Lyle positioned Brickley by the fire so the man could begin drying out as he went to close the solar door. He didn’t want anyone to see or hear David’s reaction when the devastating news was delivered. Then, he went to help Brickley strip off his wet things, for the man was struggling. Lyle called out to David and Emilie in the room beyond.
“David?” he called. “The army is returning from the north.”
David was suddenly in the doorway of his chamber, looking at Brickley with some surprise as Lyle pulled the man’s gloves off. Naked from the waist up, David still had mud all over his neck that Emilie, following him with a rag, was trying to wipe off.
“You have returned,” David said to Brickley, perhaps the warmest thing he could manage. “I suppose John’s mercenaries have bad aim these days.”
The statement, meant in humor, was like a shot to the gut for Brickley and Lyle. Their aim was not so bad that they did not miss your brother. In fact, Lyle closed his eyes briefly and grunted, knowing he could not delay what needed to be said. He was already sick to his stomach about it. The longer he delayed, the more difficult it would be to tell him.
“David,” he said, somewhat subdued. “Come here.”
David did, sensing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Emilie was tagging along behind him, trying to get the hardened mud off the nape of his neck. David’s hair was wet where he had dunked it into a bucket of water to rinse out the mud, but he still had patches of dirt on him.
“What were the losses, Brick?” David asked.
Brickley wouldn’t look at him as he and Lyle moved to remove him from his soaking tunic. Brickley was so cold that his fingers weren’t moving correctly so Lyle was doing all of the work.
“I left with eight hundred and twelve men,” he said, lips blue and quivering. “I have returned with six hundred and ninety-four.”
David pondered that figure. “A loss of one hundred and eighteen men,” he said, somewhat somber. “I suppose that ratio is not too bad, considering. Where did you see action?”
Brickley spoke through chattering teeth. “The missive we received from the Marshal said Gowergrove was the center of John’s activity,” he said. “We headed there and joined up with your brother’s army as they headed north from London. He had evidently marched from Lioncross to London to pick up crown troops, so by the time we joined them, it was well over three thousand men. We headed north and saw action at Gowergrove as predicted. John’s army had already captured it by the time we arrived, however, so it was a matter of purging them from the castle.”
David was listening intently. “Did you see my brother?”
Brickley couldn’t help but glance at Lyle, who was hanging the dripping tunic up on a peg next to the hearth. When Lyle simply nodded his head, as if to give Brickley permission speak on the subject of Christopher, Brickley continued. But it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and painful.
“I did,” he said. “I did not speak with him if that is what you mean. Knights such as I do not speak with the great Defender. We only do what we are told.”
David didn’t react to that statement. He seemed to be content that Brickley had seen the man. “Go on about Gowergrove,” he said. “Were you able to reclaim the castle?”
Brickley nodded. “We did,” he replied. “But it was a horrific battle. We fought for weeks in weather much like this. It poured and the mud was up to our hips in some places. Unfortunately for many of our dead, the mud swallowed them up and hardened. When I left Gowergrove there were several hundred men unaccounted for, including some you may know.”
Lyle thought it was a rather brilliant lead-in to what was to come as David seemed quite somber and serious about the situation. “Like who?” he asked quietly.
Brickley sighed heavily. “Leeton de Shera,” he said. “I heard that the man was unaccounted for and presumed dead under all of that muck.”
David closed his eyes briefly, greatly saddened to hear the news. “Jesus,” he muttered, a hand going to his head in a gesture of strife. “He was a great knight but I suppose… I suppose he is happier now. He has not been the same since his wife died. Mayhap you knew Leeton, but if you did not, he was still in mourning for his wife, who died in childbirth over three years ago now. I am happy for the man to have finally been reunited with her in heaven.”
Brickley looked at Lyle at that point. It was the perfect opportunity to tell of his brother and Lyle caught the glance and took the hint. He moved away from the hearth to stand next to David.
