Chapter 18
The men quickly gathered up weapons and supplies and mounted their horses, Griffith in the lead. He knew only to ride south. He tried to clear his mind from its frantic racing and think rationally. Where would Rodger take Kallen?
Walmouth Woods would be the last place. Of that he was certain. Yet the woods lay to the south, much as Mangeron did. Quentin’s estate was to the southeast, just past Mangeron. The road would be the same for much of the way, veering off only near the end of the line.
Should he gamble and keep all the men with him, expecting Rodger to take Kallen directly to Quentin, or should he split his forces and try more than one approach?
Rodger might choose instead to swerve off onto a less-traveled road, go into hiding, and try and ransom Kallen to the villainous earl.
He would not put it past the traitor at this point.
Griffith decided it was a calculated risk, but he chose to have the entire guard stay together. They were still at least two days away from both Mangeron and Nowland’s estate. Griffith felt confident they would catch up to Rodger before then.
Especially if Kallen delayed him in any way.
If suspicion still lingered in her mind, she might try and slow them down, hoping Griffith would realize Rodger’s betrayal and come to her rescue.
It hurt that she hadn’t an idea where Walmouth Woods lay, though.
Rodger could head practically anywhere in all of England and lie to Kallen about the name of the place when they arrived.
He had to believe he would find them. He also wanted Rodger brought alive to Mangeron, so Crispin could deal with the man’s betrayal.
He would leave that judgment and its subsequent punishment in his friend’s hands.
Right now if Griffith came across Rodger, he would flay the man, stripping each layer of skin away slowly, ensuring an agonizing death.
He knew his men would feel similarly about Rodger, and so he called out as they picked their way carefully until dawn broke, “Rodger is to be taken alive. I insist upon it.”
John, riding to his left, questioned his order. “Are you certain, my lord? I bloody well want to tear him apart with me bare hands.”
He glanced around him. All the men shared the same determined look.
“Lady Kallen is special,” John added. “We want her returned. When we find ‘em, you care for her, my lord. Allow us to handle the traitor.”
Griffith nodded. He would not argue now.
“God be with us all,” John called, and the band of soldiers echoed his sentiment. A hollow feeling rang through Griffith as he focused on the road ahead. He wished he, too, could call upon God for guidance. Part of him wanted to, while the other half rejected any notion of God’s existence.
Yet as the cadence of the hooves became a constant throb, a rhythmic thought much like a prayer repeated over and over in his mind.
Keep Kallen safe. Keep Kallen safe.
He didn’t think it an offered prayer, but a small part of him hoped someone was listening. And would answer.
It could be hours before they spotted Rodger or any of Quentin’s group of soldiers, assuming they headed in the same direction. Rodger had a good half-hour lead, possibly more, with Quentin’s soldiers close to that. When they encountered the earl’s men, Griffith intended to take no prisoners.
The dawn broke, clearing the faint mist of night. As they now set a brisk pace, Griffith tried to reason why Quentin would want Kallen, much less how he even knew of her existence. Before an answer came, he caught sight of what had to be the remainder of Nowland’s soldiers in the distance.
He spurred on Satan like a madman, drawing his arming sword as he rode.
Griffith had counted on Quentin’s men keeping to a slower pace since they had no reason to suspect that the Mangeron men would know who they were and ride after them in the correct direction.
He hadn’t expected to catch them this soon but was glad of it.
As his guard closed the gap between the two groups, Quentin’s men heard their approach.
Shock crossed their faces as they turned their horses and fumbled to draw their weapons before being overtaken.
Griffith counted on his men’s momentum to plow into the enemy and take as many as possible in that first assault since they were fewer in number.
His sword sliced across the chest of the man first on his left and quickly slit the throat of the next soldier to the man’s left.
Griffith turned to his right and saw his men making haste with their choice of weapons.
Bastons and maces swung, poleaxes ripped, and estocs stabbed into enemies in the breadth of a few seconds.
They caught Quentin’s larger guard totally unaware.
The precious seconds it took them to realize they were under attack cost most of them their lives.
Those surviving banded together and rode full force into Griffith’s guard. Men were knocked from their horses, steel clanged against steel, hoarse shouts mingled with bloodcurdling cries. Within minutes, Griffith’s angry force literally wiped out the opposing group.
