to a French knight who was passing through Norfolk on his way north. This French knight taught me well, but his lessons were brutal. When I became of age and he beat me one too many times, I killed him. Everyone thought it was an accident, but it was not. In answer to your question, I do not have a home to go to. Trastamara is the only home I have ever known.”
Atlas probably should have felt sorry for Shand, but he couldn’t bring himself to.
“Even men who have difficult paths in life do not resort to ruthless ambition to steal another’s inheritance,” he said.
“My father thought you were a fine knight and so did the de Wolfe knights. You could have easily found a position somewhere else with your skill.”
Shand’s smile faded. “You are not hearing me,” he said quietly. “Trastamara is the only home I have ever known. I know it better than you do and I have served it with more dedication than you could ever show. I deserve to be here.”
“It belongs to me.”
“It will not after I am finished with you.”
“But you cannot simply take it. My allies will not allow it.”
“I will deal with that when the time comes.”
With that, he lunged at Atlas, who managed to get his sword up. It was a heavy blow and although Atlas had been training with a sword for several years, he wasn’t at Shand’s level and he knew it. The best he could hope for was dodging the man and trying to wear him out.
But it wasn’t going to be easy.
Shand was fast and he was accurate. After two fairly forceful barrages at Atlas, he managed to clip the young man on the arm.
It didn’t draw blood, thankfully, but it smarted, and Atlas managed to dodge behind a tree with the next onslaught from Shand.
The forest was acting as a shield for him and he used the trees to his advantage, at least as much as he could, until Shand began to anticipate his movements and cut him off the next time he tried to dodge behind a tree.
Unfortunately for Atlas, the only one being worn down was him. He simply wasn’t Shand’s caliber, at least not yet, but he was giving him an admirable fight. Whether or not he could actually kill the man remained to be seen, but he wasn’t backing down.
He would fight to the bitter end.
Which might be sooner than he hoped.
Atlas thought to get out from behind the trees because, at this point, they were creating a problem because Shand was using them, too.
Frightened and bleeding heavily from his chest gash, Atlas made a dash to leave the dense collection of trees but was summarily stopped when Shand unsheathed a dagger and hurled it at Atlas, catching the young man behind his right knee.
Atlas went down.
The big dagger had him impaled enough so that he couldn’t bend his knee at all, nor could he stand up, and he could see Shand bearing down on him. In excruciating pain, he tried to remove the dagger, but he couldn’t get a good grip on it and crawl away from Shand at the same time.
It was then that Atlas began to think his life might be over.
He didn’t feel any real panic for himself, only a great concern that his mother and siblings would be left to the mercy of Shand Bexwell.
That was his only thought as he struggled to crawl away, pausing long enough to lift his sword and protect himself from the down parry that was inevitably coming in his direction.
But then, something unexpected happened.
A shadow fell across Atlas and, suddenly, a massive body stood between him and Shand. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Atlas craned his head back to see that Markus was standing between him and certain death.
Help had arrived.
“Since you seem to like to fight with astonishing dishonor, mayhap you would like to use your dirty tactics on me.”
Markus was facing Shand. In full armor, with the de Wolfe tunic front and center, he made perhaps one of the most formidable sights ever to behold on the field of battle.
In his left hand, he held the wolf-head sword, the one his father had given him when he’d received his spurs.
It was bigger, heavier, and sharper than most swords.
He raised it.
“What?” Markus said. “No swift response? Since when do you keep silent, Bexwell?”
Shand backed up; he had to because he was within range of that enormous sword. “This is not your fight, de Wolfe,” he said. “If Atlas is going to be a man, then you need to let him face his own battles.”
Markus wasn’t swayed. “I would let him face a battle against a worthy opponent, but that is not you,” he said.
“You are the slime in a pig’s sty, the scum on a pond’s surface, and the vomit in the sewer.
You are all those things and more, wholly unworthy of Atlas and utterly unworthy of me.
I fight men, not dogs, but I will make an exception in your case. ”
Shand’s jaw ticked at the barrage of insults lobbed at him. “The only reason you have what you have is because you rely on your family name,” he said. “You have achieved nothing on your own, so do not be so quick to call me unworthy.”
Markus cocked an eyebrow. “Has the king offered you a position as his Lord Protector?”
Shand’s brow furrowed. “He has not.”
“I didn’t think so,” Markus said, deliberately insulting the man’s achievements, or lack thereof. “But I, in fact, am worthy enough for such an offer. Now, let’s get on with this. I have more important things that require my attention.”
He flinched and the fight was on. Shand went to raise his sword, but he wasn’t fast enough.
He was right-handed, and Markus left-handed, and he brought his sword up as if preparing for a strike from a right-handed man.
Because he didn’t have his sword in the right place, Markus managed to spin that enormous blade up and over, coming down on the top of Shand’s right shoulder.
It was a move that nearly cut Shand’s shoulder clean from his body.
