“Open the gates!”
Roland quickly did the bidding in time for the horse to thunder beneath the portcullis. As the gate fell back into place, he turned and hurried to the courtyard, through the second gate that could be closed just as quickly, forcing any attack to breach the two walls before claiming victory here.
Garrick was sliding the Countess to the ground when the Manor door opened and a child flew down the steps to come to a sudden halt to stare up at Garrick. Roland looked from Garrick to the Countess, then back to Garrick. The Bastard quickly dismounted and took the child in his arms, hugging her tightly before letting her go.
“This is my wife, Ryann,” Garrick said. The little girl offered the Countess an awkward curtsy. “Go into the manor with her and let me care for Malik.”
“Roland, it’s good to see you,” Garrick said, taking Malik’s reins and heading toward the stable.
Roland hesitated. No one would be on the wall watching if he went to the back of the Manor. He stood in the courtyard another moment, with Garrick moving away before he made the decision to go back to the wall. He would wait until Garrick was finished in the stable before they spoke.
When Garrick entered the Manor, he found Lilly and Ryann sitting at the large table, rolling a ball quickly back and forth down the length of it. On each end two goblets set, and the goal of the game was to get the ball to roll between the goblets. When Ryann missed the mark she nearly fell from her chair with a ridiculous grimace to her face, and a hand over her heart. The girl laughed, retrieved the ball, and rolled it back toward Ryann, whose focus was on the game again. Garrick felt himself smile before going to Ryann, and kissing her on top of her head. He left the chamber to locate Roland.
He was halfway down the hallway when a woman appeared at the intersecting hall. She stopped in her tracks, staring at him. In the dim light he saw her face grow pale before she let out a shriek, and turning fled out the door. Garrick knew her. In that brief instant he recognized her as the girl from Helthpool. She was the one he found outside the tower that night. The one who somehow survived. She saw him kill Wade. He could have easily caught her. She stood in shock long enough, but he let her go. He turned away from her and just walked away. Enough died that night at Helthpool, her blood did not have to be spilled.
Roland heard Emma’s cry of fear. He drew his sword and stumbled down the wall steps and across the courtyard. As his heart hammered in his chest he felt his legs could not move fast enough. He stumbled. His hands came up to stop himself, and his sword clattered onto the wet stones of the courtyard. Until that moment he did not realize the rain continued. He was soaked through from his time on the wall. He should have donned a cloak before standing out in the light drizzle for so long. Now he felt the chill of the evening as he stood back on shaking legs. He moved toward his sword. Everything seemed to slow. Nothing seemed close at hand, but so far away. He heard screams. Agonizing screams, crying, great racking sobs. Such misery echoed inside his head he wanted to put his hands over his ears. He stumbled, landing on his knees. The cries were louder, calling his name, pleading for him to do something. It was the voices of his children. Lillian made no sound once she realized the danger her family was in, if they intervened. She went to her death silently, nobly like the wonderful wife she always was. He screamed, he cursed, and he threatened, no, promised revenge on Mercadier. That was why he was after Emma. He knew that notion was ridiculous. Mercadier had the support of the King, while Roland had the support of a man the King wanted dead. It didn’t take much imagination to know who had the upper hand.
The Manor door flung open and Emma was fleeing down the steps. She cast a quick glance behind her, and nearly stumbled before her feet landed her safely on the stones of the courtyard. She spotted Roland and raced toward him. Roland hesitated another instant before grabbing his sword, and standing to his full height.
“It’s him,” she said. Her voice was terrified. Roland shoved her behind him, raised his sword, and braced his stance, ready to fight.
Their breathing echoed in his ears. Both sounded fearful and Roland tried to steady his, to bring focus to what was about to occur. Garrick stepped into the doorway and slowly began to descend the steps toward them. Emma pressed herself against Roland, and for a moment he had the urge to shove her away, because she was inhibiting his movement. He was still looking for the danger.
“It’s him, the man from Helthpool,” he heard her whisper, then it made sense to him.