Save for one. Griffith saw him remount in the midst of the confusion and take off down the road. He cut into a grove of trees. Griffith decided the man must be questioned since all others appeared dead.
He turned to John. Before he could speak, the soldier nodded and waved him on.
“I saw him, my lord. Have at him,” John shouted, a grin crossing his broad face. “We’ll finish the task at hand.”
Griffith jumped upon Satan’s back and followed.
The forest he angled into was thick and slowed him considerably, but he caught sight of the soldier not thirty feet ahead.
The rider’s horse pulled up lame. He watched the man jump from his mount’s back and curse loudly as he held his right hand to his shoulder.
As Griffith approached, he saw blood spilling from the wound, staining the man’s fingers.
“Ah, by the Holy Christ, just kill me now, Griffith Sommersby!” the man cried as he fell to his knees. “Better ye than that bloody bastard earl.”
“You know me?” Griffith asked.
“Aye. The earl said ye’d be in charge of the escort party. I know ye by reputation to be fair, so run a sword through me and be done with it.”
Griffith dismounted, his weapon clutched in his hand. He stepped to the man and touched the tip of the sword to his chest. The man grimaced, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth set firmly in place.
“Will you talk to me?”
The soldier opened his eyes and studied Griffith. He shrugged. “Why not?”
Griffith backed off a few steps and re-sheathed his sword. “The Earl of Nowland sent you to take Kallen de Mangeron.”
The man nodded. “He did. Wants her in the worst way.”
“Why?”
“He said she’s of his blood, and he must have her by his side.
We would recognize her hair of silvery blond, just as his mother and sister and he possess.
That things would change once she took up residence at Nowland.
Told us where ye’d be and how many in number.
He said she would reverse his fortunes. Said not to bother coming back unless we had the girl and not a hair on her head harmed. ”
The knight took a pained breath and gripped his shoulder. “He’s in a bad way, the earl is. There be talk of debts mounting. ‘Tweren’t always so. When his mother was alive, things was different. Nowland seem to know things back then.”
The man shook his head. “’Twas rumored the mother be a witch who could foretell the future. Mayhap ‘tis why he wants Lady Kallen now.”
The words caused the blood to pound at Griffith’s temples. “You accuse Kallen de Mangeron of witchery?”
In a rage, Griffith ran his sword through the man and yanked it free. The soldier fell backward to the ground. Silence blanketed the woods.
His anger surprised him. He’d killed in haste and passion, wanting to protect her name. He knew Kallen to be an innocent, not a witch. God would never allow one so good and pure to become the spawn of the Devil.
God?
The thought stopped Griffith cold. In their brief time together, Kallen had shown a strong faith in God. Had her talk of the Almighty seeped into his conscience?
Had he been wrong? Did God truly exist? Griffith had blamed Him for Carina’s death and that of his son, never giving thought that women died in childbirth every day.
Throughout Sommerset’s lands, did not most women lose a child or more over the course of their child birthing years?
Small crosses littered the graveyard of babes who had not survived.
Even his mother suffered the loss of two of her own children soon after birth.
Only he and Deva survived from infancy to adulthood.
Was it simply the grand scheme of things in this world? Had he blamed God for the natural order?
And now he had killed a man simply because he couldn’t tolerate even a whisper of slander against Kallen.
Griffith admitted to himself nothing but love would be so powerful as to move him in word and deed. If need be, he would go to the ends of the earth to find Kallen. He’d killed for her. He would die for her. He must find her and assure her safety, even if ‘twere done with his dying breath.
He returned to his men, more determined than ever.
“The man confirmed ‘twas the Earl of Nowland who wished to ransom Lady Kallen,” he shared, keeping the heart of their conversation to himself. “Most of you know of the bitter feelings between the earl and the de Mangeron family.
“Come. Only one man lies between us and recovering Lady Kallen."
Griffith wheeled Satan. His men fell in behind him. He resolved they would regain Kallen before this day was out.
They rode only a few leagues before they came to a standstill.
Rodger lay dead in the middle of the road.
But where was Kallen?