CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
September
Newark, the Midlands
It was chaos.
The battle of Newark Castle was in full swing and men were fighting with a ferocity rarely seen. On a bright autumn day that, under normal circumstances would have been lovely and peaceful, men were killing each other and taking great pleasure in it.
The king was boxed up in Newark Castle, which had the rebels frothing at the mouth. They wanted John, and they wanted him badly, so much so that they’d laid siege to Newark Castle with so many men that it looked like the population of a great city had ganged up around the old castle walls. Siege engines were hurling flaming projectiles over the walls and the Earl of Wolverhampton, Edward de Wolfe, had brought a great battering ram that his men, hidden behind archers bearing great shields, were using to try and damage the gatehouse enough so that men could start infiltrating the castle.
It was sheer madness, and that had only been the first day. But on the second day, things changed dramatically.
There were two fronts to the battle – around the castle itself and then a raging war in the fields to the east of the castle. While de Wolfe, Marcus Burton, Gart Forbes, and other warlords bombarded the castle, Savernake, along with de Winter, the Earl of Lincoln, Christopher and David de Lohr, William Marshal, and the king’s half-brother William Longespée handled the mass of mercenaries in the open ground, an enormous army that had come down from the north to try and free the king.
But it had been a hard fight.
The mercenaries, fighting for the sheer pleasure of fighting, were brutal in their tactics. Already, Dashiell had seen them cut down several excellent knights and then cheer with glee when they were bathing in their blood. Even for seasoned warriors, it had been shocking. Therefore, the mounted knights were being shadowed by infantry because the mercenaries were specifically targeting the mounted men and the commanders of the infantry, hoping to cut the head off the rebellion so the infantry would scatter.
But it wasn’t working; the infantry was protective of their commanders, Dashiell included, and after a particularly brutal fight that had lasted for several hours with a gang of mercenaries from Franconia, Dashiell and his men found themselves backing off somewhat so the men could have a few moments of rest. Pulling out their bladders of watered wine or flat ale, they drank deeply and took a moment to simply breathe, watching the fighting going on around them.
“Du Reims!”
Dashiell heard his name, turning to see a knight riding towards him astride a big bay warhorse with a huge gash on one leg. Given that he’d spent all morning trying to fend off fools from trying to kill him, Dashiell had his broadsword lifted as the man came near. But when he flipped up his visor, Dashiell gratefully lowered the sword.
“Sherston,” he said with relief. “I did not know you were here.”
Anthony Cromford grinned, his young face sweaty and grimy. “Aye,” he said. “I rode in with the Earl of Lincoln. It’s quite a mess we find ourselves in, isn’t it?”
Dashiell snorted. “You could say that,” he said. “It has been a while since we last spoke. How is your father?”
Sherston nodded. “Well, thank you,” he said. “He wanted to come with me but, alas, he has an ailment of the joints that makes it so he can hardly hold a knife much less a sword.”
“Ah,” Dashiell said, raising his helm as he leaned forward on the saddle. “It is difficult to grow old. After watching the duke in his elderly years, I do not think I am looking forward to it, but it is better than the alternative.”
Sherston laughed softly in understanding. “It is better than being dead,” he agreed. But his smile quickly faded. “I have been looking for Clayton. Is he around here?”
Dashiell’s smile vanished. Clayton was not his favorite subject to discuss, especially as of late. In the five months since leaving Ramsbury, Clayton had proved himself to be an absolute nightmare. He’d been given Edward’s traveling tent, his attendants, and all of the trappings of the Duke of Savernake, and he’d done nothing but abuse what kindnesses he’d been given. He openly railed against Dashiell and anyone else who opposed him, and even now, he’d taken a contingent of overworked soldiers near the heart of the fighting because he was determined to prove himself a glorious warrior and a worthy duke.
Truly, everything about him had been a nightmare and Dashiell, as well as the other warlords, were at the end of their patience with him. But Sherston didn’t know that, so Dashiell tried to be politely neutral when answering.
“If you want to speak with the Duke of Savernake, he is over towards the west, seeking glory,” he said. “Or I can just as easily relay a message to him. He is not the most pleasant individual these days.”
