CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Like the horsemen of the apocalypse riding through the gates of Hell, Garret and his men rode into the bailey of The Wix under the cover of darkness. But it wasn’t simply Garret and his knights, all fully armed for battle. There were far more people with them than Garret could have ever imagined there would be.
Hubert Walter was one of them. Roused from his bed by a panicked soldier, he was riding in his fine cab behind them. The man wasn’t even dressed; he’d thrown a heavy leather robe over his sleeping clothes and had come to Westminster only to be confronted by six heavily-armed knights heading to The Wix, one of them being Garret de Moray. He couldn’t even get Garret’s attention. It had finally been Zayin who had informed him of what had transpired. Upon hearing such troubling news, Walter had followed the knights up The Strand, heading to The Wix that was not so far away.
There was also a contingent of soldiers from Westminster following. Word had evidently spread about Garret’s intentions and there were men that would support him no matter what his endeavor. Garret de Moray had a deep well of loyalty among his men and there were those who would happily accompany him, straight into death if necessary. Garret was challenging a man who had beaten the woman he was going to marry, and there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t understand Garret’s need for vengeance. But it wasn’t just any man; it was a cousin of the king, a duke, and a man beyond reproach of a mere knight.
But that didn’t seem to matter.
Therefore, a group of about fifty senior soldiers followed the knights from Westminster, leaving the younger soldiers behind to man the palace. It made an odd procession in the middle of the night, heading for the iconic manse with the legendary garden.
But it was a manse that had Satan for a master.
All of the men knew of Colchester’s reputation and Garret’s challenge of the man, to many, had been a long time in coming. It was time for Colchester to pay for the vile and terrible things he had been rumored to commit.
Finally, someone was standing up to him.
But if Garret knew of the procession behind him, he didn’t let on. In fact, he never looked back because he was singularly focused on what he must do this night. The only thing in his vision was that big manse at the bend in the river. Lyssa was lying in a bed gravely injured from Colchester’s beating, and perhaps even dying, and nothing else mattered except punishing the man responsible.
But the word of Garret’s challenge was spreading. People along The Strand were turning out to see a procession of heavily-armed knights and were told why by the soldiers more than willing to discuss such things. De Moray shall challenge Colchester, they said. That meant more men were following now, lured by the idea of a grand fight, lured by the rumor of a man who was going to kill Colchester because of what he’d done to his lady. There were other fine houses along The Strand between Westminster and The Wix, one of them being Hollyhock, the House of de Winter townhome.
The de Winters were great supporters of Richard and Garret was friends with Hugh de Winter the Elder, who happened to be in residence at Hollyhock because he was sending more troops with de Lohr to France. Hugh was too old to fight any longer but he wasn’t too old to send his army where it was needed. When Hugh’s soldiers woke him to tell him what was transpiring, he, too, yanked his clothes on to follow. If that bastard Colchester was about to meet his maker, then Hugh wanted to see it.
He wanted to lend a hand if necessary.
Therefore, the procession up The Strand grew. It grew in attitude and strength, with men coming along to see what would happen and others coming simply to be part of it. They were trudging up the road with both purpose and anger, and when the group finally reached The Wix, the gate guards opened the panels wide at the sight of Garret de Moray leading the pack. They had no reason not to, as word of Garret’s approach had not reached them. After that, it seemed as if the entire world poured in.
Anticipation was building.
Now, Garret was back at the scene of the crime. He dismounted his horse in the middle of the vast bailey and unsheathed the broadsword from the scabbard attached to his saddle. His broadsword was an enormous thing in a world where most swords were not so large. He’d had it forged in Damascus during his time in The Levant and it was made of Damascus steel, an unbreakable and powerful alloy that was as sharp as a razor. It was a unique-looking blade, with marbling running through it, and over three feet in length. With a leather-bound hilt, it weighed as much as a small child but it was a miraculous weapon, much-envied by his peers, and he was quite skilled with it.
As Garret tightened up one of his mail gauntlets, Hubert Walter climbed out of his cab and approached him. It seemed as if he were the only one in the entire group willing to do that. He came alongside Garret, watching the man prepare for the fight to come.
“Zayin told me what happened, Garret,” he said quietly, wrapping his robe around him against the cool, damp wind from the river. “I understand why you are here, but are you sure this is what you want?”
“It is.”