“More were lost, David,” he said as gently as he could. “It seems that your great and powerful brother has also joined those ranks, for Christopher was lost on the field of battle as well.”
David stared at him. It was an odd stare, as if he was processing Lyle’s words but not particularly comprehending them. In fact, he snorted, grinning as if it was all a big joke.
“That is not possible,” he said. “My brother would not fall to John.”
Lyle put his hand on David’s big arm. “It is true, David,” he insisted softly. “I am so terribly sorry. Your brother is gone.”
The smile faded from David’s face as he looked at Lyle. Something was going on behind those pale blue eyes because they suddenly widened and he looked at Lyle as if the man had just grievously lied to him. His brow furrowed, outrage evident on his face.
“It is not true!” he insisted. “Who told you such lies?”
At this point, Brickley spoke. He had to. “It is true, David,” he said firmly. “I am very sorry to tell you what I was told. One of your brother’s men, a man named Anthony de Velt, told a group of knights, me included, that Christopher was found buried in the mud, having fallen beneath his mortally wounded horse. There… there were no marks on his body that they could find. The best they could tell was that he had drowned in the mud when his charger was wounded and fell on him. All of England knows of his death by now and I heard rumor that Richard himself was taking your brother’s body back to Lioncross. That may or may not be true, but I thought you should know.”
David was looking at Brickley as if the man was speaking in tongues, as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was being told. He must have stopped breathing because he suddenly took an enormous gasp and stumbled back, tripping over the chair behind him and falling to the ground. As Emilie fell to her knees beside him, David sat up, knees bent and head in his hands, and began rocking back and forth like a madman.
“Nay,” he muttered to himself. “It is not true. It cannot be true. He is not dead; he is not dead!”
Emilie was already in tears, her hands on David’s bare shoulder. “I am so sorry, my darling,” she whispered. “I am so, so very sorry.”
David’s rocking was growing worse, sharp little pants coming out of his mouth as if he was struggling to hold back the sobs that were determined to come forth.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head, hands clutching his skull. “It is not true. He cannot be gone!”
“He is, David,” Lyle said, greatly concerned. “I am very sorry for your loss, lad.”
David was on the verge of a breakdown of extreme limits. “Nay,” he mumbled again. “It is not true!”
Emilie didn’t know what to do; she looked to her father, tears streaming down her face. “Papa,” she gasped. “Please help him!”
Lyle, watching David with perhaps the greatest sorrow he had ever felt, went to his knees beside the man as well. “David,” he said, trying to sound comforting but firm. “God determines our time on earth. He sent Christopher here to do great things but his time is over. God needs him back in heaven, mayhap to lead the heavenly hosts now. Your brother’s great legacy will live on, I promise. It will live on through you. You are the last and greatest de Lohr now and that is a responsibility I know you can bear. Your brother would have wanted you to bear it proudly.”
David looked at Lyle, hearing the words that only seemed to make his grief worse. He couldn’t even describe what he was feeling at the moment b
ecause no words existed to flesh out the magnitude of anguish he was experiencing. He didn’t even have the sense to know that Lyle had meant well; all Lyle had managed to do was make it all hurt more. David’s face crumped and he put his hands over his mouth, tears streaming down his face.
“God help me,” he whispered over and over. “God help me!”
It was like listening to a man who was losing his mind. David suddenly stopped rocking, burying his face in his hands, and weeping openly. Emilie threw her arms around his head and neck, hugging him tightly as he sobbed. Lyle, who could see that, for the moment, there was no comforting David, rose wearily to his feet and went to Brickley.
“Go find Lillibet,” he muttered to the man. “Ask her for the poppy powder. Bring it back here with a full measure of wine. Hurry!”
Brickley, saddened to witness David’s breakdown regardless of the relationship between them, moved quickly to obey. Man to man, knight to knight, he greatly sympathized with David’s grief. As Brickley fled, David continued to sob into his hands as Emilie tried desperately to comfort him. But there was no comfort to be found; he was wallowing in a world of sorrow that had swallowed him whole. The pain wracking through his body was just too great.
