“Putting the baby to sleep.”
“She will break this up when she sees it, you know. She will not let this go on.”
Gabrielle nodded. “’Tis true,” she said. Then, she looked to Deborah. “It is good to see you again, Deborah.”
Gabrielle and Deborah were old friends since the days of Christopher and Dustin in residence at Windsor Castle those years ago when they were first married and then-Prince John was hungering for Richard’s throne. As Deborah sat down next to Gabrielle and began chatting, Dustin came down the stairs, followed by Emilie.
There was no question that Dustin de Lohr was the Queen of Everything when it came to the House of de Lohr and, in particular, Lioncross Abbey Castle. Her mighty husband, perhaps the mightiest knight in the realm, was submissive to one person – a petite blond fireball of a woman he couldn’t live without. As Dustin came down the stairs and saw the wrestling going on in her great hall, surprisingly, she didn’t stop it. She simply paused on the steps and shook her head.
“Look at them,” she said to Emilie. “They will never grow up.”
Emilie was standing right behind her, grinning. “Look,” she said. “David is pinned on his back and Myles is sitting on his face. Do you suppose he is suffocating?”
Dustin started to laugh. “That is not a very dignified way to die for a knight of David’s caliber,” she said. “Should we stop it? Supper will be ready soon.”
Emilie shrugged. “Let them play,” she said. “Then they will eat and they will be so tired from the play and food that they’ll sleep all night. It is a precious time, Dustin.”
That was very true and Dustin wasn’t hard-pressed to agree. As she came off the stairs, preparing to skirt the writhing mass of men and children, the entry doors to the keep opened once again. Dustin and Emilie turned to see Jeffrey entering once again along with three other men key to the de Lohr empire.
Long with Jeffrey came Sir Thomas Dudley, or “Dud” as he was known. He had served Christopher flawlessly for many years. Next to him was a new knight to the House of de Lohr, an auburn-haired god by the name of Cabot de Venter. Christin was quite sweet on Cabot, who was more than twice her age and looked at his liege’s daughter with great fear. Christin was quite lovely, no doubt, but she was also quite young and the last thing Cabot wanted was to cross Christopher when it came to his eldest daughter, so he stayed as far away from Christin as he possibly could.
Rounding out the group was Cassian de Velt, son of the great warlord Ajax de Velt, who had become a good friend of Christopher’s a few years ago when Christopher had helped Jax save one of his daughters from a man bent on revenge against Jax himself. Since then, Christopher and Jax were solid allies and Jax had even sent his son to squire at Lioncross Abbey. Cassian was a tall, dark, and handsome youth, and Christopher’s daughter, Brielle, had her eye on him even at her young age.
The feeling was mutual.
“The snow has arrived,” Jeffrey announced. “It is already falling rather heavily.”
A chorus of screams of delight went up and the children scrambled off of the adults and began to run for the door. That was when the mothers began calling to them, preventing them from going outside until they were properly dressed. It was a race to see who could dress first and run out into the falling snow.
It was magical.
Already, a heavy dusting of snow covered the bailey and the big tree in the middle of it. The boys were already trying to form snowballs and toss them at each other as their breath hung in the air in great puffs of fog.
But that joy was short-lived.
A call went up from the sentries on the wall.
Peter, Cassian, and Cabot were already running for the gatehouse as Christopher, David, Marcus, Max, Dud, and Jeffrey stood near the keep entry, watching the activity curiously. No one was too concerned, however. These were seasoned knights and they didn’t get worked up easily, especially in the snow and on Christmas Eve. That’s why the reports coming back from Peter and Cabot were surprising.
“Raiders in Kington, my lord,” Cabot said. “They are stripping the village.”
Christopher frowned. “What about Kington Castle?”
Cabot simply shook his head. “You know that Roger Clifford uses it only as a garrison, to staff a few men,” he said. “When de Broase had it, there were many soldiers, but not now. A man from the village is here and he says the Welsh have overrun the garrison.”
Christopher could hardly believe his ears. “He must be mistaken,” he said. “Overrun it?”
“There is but one way to find out, my lord.”
That was true, but Christopher didn’t relish a call-out on Christmas Eve. Still, if the Welsh had Kington Castle, he would be called upon to reclaim it at some point. He looked at his brother.
“I cannot have the Welsh in a castle only a few miles from Lioncross,” he said. “That would give them a base to launch raids all over my lands.”
David didn’t look happy. “Damned Welsh,” he muttered. “I really do not want to go into battle on Christmas Eve.”
“Then stay here. I will take Cabot and whoever else wants to attend me and chase them off.”
But David waved him away. “You do not go into battle without me,” he said, looking at the others. “And I have a feeling no one else will let you go alone, either.”
Marcus was already on the move. “Max, get the men mobilized,” he said to his second in command. “Chris, who will you leave at Lioncross in command?”
Christopher looked at the group around him. No one would meet his eye except Dud and Jeffrey, so he gestured to the pair.
“It seems that the only ones willing to remain behind are Kessler and Dud,” he said. “Jeffrey, rouse five hundred men. Have them ready in an hour. Dud, you and Cassian take the wall and make sure the Welsh aren’t headed in our direction. Be vigilant.”
