Appalled by her own lack of self-control, she ripped a hand from his grip and slapped it over her mouth. Through her fingers she said, “I am so sorry. Forgive me. I did not intend to speak the words. Please instruct the council that I will enter a convent.”
But Allen just smiled down at her, eternal love shining from his gentle hazel eyes.
He turned to the duchess, to the council, and swept his chin from side to side to include the entire audience in his announcement. “My wish is that the Duchess Adela be allowed to rule alone, as I know she desires. As we all know she can.”
Gasps went up around the place.
“My wish is that a new law be decreed to allow her to do so and to choose her own husband in her own time. And my wish is that I might marry Lady Gwendolyn myself.”
“Treason!”
“Dishonor!”
“Travesty!” the cries rang forth.
Gwen could not so much as breathe. She dared not think. Dared not plan. All thoughts drained from her mind. All she could do was watch and wait and hope. Randel smiled his approval. She spied her father standing with arms folded across his broad chest and a smirk pasted across his face, as if he knew this would not turn out well.
“Halt!” the duchess hollered with that authority that never faltered. “Do not cry out on my account. I yet love and mourn my husband. I agree with Sir Allen, and I wish that the council would make it so. Place your trust in God, not in some superstitious prophecy. God alone is our deliverer. We do not need this wedding to defeat DeMontfort.”
Fulton and Hemsley surrounded her on either side, and Fulton addressed the riotous crowd. “The duchess speaks from grief. But we will exert reason in her place. As the entire region knows, this marriage must occur to fulfill the prophecy and save us all from sure destruction. Take Sir Allen into custody! The wedding will take place upon the morrow.”
Guards shoving Gwen away from Allen’s side woke her from her trance-like state. She gasped for breath. But as they prepared to lead him away, four horsemen galloped onto the field.
“’Tis Warner DeMontfort!” one of them shouted. “He is on his way! Just a few miles from here! With a hundred mounted men at the least!”
“You see,” the bishop yelled, his voice shaking. “We have tested the wrath of God. Destruction has come upon us. We must hold the wedding immediately!”
Allen searched for Gwendolyn through the screaming mob that jostled him toward the cathedral steps. He found her just behind him, secured between two guards. To his greater surprise, he saw the duchess also held captive and swept along with the tide.
He stumbled up the stairs as a number of armed men dragged him along. Someone thrust the duchess to face him. Then both he and the gracious Duchess Adela, most beloved lady of North Britannia, stood held fast with their arms pinned behind their backs before the desperate crowd.
Needing every advantage he might find, Allen scanned the area. Gwendolyn was being held behind him, likewise on the portico of the cathedral, but she retained her weapons. Nearby he spotted Sir Randel along with Durand and the other knights who had helped on his mission. All were dressed in armor, along with North Britannian surcoats, and must have been guarding the arena nearby.
Randel caught his gaze and nodded. They would support Allen if needed. Though Randel’s right arm remained in the sling, he drew his sword with his left hand and stood at the ready.
A pathway parted, and the bishop passed through like Moses crossing the Red Sea. He glared at Allen and the duchess as he made his way up the steps and stood before them.
“Do you, Allen of Ellsworth take Duchess Adela to be your wife?”
“I will not!” he hollered.
“Would you leave our city to be ransacked? Our people to be raped and looted? Our dukedom to be overcome by this usurper?” The bishop shook his hands high over his head.
The man was being ridiculous now, but Allen’s mind yet knew reason. “I would most assuredly not. I would send out our own troops against DeMontfort. I would call for reinforcements from the countryside. I would alert the king in England. Do not hole up in this city like a bunch of cowards. Go out and fight him!”
“The prophecy!”
“Destiny!”
“Marry her now!” came the cries of the panicked mob. Hands reached toward them, fists pounded in their direction.
Allen feared they might be trampled completely. But he did not intend to back down. Gwendolyn, the duchess, Randel, all the people he cared about the most—and far more importantly, the God of the very universe—were on his side. Nothing else mattered. He must hold firm in his resolve.
The bishop turned to the duchess. “Duchess Adela, think clearly. Do what you must! Will you take Sir Allen as your husband?”
“I will not. Send out the troops. I am yet your leader!”
At that the people went completely insane. Screaming and thrashing.
“Just call them wed and be done with it!” Hemsley said.
“I cannot.” The bishop lifted his palms in defeat. “They must agree. They must speak the words.”
“We will swear that they did,” called a man from the crowd. “We will be your witnesses.”
The bishop dropped both his arms and his head. “I will not be party to perjury.”
“Then seize them!” Lord Fulton shouted. “In the name of the council. Perhaps a night in prison shall change their minds.”
“Wait.” Allen pulled away from his guards. “If you will not hear reason, I have no choice but to concede. I cannot leave the dukedom to be destroyed.”
The duchess shot a wild-eyed look his way.
He raised his brows and sent her a pointed gaze in return. “We must do this. For the people.”
Catching the silent message that belied his words, the duchess took a step toward him. “We must, and we will.”