“Garrick. What is your intent?” Roland asked boldly. Was that fear he heard in his own voice? Roland suddenly wished he took a moment earlier to speak to Garrick. After all, Garrick was sent to kill Damien, and there was no Damien here in his manor. If Garrick still sided with the King, he might be fulfilling his duty from years ago, and kill the only witness to Helthpool, and the last rebel.
“She saw me kill Wade at Helthpool.”
Roland waited for some assurance Emma was safe from him, but that statement told him nothing, and she now had an iron grip on him. He had the urge to tell her to run, he couldn’t protect her. Not against the Bastard. No one was safe from him, apparently not even a warrior like Damien.
Roland took a couple small steps backward as Garrick continued to advance, nearly tripping over Emma. His heart hammered in his chest. This wasn’t even the danger he was expecting. He thought surely he might go mad in that instant, because there was no safe quarter for them anywhere. Garrick and Damien, they were his safety, his chance for peace, but it appeared to have crumbled.
In a flash Garrick’s sword left its sheath. He was fast, the sound alone made terror crawl up Roland’s spine, and his hand moved behind him to rest on Emma’s hip. His children were cared for. He spared a glance to the doorway where the Countess and the little girl stood. Despite who their father was, he did not think the Countess would allow them to feel like orphans, no more than he himself. So the only thing left to do was fight the Bastard, and die in the useless effort to protect Emma. The drawing of his sword alone was too fast for him to follow, he had no chance against the legend of Garrick the Bastard.
Something clattered to the stones of the courtyard. Roland stared at the Bastard’s face another moment, the scars shadowed in the cloudy night. Then they reluctantly followed the length of him to his sword hand, but the sword was not there. The Bastard’s sword lay on the ground, and as he watched, Garrick kicked it out of his reach.
“I spared her then and I mean her no harm now. I did what I had to do that night, which was killing the man who enjoyed the death he brought to all those innocent people. I know she saw me, and I know she saw me walk away.”
Roland felt the tension easing from Emma as she took a step backward. Quickly Roland closed the gap, using a hand to grip her tunic, and the other to heft his sword. His palm was sweaty, not good for his grip. He would take a moment before his first strike to dry the hand on his clothing, if he had time. Right now he couldn’t allow Emma to fall into a false sense of comfort.
“Where’s Damien?” Roland’s voice held a challenge. He loved Emma, had to protect her, but before Emma, there was his oath to Damien, his oath to protect him and all that was his. He might be sacrificing one for the other, but his oath was who he was. All he had left.
“He will be arriving in the morning.” He turned to motion the Countess and little girl down the steps. “Ryann was taken, there is someone out there wanting to kill me and Damien. I brought her here to safety, but the others won’t be here until morning. Marcus, Halvor and Cyrille are with them. I promise you,” Garrick said, apparently seeing Roland was still reluctant to believe him.
“It is true. But Halvor has lost a sister. We will have a funeral to deal with in the morning, before it becomes a happy reunion,” the Countess said. “Please put your sword away and come inside to introduce us to your friend.” The Countess took her husband’s hand and began to lead him back toward the door. Garrick hesitated a moment, with his gaze falling on his sword. He cast a glance
toward Roland who still stood ready to defend, before touching the girl on the shoulder and pointing toward his sword. She ran forward, cast a weary glance toward Roland, before bending and picking up the sword, and following the retreating pair inside.
Roland hesitated another moment before sheathing his sword. He turned to Emma, who offered him a smile, and taking her hand he led her toward the door. It seemed like hours they spent talking. Garrick told him of the King’s command to kill Damien, and his decision to defy the King who made him everything he was, and Damien’s invite to stand with him against the King. Then the kidnapping that led to the death of Halvor’s sister. Roland told them of Emma and the events that led to their location, which enabled them to know for sure the King was dead. They spent a great deal of time speculating what that would mean to them. Prince John was heir, and short of hunting his rebels, the new King probably didn’t even know existed, they had little experience with him. Perhaps that would be for the best. The immediate threats were still Warner and Mercadier. The men who turned their orders into personal vendettas, Garrick did not think they would stop just because the King was dead.
