Rise of the Defender (109 page)

     She waved weakly in return and he swung his
charger about, disappearing though the gates and out into the snowy, dark
night.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

     The stop in London had been for the sole
purpose of picking up the crown troops, now numbering nearly one thousand
strong. Christopher viewed his huge army with satisfaction, knowing they would
surely quell John easily and he could return home soon. Richard was crossing
the channel as he met with the jubilant justices, but Christopher could not
wait for the king. John had to be controlled as he laid siege to the mighty
strong hold of Gowergrove Castle.

     Richard's return had indeed pleased
Christopher, but with the focus his life had taken, he hadn't felt the excitement
he once would have. He no longer lived solely for his king, but for his family,
and he wondered how well Richard would receive that knowledge. Christopher
intended to step down from his title as Defender and become a mere baron once
again, leaving the duties of the realm to a successor he would surely
hand-pick. Marcus was the first man that came to mind.

     The troops retrieved, the three thousand
man army headed northwest to the great castle of Gowergrove, a favorite holding
of Richard's at the southern tip of Sherwood Forrest. John had always had his
eye on the fortress, and if Gowergrove was under his command, 'twould be near
impossible to pass from southern to northern England without passing through
his territory. Christopher had to secure the castle at all costs, and early on
the eleventh day after leaving Lioncross, he lay siege to John's troops at
Gowergrove Castle.

     John's mercenary army was dug in like a
tick on a dog. The walls of Gowergrove were nearly thirty feet tall and the
moat surrounding it was filled with nasty, rotting filth, very undesirable for
the men-at-arms to go plunging into, to say nothing of the knights in their
armor. Leeton set two hundred men to building ladders to mount the walls, but
until that time, there was naught else to do but besiege Gowergrove with
archers. Fine Welsh archers whose accuracy was legendary.

     Three days into the siege, the ladders were
complete and after a day and a night of attempts, they were finally able to cap
the walls and the battle truly began. When the bridge went down, Christopher
was the first man inside.

     The fighting went on for days. Long,
exhaustive days. Christopher saw barely five hours’ worth of sleep and spent
his entire time in the saddle dueling mercenaries. Ralph was nowhere to be seen,
but he saw Sir Dennis on several occasions and made it his focal point to seek
the man out and destroy him.

     The battle had spilled out into the
surrounding areas and the moat was filled to overflowing with the bodies of the
dead. Christopher had suffered tremendous losses, as had John, but he refused
to withdraw because John's army was considerably weaker. He knew it would not
be much longer and he would have Gowergrove secured.

     As is usual in January, the winter weather
turned extremely foul and the worst storm Christopher could remember doused
them day and night. At night, the rain would turn to ice and pelt the armor
like a thousand stones being thrown, but in the day, it was miserable freezing
rain. The land outside the castle soon turned into a deep, mucky bog and the
destriers were up to their knees in the stuff, making fighting extremely
difficult.

     Christopher was exhausted, as they all
were. One morning, he found himself fighting outside of the great wall, trying
to help Leeton subdue a particularly hearty band of criminals. They were trying
to steer them toward the moat, corner them in, but the unruly horde was proving
to be most disobedient and Christopher was fed up with all of it. His
frustration had reached a frenzied level when something huge and powerful tore
into his body, plowing through his mall and shoving his breastplate aside as it
invaded his midsection brutally.

     Stunned, Christopher's hand flew to his
left side and he was anguished to feel the shaft of a great spear protruding from
his torso. The rain had begun to fall again, in great blinding sheets, washing
his life's blood down his saddle and on to the ground before it could collect
on his armor.

     He still retained enough of his wits and
reined Zephyr around, heading with speed for the trees. He wanted to be away
from the battle zone so there would be something left of his body to return to
Dustin. And he knew, with great remorse and anger and agony, that he was going
to die. He had seen wounds like this before and they were always fatal.

     Christopher barely made it to the edge of
the forest before weakness overcame him and he fell from his horse in a great,
dying heap. He struggled through the haze of darkness that threatened to crawl
further into the underbrush, his breathing coming in harsh gasps and feeling
pain radiate throughout his body like nothing he had ever known.

     His eyes burned with tears, but not for
himself. He would never again know the sweetness of his wife's flesh, nor would
he have the joy of watching his daughter grow into a beautiful young lady. The
torment of cruel fate surged through him and he cursed himself the first day he
ever picked up a sword. If he could have changed it, he gladly would have. He
missed Dustin already.
Goddammit, it just wasn't fair!

     There was someone beside him and he
recognized Leeton, rushing at him in panic.

     “Jesus, Chris,” Leeton's voice cracked.
“The bloody bastards got you. Oh, Jesus, let me see!”

     Christopher tried to wave him off, knowing
any attempt to save him was futile, but Leeton roughly yanked off his breast
plate and shoved his mail aside.

     “A spear,” Leeton spit with contempt.
“Goddamn cowards could not get you with a sword, so they took to hurling
spears. I have got to get this out.”

     Christopher started to shake his head, but
he was far too weak to do anything but utter a strangled yelp when Leeton
yanked the spear from his guts. Bright red blood gushed freely as Leeton
slapped a few rags of linen on the spot, knowing they would be nearly useless
against such a flow. He already felt the loss of his liege deeply and his
handsome face was pale with sorrow.

     “Leeton,” Christopher groaned, grabbing at
him.

     “Aye, Chris, I am here,” he said, grasping
Christopher’s hand and holding it tightly.

     Christopher could barely speak. “Take….take
my wedding ring,” he whispered. “Take it back to my wife. Tell her….tell her
what happened and tell her my last thoughts were of her. And tell her I love
her, Leeton. I love her with all my heart.”