Allen let out the low call of the barn owl, which sounded to any untrained ear like a dramatic sigh. Then he began the backward count.
Ten, nine. He took the duchess’s hand.
Six, five. They knelt before the bishop.
Three, two. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
On the appointed count, Gwen kicked her feet high, sending her full weight crashing to her back upon the stone floor and the unsuspecting guards slamming into one another. Once they lost their grips on her, she swung around, slicing her foot their way, and knocking them both to the ground. With a bound, she sprang to standing and drew her sword.
Allen had already knocked his captors unconscious, while Randel and his men fended off the crowd. The remaining guards protected Duchess Adela from the fray.
With the element of surprise still in their favor, Allen shouted, “To the horses. Come with us if you would defend our dukedom.”
As they surged forward, the people scrambled out of their way. Only a small contingent of knights followed.
“Stop them. Close the gates! Line the walls!” Fulton shouted behind Gwen, but already his voice grew faint.
Slashing their swords toward the crowd to create yet more space, Allen, Gwen, and their comrades dashed toward the nearby clearing to the rear of the tournament grounds, where horses and weapons stood unprotected. Theirs for the taking.
They grabbed up sharp lances and steeds in a matter of seconds. Gwen found her own Andromache with ease and leapt upon her back.
“To the gates!” Allen called, pointing that way. A troop of about fifteen mounted horsemen followed.
Though the crowd now surged toward them again, those blocking their path ran away screaming as the armed knights thundered toward them.
While Gwen and the others approached the city walls, the gate slowly descended. The valiant knights pounded through the opening nonetheless. The spikes fell closer and closer. Gwen and Allen, bringing up the rear, ducked low to avoid being crushed.
They were through!
Allen led the charge up the hill. Only then did Gwen’s thoughts clear enough for her to fully digest the
hopelessness of their cause. Fifteen knights against a hundred men. What had Allen been thinking? But she would not turn back. She must remain strong and stand for right.
Near the top of the rise, Allen called for their troop to form a line. Before them spread a narrow passage through rocky cliffs. No one would enter the city from the west without passing this way. Gwendolyn fearlessly took her place between Allen and Randel in the row of horses and lifted her lance.
She surveyed their makeshift unit. Most of them lacked their helmets. Randel held his lance in his left arm. She did not even wear the uniform of a soldier, merely her chain mail. Unless someone came to support them soon, it would be David versus Goliath all over again.
Chapter 33
Just one more furlong now.
Galloping along the curving mountain ridge, Warner saw Edendale spread below him to his left like a treasure for the taking. He could barely believe his eyes; the gates were closed and all the soldiers within the walls. Would they give up so easily? The idiots! The fools!
He and his men could besiege the place and wait. Wait for Marshall and the king to take one look at this city in disarray with its incompetent council and declare him the new duke.
Snickering with delight, Warner leaned farther over his horse’s whipping mane. He settled into the exuberant rhythm. He would savor the wind rushing against him, the leather reins biting into his palm, each and every hoofbeat. He wished to recall this, his most triumphant moment yet, long into the future. With great anticipation he galloped around yet another curve in the winding road that would lead him to his prize.
They entered a final passage surrounded by cliffs, and no one stood in their way. They rumbled through without a single obstacle. But as they exited the other side, a pathetic collection of North Britannian knights blocked the path.
Ha! The imbeciles.
Gwen tucked her lance firmly to her side and prepared for battle. Their line held tight as DeMontfort’s men swarmed through the fissure in the rock and filed into place before them. At least fifty men filled the clearing with as many or more pressing at their backs. Warner DeMontfort, surrounded by swaying banners in black and green, stopped thirty yards away. Even over the distance, Gwen detected his smug satisfaction as he took stock of their motley collection.
With the lift of a single finger, DeMontfort sent a troop twice their size crashing their way. Allen likewise signaled for them to charge. She surged forward upon Andromache. Much as she had always dreamed of battle, suddenly faced with life and death, all glory faded away. Only the horror, the seriousness of the moment, remained.
She tangled lances with her first opponent, but both weapons flipped through the air. As she moved closer and began to swing her sword, she realized one of them would likely die on this field. Still atop Andromache, she blocked and parried. She pulled on the reins to skitter sideways and attack from a different angle. But she could see her foe’s eyes through the slit of his helmet and did not relish watching the light go out in them.
Even if she could kill one, two, perhaps three men, they could not win.
She would meet her Maker this day, but she was ready now, and she would go out fighting for something she believed in. Steeling her courage, she pressed on.
Allen’s opponent struck his sword hard upon Allen’s thigh, but his chain mail held firm against the long side of the blade. Still, his leg throbbed with pain, along with his heart. He had led these men, not to mention his beloved Gwendolyn, to sure destruction.
As he battled off yet another onslaught of blows, he caught sight of two North Britannians falling from their horses, although he could not say which ones. Several of DeMontfort’s men had fallen, as well, but were quickly replaced.