The sun nearly made its march across the sky to its midday brilliance the next day, by the time Damien arrived with the army. The courtyard became crowded, and Roland watched from above as his lord barked out orders and guards began to ascend the walls to take their places. Most looked at their commander warily, after all, he was not drunk or in a surly mood. Truthfully, he felt nothing, everything seemed to drain from him when he saw the army bearing Damien’s banner appear on the horizon. He stiffly walked the steps down to the courtyard, into the Manor, and on to his chamber where Emma still slept. Carefully he pulled the blankets back and climbed into their warmth. Emma opened her brilliant eyes long enough to see him, offer him a beautiful smile, before turning toward him to drape an arm across his chest and lay her head on his shoulder. Roland closed his eyes, surrounded by Emma’s warmth and slept.
Alena stood apart from everyone as they gathered at the grave site. The priest spoke a few words. Halvor huddled with the rest of the sisters, all their faces awash with tears mingled with the steady drizzle. Since arriving earlier in the day, the family spoke with no one. They spent the day preparing Ella’s body for burial. Did they all blame her? Of course they did. She was their leader, their commander. Garrick trusted such a task to Marcus, and Damien trusted his brother, before the man’s voice could no longer rise above the den of battle, then it fell to Roland. Apparently Roland was so trusted by Damien, his position was held in limbo until his recent return. But Alena lost more than one soldier, killed more than one with her inadequacies.
Her eyes fell on Garrick. The man was positively furious anytime Marcus came near. In return Marcus closed himself away. Instead of delegating the digging of the grave to someone else, he did it himself, tackling the ground with a furious vengeance. She watched him for quite a while, the tools driving down into the ground, and the dirt slung into the pile as both the hole and dirt grew and grew, while he kept up his attack. All the anger came from Marcus’s attempt to right things, before Garrick discovered they were wrong. Garrick was adamant Marcus answered to him, and should have told him his wife was in danger immediately. He blamed Ella’s death on Marcus, but Alena knew who the responsibility ultimately fell on.
Despite the chilly evening, Marcus stood with no cloak, his sleeves rolled up, his hair, she was sure, was not only wet from the rain but the sweat of his digging. He was such a good man. No man could possibly be more loyal than him. He was the Bastard’s right hand, through everything, and now he was being cast away and was lost. His eyes were not full of life and the hope he once offered her. They appeared nearly dead as they locked with hers, then he was looking away. Yes, he knew where the blame should be, and she did not think he would ever forgive her for bringing Garrick’s wrath down upon him.
Of all those gathered, Grace looked the most lost. She stood next to Jillian, but it was obvious Jillian had a place here. Grace did not. All it would take from Cyrille would be one word, and Grace’s life would be made. It was obvious each time Grace looked at Cyrille, she loved him. She heard the story of her connection with Damien and Cyrille, growing up with them. She knew Cyrille before. Alena thought her acceptance of him now would make Cyrille happy, but it didn’t. Each time Grace approached him, he moved away. It wouldn’t take much more space and Grace would be gone from the man’s life forever. Why he would want that, Alena did not know.
Even as they gathered here, Cyrille moved to the other side of the small group. He stood straight, his hood hiding anything he might be thinking or feeling. From time to time his head would turn and he would stare at Grace, but that was all she could see of his feelings. He was not as neutral where she was concerned. His hands were clasped behind his back, his legs spread shoulder length apart. His head turned back to the grave and she watched him wobble. Was he thinking of his own death? How close he came? Of all of them, he was the one who would know the most about death, and perhaps due to that, the most about life.