     Leeton, a seasoned veteran, found himself
choking back tears. “Chris, I….”

     “Take it!” Christopher tried to yell, but
he had not the strength to press his point. His life was fading away and his
strength with it.

     He held up his left hand. Leeton hesitated
for a tormented moment before ripping off the gauntlet and pulling off the
ring. He did not know who was the more miserable; him or Christopher. He wanted
to scream, to yell, to demand that God show pity and take him instead, but he
could only focus on his liege with tears in his eyes. Christopher, satisfied
that his last wish would be carried out, let his hand fall to the ground. His
blue eyes closed and there was a faint smile on his lips.

     “Thank you,” he whispered.

     Leeton heard a horn and turned his head in
the direction of the battle. “Chris, they have got the mercenaries boxed in. I
have got to go, but I swear I shall be back. Do you hear me? I shall be back. I
shall find Burwell and return. He will save you.”

     Christopher weakly grasped his wrist. “No
one can save me, Leeton,” Christopher murmured. “You and I both know this is
the end of me. One more thing….find David and tell him that I am sorry for
everything.  Tell my brother than I love him and ask him to take care of Dustin
and Christin for me.”

     Leeton could not stop the strangled sob,
but he nodded his head furiously. “Aye, anything you say,” he said tearfully,
grasping Christopher’s shoulders with his big hands. “Just… please hold on.
Burwell ought to have something to patch up that hole.”

     Christopher did not reply; he had already
slipped into unconsciousness and his breathing was slowing. Swallowing hard,
Leeton took one last look at his liege, his grief overflowing, wishing he was
not the one charged with the horrible duty of informing Lady de Lohr of her
husband's passing.  Already, he felt the agony to his bones.

     But he would do what had been asked of him
in one last show of obedience. He would have much rather stayed with
Christopher as he breathed his last, but more pressing duties were calling and
he answered reluctantly. Leaving Christopher lying beneath the trees to protect
him from the rain, he put the wedding ring on his left hand for safekeeping and
mounted Zephyr. His own destrier, suffering a huge gash to the chest, was left
grazing on the edge of the forest.

     Leeton reined Zephyr in the direction of
the battle, taking one last glance at Christopher's still form under the trees.
Dear God, it wasn't fair. Christopher was The Defender, entitled to
immortality, deserving of divine grace. To die fighting the bastard prince was
unworthy of such a great man, and Leeton felt a great surge of anger wash over
him.

     Leeton swore to himself that he would find
Ralph and Dennis and John and run each one of them through on Christopher's
behalf. If it took him the rest of his life, he would do it. Every one of those
bastards would pay for what they had done to his beloved liege and friend. And
with each stroke of the sword into their flesh, he would be sure to mention
Dustin's name.

     He made it several hundred yards from the
wall, fighting alongside other knights in the blinding rain. Aboard Zephyr, the
men thought he was Christopher and the fighting was furious. They were inspired
by him. Yet they were not the only ones who thought he was Christopher; a
barrage of crossbows unleashed arrows as plentiful as rain, and Zephyr went
down in a scream of agony. Leeton tried to bolt free, but the horse fell
quickly and with all of his armor, he was weighted severely. There was no
chance for him to escape.

     Twenty-five hundred pounds of horseflesh
buried him face-first in the mud, and in Leeton’s last wild thoughts, he never
imagined he would actually drown on the field of battle.

***

     The battle for Gowergrove was over.

     Crown troops victoriously let Richard's
pennant fly from the walls and took to killing any remaining mercenary
soldiers. Word of The Defender's death hit everyone hard, as hard as if their
own beloved father had been taken from them, and they were committed to doing
everything they could to make John's army pay. As the men moved slowly and
lethargically about their duties, as exhausted men usually do, disbelief filled
every face.

     Anguish and grief were hand in hand among
the men, and especially the knights. But none were harder hit than
Christopher's personal stable, and they set about their tasks mechanically,
although each and every one of them had taken the time to view the body in the
mud, half-burled underneath his destrier. Seeing had to be believing, yet none
wanted to believe.

     “We lost Leeton, too,” Max mumbled, gazing
down on the body of their great liege. “Has anyone even seen him?”

     “Nay,” Sean de Lara replied, turning away
from the rotting corpse underneath the horse. Sean had remained in London when
Christopher had gone to Lioncross last year, but then rejoined Christopher when
the man had come to London to collect the crown troops. He had been by the
baron’s side for weeks. “He is probably buried underneath this muck, somewhere.
I saw his horse a three days ago, over by the line of trees.”

     Anthony Cornwalis had shown an amazing
amount of responsibility in the past three days. A rotting hand, a wedding ring
around the left finger, was jutting up out of the rancid mud and he reached
down and plucked the gold band free. “For Lady de Lohr,” he said softly. “She
will want to keep it. Now, we must bury the body.”

     “We are not returning him to Lioncross?”
Max stood up from his crouch and faced his brother. “To be buried on his soil?”

     “Max, if we bring this sickening corpse
back to Lioncross, you know Lady Dustin is going to want to view her husband,”
Anthony said pointedly. “We will try to prevent her, but you know she will gain
her way. Do you truly want her to see Chris in this state? It will drive her
insane.”

     Max glanced down at the corpse, so bloated
and unrecognizable that the skin was splitting on the head where the helmet was
restraining it. The only thing of any recognition was the blond hair, and the
ring.

     “Nay,” he said after a moment, crossing
himself and uttering a prayer. “God, no.”

     Anthony nodded curtly. “Then set up a
detail to dig Chris a grave. Leeton one, too, if we can find his body. Pick a
nice place, perhaps on that little rise up there.”