There were dead men in the street, dead Welshmen with their long tunics and even longer cloaks. Two of Dane’s soldiers were down, and he could see Dastan as the man fought off a group of Welshmen who were trying to seriously beat on him.
Unfortunately, it looked to Dane as if Dastan and Syler hadn’t taken many men with them when they’d hurriedly fled the castle, because there were more Welshmen than English, and Dane charged into the fray, swinging his sword and beating back those trying to overwhelm his men. Just as he began fighting in earnest, he could see a downed knight off to his right, lying in a puddle of water, as two Welshmen tried to strip him of his weapons.
Dane was on them in an instant.
Infuriated, rage fed his actions. In a particularly brutal move, he went in for the kill right away. The Welshmen weren’t wearing armor or protection, but Dane didn’t care. He cut off one man’s arm right away, sending the man screaming off, and with the second man, he wasn’t any kinder. With a vicious upstroke on his sword, he caught the man in the chin, cutting his head off with tremendous ease. As the man’s head went rolling into a gutter and his body fell away, Dane fell to his knees beside the downed knight.
It was Syler.
The man was on his face, his entire head in a muddy puddle of water. Dane could feel panic in his veins as he rolled the man out of the water and onto his back. Immediately, he could see the remains of two broken-off arrows in Syler’s chest area, very close together, and he yanked the man’s helm off to see if he was still alive.
Met with an unconscious knight with a bluish-tinged face, Dane quickly unbuckled the plate protection, pulling it off and yanking the arrows out with it. They were all stuck together, the arrowheads wedged into Syler’s torso, but Dane ripped them all out. He could see that the arrows had pierced the man just below his heart, into the left side of his body, and he put his head against the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat or breathing.
He heard nothing.
Seized with horror, Dane rolled Syler onto his side and pounded on his back, hoping that might clear his lungs and start him breathing. He had no way of knowing how long Syler had been lying face down in that mud puddle, but he suspected it was too long. Still, he didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to lose a knight, a man he’d genuinely grown to like. He didn’t want to lose the camaraderie and the man’s skilled sword. He pounded on the knight’s back.
“Breathe, Syler,” he commanded. “Breathe!”
Muddy water poured from Syler’s mouth, but nothing more. He didn’t breathe. Dane pounded again and again, not realizing that the fighting had stopped around him and his men, including Dastan, were coming up alongside, watching him as he tried to bring a dead man back to life.
“My lord,” Dastan said, feeling the grief of having lost a friend as he watched. “He was down for several minutes before you arrived. I saw him go down but there was nothing I could do.”
Dane heard Dastan’s words but he ignored him. He continued to beat on Syler’s back, shaking the man, trying anything he could think of to get him to breathe again, but he was met by silence.
“Syler, breathe!” he bellowed. “Do you hear me? Breathe! I command it!”
It was so very difficult to watch. Dastan had tears in his eyes. Rather than stand there and weep, however, he fell to his knees beside Syler, trying to clear his mouth of the debris the man had breathed in, trying to help Dane revive a man who could not be revived. Dane tried, for several minutes, and so did Dastan, but in the end, it did no good.
Syler de Poyer was dead.
Even after Dane realized that, he continued to pound on Syler’s back but, eventually, he stopped pounding. Then, he simply sat there and hung his head.
“God,” he muttered. “Oh, God… no.”
Dastan gazed down at his friend and cousin through marriage, a man he’d greatly respected and admired. Heavily, he sighed.
“They were waiting for us when we rode into town,” he said, his voice sounding weary and dull. “I was in the lead and Syler was back behind me, riding with the men. They hit him first with arrows, and a few others, as you have seen, but Syler fell off of his horse and straight into the puddle, and there he lay, as I could do nothing. While we were engaged, more of them waited for you to come behind us. I could hear the arrows flying at you but I could do nothing.”
Dane still had his hand on Syler’s back as he looked at Dastan, his face a mask of devastation and anger.
“How many were there?” he asked.
Dastan scratched his head with a bloodied hand. “Forty or fifty men, mayhap,” he said. “They were Welsh.”
“You are sure?”
“I am.”
Dane looked down at the dead knight, feeling the stress and grief of the sight. “His death shall not be in vain,” he growled. “Dastan, mount two hundred of our best men. We will follow the trail of the bastards who did this. When we find them, we shall destroy them.”
“It shall be done, my lord,” Dastan said, struggling to focus on what needed to be done and not the anguish he was feeling. “What would you have me do with Syler’s body?”
Dane reached out, putting a gentle hand on Syler’s head. It was a poignant gesture, one of kindness and regret. In his own way, he was apologizing to Syler, perhaps asking the man’s forgiveness for what had happened. As the Duke of Shrewsbury, it was the first man he’d lost under his command and he took it very hard. With a final stroke to the man’s dark head, he stood up.
“Cover him up and take him back to the castle,” he said. “No one is to mention his death until the rest of us return. News of his passing should come from you, Dastan, since you are married to his cousin. I do not want the women hearing about this from others.”
