Chapter 38
Holding Kallen close was a mix of sweet relief. Griffith thought ahead to the task at hand. He’d once entrusted her to Rodger, and that had been disastrous.
Still, he needed to capture Quentin himself. He couldn’t very well carry Kallen into battle on his back, which meant he must turn her over into another’s hands. The man he most trusted was Philip, who now led the other contingency.
Griffith stepped back and studied her. Her aura burned brightly. He saw the love she had for him. It only made releasing her more difficult.
Kallen glanced over his shoulder and nodded to a man. “That one. He’s trustworthy.” She gave him a wisp of a smile. “Rely on him, Griffith. Leave me with him. He’ll not fail you.”
He touched a hand to her cheek. “You read my thoughts, love.” He brushed a quick kiss on her lips then signaled Edgar over.
“Stay here with my wife. Her safety is in your hands.”
The young soldier blinked in surprise. “I would die protecting her, my lord,” he said earnestly.
“Go,” Kallen urged him.
Griffith squeezed her hand and broke away to move alongside his attacking men. As they approached the camp, he stepped over the body of the guard who’d watched Kallen. Anger rushed through him, though he knew the soldier only had been doing his duty.
This anger built, coursing more swiftly than anything he’d ever experienced. Griffith knew he must use it—but not let it consume him.
They circled around, bits of conversation from Nowland’s men now within their hearing. The troops were in a relaxed posture. Griffith knew Philip would be in place. They must make their move while Nowland’s men were so unprepared.
Griffith caught sight of his enemy berating a smithy as he worked hunched over a horse’s hoof. A tremendous heat enveloped him, so real was his fury against this one man.
He drew his sword and silently signaled his men.
The Sommerset soldiers rushed into the makeshift camp, immediately surrounding the unsuspecting men of Nowland.
While Griffith’s men outnumbered their enemy, the fighting was fierce.
The sound of clanging swords rang through the forest air, along with screams and hoarse grunts.
Griffith kept a steady course toward the Earl of Nowland, running his sword through one man, yanking it back quickly and attacking another. The second man put up a brief challenge, but soon Griffith awarded him a mortal blow.
The soldier fell wordlessly to the ground, blood soaking the grass below him.
Methodically, he killed twice more, making his way closer to Nowland. He wanted the pleasure of running his sword through the earl’s black heart.
But where was he? In the confusion of battle, Griffith suddenly lost his enemy. No, wait. He spied a horseman riding off to the west. With that shock of silvery blond hair, it could only be the earl.
Griffith grabbed the nearest horse and swung into the saddle, sword still in hand. He kicked his heels hard and the beast took off. It had an unusual speed for so powerful a war-horse, and Griffith easily closed the gap between him and his mortal foe.
Nowland kept peering over his shoulder, sheer desperation written across his face. Finally, he pulled alongside his enemy.
“Stop!” he thundered, even as Quentin shook his head.
“You’ll not dictate to me, Sommersby.”
Griffith’s temper snapped. He threw a hard punch that connected with the older man’s jaw. The loud crack could be heard over the rumble of horses’ hooves.
The earl went tumbling from his mount as his horse ran off. Griffith reined in his mount and returned to where the earl rolled on the ground. One hand cradled his jaw, while his arm was wrapped around his center. Griffith guessed Quentin had broken a rib or two in the fall.
He dismounted and stood over the man with his sword drawn. Griffith knew Lord Applegate said to hold Nowland until the barons had addressed Edward, but how could he let his adversary go afterward? If alive, the monster would always be a threat to Kallen.
Blood bubbled from Nowland’s mouth. Griffith looked closer and saw the blood that oozed between the earl’s fingers. He glanced quickly about and spied a dagger on the ground. Nowland must have had it out to use in defending himself, only to fall on it as he lost his balance after Griffith’s punch.
More blood erupted from between his lips, and he moaned. Griffith recognized the sound of a man dying, one he’d heard too often before on the battlefield. He could find no pity in his heart as he watched Kallen’s treacherous father take his last gasps of breath.
The earl’s glazed eyes met Griffith’s gaze. “I could have been king,” he whispered then fell still, his eyes wide as death took him.
Griffith was thankful it hadn’t been necessary to make a decision as to Nowland’s fate. The evil nobleman sealed it himself and died by his own hand.
He lifted the body and placed it upon the stolen horse, which had circled back around, unsure what to do without a rider commanding its way. He returned the dagger to Nowland’s scabbard, careful not to touch the blade. He couldn’t trust that Quentin hadn’t poisoned the knife.
He grasped the horse’s reins and began walking back to his men.
To where Kallen waited for him.