Chapter Forty
The stop in London had been for the sole purpose of picking up the crown troops, now numbering nearly three thousand strong.
Christopher viewed his huge army with satisfaction, knowing they would surely quell John easily and he could return home soon.
Richard was crossing the channel as he met with the jubilant justices, but Christopher could not wait for the king.
John had to be controlled as he laid siege to the mighty stronghold of Gowergrove Castle.
Richard’s return had indeed pleased Christopher, but with the focus his life had taken, he hadn’t felt the excitement he once would have.
He no longer lived solely for his king, but for his family, and he wondered how well Richard would receive that knowledge.
Christopher intended to step down from his title as Defender and become a mere baron once again, leaving the duties of the realm to a successor he would surely handpick.
Marcus was the first man that came to mind.
The troops were retrieved and the three thousand man army headed northwest to the great castle of Gowergrove, a favorite holding of Richard’s at the southern tip of Sherwood Forest. John had always had his eye on the fortress, and if Gowergrove were under his command, ’twould be near impossible to pass from southern to northern England without passing through his territory.
Christopher had to secure the castle at all costs, and early on the eleventh day after leaving Lioncross, he lay siege to John’s troops at Gowergrove Castle.
John’s mercenary army was dug in like a tick on a dog.
The walls of Gowergrove were nearly thirty feet tall and the moat surrounding it was filled with nasty, rotting filth, very undesirable for the men-at-arms to go plunging into, to say nothing of the knights in their armor.
Leeton set two hundred men to building ladders to mount the walls, but until that time, there was naught else to do but besiege Gowergrove with archers; fine Welsh archers whose accuracy was legendary.
Three days into the siege, the ladders were complete and after a day and a night of attempts, they were finally able to cap the walls and the battle truly began. When the bridge went down, Christopher was the first man inside.
The fighting went on for days. Long, exhaustive days.
Christopher saw barely five hours’ worth of sleep and spent his entire time in the saddle dueling mercenaries.
Ralph was nowhere to be seen, but he saw Sir Dennis on several occasions and made it his focal point to seek the man out and destroy him.
The battle had spilled out into the surrounding areas and the moat was filled to overflowing with the bodies of the dead.
Christopher had suffered tremendous losses, as had John, but he refused to withdraw because John’s army was considerably weaker.
He knew it would not be much longer and he would have Gowergrove secured.
As is usual in February, the winter weather turned extremely foul and the worst storm Christopher could remember doused them day and night.
At night, the rain would turn to ice and pelt the armor like a thousand stones being thrown, but in the day, it was miserable freezing rain.
The land outside the castle soon turned into a deep, mucky bog and the destriers were up to their knees in the stuff, making fighting extremely difficult.
Christopher was exhausted, as they all were.
One morning, he found himself fighting outside of the great wall, trying to help Leeton subdue a particularly hearty band of criminals.
They were trying to steer them toward the moat, corner them in, but the unruly horde were proving to be most disobedient and Christopher was fed up with all of it.
His frustration had reached a frenzied level when something huge and powerful tore into his body, plowing through his mall and shoving his breastplate aside as it invaded his midsection brutally.
Stunned, Christopher’s hand flew to his left side and he was anguished to feel the shaft of a great spear protruding from his torso. The rain had begun to fall again, in great blinding sheets, washing his life’s blood down his saddle and onto the ground before it could collect on his armor.
He still retained enough of his wits and reined Zephyr around, heading with speed for the trees.
He wanted to be away from the battle zone so there would be something left of his body to return to Dustin.
And he knew, with great remorse, anger, and agony that he was going to die.
He had seen wounds like this before and they were always fatal.
Christopher barely made it to the edge of the forest before weakness overcame him and he fell from his horse in a great, dying heap.
He struggled through the haze of darkness that threatened to crawl further into the underbrush, his breathing coming in harsh gasps and feeling pain radiate throughout his body like nothing he had ever known.
His eyes burned with tears, but not for himself.