Dastan nodded, his gaze moving back to Syler and losing the battle against his grief. As Dane watched, he went to Syler and drew the man up into his arms. Kissing his forehead, he simply held him for a moment, indulging in the only display of grief he would allow himself.
“He is an only son, you know,” Dastan said hoarsely. “His father will take this very hard.”
That was like a dagger to Dane’s heart. He put a hand on Dastan’s shoulder, a hand of comfort, but he knew there was little comfort to give. After several moments of watching Dastan grieve, he patted him on the shoulder rather firmly.
“Give him over to the men, Dastan,” he said. “You and I have a task to complete. We must make sure whoever is responsible for it pays with every damn bone in their body. Are you with me?”
Dastan nodded, but tears were trickling from his eyes. “Indeed, I am,” he said, gently releasing Syler back onto the ground. As Dane turned away, looking for his horse, who had found another grassy patch to chomp on, Dastan quietly ordered a few of the soldiers standing around to collect Syler’s body and cover him up, returning him to the castle and placing him in the cold underground vault until his body could be prepared. Dane had never heard a man weep and give orders at the same time.
But today, he did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After a two-hour search of the lands to the west of Shrewsbury, Dane and his men returned to the castle.
The mist was just starting to lift, casting golden fingers of light down into the muddy, cold earth as the Duke of Shrewsbury and his army came thundering in through the open gatehouse, which was quickly closed again as soon as they were through. Dane reined his steed to a halt mid-bailey and was met by another small army of pages and squires, young men assigned to the stables, to take the horses away and tend to them. As his fat horse was led away, Dane removed his helm and began to pull off his gloves.
“Dane,” Boden rush up beside him, having just come from the battlements. “Did you find those bastards?”
Dane was weary and frustrated. “Nay,” he said. “They returned to the forests outside of the town and disappeared. We thought we found a couple of paths, but they split up and we lost the trail in Ford’s Heath. After that, there were enough forests and
bogs to keep them concealed. They are back in Wales by now.”
Boden could see how upset his brother was, and with good reason. The entire army was greatly saddened by the death of Syler, the news of which had spread as much as Boden had tried to keep it quiet. The mood of the castle was dark and morose as Dane and his party returned and, unfortunately, returned empty-handed.
“You did what you could,” Boden said quietly. “I know you tried very hard, Dane. You mustn’t be disappointed in your efforts.”
But that was no comfort to Dane. “I failed,” he said simply. “I vowed to bring Syler’s murderers to justice and I failed.”
Boden glanced up, seeing William as the knight spoke to a downcast Dastan a few feet away. As he watched, William put his hands on Dastan’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. Boden knew how bad everyone was feeling in the wake of Syler’s death; he was feeling badly about it also, badly because he had been locked in at the castle and unable to help. Each of them was feeling like a failure in his own way. Boden finally put a hand on Dane’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort.
“You may have the key to all of this in the vault,” he muttered. “We still have a prisoner.”
Dane’s head shot up as he suddenly remembered the man he had grabbed in town. “I captured a Welshman and gave him over to the men,” he said. “They brought him back here?”
“Indeed, they did.”
Dane felt a surge of hope in his veins. “Excellent,” he said. “While I interrogate the man, you will make sure the gates remained locked and release the women in the keep. I believe they can move about freely for now.”
“I will send a soldier to release them,” Boden said. “I am going with you.”
Dane didn’t have time to argue. His gaze moved to William and Dastan, standing in a huddle. “Dastan!” he shouted. “To me!”
Dastan rushed to him, followed by William. Boden was a little slower, having issued the command to release the keep, but he followed quickly. All four men headed to the eastern gatehouse, which was comprised of a small tower with a vault in the bedrock below it. It had been dug into the ground when the gate and wall were built two hundred years before, a dank and dingy hole in the ground that held three cramped cells. It was where Dane had instructed Syler to be taken and stored, and it was with irony he realized one of the Welsh responsible for the man’s death was also being held there.
The eastern tower, built of the same red stone that the rest of the castle was built with, had a heavy contingent of guards at the vault opening, a narrow doorway that contained a flight of narrow, slippery stairs cut into the rock that led to the depths below. Dane grabbed a torch, as did Boden, and the group proceeded down the stairs where three more guards were waiting at the bottom, watching the prisoner. Dane handed the torch over to one of the guards, straining to find the cells as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
The first cell was very tiny, off to his left and hardly big enough for a man. It had heavy iron bars all around it. The second cell contained Syler’s body; they could all see it on the ground, cushioned by clean straw, with a horse blanket thrown over it. The third cell contained a frightened, beaten man cowering in the corner, all rolled up in a ball, but Dane wasn’t particularly focused on him.
At the moment, he was more focused on Syler.
He had to see the man for himself once last time. Stepping in to the small cell, he knelt beside the knight’s body and pulled back the horse blanket, coming face to face with Syler’s still-bluish face, only now there was more gray to it and his eyes were half-open. With a heavy sigh, Dane put his hand to the man’s cheek in another apologetic gesture, perhaps an apology that those responsible for his death had not yet been brought to justice. But the gesture was short, and heartfelt, before Dane covered the man’s face again and stood up.
Now, he could focus on the prisoner in the next cell.