“He died hating me,” David mumbled, his hands over his mouth. “Our last words were those of anger. I did not go to Gowergrove because I was afraid if I did, I would be a distraction to him. I was afraid he would be distracted from the battle and harm would befall him. But I should have gone! I could have saved him from this!”
Emilie squeezed him. “Mayhap,” she said soothingly. “But it is equally as possible that there was nothing you could have done. You must not blame yourself for this. It was not your fault.”
David shook his head, disagreeing with her. “I should have been there,” he muttered. “Chris and I have never faced a battle without each other. Now see what has happened because I refused to go.”
Emilie didn’t know what to say to that. It seemed that anything she or her father said simply made it worse. It was evident that this was something David would have to work through on his own. There wasn’t anything she could do and that was a difficult realization for her.
David wasn’t sobbing so much anymore as he was simply grunting with emotion. Wiping his face of the tears, he simply sat there with his eyes closed and his hand over his mouth, laboring with every fiber of his being to regain his composure. But all he could see was his brother’s face the last time he saw him and the words of anger kept rolling around in his head. Was it really possible that Christopher left the earth thinking so poorly of him? Was it really possible they would never have the chance to reconcile, a foolish argument that was now going to haunt him the rest of his life?
I care not where you go or what you do because you no longer exist to me. Get out of my sight, David. I want nothing more to do with you….
Those were the last words from his brother, the last thing he was to remember. All he could see was Christopher’s angry face as he spouted those words of doom. Exhausted, and shattered, David dropped his chin to his chest and covered his eyes, hearing those words over and over again. It was difficult to shake them. Oh so difficult. He could feel Emilie beside him, her arms around him, and it gave him great comfort. But the truth was that he didn’t want any comfort at the moment; his grief, his guilt, was his alone to bear. He welcomed the pain because he knew he deserved it. He invited the pain in, letting it wash over him, knowing he deserved every last barb and slash and prick.
He deserved it all.
As David wallowed in a grief bordering on madness, Brickley returned shortly with a full cup of wine and handed it to Lyle, who went to David and took a knee beside the man. He put his hand on David’s shoulder.
“David, drink this,” he said, holding the cup to him. “It will help you. Drink it all.”
David shook his head, pushing the cup away, but Emilie wouldn’t let him. “Please, David,” she begged. “Please drink it. For me, drink it.”
David lifted his head to look at her, seeing her devastated face, and reluctantly took the cup. He downed it in two big swallows, tasting some bitterness to it, but he didn’t give it much thought. He hoped it was poison. Death, at this point, would have been preferable than suffering the loss of his brother.
My brother….
More than a brother, in fact. Since their parents had died when they were both young, it had always only been Christopher and David, so in a sense, they had been everything to each other – father, mother, as well as brother. David couldn’t ever remember being without his brother and even in this silly argument between them, he knew it would not be permanent. He knew, at some point, they would reconcile, but now that reconciliation would never come. Already, the guilt of that had gutted him.
He knew he would never be the same.
Time rolled past, as tangible as the storm outside. There was something painful and loud about it now, something to hide from. Exhausted, overwhelmed, he began to grow very groggy as he sat there and wept. He thought to retire for a time, to sleep and forget, and hopefully regain some of his composure.
David tried to stand up but couldn’t quite make it, so Lyle and Brickley had to haul him to his feet and nearly carry him into his borrowed chamber. David fell upon the bed, with Emilie right behind him, covering him up and making sure he was warm enough. But the truth was David didn’t care about any of that; he simply wanted to sleep and forget.
Forget about death….
Very shortly, he was snoring heavily lying on his belly and Emilie watched him for a few moments, making sure he was all right, before turning to her father.
“Remove the weaponry from this room,” she said quietly but urgently. “Remove anything he can hurt himself with.”
