Chapter Fifteen #2
Emilie was shaken, verging on tears. “That terrible, terrible man,” she sniffed. “What are you going to do?”
David smiled at his daughter when she reached up and grabbed at his nose. He kissed the little fingers.
“Not to worry,” he told his wife vaguely, mostly because he didn’t have an answer for her. “Men like Julian are an annoyance and little more.”
“But he did what you said he would do,” she persisted. “He has come to blame you for his wife’s disappearance.”
David could only nod in agreement, thinking on the trouble they would now be in for.
His brother was due to visit London in a few days and he had to apprise the man of the situation immediately.
Kissing Emilie one last time, he gently released her and went to one of the long lancet windows to see the activity outside.
He could see Julian and his men mounting their horses, and Kevin and several de Lohr men ensuring they rode for the gates.
He could hear Julian screaming threats as his party thundered away from the manse.
The group passed out of David’s line of sight but he continued to stand at the window, watching Kevin and his soldiers as they formed a defensive line around the front of the manse.
There were at least seventy men now, protecting the house from Julian and his madness, waiting for the man to clear the main gates.
Another twenty men were running after Julian’s party to close the gates when he left.
David breathed a sigh of relief and turned from the window.
He was wondering how he was going to explain all of this to his brother, the extremely powerful Earl of Hereford and Worcester.
Christopher de Lohr had served Richard the Lionheart during the Crusade to The Levant and had quickly established himself as the king’s mightiest warrior.
He had even earned himself a nickname, the Lion’s Claw.
A lion, even a Lionheart, was only as deadly as his claws, and Christopher had been exceedingly deadly. He still was.
His brother was, even now, on his way from his seat of Lioncross Abbey to Bellham, bringing troops that would reinforce Buckland’s numbers in France.
David had sent word to his brother when he had left Dunster to send men and material for Buckland’s cause.
Now, David didn’t relish the thought of telling him what had become of his alliance with Baron Buckland.
He knew his brother would not be pleased.
David’s thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the courtyard. He returned to the window, quickly, to see his men bolting from their strategic positions at the front of the manse. They were running towards the front gates as fast as they could. Concerned, David made haste to the front door.
“Where are you going?”
Emilie, having recently regained her seat and her sewing, was frightened anew at the sight of her husband running to the front door. David waved her off.
“Stay here and bolt the door,” he told her. “Do not open it for anyone but me or Kevin. Is that clear?”
Emilie nodded fearfully and David threw open the front door, noting quickly that there was some kind of skirmish going on at his front gate.
He raced into the solar and collected a sword from the small armory closet that was there.
Running back at the front door, he passed by his fearful wife as he quit the manse.
He heard her slam the door and throw the bolt behind him.
As David raced to the front gates, he truly had no idea what he would find.
All he knew was that there was some kind of battle going on.
He could hear shouts and see men pounding one another.
Fast as lightning and fearless, David plunged into the fray, having no idea what he was fighting for.
He tended to fight first, ask questions later.
But the sight of a snapping, kicking charger, riderless, caught his attention.
He recognized the beast as someone tried to corral it.
In a panic, he began looking around for the horse’s rider.
It was Gart’s charger.
*
It had been a long ride to Bellham Place, the de Lohr residence in London.
The weather from the Marches had been terrible and he had ridden through driving rainstorms for three solid days.
Mud was his daily companion, up to his horse’s knees in the black and mucky stuff.
He had stopped only to rest the horse and eat, plowing through the wet, green plains north of Salisbury and on across the softly rolling hills as he approached London.
He’d stopped the night before arriving in London at a livery he had patronized before, a big place with lots of fresh straw and comfortable for the horses.
He’d put his big charger in an end stall and stretched out on a pile of hay in the corner of the stall, lulled to sleep by the sound of his horse chomping on grain and grass.
When he awoke a few hours later, the horse was still eating and he had to grin at the beast. The horse would eat until it exploded so he got up, brushed down his horse, put the saddle back on, and was along his way.
He calculated that he would arrive in Bellham around noon and he was precise in his estimate.
It was just the nooning hour as he trekked down the shady, tree-lined road that led to the great gates of Bellham, the sounds of birds and the soft clip-clop of his horse the only sounds in his ears.
Then he noticed a group of men leaving Bellham, soldiers, with one man leading the pack.
The man was bellowing unintelligible words.
Gart couldn’t tell what was happening until he was nearly upon the group and then, with a jolt of shock, he recognized Julian.
It was Julian who had been doing the screaming and Gart didn’t have to guess why.
He also didn’t have to guess at the man’s presence at Bellham.
Frankly, he was a little shocked to cross paths with the man but the truth was that, at some point, he had expected it.
He had planned for it. Just not so soon.
Gart’s helm was on but his visor was up.
It was too late to slam it down because Julian, unfortunately, had already noticed him.
He was screaming something about making de Lohr pay and hurling curses.
Gart reined his charger as far to the right as he could, trying to stay out of Julian’s way because the man was all over the road.
His poor horse was frothy and excited. But Julian fixed Gart in the eye and the man’s jaw dropped.
The disbelief in his expression was evident, a stroke of luck in the most unexpected of places.
He began hollering at the top of his lungs, pointing in Gart’s direction.
“It is him!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Forbes is here! He is here!”
Gart quickly assessed the escort with Julian.
There were at least ten men, perhaps more.
They were all scrambling and it was difficult to gauge an exact count.
Gart didn’t stop to try and talk with Julian because he knew it would do no good.
There was nothing to do but face the man head on.
Unsheathing his broadsword, he was focused on the two men rushing him on horseback when something hit him from his blind side.
Knocked squarely in the head, he lost his balance and toppled onto the ground.
Bordering on unconsciousness, Gart could hear weapons being drawn around him.
He could hear men snapping, shouting, and somewhere in the middle of it was Julian’s shrill voice.
He realized he still had his broadsword in his hand and he brought it up, slashing at men near him.
He struggled to get to his knees, shaking off the buzzing in his head as he labored to defend himself.
Men were kicking him and pummeling him. His slashing broadsword made contact with someone because he felt the strike followed by a scream. He tried to get to his knees but there were too many around him, overwhelming him.
Since he was covered in armor, the blows weren’t doing any real damage but the initial strike to the head still had him reeling.
He was starting to feel some rage at having been attacked, building as he realized it was him against a dozen armed men, and the sach, the madman, began to make an appearance.
The rage began to grow, rising up through his legs to his chest until it reached his head. It was insanity unleashed.
He grabbed the leg nearest his head and he twisted the man’s leg brutally, flipping him onto the dirt.
As the soldier screamed in pain, Gart dropped his broadsword to the ground and rolled to his knees.
Massive fists began striking men in the vulnerable pelvic area and he sent at least two men down with blows to the groin.
Staggering to his feet, he took out another two soldiers with savage blows to the face.
The heat of fury was rolling through him.
His face was red and sweaty. One soldier ran at him and he grabbed the man around the neck with one hand, using his other to twist his head so hard that his neck snapped.
Bones crumbled in Gart’s iron grip and he dropped the dead soldier, moving in for another.
Buckland’s men began to see that Gart was bent on murder and they withdrew every weapon in their arsenal, daggers and broadswords, moving towards Gart with the intention of killing him.
It was no longer a case of simply beating the man senseless.
Gart saw the weapons and knew the battle was about to get even more lethal.
He spied his broadsword on the ground several feet away and made haste in its direction.