Sherston lifted his eyebrows. “I heard,” he said. “News travels. I am very sorry about Edward’s death, du Reims. He was a well-loved man. And what you now have in his place… as I said, I am very sorry.”
Dashiell nodded. “As am I,” he said. Then, he eyed Sherston for a moment. “Is this about the betrothal to Belladonna?”
Sherston shrugged, averting his gaze as he wiped at his sweaty face. “In a sense,” he said. “I shall be truthful, du Reims – I must refuse Clayton’s marital offer. I cannot hold off any longer, even though I know you wanted me to give you time. But I simply cannot hold off.”
Dashiell’s lips twitched with a smile. “You do not need to,” he said. “I married Belladonna before we left on campaign. But I am curious, what is so pressing that you must refuse now?”
Sherston gave him a rather comical look. “Because I married Jillayne Chadlington.”
Dashiell burst out laughing. “God be praised,” he snorted. “I had not heard. Congratulations, my friend. My wife will be very pleased to hear that her friend, Jillayne, has married such a fine young lord. Truly, it is good news.”
Sherston smiled in return and started to reply when an arrow suddenly hit him in the neck. As he toppled from his horse, he and Dashiell were suddenly surrounded by a mass of fighting men. It was instant turmoil, and Dashiell was in a panic to get to the young lord as he lay upon the earth, bleeding to death.
Leaping from his warhorse, Dashiell began to fight his way through men whom he realized, to his horror, were wearing the colors of William Marshal.
And they were trying to kill him.
Greatly puzzled by the savagery of allied troops, Dashiell fought fiercely, reaching Sherston on the ground and trying to fight off the men that were stepping on the fallen knight. He saw the flash of a big broadsword in his periphery and brought up his weapon only to realize that it was Aston, fighting off more Marshal men that were trying to kill him.
“Aston!” Dashiell bellowed. “What has happened?”
Aston was exhausted and distressed. “Marshal and Longespée have turned against us,” he said. “They have flanked us to the east and west, and de Lohr has suffered major casualties. Now they are coming after Savernake.”
Dashiell was shocked, but he didn’t have time to dwell over it. His life depended on his ability to accept what he’d been told, and accept it quickly. Two allied rebel armies, once having sided with John, were now apparently in the king’s fold again. Damnation! Dashiell thought.
The world was collapsing.
“How are the other armies?” Dashiell asked Aston. “De Winter and Burton and the rest? Are they suffering heavy casualties also?”
Aston nodded. “We are being crushed, Dash.”
Those were ominous words, and Dashiell had to think quickly. The lives of his men, and potentially every man in the rebellion, depended on it. Bending over Sherston, he could see that the young man was dying; an arrow had gone through the right side of his neck, straight through to the other side, carving a nasty path through his flesh with a serrated arrowhead. It was a mess.
But Dashiell wasn’t going to give up. Sherston was looking up at him, utter fear in his eyes, and Dashiell couldn’t let the man down.
He wouldn’t.
“I am going to put you on your horse,” he told the young knight. “The horse will find its way out of this. All you need do is hold on. Do you hear me? Just hold on.”
“My father,” Sherston said, trying to speak even though his throat was destroyed. “You must tell my father.”
“I will.”
“And Jillayne…”
“She will know how glorious you were in battle, Anthony, I swear it.”
Sherston was gurgling, unable to breathe because blood was in his lungs now. He coughed, spraying blood onto Dashiell, as both he and Aston lifted him back to his horse. More arrows were flying overhead and men with swords were trying very hard to kill each other. It was absolutely harrowing.
Once Sherston was thrown over his saddle, Dashiell turned the horse towards the north, where there seemed to be less fighting, but the horse was terrified and wouldn’t run. It was then that Dashiell saw the banners of Longespée, now attacking de Winter men, and Dashiell knew in that moment that if he didn’t do something, and do it quickly, they were all going to die.
In truth, he knew what he had to do.
There was little choice.
