Chapter 39 | Will Scarlet
Our company fought courageously. Heroically. I was proud of our small group . . . yet it wouldn’t be enough.
Even I was starting to tire and grow wary of our chances here. The glade had turned into a bloody pit of death and carnage. We had killed nearly half their men, and they still pressed.
Every one of us was engaged in some form of fight for our lives. I fought back-to-back with Little John, until we were separated by the natural rhythms of the battle.
Then I was alone, grunting angrily and cutting into enemies where I could. They were growing wise to my tactics, and my twin blades were starting to find fewer and fewer open spots of flesh.
Then there was Sir Gregory, who was a man on a quest to redeem himself. To show everyone why he had been such a callous, vicious warrior in the past.
He fought like a champion.
The Knight Templar moved slowly but methodically. His armor was nearly impossible to penetrate.
Gregory’s sword, though? If he made contact with even one strike from that massive weapon, the day would be won. The Templar would fall, and the rest would follow.
This Amadeus Montford character was a master swordsman of the Templar Knights. He was a captain who lived by his own ridiculous rules. He had caused undue stress and burden to our people—to my people in Ravenshead, after sending Initiate Brandt and Sir Charles to collect my father’s land.
Those two got what they deserved.
And now it must be Sir Montford’s turn.
I stalked toward the glade, fending off enemies.
He saw me coming and turned his body aside to put Sir Gregory between us.
I didn’t care if they considered this a duel. A duel for what? There was no honor in this, no accolades. This was a battle for life and death, and our little fucking thorn was missing.
We couldn’t keep wasting time on this! So I would jump in and slay Montford when I saw an opening.
“No, Scarlet!” Sir Gregory yelled.
I was over his shoulder, yet he had felt me coming. Perhaps it was preternatural instincts. Maybe he just knew how I operated.
I gritted my teeth together, baring them to the enemy. “Then finish him, old man!”
The Templar Knight bellowed in response. He swung his sword in huge arcs, and Gregory was barely able to parry them before gliding back on his back foot and preparing for another onslaught.
“Your niece is missing, dammit!” I yelled.
Seconds later, I recognized why Sir Gregory had called the dog off—why he’d stayed my hand. Because as long as these two fought in the center of the glade, at least four or five soldiers were kept captivated watching the bout. Either they were waiting for an opening themselves, to attack Gregory, or . . .
No. They simply want to see the outcome, the fools.
I gripped my blades hard. I had half a mind to skirt to the other side of the glade where our enemies were encamped and start cutting them down as they watched.
But then the battle took a turn, before I could react.
Gregory swung fast and hard, lunging with his blade.
The Templar parried, riposted with a counter-lunge.
Gregory ducked away on his back leg—
Rocketing forward with momentum in his front leg after Sir Montford finished his attack.
This time, Gregory caught the Templar by surprise, moving fast for an old man.
It put Montford on his heels. He screamed, “God will smite you and inherit the earth! You shall fall!”
“You are not God, lunatic,” Gregory bellowed back at him. “And you won’t be inheriting a damn thing while I still have breath in my lungs!”
Their swords clashed. They moved faster now, spurred by their drive and renewed motivation. The Templar had the upper hand, being larger and a few years younger, perhaps. Gregory had the experience of age.
My eyes danced as I followed them, darting between the two with every whip-snap strike of their swords. I watched their footwork, noticing their impeccable strides, pivots, and repositions.
Montford spun and swung—
Gregory twisted with him, abruptly going back-to-back with the knight.
Montford pushed forward to get away from the dizzying trap.
Before Gregory had fully wheeled around, he stabbed backward, beneath his arm pit and behind him, with a firm jab—
His blade plunged past the joint of the Templar’s hauberk, and blood spilled.
Montford grunted, snarled, and wheeled into a defensive stance to face Gregory—
Who was no longer there.
Black cloak billowed to the side.
Montford pivoted—
And caught Gregory’s greatsword across the helmet.
A dark slash sparked across the full helm.
Montford yelled and stumbled back.
The other soldiers closed in—
I reeled, cocked my arm back, and threw one of my blades. It spun end over end, cutting through the fabric of the air itself—
And lodged into a soldier’s chest like a battleaxe.
Eyes turned toward the sudden carnage I’d caused.
Sir Montford hesitated long enough to get his bearings, but Gregory was already pouncing on him, meaning to put an end to this whole thing.
Briggs, John, Tuck, and Alan joined the fray with shouts of their own. We charged toward at least six fresh soldiers, ready to put a stop to them.
I looked away from the center duel for one split second—
And a triumphant bark split the night.
Eyes turned—
As a helmeted head careened through the sky, reflecting moonlight.
My mouth fell open. Sir Amadeus Montford’s head whirled in the air, his final expression of death forever masked by that full helmet covering his face.
There was a stunned moment of silence.
“Give God my condolences,” Gregory said to the swaying, headless body of the Templar Knight.
The soldiers nearest Gregory turned their ire on him, even as Montford’s white-garbed frame toppled to the ground.
A blade plunged into Gregory’s side. Another into his arm.
“No!” Little John yelled.
Gregory staggered. The soldiers jumped on him en masse.
I closed in on them with John and the others.
“Stay back!” Gregory shouted, and then slanted his blade in a wide arc that took a man’s knees away from him and forced the others shuffling back from his treacherous, oversized sword.
He bled in a thousand places. From his mouth, down his chin, Sir Gregory spit blood and grinned a wicked smile at the enemies.
He charged forward, despite his legs barely keeping him upright.
I glanced over at Little John, lost as to what we were supposed to do.
“Robert!” Gregory cried.
I glanced around the bloody field. Hadn’t seen any arrows or signs of the Oak Boys leader in . . . minutes. I only recognized Robert’s absence after Gregory called out his name.
I locked eyes with John, pitying, and we both shook our heads.
I wanted to push forward. It was six against one, and Gregory was going to collapse at any moment.
Except he struck such a fierce presence with his cloak fluttering, his body bleeding, his sword held high along his cheek. Like a monolith of strength and a paragon of virtue. He was such an authoritative figure there, creating a wall between us and our enemies, that I was stunned still.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do on the battlefield: heed his command to stay back? Or pile in with the other Merry Men and try to finish this?
“Robert, my son!” Gregory yelled again, more emphatically this time. His voice echoed through the woods.
Over his shoulder, he spoke to us. To everyone. To God. His voice trembled the heavens.
“Let an old man find peace on the battlefield, you wretched dogs . . . and go find . . . my fucking . . . niece!”