A sudden burst of pain registered in his mind and he realised the thrust of steel had penetrated his armour, burying itself in his side. A scream sounded and Tristan hazily identified it as belonging to Madeline.
***
She had witnessed the French closing in on Tristan with horror, unable to do aught aside from pray. Her arrows would have had just as much chance of hitting their own as one of the enemy in the crush, and she had to concentrate her fire on those still clambering through the breach.
Her heart came to a standstill as he secured his gaze on her and she realised with sickening clarity what a mistake it had been to think she could join this fight. His protective nature would never cease and even now, in the midst of war, he was seeking her out, ensuring she was safe.
A scream reached her ears as she saw the thrust of a blade making contact with his side and she belatedly realised it was hers. He fought back, slicing through the shoulder of his assailant, before being pushed back by the unremitting onslaught.
She sprinted along the top of the wall, aware of only one need.
To get to Tristan.
She had sworn to him she would not to put herself in danger, but if he died her oath would mean naught anyway. Besides, as far as she was concerned, this was a necessary risk. The collapsed tower stood before her, its crumbled remains sloping to the ground and she clambered down it, cursing and slipping on the rubble until she hit the ground.
Madeline had barely scrabbled to her feet when a clang reverberated through her helm as she was struck in the face. The blow was deflected by her nose piece but it buckled, sending searing pain shooting through her nose and head. Dazed from the hit, she swung out and her foe buckled as she sliced across his chest, his chainmail splitting under the force.
Her nose piece was twisted to one side, blocking her vision and throwing her off balance, so she wrenched it off and flung it to one side. Vaguely registering the warm trickle of blood dribbling from her nose, she swiped at it before running forwards.
She was in a precarious position, coming up from behind the French who were steadily being beaten back by the men of Dover Castle. Although this meant her enemies were concentrating on what was in front of them, rather than behind, there were still men trying to push through the gap in the wall behind her, and once she passed through the rearmost men, she would have to watch both her front and back.
Clinging to the curtain wall, she fought her way through, easily assailing the hind ranks, who were not expecting the thrusting steel of her sword. Once she broke through she found herself entangled in a heaving, snarling mass of men, and the sharp tang of blood mingled with the stench of sweat.
The sounds of death and survival assailed her ears in a haunting fusion. Horror threatened to take hold of her as blades thrust, but she could no longer see Tristan and her need to find him steeled her courage. Swiping clumsily, she forged a path through, no longer sure if the crimson gore showered across her face was hers or that of her enemies.
The battle was fierce, the tight quarters only allowing for short swings and thrusts. The French benefitted from their shields, of which she had none, and she found herself slammed back several times, knocking the wind from her and rendering a sharp crack from her chest.
Slamming past a hulking Frenchman, she swiped at his side, though it had little effect, only drawing his attention to her. She ducked as his steel arced towards her neck and she slammed her sword into his chest in response. She felt the sickening give of flesh but he barely flinched, the strike seeming to merely enrage him. Cold grey eyes viewed her from underneath his iron helmet, not even flickering as she wrenched her sword from him. His blood flowed following the withdrawal, leaching across his surcoat.
Madeline stumbled back as he loomed over her, swiping at her with terrifying power. The hiss of the blade slid past her chest and he made to thrust again. His movements were slower than hers as he was hindered by his vast bulk, but as he slammed down towards her, the blow was so powerful it easily forced the tip of her blade to crash against the dirt. The force of the hit shuddered up her arm, jerking painfully at her shoulder.
Her arm was tiring quickly, so she dodged his blows rather than parry them, only using her sword when necessary. As he forced her further back, the crimson stain spread wide across his chest and she could not believe he had not yet faltered. She stumbled backwards over the bodies of comrades as he grinned at her mercilessly.
A quick glance around and she realised she was no longer in the midst of the battle, but on the outskirts, the inner wall not far behind her. With a cry, she spotted Tristan, bloodied and beaten but still on his feet. The Frenchmen’s strength seemed to have begun to wane as he stabbed his sword forward, because she found it easier to deflect, allowing his blade to glide along hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan stagger as he clutched at his side and his foe delivered a glancing blow to his shoulder eliciting a yowl of pain.
Pure desperation filled Madeline and she knew she had to get to him before it was too late. If only this beast would die!
It was now or never. She made her move, lunging forwards and aiming for his ribs. He deflected the blow with ease but as he twisted into her strike, she drew an arrow from her quiver and, with a leap, slammed it into the side of his neck.
He gurgled in shock before falling forwards, causing her to have to jump aside. She wasted little time in gloating over her kill before running to Tristan. He fell before she reached him, landing on his back as his injuries took their toll.
She reached his side as an enemy soldier broke through the slowly closing ranks of the English and charged at him. With a strength she did not even know she possessed, she swept at his neck, severing it halfway across as the bone of his spine cracked under her blade. Pushing a foot against the body, she pulled on her sword and the Frenchman fell to the ground with a resounding thud as she tumbled backwards onto Tristan.