Walter knew that would be his answer, as sad as he was to hear it. “Then I will not try to talk you out of it,” he said, “but you know as well as I do that even if you win tonight, you may very well lose everything.”
Garret wouldn’t look at him. “I am aware.”
Walter sighed faintly, looking to the faces of the men around him; Gart, Rhys, Knox, and Gavin. They were all dressed for battle, ready to pick up and take over should Garret falter. Walter knew very well what this all meant; where knights were concerned, there was nothing stronger than their love for each other. If one suffered, they all suffered. He returned his focus to Garret.
“I will ask you one question and then I will say no more,” he said. “When Richard asks me why you have done this, what shall I tell him? I want your words, Garret. Tell me what I should say.”
Garret looked at him, then. “Tell him that I did it for love,” he said with raw honesty. “Colchester savagely beat the woman I love. She may not survive. What I do, I do for her. I would be only half a man if I did not follow my heart in this matter.”
Walter was deeply troubled, as well as deeply touched, by his words. “And your heart is telling you to kill?”
“My heart is telling me to seek justice. My lady deserves it.”
Walter couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he couldn’t argue with any of this because he knew no matter what he said, Garret would do as he felt he must. It was a sad thought, one filled with unfathomable tragedy. But in that tragedy, Walter admired Garret immensely. Knowing what he was facing, knowing very well he could ruin everything he worked so hard for, Garret was still determined to do it.
With the greatest of respect, Walter gave him one final thought before he walked away and to leave Garret to his fate.
“I have known you for many years, Garret,” he said quietly, looking to the weaponry the man was carrying, including the shield slung on the left side of his horse. He studied it a moment, an old shield with ancient writing around the edges of it. Greek, it was said, as befitting the Father of the Gods. “In the battles you have fought in days past, your shield has always been one of righteousness and honor and glory. Sometimes, it was even a shield of vengeance. But never has it been a shield of love that I know of. I pray that your shield of love is the strongest shield of all, Garret. I pray that it brings you victory this night, however you choose to measure that victory.”
With that, he walked away, leaving Garret to ponder his words. I pray that the shield of love is the strongest shield of all. Garret uttered that prayer, too, but the truth was that he’d never felt more powerful in his life because no battle had ever meant so much to him.
He was ready.
Sheathing his sword at his waist, he began to walk towards the manse. His steps were purposeful and firm, without fear. As he approached the building, a hush seemed to settle over the crowd because they knew what was coming. But before Garret could reach the entry, the door flew open and Rickard was suddenly rushing out to intercept him. When Garret saw his brother, unarmed, he came to a halt.
“Garret,” Rickard said, his voice already full of a pleading tone. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”
Garret’s gaze lingered on his brother. “I must,” he said simply. “Bring Colchester to me, Rickard. Do not make me go inside to find him, for I will. You know I will.”
Rickard could see, very quickly, that this situation was going to go badly if he didn’t get a rein on it. Even though he’d told his brother not to come, he had to admit that he wasn’t surprised to see him. But it didn’t change the fact that Garret was about to do something incredibly foolish and, more than likely, incredibly futile.
“Garret, think,” he said, looking at all of the men standing behind his brother, ready and willing to back him up. “Have you lost your senses? Do you truly intend to wrest Colchester out of the manse under force?”
Garret didn’t like being at odds with his brother but, given the situation, he had little choice. “Lyssa may be dying,” he said, his throat tightening with emotion even as he said it. “The physic said she is badly broken up. She may be bleeding in her gut. And that bastard you serve did it, Rickard. I cannot let this go unanswered.”
Rickard moved to take a tough stance. “It must go unanswered,” he said. “I am sorry for Lyssa, Garret. You know I am, but Colchester is untouchable.”
“Not any longer.”
Rickard didn’t reply right away. He was trying to determine just how serious his brother was; was this simply some show of force to frighten Colchester? Or did Garret really mean to kill him? He was coming to wonder if he could turn the man back at all.
Something told him they were beyond that point.
“Go back to Westminster, Garret,” he finally said. “Go back before Colchester comes out here and realizes you mean to do him harm. Do you know what happens then? Do you?”
Garret lifted a dark eyebrow. “I did not come to argue with you, Rickard. Bring Colchester out to me now or I will go in after him.”
“If you do, I will have to stop you.”
“You are unarmed.”