Brickley was already moving, collecting David’s broadsword and hunting down the assortment of daggers spread across the room. Lyle watched Brickley as he carefully gathered anything sharp and deadly.
“If he really wanted to hurt himself, he could use the bed linens and hang himself, Em,” Lyle said. “What good will it do to remove his weapons? If a man wants to kill himself, he will find a way.”
Emilie frowned at her father. “I will not make it easy for him,” she said, looking down at David as the man snored. “I wonder how long he will sleep.”
“Long enough,” Brickley said. “Lillibet put a good deal of that powder in the wine. See how quickly it affected him.”
Emilie watched David sleep for a few moments longer before pulling up a stool that was next to the hearth. She sat right next to the bed, right by his head. “I will sit with him,” she said. “I do not think we should leave him alone.”
Lyle agreed. “I will post a guard at the door as well, just in case he awakens and becomes too powerful for you to handle,” he said. “Meanwhile, I will send a message to William Marshal to ask him if he knows of the funeral arrangements for Christopher, for I am sure David will want to know when he regains his senses. I have a feeling he will not miss the burial.”
Emilie simply nodded, getting comfortable in her vigilant watch over David as her father and Brickley left the room. Brickley came in and out a few times, still collecting weapons, of which David had many. When the room was cleared out of anything sharp, he left Emilie alone with David, who was snoring like an old bear.
But at least he was at peace for the moment, which was all Emilie could hope for. Such shocking news on this night of nights and she felt horrible for David. Horrible that an argument between brothers might be something that affected David for the rest of his life. She began to think of her own sisters and how she would feel if something happened to them. She knew that her grief would be limitless, much as David’s was. Even thinking about losing Nathalie or Elise brought tears to her eyes.
Until she started smelling something terrible. If she didn’t know better, she thought it smelled like horse dung. She sniffed around the entire chamber, hunting for it, until she realized that it was comi
ng from the bed. David had fallen on the coverlet without climbing beneath it so Emilie picked up the edges of it, hunting for the source of the smell, until she realized it was coming from his pillow. Peering into the pillow, she could see that the goose down had been replaced by horse manure.
Nathalie and Elise struck again in their endless pursuit to torment David. Fury filled Emilie’s veins; leaving the chamber door open so her father, still in his solar, could go to David’s aid in case he was needed, Emilie went to find her sisters. She had never been one to react to her sister’s tricks, mostly because they had never been directed at her, but tonight she would make an exception. Tonight, she would not tolerate any manner of action against David, in any form. She would make it her business to respond to the dung pillow.
Hell hath no fury like a sister in defense of her lover.
Nathalie and Elise were out in the great hall on this stormy night helping tend the peasants who had sought shelter from the storm. Without a cloak on, Emilie charged out into the rainy night and on into the great hall, which was stuffed with people taking shelter from the storm. It was fairly quiet, as people settled in to sleep for the night, and the soft sounds of babies crying or adults whispering were the only thing to fill the stale air.
Spying Nathalie near the far end of the hall, Emilie made her way across the hall with a purpose. Nothing was going to stand in her way. She knew that Nathalie was always the brains behind any pranks, so it would be Nathalie she dealt with. Coming upon her sister, she grabbed the girl by the arm and yanked her back into an alcove behind a screen, a space used by the servants to prepare food presentations. Nathalie had outrage on her lips until Emilie started swinging.
The entire hall heard Emilie give her sister a spanking that left the girl unable to sit pain-free for days.
*
David wasn’t entire sure how long he had been awake. It took him awhile to realize that he was staring up at the ceiling as he thought on his brother’s passing. He’d slept dreamlessly but had awoken to images of his brother and the man drowning in the mud. Such an incredibly undignified way for him to die, in fact. Christopher, at the very least, should have gone out in battle, fighting off hordes of Saracens or French mercenaries. But he met his end beneath a horse, drowning in mud. It was horribly unfitting.
The de Lohr Dynasty: Medieval Legends: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 148