Valiant though his group might be, this fight could not last long. How he hated that DeMontfort would win and ride on to blockade the city. Allen had felt so sure his decisions were sound, yet they had led to disaster upon disaster. At least Gwendolyn could not be forced to wed Gawain from the grave.
His arm faltered at the thought, but he caught himself in time to fend off a blow from his right.
And that is when he saw them.
Warner cackled as yet another member of the miniscule North Britannian contingent crashed to the ground. Too easy! Almost no fun at all.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the king’s blue-and-red army streamed down a hillside from the south. Rushing to support the North Britannians.
Warner braced himself against the awful sight. They could not give up. “Attack!” he shouted.
All around him soldiers thrust their horses forward . . . and then slowed and faltered as they realized the king’s own troops stood in their path. The very army that Warner had believed would support them in the end. The very king whom his men hoped to please. Now standing against them in a shocking turn of events.
“Onward, you fools!” he screamed. “Never surrender! Never retreat!”
That darkness he had come to embrace enshrouded him, wrapped about his heart.
Even the soldiers already on the battlefield dropped their weapons and pulled back.
One by one his men fell behind him, but he pressed onward. A frenzied drive overtook him. He could not go back, could never be a poor vanquished knight again. Never face Morgaine’s haughty disdain. He had nothing to lose.
The remaining North Britannians snatched up lances from the ground and re-formed their line before him.
Though his horse balked, he kicked it hard in the sides and continued forward. The king’s men closed ranks, while the North Britannians blocked the road.
He would strive for everything or for nothing at all.
Spotting a single knight not wearing the hated crimson and black, Warner veered in that direction.
Completely alone, Warner met his foe.
He looked down in both wonder and awe as the pointed lance of the unmarked knight found its way through the loops of his chain mail and sliced into his chest. He gasped as he felt it drive through and exit the other side. He screamed as his horse galloped away leaving him pinioned in the air.
And then he felt nothing at all.
Gwen held tight to her lance with all of her strength, but after the briefest moment, the weight of her foe ripped it from her arm and he slammed to the ground.
His visor flipped open upon impact. Warner DeMontfort would trouble them no more. Though not long ago she had hated the man for murdering the duke, ruining her chances with Allen, and kidnapping Merry, all she experienced at the sight of him lying dead upon the ground was sadness for such a robust life wasted over envy and selfish ambition.
The rest of his traitorous soldiers had halted at the sight of the king’s army surrounding them.
Gwen had not thought they could ever survive, though she had battled on until the very end. But the king’s men must have been there, ready and waiting to deliver them all along. She spotted Allen, then Randel, safe upon their horses, though some from the group lay scattered upon the ground.
From behind her came a call, “Seize them!”
Gwen turned and spied Fulton, along with her father and a few soldiers heading their way.
“Would you imprison the men who saved your dukedom?” Allen asked.
“No, but I will most certainly seize you and Lady Gwendolyn, who caused this debacle,” Fulton said.
“You have gone too far this time, Gwendolyn,” her father added with a snarl.
She gripped tight to her reins. She had followed her convictions, and she would allow the man to bully her no longer.
All around them, the king’s troops rounded up Warner’s followers, yet Fulton stayed focused upon his mission to imprison his own faithful citizens.
Gwen turned to Allen. “Should we fight?”
“No.” He lowered his lance. “This time we must face our consequences.”
As the North Britannian soldiers circled around them, Allen reached into a small sack at his waist and removed a piece of paper. “For you,” he said,
“in case I never see you again.”
Gwen took the offered gift and pressed it to her heart. She would treasure it until the end of her days. Which might yet come sooner rather than later.
“In you go, wench.” Gwen’s captor chuckled. “I would not wish to be you this day. Young ladies should stay in their place. You brought this upon yourself, you know.”
The hand digging into her arm shoved her into the gaol cell. She slammed to the floor and caught herself on her forearms. The links of her chain mail pressed into her flesh.
“Mind your own business, you brute,” Gwen said, even as he slammed the bars shut.
This could not be happening. Her mind still could not grasp that she was being imprisoned for saving the dukedom. For doing what any chivalrous knight would. But the whole of North Britannia had lost their collective minds this day.
Longing for any respite, she opened the note Allen had given to her in the battlefield. It looked to be a poem, written in his own hand.
Flowing curves rush my senses,
Like waves in a sea.
Golden hair, streaming waterfall,
How it beckons to me.
Those eyes, pools so blue quench—
Intoxicate, such bliss.
While lips, seashell’s fairest pink,
Beg a lover’s tender kiss.
So bold, so true you stand,
Athena in splendor arrayed.
Bedecked in steel or finest silk,
Your essence still aptly displayed.
A valorous woman who can find,
A tower of virtue and might?
Such a wonder at my side,
Would be my heart’s greatest delight.
My soul in your hands for all of my days,
Guard well with your own sweet, fierce care.
Though fate be determined to keep us apart,
I surrender our future to prayer.
Surrender our future to prayer. Allen was correct, she must not despair. Gathering her fighting spirit, she crawled to the corner, rose to her knees, and pressed her hands together in desperate petition.
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