Next to Cyrille stood Damien. The first time she met him he was more intimidating than Garrick. He was a good man. Alena knew that now, knew he offered Ryann safety when Garrick took her as a wife. He was a man who loved passionately to the point of rage when his family was threatened. That was when she first met him, when he was in turmoil over his brother, and battling his own sense of right and wrong for a king who did not know, or appreciate the difference. Everyone gathered fell under his protection, even though the King stripped him of his title of lord and Garrick now held the superior title, Damien still felt responsible for them. She saw it when he looked around himself, the pride that lit his face.
Halvor towered above them all. A more than capable commander, Alena realized she idealized him. He must be something special for the King to place him in Garrick’s service. It may have been an attempt by the King to set Garrick up, but it was a futile attempt. Halvor was a quiet man, reserved man, until it came to his sisters. His entire demeanor changed when he was with his family. They were his pride and joy, his heart and soul, and a part of that was gone now. He probably hated her for that.
Jillian was a part of his family now. Alena saw it, every time he looked up his eyes sought his wife. She stood patiently, as if she already knew the man so well she knew he would eventually spend his grief with his sisters, and return to her side. Alena heard enough about Jillian to know what kind of life she lived with her other husband. Alena saw the torment flash on Jillian’s face from time to time. Her need to make herself small and invisible. It was an ability Alena herself tried in Ghalib's home, but one she never could accomplish, but she could see Jillian mastered it for her own survival. Alena envied her that, even now she wished she could pull inside herself and disappear from view, from the accusing eyes turning to her, from the empty eyes of Marcus.
The Countess shifted and it seemed as if every child who came out to witness Ella’s burial shifted too. She could not imagine another woman fitting so perfectly in with Garrick. Alena never imagined there was a woman who would go so well with the Bastard. It was as if Ryann gave Garrick the softness he never experienced throughout his lifetime, and it made him complete. Alena couldn’t help but see the little blonde as the bravest among them. It wasn’t because she readily accepted her marriage to Garrick, but because she accepted all the children in her life. Children who came with sad stories, children who would one day grow up and leave her, yet she opened her heart to them. Losing loved ones was the most terrifying thought of all to Alena. She couldn’t deny she loved every one of the people who gathered for Ella, and that knowledge made her feel like running, especially since she let them all down,
Keri turned away and that seemed to be the signal for the others to do so. She was a silent leader among them. Her people depended on her silent strength, including Damien. She was a fighter, it showed in the flash of her light brown eyes, even the way she stood. She was a good mother, a woman
who sacrificed herself to insure the safety of her children, despite her hate for their real father. Alena heard she did not shed a tear at the man’s death, but sobbed over the loss of her childhood friend. All it took for someone to be cloaked in Keri’s strength was loyalty to her, and now to Damien. Alena failed them both so miserably.
The only person not among them was Roland. Alena heard Marcus yelling at Emma earlier when she refused to allow Marcus down the hallway, because he was intent on waking Roland for the ceremony. Alena wondered if Emma would bring the old Roland back. She never met him, only the man filled with rage. He had to be a different man, if the flame haired Emma stood up for him to let him sleep. Emma told Grace, Roland was exhausted, and had not slept since their flight from France. Now there were others to keep watch and he needed sleep. Garrick stood by her decision. One word sent Marcus quietly away. Alena did not know if it was for Roland’s sake, or Garrick’s effort to thwart Marcus.
Emma lagged behind the others, but there was no fear or hesitancy in her step. She was a rebel among men who killed rebels, much like a lamb among wolves. But blessedly the King was dead, and the hunt for rebels was at an end. At least their part in it, Alena hoped. Now they had a chance to heal, to return to the men they were, or find themselves. Some had farther to go than others, but with the King dead, they now had a chance.
Soon Alena was left alone by the grave. The slow drizzle soaked her through, but she could not find the strength to leave. She moved closer. The dirt was mounded over the young woman’s body. One day it would be level again, and by then perhaps no one would be left who knew of Ella, and how much she was loved. No one would know she fought like a warrior. No one would know the commander of their little army failed in her training, and the strategy that got her killed. She lowered herself to her knees in the mud, unmindful of her gown that would be stained, possibly ruined.
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