“Would you strike me down to get to him, then?” Rickard was growing angry. “What is this about, Garret? What is this really about? A woman you are infatuated with? Are you so infatuated that you would kill your own brother and ruin your career simply to avenge her? I have never taken you for a fool but, at this moment, you are behaving foolishly. Do you not understand that?”
Garret remained calm. “And do you understand that I love her?”
Rickard’s anger came to a rapid halt. “You love her?”
“I do.”
Rickard seemed to pale. “I knew you were fond of her,” he said. “But love? After so short a time, are you certain?”
“I can only tell you what I feel, Rickard. And it is my feelings for her that dictate my actions.”
Rickard was at a loss for words. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. “I will not dispute you if you say you love her,” he said. “But to act on your feelings is not a wise thing to do. You have always been much more….”
“You!”
The shout came from the manse entry, interrupting Rickard’s reply, and everyone turned to see Colchester standing beneath the great Norman arch of the entry. He was pointing at Garret as he bellowed. Then, when he saw that he had Garret’s attention, he stumbled out of the entry and began to make his way towards him.
“It is you!” Jago shouted again. “I saw you take her! You stole her from me and I shall not stand for it!”
As Rickard closed his eyes to the horror of the moment and the fact that Colchester had decided to emerge from the manse, Garret focused on the man who was, literally, half his size. His eyes narrowed.
“I am here to punish you for what you did to Lyssa du Bose,” he said, completely overlooking any term of respect to Colchester’s station. To him, he was the enemy and did not warrant any respect. “You beat the woman because she resisted your advances and for your actions, you will pay the price. Get your sword, Colchester. Prepare to defend yourself.”
Jago was mildly tipsy from all of the wine he’d been drinking, so Garret’s words didn’t register right away. He had a look of confusion about him. But when that confusion faded, his eyes widened dramatically.
“Defend myself?” he repeated. Then, he actually laughed. It was a sharp, nasty sound that filled the night air. “I will not lift a finger against you, de Moray. Clearly, you have lost your mind to come here and say such things to me. But I have much to say to you. Lady Lyssa belongs to me.”
Garret’s jaw ticked. “She belongs to me.”
Jago scowled. “You fool,” he hissed. “Do you truly think you can compete with me? I can give her everything in the world she desires – wealth, station, prestige. But you – a mere knight – what do you intend to give her? Poverty and a lifetime of cheap food and inadequate comfort? I know your type – honorable, but stupid. You cannot give her what I can!”
Garret took a step towards Jago but Rickard put up his hands, shoving his brother back. The message was clear; back away. Angered, Garret balled a fist and slugged his brother in the jaw, sending the man reeling, as he marched up on Jago and grabbed the man around the neck.
“All I have to do is squeeze,” he growled as Jago yelped. “But before I do, I want you to know why I have come. The first time I saw you try to murder someone, I should have killed you but I did not. Do you remember long ago in The Levant when you tried to kill a Muslim prisoner? Think hard, Colchester. Someone sailed an arrow into your hand on that night so you clearly should recall it.”
Jago was turning shades of red, evident even beneath the dark sky, as Garret held him by the neck. But the words registered; he had a scar on his hand and sometimes it hurt to move his fingers, always a reminder of that arrow on that night long ago. He knew the incident but he was shocked to realize that de Moray knew of it, too.
“How…?” he gasped, trying to speak. “How would you know that?”
“Because I put that arrow there.”
Now, Jago began to fight him, struggling to breathe, anger and fear filling him. “You – you did that?” he breathed. “You… bastard! I should… kill you for it!”
Garret’s jaw ticked faintly, unmoved by the man’s struggle. “Nay,” he muttered. “But I should have killed you on that night. It was a foolish whim of mercy I shall not have a second time. This time, I will kill you and I will smear your guts out all over the ground as a warning to any man who dares to cross me or someone I love. Do you understand me?”
Jago couldn’t reply because of the grip around his neck. He was starting to black out. But his torture was cut short when Garret was blindsided by Rickard, who rushed at him and tackled him, breaking his hold on Colchester and allowing the man to run back towards the manse.
It deteriorated from there. Gart and Rhys charged forward, with Gart breaking up the scuffle between Garret and his brother while Rhys, who was very fast for a big man, grabbed Jago before he could disappear into the manse. When Rickard saw that Rhys had hold of Colchester, he broke away from his brother and charged Rhys, preparing to beat the man away.
“Let him go, du Bois!” he boomed. “Unhand the duke!”