He would never again know the sweetness of his wife’s flesh, nor would he have the joy of watching his daughter grow into a beautiful young lady.
The torment of cruel fate surged through him and he cursed himself the first day he ever picked up a sword.
If he could have changed it, he gladly would have.
He missed Dustin already. Goddammit, it just wasn’t fair!
There was someone beside him and he recognized Leeton, rushing at him in panic.
“Jesus, Chris,” Leeton’s voice cracked. “The bloody bastards got you. Oh, Jesus, let me see!”
Christopher tried to wave him off, knowing any attempt to save him was futile, but Leeton roughly yanked off his breastplate and shoved his mail aside.
“A spear,” Leeton spit with contempt. “Goddamn cowards could not get you with a sword, so they took to hurling spears. I have got to get this out.”
Christopher started to shake his head, but he was far too weak to do anything but utter a strangled yelp when Leeton yanked the spear from his guts.
Bright red blood gushed freely as Leeton slapped a few rags of linen on the spot, knowing they would be nearly useless against such a flow.
He already felt the loss of his liege deeply and his handsome face was pale with sorrow.
“Leeton,” Christopher groaned, grabbing at him.
“Aye, Chris, I am here,” he said, grasping Christopher’s hand and holding it tightly.
Christopher could barely speak. “Take….take my wedding ring,” he whispered. “Take it back to my wife. Tell her….tell her what happened and tell her my last thoughts were of her. And tell her I love her, Leeton. I love her with all my heart.”
Leeton, a seasoned veteran, found himself choking back tears. “Chris, I….”
“Take it!” Christopher tried to yell, but he had not the strength to press his point. His life was fading away and his strength with it.
He held up his left hand. Leeton hesitated for a tormented moment before ripping off the gauntlet and pulling off the ring.
He did not know who was the more miserable; him or Christopher.
He wanted to scream, to yell, to demand that God show pity and take him instead, but he could only focus on his liege with tears in his eyes.
Christopher, satisfied that his last wish would be carried out, let his hand fall to the ground.
His blue eyes closed and there was a faint smile on his lips.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Leeton heard a horn and turned his head in the direction of the battle. “Chris, they have got the mercenaries boxed in. I have got to go, but I swear I shall be back. Do you hear me? I shall be back. I shall find Burwell and return. He will save you.”
Christopher weakly grasped his wrist. “No one can save me, Leeton,” Christopher murmured. “You and I both know this is the end of me. One more thing….find David and tell him that I am sorry for everything. Tell my brother than I love him and ask him to take care of Dustin and Christin for me.”
Leeton could not stop the strangled sob, but he nodded his head furiously. “Aye, anything you say,” he said tearfully, grasping Christopher’s shoulders with his big hands. “Just… please hold on. Burwell ought to have something to patch up that hole.”
Christopher did not reply; he had already slipped into unconsciousness and his breathing was slowing.
Swallowing hard, Leeton took one last look at his liege, his grief overflowing, wishing he was not the one charged with the horrible duty of informing Lady de Lohr of her husband’s passing.
Already, he felt the agony to his bones.
But he would do what had been asked of him in one last show of obedience.
He would have much rather stayed with Christopher as he breathed his last, but more pressing duties were calling and he answered reluctantly.
Leaving Christopher lying beneath the trees to protect him from the rain, he put the wedding ring on his left hand for safekeeping and mounted Zephyr.
His own destrier, suffering a huge gash to the chest, was left grazing on the edge of the forest.
Leeton reined Zephyr in the direction of the battle, taking one last glance at Christopher’s still form under the trees.
Dear God, it wasn’t fair. Christopher was The Defender, entitled to immortality, deserving of divine grace.
To die fighting the bastard prince was unworthy of such a great man, and Leeton felt a great surge of anger wash over him.
Leeton swore to himself that he would find Ralph and Dennis and John and run each one of them through on Christopher’s behalf.
If it took him the rest of his life, he would do it.
Every one of those bastards would pay for what they had done to his beloved liege and friend.