When the guards unlocked it, Dane pushed into the cell with Dastan and William behind him. That was all that would fit. Boden remained at the cell door. When the prisoner remained rolled up in a ball, ignoring the men around him, Dane lashed out a big boot and kicked the man in the back.
“Get up,” he snarled. “You will face me.”
The man flinched in pain and slowly began to unroll himself. It was William who impatiently reached out and yanked the man’s cloak off his head and then pulled him up by the scruff of his dark, matted hair.
“Sit up,” William barked, slapping the man in the head and then shoving him back against the wall of the cell. “You will answer him, do you hear me? Answer him or I will beat your brains out where you sit.”
Dane put out a hand to still William’s quick temper, and William backed away, but he was still huffing. Dane stood over the prisoner, the same young man with the crossbow that he’d clobbered in town, and folded his arms.
“Wyt ti’n deall Saesneg?” he asked.
Do you speak English? The Welshman lifted his head, fear written all over his face, and nodded unsteadily.
“Good,” Dane said. “Do you understand that you are in a very bad position?”
The Welshman hesitated, looking at all of the serious English faces around him. “Do what you want,” he said, although his voice was trembling. “I cannot tell you anything. Do what you will to me.”
That brought William down on him and he delivered two nasty blows to the man’s face before Dane and Dastan could pull him away. As Dane pulled the Welshman back into a sitting position, Dastan shoved William back at Boden, who yanked the young knight out of the cell. They could hear Boden angrily scolding William as Dane and Dastan closed in on the prisoner.
“I cannot keep him off of you for much longer,” Dane said. “His friend is dead and he is angry. It would be best to tell me what we want to know. Who led the raid into town today?”
The Welshman had a bloody nose that was causing him a good deal of pain. He put his cloak up to his face to try and stem the flow.
“I’ll not tell you!”
“If you tell me, you will live. If you do not, then one less Welshman in the world will not matter to me. I will get my information elsewhere and your death will have been in vain. I can promise you that you will not die painlessly.”
The Welshman was young and it was clear that he was frightened. Perhaps an older, more seasoned warrior would have ignored Dane’s demand, but the Welshman seemed to be considering it. He could see the angry redheaded knight outside of his cell being held back by another knight, and that worried him. He had a feeling they would turn the redheaded man loose on him and then he would know great pain. His fear began to build, bringing a wave of panic that he was unaccustomed to. He’d never really been in a fight, not in all his eighteen years, and now he found himself the captive of powerful English knights.
He knew nothing. He was nothing.
But he wanted to live.
“We killed the duke,” he said defiantly. “Killing me will not bring him back!”
Dane eyed him curiously. “What makes you think you killed the duke?”
The Welshman wiped at his bloodied nose. “Because he rode from the castle surrounded by his men,” he said. “He was struck down. I saw it!”
Dane looked at Dastan, who seemed to be equally puzzled. But then, it occurred to Dastan what he meant because he had been there. He had seen them take Syler out in a hail of well-placed arrows and now it occurred to him as to why.
Syler had been targeted.
“Is that what you thought?” he asked, incredulous. “That the duke was riding in the midst of his men into town?”
“He was!” the Welshman said, still with a defiant tone. “He’s dead and now Shrewsbury will belong to Godor, as it should.”
Now, the man had Dane’s full attention. “Godor?” he repeated sharply. “Is ap Madoc behind this?”
The young Welshman looked at Dane with a mixture of surprise and pride. “Then you know of him already,” he said. “You know of his greatness. Shrewsbury will be
long to him now. You will see!”
Dane had to take a step back. He looked at Dastan as the realization of the situation washed over him. Grabbing Dastan by the arm, he pulled him out of the cell where Boden and William were standing. Facing the trio, although he was mostly looking at Dastan, he spoke softly.
“Davies ap Madoc was behind this,” he hissed. “The same man who offered for Grier’s hand and was denied. You heard the prisoner – now, they think they have killed the duke – because Syler was riding with the men, they assumed it was the duke with an escort and they aimed for him. Don’t you see?”
The light of recognition went on in Dastan’s eyes. “That’s why I was not hit,” he said. “Then the raid on the market was a ruse. They were trying to draw out the Duke of Shrewsbury, and they were aiming what limited arrows they had right at Syler, thinking that he was the duke when he came from the castle surrounded by soldiers. They thought he was you.”
Dane put his hands to his head as the understanding of the situation rolled over him. He was flabbergasted and infuriated at the same time. “My God,” he breathed. “The man is trying to kill me. He knows I have married Grier, or at least he knows that some man has married Grier, a man who is now the Duke of Shrewsbury. And he is trying to kill him to get to her.”
“It could be that all he wants is Shrewsbury, and not Grier. She may have been only a means to an end and he has no feelings for her.”
“Or he does have feelings for her and wants both her and the dukedom. Either way, he must get rid of me.”
As that understanding settled, both William and Boden displayed a wide-eyed countenance, shocked with what had happened. They looked at Dane, who was torn between disbelief and anger. An excellent knight had taken arrows meant for him and with that thought, the anger won over.
Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 15