“Aston,” he said. “Pass the word to de Lohr, de Winter, and the others. Tell them to retreat. This is a battle they cannot win. Tell them that Savernake will hold the line to cover their retreat, but tell them to get out of here. They must run.”
Aston looked at him, a flash of pain crossing his features as he realized what Dashiell was suggesting. They couldn’t all retreat because, surely, the Marshal and Longespée armies would follow. It would mean more slaughter. But if one army was willing to stay to hold the line, just long enough for the others to get away safely, then at least some of them would be saved.
Savernake had to make the sacrifice.
“Aye,” he finally said. “I’ll send word.”
Dashiell could see the disappointment in Aston’s face and he reached out, putting a hand on the man’s arm. “It will be all right,” he said. “Go, now. Spread the word. And our men must move over to the east to push back on Marshal and Longespée. Where is Bentley?”
“I saw him nearby. He is around here somewhere.”
“Find him.”
As Dashiell was issuing orders to Aston, both of them failed to see a scenario brewing behind Dashiell. There were men fighting all around them, creating enough of a distraction that both of them failed to see Clayton as he came up through the fighting masses.
He was on foot, his sights set on Dashiell, who had his back turned to him. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Clayton was stalking him, once again giving in to the urges that told him to kill men who were in a stronger position then he was. First, it was Edward, and he’d tried for years to kill the man. Now, it was Dashiell.
Clayton hated him with a vengeance.
In fact, as Clayton saw it, Dashiell was the cause of all of his troubles. It had been Dashiell who had prevented him from killing Edward, and now it was Dashiell who was preventing him from enjoying what he saw as his right.
With Dashiell out of the way, there was nothing standing between him and the glory of Savernake, which belonged to him. Clayton had spent the past seven months, ever since Dashiell had him thrown into the vault of Ramsbury, stewing over a bastard who had denied him his entitlement.
But today… today, that was going to change.
Men fell in battle all of the time, and Dashiell du Reims would be no different.
So, Clayton moved up behind him, an ax in his hand, one he had taken from the hands of a dying Marshal man. With the ax planted in Dashiell’s back, everyone would know that he had been killed by an enemy soldier. At least, that was the plan.
But the reality of it was much different. What happened occurred within the blink of an eye.
As Aston turned away from Dashiell, on his way to carry out Dashiell’s orders, Clayton knew it was time to act. He pushed through the fighting masses, ax lifted. He was going to plant the thing right between Dashiell’s shoulder blades. But suddenly, there was a body between him and Dashiell, and Clayton ended up planting the blade of the ax into Bentley as the knight put himself between Dashiell and the man who wanted to kill him.
As Bentley went down, Dashiell turned around to see Clayton behind him, looking down at Bentley in outrage. How dare the man foil his plans! But Dashiell never had the chance to retaliate – one minute, Clayton was snarling at him and in the next, the man’s head was on the ground near his feet. His body remained upright for a few long, morbid seconds before Bric MacRohan gave it a kick and pushed it to the ground.
Dashiell found himself looking into Bric’s deadly expression, and the bloodied sword in his hand, realizing that MacRohan had just killed Clayton.
God, it all happened so fast that Dashiell was struggling to process it, but as the screaming and dying went on around him, he knew he couldn’t linger on it. He had to move. Suddenly, MacRohan was lifting Bentley up, shoving the wounded man into Dashiell’s arms.
“Get him out of here!” he bellowed. “Move!”
Orders from the High Warrior weren’t mean to be disobeyed. Dashiell put his hands under Bentley’s arms and began dragging the man out of the fighting as Aston, who had seen the sequence of events, raced back to Dashiell’s side, grabbing the reins of Sherston’s frightened horse in the process.
Together, the two of them shuttled the injured warriors out of the heat of the fighting, heading for the fringes of the battlefield where the wounded were gathering. They left them with the physics and the priests who were tending to the dead and dying. Bentley survived his initial wound, but Sherston did not.
But, like all great heroes, Dashiell and Aston raced back into the heat of battle, determined to hold off the onslaught as the wounded rebel armies retreated. The last anyone saw of them, they were fighting for their lives against impossible odds.
Such tales of glory would be told for generations to come.