Madeline watched and panted with exertion as the French slowly retreated, disappearing back through the gap. Those who were still caught in the conflict were ruthlessly cut down until no more could be seen. Men quickly stormed forwards with wooden beams, some torn from the innards of the keep, to block the breach in the wall.
Tristan wrenched at his battered helmet, flinging it to one side as perspiration dripped down his face. He had received several glancing blows and he was bruised and battered but the exhilaration of victory dampened any pain.
Madeline turned to him, her eyes bright with the same exhilaration. Her face was caked with dried and wet blood, her hair was matted, and there was a large purpling bruise already revealing itself underneath one eye, but he had never been happier to see her.
She grinned and threw her arms around him, wincing as she did so. Nonetheless, she plastered a kiss on him and he ripped off his gauntlets so that he could grasp her face between his hands. Plundering her mouth, he thanked God for their triumph and for delivering this remarkable woman back to him.
Pulling her back so he could look at her, he pushed her tangled hair back, smoothing his hands across her grime streaked face. “I love you, Madeline of Woodchurch.”
“I love you, Tristan Dumont.”
He went to pull her closer but she grimaced as he put his hands to her waist. “What’s the matter, love?”
“I think I may have cracked a rib.”
She said it with such a self-satisfied grin that his initial concern abated and he was unable to prevent himself from laughing. “You are proud of your war wounds, wife?”
Madeline chuckled and grimaced again as the movement sent a sharp stab of pain up her side. “Mayhap, but I will be glad to be rid of this hauberk. I shall be more proud when the pain lessens.”
Tristan clambered to his feet with great effort and helped her up. She looked at the crimson split in the side of his surcoat with worry and he smiled reassuringly at her. “Have no fear, ‘tis but a scratch.”
The breach was steadily blocked and Tristan took the opportunity t
o study the aftermath. The walls had taken a hammering but, aside from the crumbled east tower, had sustained little damage. Bodies of French and English carpeted the bailey as dust still settled upon them. Blood and gore seeped into the earthen ground and Tristan marvelled at the courage of his wife, knowing the odds they had faced.
The English had fought fiercely and bravely and beaten back an army that should have overwhelmed them. Prince Louis would not be happy, having wasted a great many resources and men. Now they had to await his next move.
Picking up his helmet and gauntlets, he threw his arm around Madeline’s shoulder and they staggered back into the keep.
***
As they entered the keep and stumbled up the stairs, Madeline became aware of Tristan leaning more heavily on her and she wondered if he had taken more of a beating than she had thought. She could hear his breath rasping harshly, his grunts of pain, and she feared she would not be able to support him for much longer.
Heading up the last few steps, his legs suddenly buckled and he dropped to his knees, almost taking her with him. With a cry, she watched him slump to the floor and realised the slice to his side was bleeding out, steadily dripping across the leather of his surcoat.
Madeline dropped to her knees next to him and grasped his sweat soaked face, noting the pallor of his skin. As she pressed a hand to his side, it came away coated with blood. “Oh sweet Lord, Tristan…”
This was all her fault. If she had not been so stubborn and insisted on fighting, he would not have been distracted. Guilt and terror tore at her.
He grimaced and attempted a grin, his breath hissing through his teeth as he attempted to stand.
As battle-worn soldiers made their way past them, Madeline seized one. “Take him to the physician.”
The man hesitated at being commanded by a woman but, upon viewing the injured knight, he nodded and grabbed at another to help. They clumsily dragged him into the large chamber, the floor now swarming with wounded men. Their groans of agony and the extent of some of the injuries turned her stomach, in spite of her recent exposure to such sights. The stark reality of battle resurfaced and a comprehension of what she had faced struck her.
The smell of filth and bodily fluids lingered heavily in the air as they laid him on the floor. Madeline dropped down next to him, hurriedly tearing away his surcoat so as to get a better view of his wound. He moaned through gritted teeth as she heaved up his damaged chainmail and pulled at the quilted jacket that lay beneath with shaking hands.
The wound was small, but deep, and blood still flowed freely from it. Tearing a strip of fabric from her surcoat, she pressed it firmly to the laceration, hoping to staunch the flow. Looking around desperately, she breathed a sigh of relief as one of the men made his way to them.
The surgeon peered at the wound and she gripped Tristan’s hand as he attempted to give her a grin.
“‘Tis a mere scratch, my love, have no fear,” he rasped.
She attempted to return his smile with her own shaky one but she knew she did no great job of disguising her fear.
“‘Twill need cauterizing,” said the surgeon with a grim look.
Madeline nodded, expecting as much but her stomach still twisted, having already witnessed enough men under hot irons to know how excruciating it was. The two men hefted Tristan onto a large wooden table, its blood stained top bearing the scratches of its previous unfortunate patients.
While the irons heated in the nearby fire, Madeline stroked at Tristan’s head, murmuring words of love and silently praying for his recovery. She could not lose him now!
She gulped in fear as the men pinned Tristan’s legs and torso with their brawny strength, and the surgeon brought forward the hot irons. Tristan clenched his eyes shut as he gripped onto Madeline’s hand, well aware of the pain to come.