As the men headed off, everyone else began to move as well. They’d all brought troops with them, so it was simply a matter of mustering those troops. Without Christopher even asking, they were ready to mobilize, prepared to support England’s greatest knight.
It would be like old times, once again. In truth, Christopher was looking forward to serving with Peter. They hadn’t faced battle together since he’d been a lad. They would ride out, subdue the Welsh, and return in time for supper.
Now, all he had to do was tell Dustin.
Perhaps the only thing in this entire situation he really wasn’t looking forward to.
As it turned out, neither was she.
CHAPTER TWO
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
The Village of Kington
The Welsh hadn’t simply overrun Kington Castle; they’d overrun the entire village.
It was crawling with Welsh.
Half of the cottages in town were burning as the Welsh took what they could, burning what they couldn’t. They seemed particularly spiteful, perhaps knowing that it was Christmas Eve.
But things were about to get nasty.
Scouts had informed Christopher as to what, exactly, was going on and the placement of the Welsh. Kington sat along the River Arrow, a rather calm river that ran along the border. There was a wooden bridge that the Welsh had used, one that spanned the river north and south and all on the English side, but the Welsh had circled around to use it. They’d crossed the river using that big, wooden bridge, which was now heavy with the snow that had been dumped on it over the past two hours. The bridge wasn’t particularly steady even without the additional weight of the snow, but that hadn’t stopped the Welsh.
They’d poured into the village.
Now, the English were pouring in, as well.
Knowing that the garrison was overrun to the north and the northern end of the village seemed to be where the Welsh were concentrated, Christopher sent David in from the south and Marcus from the north, blocking off that rickety bridge. Christopher brought his men in from the east, closing in on the village and chasing the Welsh rig
ht to Marcus, who had positioned his men in lines in front of the bridge. With David coming up from the south, the Welsh were effectively blocked in.
It was a bad fight from the start.
The Welsh were numerous, which was surprising. Usually, the teulu, or family groups much like clans, weren’t quite so large in number or quite so aggressive. Christopher’s mighty bastion of Lioncross had kept them at bay for a number of years, so attacks so close to Lioncross were unusual.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Not only were the Welsh in town a problem, but hundreds were across the river and rushed the bridge, straight into Marcus’ back. The troops from Somerhill, which numbered about four hundred, quickly found themselves swarmed with angry Welsh.
David, who had brought four hundred men with him from Canterbury, was forced to push through the Welsh sandwiched between him and Christopher and Marcus in order to help reinforce Marcus’ men. Christopher, with his five hundred men, had his hands full, so much so that he sent men racing back to Lioncross Abbey for another one thousand.
He’d come to a fight undermanned.
Fighting at any time was difficult. But fighting in a snowstorm was particularly difficult. It was quickly turning into a blizzard, with snow howling around the men as they fought for their lives. The River Arrow, usually so placid, became a roaring torrent with all of the snow and water rushing into it. At that point, Christopher had given the kill order, not simply the chase order, so his men were intent on killing their opponents.
The river began to catch its fill of bodies.
Still, the Welsh were resilient. Somehow, Christopher ended up by the bridge. The snow was falling very heavily at this point and the fighting on the bridge was ferocious. In full armor, the freezing temperatures created difficulty in movement for the English. The Welsh, bound up in woolens and furs, weren’t having as difficult a time.
The minutes ticked by and Christopher had managed to drop several Welsh. Peter was fighting off to his right, but Christopher didn’t realize it until he saw the flash of the great sword he’d given his son when he’d seen sixteen years. He turned to see his son fighting beside him and Christopher had never been so proud in his life. Seeing Peter in action was something to behold. The young man fought as if he’d been doing it his entire life. Such power, such grace.
It was a magical moment.
Unfortunately, Christopher had taken his eyes off the battle to look at his son and that was his grave mistake. A Welshman with a club swung it as hard as he could at Christopher’s head, hitting him in the helm and sending the man right over the side of the bridge. As he fell, he hit his head on the edge of the bridge itself, ripping his helm off. Another hit to the head on a supporting post and Christopher went straight into the river, unconscious.
Peter had seen the entire incident. Without hesitation, he dropped the sword where he stood and dove over the side of the bridge, landing in the icy water where his father had fallen. Because of the weight of the armor, however, Christopher was sinking and Peter was, too. He struggled to stay afloat and pull his father’s head out of the water.
But help was on the way.
Marcus saw the incident as well. In a panic, he screamed to David, pointing frantically to the river, and began yanking off his heavy armor as he ran towards the riverbank. David, having no idea what was happening, began running to and realized, as he ran, that he didn’t see his brother. His brother’s men, yes – but not his brother.
Terror set in.
With Marcus and David running towards the river, yanking off their armor and mail as they went, Max and Cabot saw what was happening. They raced to help, but Marcus waved them back to the battle. The troops needed commanders and they were forced to remain. By that time, Marcus was at the river in pieces of armor but not nearly the weight Christopher and Peter had.
He dove in.
David was right behind him.