Rhys didn’t respond to Rickard’s order; only a nod from Garret caused him to let go, and Rickard grabbed Colchester and pulled the man back towards the house and away from the menacing knights.
“Go back to Westminster, Garret,” Rickard commanded. “Get your men out of here. Go back now and we shall forget this ever happened.”
“Nay!” Jago screamed from behind him. As Rickard tried to manhandle the duke back into the manse, Jago would not be silenced. “I will not forget that you tried to kill me! Now, you shall feel my wrath, de Moray!”
That was what Garret had been waiting for. His challenge had been met. Unsheathing the broadsword at his side, he swung the blade in a very skilled, very controlled fashion.
“I am ready,” he said steadily. “Let us see if you can fight a man since the only enemy you seem to prefer is a woman.”
Jago was frightened and furious, a bad combination. He eyed Garret and his knights, stepping back towards the manse with his hand around his neck as Rickard kept himself between his liege and his angry brother. But in that fear and fury lingered a rational mind that understood the situation for what it was. Cleary, he could not compete against de Moray. He knew that.
But he knew someone who could.
“I shall not fight you,” Jago said, a rather smug expression on his face now. “I do not need to. I have a champion that shall fight you quite adequately. And he shall win.”
He meant Rickard. Garret had been ready and willing to fight Jago until that very moment when he realized that Jago intended to pit brother against brother. As Colchester’s champion, that was precisely Rickard’s role and as Garret stared at his brother, it truly hadn’t occurred to him that Jago wouldn’t fight him. He thought the man would be stupid enough, and angry enough, to accept his challenge.
But Jago hadn’t risen to the bait.
Garret looked at his brother, trying very hard not to appear as stunned as he felt. Instead, he turned his attention back to Jago, hoping he could lure the man out from behind Rickard’s paid sword. He didn’t want to fight his brother; God help him, he didn’t. But deep down, he supposed he knew that this had always been a possibility but he believed that Jago’s pride wouldn’t let another man fight his battle for him.
He’d been wrong.
“It is a coward who hides behind other men,” he said, hoping to insult the man enough to cause him to personally fight back. “But, then again, you have always been a coward, Colchester. A vile, dirty coward. In The Levant, do you know what the men called you? Alfaar. It means The Rat. You were known as a rat to your men and you are still a rat, a dirty rodent with no redeeming qualities. I should have killed you when I sailed that arrow into your hand.”
Jago wasn’t used to being insulted like this and he wasn’t good at holding his temper. “Any opportunity to kill me was imagined,” he snarled. “You are a common knight among common men, and you are still common. You believe that you are some great warrior when the truth is that you have nothing. Your family is mediocre, your bloodlines bereft with poverty.”
“And least my mother wasn’t a French whore.”
That drew Jago out. “Filth!” he hissed. “How dare you speak to me that way!”
Garret could see that he was getting through to the man. “I would wager to say that de Nantes wasn’t even your father. It could have been any number of nasty French bastards but your mother was an opportunist for telling Henry that his brother, Geoffrey of Nantes, was your father. We all know the story and we all laugh at it. Still… you do not look like a member of the royal family to me. You look like a beggar’s son.”
Enraged, Jago charged towards Garret but Rickard held him back. Garret snapped at his brother.
“Why do you hold him?” he demanded. “If he wants to fight me, let him come. You have no right to hold him back, Rickard. You will not interfere.”
Rickard looked at his brother with a pained expression. “Be still, Garret,” he hissed, turning to Colchester. “My lord, go inside. Go inside and remain there. Let me deal with my brother.”
“Rickard,” Garret said, his voice low and steady. “Do not make this between you and me.”
Rickard could hear the hazard in his tone. He turned to look at Garret. “Do you not understand, Garret?” he asked. “The moment you came to challenge Colchester, it became between you and me. As Colchester’s champion, you gave me no other choice.”
Garret knew his brother was only doing his duty but he was pained to realize that Rickard was choosing his duty over blood. “Is that what you will do? Fight me because he pays you to?”
“I am sworn to him.”
“You have been my brother longer than you have been sworn to him.”
Rickard’s frustration boiled over. Garret was trying to provoke a fight. More than that, he was trying to force Rickard to forget his oath. He was trying to make a fool out of him. Leaving Colchester, Rickard marched on his brother, getting in the man’s face.