In an instant, his collarbone was broken, tendons severed, and his sword hand completely useless.
It was a devastating and brutal blow. As Shand began to howl, Markus switched hands with his sword, wielded it like a club, and swung it with both hands at Shand’s neck.
The man’s head went rolling into the foliage.
In a few short seconds, the fight was over.
Markus hadn’t even raised a sweat. He took a couple of steps towards Shand’s body, now collapsed upon the bed of the forest. He observed his handiwork before turning to Atlas, who was sitting up, hand on his wounded knee, and looking at Markus with eyes the size of saucers.
Markus could see the young man’s shock.
“I am sorry I had to intervene,” he said. “But I could not let him get the best of you. You have a great future ahead of you, Atlas. Let no man as lowly as Shand Bexwell take it from you.”
Atlas, still stunned, nodded. Then, he vomited all over himself in a spectacular display of nerves. Markus chuckled sympathetically.
“Is that the first time you’ve seen a man’s head cut off?” he asked.
Atlas shook his head. Then, he nodded, greatly embarrassed. “Like that, it is,” he admitted. “He… he said he was going to do that to me.”
Markus sheathed his sword. “Not as long as the House of de Wolfe is around,” he said, moving over to the lad. “Roll onto your side. Let me see that knee.”
Atlas did, stiffly, and Markus knelt down, taking hold of his knee to steady it and yanking the dagger from it in one swift motion. Atlas grunted but he didn’t cry out. Markus knew how painful it must have been, but the lad had shown courage.
Great courage.
Reaching down, he pulled Atlas to his feet, very gently. “Can you walk?”
Atlas was shaken, and in great pain, but he was alive. “Aye,” he said. “I can walk. But I’ll do it alone, Markus. Those men out there… I am in command of them. I’ll not let them see me leaning on you. I think I’ve leaned on you enough.”
Markus smiled at the brave young lord, letting him go when he was certain he had his balance.
“It has been my honor to have you lean on me, my lord,” he said. “I will always be here if you need me.”
Atlas smiled weakly. He genuinely liked Markus, more than he could verbalize, a true and noble man to look up to.
Hand to the gash on his chest, he limped from the trees and out into the clearing where the Trastamara army was finishing up the Scots.
Those who hadn’t run away, or hadn’t been killed, had been gathered up in a small group over by the gatehouse.
The battle, for the most part, was over.
The land surrounding Trastamara was torn up and many of the trees had been cut to make the ladders, so there was a sense of devastation.
Bodies of the dead littered the ground, all Scots, and Atlas limped by the arrow-ridden body of Win Foulden, having no idea that the leader of this band of reivers had been killed.
All he knew was that the fight was over, Shand was dead, and Trastamara’s mighty walls were still standing.
That was all he cared about.
Markus walked beside Atlas, proud that the young lord was determined that his men see him bloodied but not beaten. It would have been very easy to have allowed Markus to carry him into the castle, but he wasn’t going to let that happen.
He was going to walk.
As they neared the gatehouse, which was now open, Cassius came running in their direction.
“Christ,” he hissed when he saw Atlas. “What in the hell…?”
“Atlas and Shand had a battle of their own back in the trees,” Markus said. “Shand’s headless body is back there, in the foliage. When you are cleaning up the field of battle, make sure to collect his body and burn it with the rest of the rubbish.”
Cassius looked at his brother. “Who killed him?”
Markus threw a thumb in Atlas’ direction. “The young lord knows how to fight,” he said. “Make sure his men know that.”
Cassius looked at Atlas, a smile of approval on his face. “Well done, my lord,” he said. Before Atlas could reply, however, he returned his attention to his brother. “Markus, an army has been sighted on The Orchard crossing. They will be here within the hour.”
Markus’ brow furrowed. “What army?”
“They are flying Berwick and royal standards.”
Markus’ eyes widened. “Edward?”
Cassius nodded. “He has finally arrived,” he said. “Papa must be escorting him here because he knows you are still at Trastamara.”
That made sense, but Markus found himself looking at the keep, knowing Amabella was there.
That was his only thought at the moment.
Edward had finally come for him, but he didn’t want to go.
He wanted to remain with the little girl who sauced fish, the little boy with his horse guard, the nervous young woman who had eyes for Cassius, and the young lord who was trying so hard to do his family justice.
But most of all, he wanted to remain with a woman he knew he couldn’t live without.
“Then send riders out to meet them if you haven’t already,” he said without enthusiasm. “I will meet them in the bailey.”
“I’ve got men mounted already,” Cassius said. He could sense something in his brother’s dour mood that had him puzzled. “Aren’t you happy about this? Your moment of glory has finally arrived.”
Markus was still looking at the keep. “Cass,” he said slowly. “I think my moment of glory has already come. And Edward did not bring it.”
With that, he walked away with the limping, wounded Atlas, heading towards the keep. Cassius watched him go, having no idea what he meant. He didn’t even have a clue.
But he soon would.