And with each stroke of the sword into their flesh, he would be sure to mention Dustin’s name.
He made it several hundred yards from the wall, fighting alongside other knights in the blinding rain.
Aboard Zephyr, the men thought he was Christopher and the fighting was furious.
They were inspired by him. Yet they were not the only ones who thought he was Christopher; a barrage of crossbows unleashed arrows as plentiful as rain, and Zephyr went down in a scream of agony.
Leeton tried to bolt free, but the horse fell quickly and with all of his armor, he was weighted severely. There was no chance for him to escape.
Twenty-five hundred pounds of horseflesh buried him face-first in the mud, and in Leeton’s last wild thoughts, he never imagined he would actually drown on the field of battle.
*
The battle for Gowergrove was over.
Crown troops victoriously let Richard’s pennant fly from the walls and took to killing any remaining mercenary soldiers.
Word of The Defender’s death hit everyone hard, as hard as if their own beloved father had been taken from them, and they were committed to doing everything they could to make John’s army pay.
As the men moved slowly and lethargically about their duties, as exhausted men usually do, disbelief filled every face.
Anguish and grief were hand in hand among the men, and especially the knights.
But none were harder hit than Christopher’s personal stable.
They set about their tasks mechanically, although each and every one of them had taken the time to view the body in the mud, half-buried underneath his destrier.
Seeing had to be believing, yet none wanted to believe.
“We lost Leeton, too,” Max mumbled, gazing down on the body of their great liege. “Has anyone even seen him?”
“Nay,” Sean de Lara replied, turning away from the rotting corpse underneath the horse.
Sean had remained in London when Christopher had gone to Lioncross last year, but then rejoined Christopher when the man had come to London to collect the crown troops.
He had been by the baron’s side for weeks.
“He is probably buried underneath this muck, somewhere. I saw his horse three days ago, over by the line of trees.”
Anthony de Velt had shown an amazing amount of responsibility in the past three days.
A rotting hand, a wedding ring around the left finger, was jutting up out of the rancid mud and he reached down and plucked the gold band free.
“For Lady de Lohr,” he said softly. “She will want to keep it. Now, we must bury the body.”
“We are not returning him to Lioncross?” Max stood up from his crouch and faced his brother. “To be buried on his soil?”
“Max, if we bring this sickening corpse back to Lioncross, you know Lady Dustin is going to want to view her husband,” Anthony said pointedly. “We will try to prevent her, but you know she will gain her way. Do you truly want her to see Chris in this state? It will drive her insane.”
Max glanced down at the corpse, so bloated and unrecognizable that the skin was splitting on the head where the helmet was restraining it. The only thing of any recognition was the blond hair, and the ring.
“Nay,” he said after a moment, crossing himself and uttering a prayer. “God, no.”
Anthony nodded curtly. “Then set up a detail to dig Chris a grave. Leeton one, too, if we can find his body. Pick a nice place, perhaps on that little rise up there.”
Max tore his gaze away from the body and motioned to Guy de la Rosa. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get to it.”
Sean and Anthony were left gazing down at the grisly scene. “What in the world happened?” Sean asked. “I mean, look at the way the horse has fallen. Impaled through the heart, he is. Is it possible it fell on Chris and he drowned in the mud?”
Anthony shrugged. “Mayhap we shall know after we free the body. Meanwhile, we have a whole keep to clean up.” He glanced over at the men-at-arms who were beginning a funeral pyre and he stomped off in their direction.
“Hey! You men over there! Do not burn bodies so close to the keep unless you want to render everyone in the castle ill!”
He was off shouting, leaving Sean standing a depressing watch over the remains of his liege. The thought that The Defender was gone was so overwhelmingly bleak that the man hesitated to believe another day would dawn over England.
He glanced at the sky above, bleak and gray. That was the world to him at the moment without his liege, bleak and gray and colorless. He could not stand to look at the body anymore; with a sting to his eyes, he went to help the others dig graves.