“Can you not let me have a position that is as good as something you have?” he hissed. “You are the great one, Garret, the great knight of Richard, so great that the king made you the Captain of the Royal Guard at Westminster. And what am I? I do not have half your skill. Everyone knows that. I am your older brother but I have spent my life listening to praise for you. You are the one father is proud of; he has never been proud of me. You are the one everyone admires and looks up to. So I took a position with a duke, an unscrupulous duke at that, in the hopes of having some measure of achievement that was as good as yours. And now you try to take that away from me?”
Garret felt as if he’d been struck. “Rickard…,” he began, stopped, and then started again. “You are my older brother. When father dies, you shall inherit everything. I will inherit nothing. You have a beautiful wife, a child on the way… did you ever stop to think it was I who was always trying to live up to you?”
Some of Rickard’s anger subsided at Garret’s brutally honest words. “I will never achieve half of your greatness,” he said, pain in his voice. “What you are asking me to do now… you are asking me to relinquish my honor by refusing to protect a man I swore an oath to.”
“Nay, I am not.”
“Aye, you are. That is exactly what you are doing. Do you really want me to step aside and let you kill Colchester? Because that makes me look like a coward. Would you truly do that to me?”
Garret couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but in the same breath, he understood what Rickard was saying perfectly. God, it hurt his heart to hear that.
“I would never try to make you look cowardly, Rickard,” he breathed. “I am sorry if you feel that way. But I must punish Colchester for what he did to Lyssa. If I walk away, I will be the coward. I will not be worthy of being called a man.”
“Then we have a problem.”
“It would seem so.”
“Will you really fight me? You know I am not the warrior that you are.”
It was so painful to hear Rickard admit that. In fact, the whole situation was turning hugely painful. Rickard had to fight for Colchester or be dishonored, and Garret had to fight his brother because it was a matter of honor for him, as well. Someone had to back down. But no one would.
They were at a stalemate.
“Aye, I will really fight you,” Garret finally said. “But before you lift a sword against me, remember that you were not so loyal to Colchester when you came to Westminster yesterday morning to tell us that he had allied himself with the prince.”
Rickard knew that was true. “That was in a private forum, with only a few men to know,” he said. Then, his gaze moved to the mass of men that Garret had brought with him. “But now… there is an audience to see what I will do. Will I stand against you and do my duty? Or will I fold and allow you to shame me?”
Garret understood. “Then this is about public perception.”
Rickard shrugged. “A man’s reputation is something that can be seen by all, especially in something such as this.”
“Then I put you in this position.”
“Not deliberately, no. But we find ourselves in this position nonetheless.”
Garret understood about the pride of a man, and especially the pride of his brother now that Rickard had confessed his feelings of inadequacy against his mighty brother. No, he wouldn’t take that away from Rickard. But there were things he needed to know.
“Then I will tell you what is going to happen,” he said. “I am going to fight you and I am going to disable you. Then, I am going to kill Colchester. If you believe that will dishonor you, then I am terribly sorry. I truly am. My heart is full of sorrow for this moment. But I must do as I must.”
Rickard seemed to sink a little, his shoulders slumping as he became aware that Garret had no intention of backing down. He knew he couldn’t beat him in a fight but, much like Garret, he had little choice. It was damnable, foolish honor and damnable, foolish pride for them both. There was no other choice.
It had come down to this.
“Then I will meet you in the bailey,” he said, feeling more fear than he cared to admit. “I must gather my weapon.”
“Then go,” Garret said, his mood depressed as the reality of the situation settled. “But there is one thing.”
“What?”
“Gavin his here. He wants to know what has become of his sister.”
Rickard’s gaze traveled to the knights in the darkness, catching sight of Gavin standing with the group. “She was part of Colchester’s carnage but I believe she will survive,” he said. “You will tell him that.”
“I will.”
“And, Garret?”
“What is it?”
“Be… kind. I should like to see my child when he is born.”
Garret almost lost his composure then but he fought it, holding as steady as he could. “Where is your wife?”
“In our chamber. I told her to remain there.”
“That is good. She should not see this.”
Rickard couldn’t bring himself to respond. He turned for the manse, ignoring Jago as the man pounced on him and tried to tell him how to coldly murder his brother. He shut down to any and all advice from a man who wanted to see his brother dead. In fact, perhaps this battle between them was for the better, because of it was Jago fighting against Garret, then Garret would be facing an opponent who truly wanted to kill him.
Rickard did not. All he wanted to do was survive.
He wanted his brother to survive, too.