Madeline watched the irons lower, unable to turn away. The hiss of the red hot metal was quickly masked by Tristan’s agonising howl and he crushed her hand under his grip. Tears pricked her eyes and her stomach rolled as the odour of burnt flesh permeated the air. She had hoped he may pass out from the pain but he remained alert, seemingly unable to leave her, even through his cloud of agony.
She remained by his side as they transferred him back to a sleeping pallet, quickly clearing the way for other injured men. Pressing kisses to his clammy forehead, she caressed his hair, willing him to rest.
Tristan’s eyes remained stubbornly open as he gazed up at her, his parched throat unable to form the words to express his love for his wife, but desperate to convey it somehow. If he closed his eyes now he may never awake and lay his gaze upon her again. The pain was close to unbearable, the sting of the sealed flesh torturing his mind, but if he focused enough on Madeline’s touch, on her sweet lips and wide eyes, he could almost endure it.
She spoke soothingly to him; words of love and confusingly, words of regret. His pain saturated mind struggled to comprehend what her mumbled apologies were for, but he could see distress etched into her face and his wished he could reassure her.
Attempting to form some words, his mouth moved silently and, recognising his thirst, she hurriedly left his side to fetch some water.
The cool liquid quickly soothed his throat, though most of it trailed down his neck and he spluttered as it hit the back of his dry mouth. She tenderly mopped up the liquid and he attempted a smile at her gentleness. Having witnessed her wild ferocity on the battlefield, he was gladdened to see she had lost none of her compassionate qualities. Not that he wasn’t intensely proud of his fiery wife, for he loved both sides of her with equal intensity.
“Madeline,” he croaked out.
She shifted forwards, gripping at his face. “Tristan…pray forgive me. I should not have…‘twas my fault…”
He noted the glimmer of tears in her eyes and suddenly realised what she wanted forgiveness for. “Nay…you need not my forgiveness. I am proud to have had you by my side. Without you that soldier would have surely finished me…I owe you my life, love.”
“And I owe you mine, so now we are even.”
Her features began to blur in front of him, his fatigue slowly conquering him, and he wondered what she meant. Had he performed some deed he could not remember? Mayhap she meant that day in the woods. She must have noticed his confusion because she pressed a kiss to his dry lips, before lying next to him, her arm wrapped comfortingly around his chest and her lips nestled into his neck.
“You saved me from a life without love, Tristan.”
He felt her smile against his skin and a wash of relief came over him. She did understand his love. Whatever happened to him, she knew.
Madeline felt his breath steady under her arm and she watched his profile from where she lay. Thankful he had finally found rest and would be free from pain, she quashed the fear that he would not wake up. He would. Life could not be so cruel as to tear him away from her when she had only just acknowledged their love. She knew first-hand how fickle life could be but a renewed confidence took root.
With a smile, her eyes tracked over his peaceful face. Even in sleep, with a serious injury, he was nothing short of magnificent. Nothing could take away the underlying strength of the man. For it was not just his physical strength that drew her to him, but also his mental strength. There were not many men who could accept such an uncommon woman as their wife. His acknowledgement of her courage thrilled her more than he would ever know.
Allowing herself to close her eyes, she felt the emotions of the day finally take its toll. The triumph of survival was fading and the pain in her chest became more pronounced. A sharp ache resounded with every breath but she felt confident it was no more than a crack and she knew she had much to be grateful for. The groans of wounded men filtered to her ears and chilled her, reminding her of what could have come to pass.
Stroking her thumb across Tristan’s sweat slickened chest, she assured herself that it would not come to pass here.
***
As Madeline nursed Tristan
through the coming month, her hope never waned, even as he became nonsensical with fever. Heedless of her own injuries, she tended to him with an unmatched dedication.
Even De Burgh commented on her devotion when he came to check on the condition of the injured knight.
“Would that I could command such loyalty.”
“My lord,” she protested. “You command the loyalty of every man here. They would not have fought so relentlessly for any other lord.”
“Indeed.” He smiled at her candidness, used to her outspoken manner. “Though I doubt you fought out of loyalty to me, my lady.”
Madeline reddened and flicked a look to Tristan. Nay, it had all been for him.
“Will we have to fight again?” she asked, aware that the French had shown little enthusiasm for continuing the siege. No doubt the garrison’s victory against them must have taken its toll on morale.
“I suspect not. Prince Louis has requested to speak with me; I pray it is to negotiate a truce.”
“Truly, my lord? You think he will forfeit the keep?”
“He would be fool not to. We have already proved we will not yield and winter is drawing closer. I do not believe this will be the last we hear from the prince, but ‘twill be a temporary reprieve.”
“I pray you are right.”
“If the siege is truly over, we will have no more need for you here…” He considered her for a moment. “What shall you do, Lady Madeline, upon your return home? You have seen much and life these past months has been far removed from that of a noble woman.”
“Aye, that much is true, but I believe I shall be content to resume life at Woodchurch.”
The lonely days and nights by Tristan’s side had afforded her much time to consider all she had experienced. She doubted she would ever forget the sights and sounds of battle, but she looked forward to returning to Woodchurch and taking up her duties once more. Especially with Tristan by her side.
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 14