Together, they swam frantically after Peter and Christopher, moving swiftly in the current. The river wasn’t particularly deep, but deep enough to be dangerous. Peter was managing to stay afloat by sheer strength, his father’s head held barely above water. Marcus and David were trying desperately to get to them, but the river was moving quite swiftly in spots. At one point, they ended up on a sandbank, running across it and diving in on the other side, closer to Peter and Christopher now.
It was harrowing.
Behind them, English troops started to jump in the river after them, trying to catch up to the four knights as the water carried them further downstream. Soon enough, they passed the village of Kington and were drifting off into the darkness. The sounds of battle faded, but all around them, the snow continued to fall.
It was growing worse.
The wind was whistling in the darkness now and it was nearly pitch black as Marcus, and then David, caught up with Peter and Christopher. They took hold of Christopher, relieving the exhausting son, but the current was carrying them further and further downstream.
They had to get to shore.
Marcus and David began struggling against the current, trying to get their footing on the riverbed as they dragged Christopher with them. Peter held on to Marcus and his father, trying to push them. He was young and strong, and had his feet underneath him. Together, the three of them finally managed to climb out of the freezing river, tossing Christopher onto the riverbank like a beached fish. They collapsed all around him.
“We will not survive much longer in this weather,” David said, coughing that damnable Welsh river out his lungs. “We must find shelter.”
Marcus was coughing, too, while Peter was shivering uncontrollably. Marcus bent over Christopher, feeling for a pulse.
“Is he alive?” Peter demanded. “God, please tell me he’s alive!”
Marcus nodded. “He is,” he said. “But as your Uncle David said, not for much longer if we cannot find shelter. David, do you know this area very well?”
David was beginning to shiver, too. With the snow swirling around them, and being wet, freezing to death was a very real danger.
“I’m not exactly sure where we are,” he said, looking around and trying not to be blinded by the snow. “We drifted quite a ways down river, so if my bearings are correct, we are out of Kington but there are farms to the south. In fact, there should be a manor house unless we have already passed it and were not aware.”
“Who does it belong to?”
David looked at him. “When I last lived here ten years ago, it belonged to a Welshman named Howell.”
“A Welshman who could be part of that attack we just suffered through,” Peter pointed out through chattering teeth. “What if he turns us away?”
Marcus didn’t have much of an answer for him. Reaching down, he hauled Christopher up. “We haven’t much choice,” he said quietly. “Do you feel brave enough to run up ahead and ask for help?”
Peter looked at his father, barely visible in the darkness. The man was freezing to the touch and still unconscious. Christopher’s state fed Peter’s bravery out of sheer necessity.
“Aye,” he said. “Come on.”
With David on one side and Marcus on the other, they began to drag Christopher between them as Peter led the way. He was never more than a few steps ahead of them because of the storm, but as they traveled south, following the river, they began to see a light in the distance.
“There,” Peter said as he came to a halt, pointing. “That must be the manor house. I’ll run on ahead. Can you manage without me?”
Marcus almost laughed at the arrogant young knight, but his face was starting to freeze and he couldn’t manage to move his mouth that way. So, he simply nodded as Peter took off as fast as his freezing legs would carry him.
In truth, Peter hated to leave his uncle and father and liege behind, but they needed help and he was the only one capable of finding it. His entire body was turning into a block of ice because the water on his clothing was beginning to freeze, so literally, he was
covered in ice. But he kept on, following the light, until it abruptly disappeared.
Peter stood there a moment, wondering why the light was suddenly gone, when he realized he was standing in front of a wall. Snow was piling on top of it, at least a foot of the white stuff, so he felt his way around the wall until he came to a gate, which was locked. There was no movement in the yard beyond but he could see the big house, with soft light emitting from the windows. He rattled the gate but it was solid.
Undeterred, he was going to jump over the wall to find help. It was too tall for him to jump over at this point, but around the side where he’d first seen it, the ground seemed to be higher and the wall lower. He staggered over to that side, knowing Marcus and David would soon be bringing his father, so he made a run at the wall to leap onto hit, but his frozen fingers wouldn’t grip. Slipping, he fell flat on his back into the snow.
He was cold; too cold. He could feel that he was starting to slow down. Peter wasn’t one to panic, not even at his young age, but he could feel fear clutching at him. His father needed help and they all needed warmth very soon or they would all die. Making another run at the wall, he managed to get a good grip on it but he was so cold that he simply couldn’t heave himself up. He tried very hard but, soon enough, his fingers slipped and down he went, onto his back again.
For a moment, he simply lay there.
God, please don’t let us die here.
He wondered if God would hear his plea.
CHAPTER THREE
A CHRISTMAS EVE TALE
Apparently, God had.
“Oh!” came a decidedly female gasp with a decidedly Welsh accent. “What are you doing?”
Peter could hardly open his eyes against the cold, but he turned his head in the direction of the sound to see a woman standing there, bundled up against the elements. She had a lantern but with the snow the way it was swirling, it could barely be seen in the darkness. Peter tried to sit up.
“Please help us,” he said. “My father fell into the river and we fished him out, but we are wet and frozen, and he… I do not know how he is. He hit his head when he fell. Will you please help us?”
A Very Medieval Christmas: A Medieval Romance Novella Bundle Page 24