Summer Siege (15 page)

  Madeline had
barely scrabbled to her feet when a clang reverberated through her helm as she
was struck in the face. The blow was deflected by her nose piece but it
buckled, sending searing pain shooting through her nose and head. Dazed from
the hit, she swung out and her foe buckled as she sliced across his chest, his
chainmail splitting under the force.

Her nose piece was
twisted to one side, blocking her vision and throwing her off balance, so she
wrenched it off and flung it to one side. Vaguely registering the warm trickle of
blood dribbling from her nose, she swiped at it before running forwards.

She was in a
precarious position, coming up from behind the French who were steadily being
beaten back by the men of Dover Castle. Although this meant her enemies were
concentrating on what was in front of them, rather than behind, there were
still men trying to push through the gap in the wall behind her, and once she
passed through the rearmost men, she would have to watch both her front and
back.

Clinging to the
curtain wall, she fought her way through, easily assailing the hind ranks, who
were not expecting the thrusting steel of her sword. Once she broke through she
found herself entangled in a heaving, snarling mass of men, and the sharp tang
of blood mingled with the stench of sweat.

The sounds of death
and survival assailed her ears in a haunting fusion. Horror threatened to take
hold of her as blades thrust, but she could no longer see Tristan and her need
to find him steeled her courage. Swiping clumsily, she forged a path through,
no longer sure if the crimson gore showered across her face was hers or that of
her enemies.

The battle was
fierce, the tight quarters only allowing for short swings and thrusts. The
French benefitted from their shields, of which she had none, and she found
herself slammed back several times, knocking the wind from her and rendering a
sharp crack from her chest.

Slamming past a
hulking Frenchman, she swiped at his side, though it had little effect, only
drawing his attention to her. She ducked as his steel arced towards her neck
and she slammed her sword into his chest in response. She felt the sickening
give of flesh but he barely flinched, the strike seeming to merely enrage him.
Cold grey eyes viewed her from underneath his iron helmet, not even flickering
as she wrenched her sword from him. His blood flowed following the withdrawal,
leaching across his surcoat.

Madeline stumbled
back as he loomed over her, swiping at her with terrifying power. The hiss of
the blade slid past her chest and he made to thrust again. His movements were
slower than hers as he was hindered by his vast bulk, but as he slammed down
towards her, the blow was so powerful it easily forced the tip of her blade to
crash against the dirt. The force of the hit shuddered up her arm, jerking
painfully at her shoulder.

Her arm was tiring
quickly, so she dodged his blows rather than parry them, only using her sword
when necessary. As he forced her further back, the crimson stain spread wide
across his chest and she could not believe he had not yet faltered. She
stumbled backwards over the bodies of comrades as he grinned at her
mercilessly.

A quick glance
around and she realised she was no longer in the midst of the battle, but on
the outskirts, the inner wall not far behind her. With a cry, she spotted
Tristan, bloodied and beaten but still on his feet. The Frenchmen’s strength
seemed to have begun to wane as he stabbed his sword forward, because she found
it easier to deflect, allowing his blade to glide along hers. Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Tristan stagger as he clutched at his side and his foe
delivered a glancing blow to his shoulder eliciting a yowl of pain.

Pure desperation
filled Madeline and she knew she had to get to him before it was too late
. If only this beast would die!

It was now or
never. She made her move, lunging forwards and aiming for his ribs. He
deflected the blow with ease but as he twisted into her strike, she drew an
arrow from her quiver and, with a leap, slammed it into the side of his neck.

He gurgled in shock
before falling forwards, causing her to have to jump aside. She wasted little
time in gloating over her kill before running to Tristan. He fell before she
reached him, landing on his back as his injuries took their toll.

She reached his
side as an enemy soldier broke through the slowly closing ranks of the English
and charged at him. With a strength she did not even know she possessed, she
swept at his neck, severing it halfway across as the bone of his spine cracked
under her blade. Pushing a foot against the body, she pulled on her sword and
the Frenchman fell to the ground with a resounding thud as she tumbled
backwards onto Tristan.

Madeline
watched and panted with exertion as the French slowly retreated, disappearing
back through the gap. Those who were still caught in the conflict were
ruthlessly cut down until no more could be seen. Men quickly stormed forwards
with wooden beams, some torn from the innards of the keep, to block the breach
in the wall.

Tristan wrenched at
his battered helmet, flinging it to one side as perspiration dripped down his
face. He had received several glancing blows and he was bruised and battered
but the exhilaration of victory dampened any pain.

Madeline turned to
him, her eyes bright with the same exhilaration. Her face was caked with dried
and wet blood, her hair was matted, and there was a large purpling bruise
already revealing itself underneath one eye, but he had never been happier to
see her.

She grinned and
threw her arms around him, wincing as she did so. Nonetheless, she plastered a
kiss on him and he ripped off his gauntlets so that he could grasp her face
between his hands. Plundering her mouth, he thanked God for their triumph and
for delivering this remarkable woman back to him.

Pulling her back so
he could look at her, he pushed her tangled hair back, smoothing his hands
across her grime streaked face. “I love you, Madeline of Woodchurch.”

“I love you, Tristan
Dumont.”

He went to pull her
closer but she grimaced as he put his hands to her waist. “What’s the matter,
love?”

“I think I may have
cracked a rib.”

She said it with
such a self-satisfied grin that his initial concern abated and he was unable to
prevent himself from laughing. “You are proud of your war wounds, wife?”

Madeline chuckled
and grimaced again as the movement sent a sharp stab of pain up her side.
“Mayhap, but I will be glad to be rid of this hauberk. I shall be more proud
when the pain lessens.”

Tristan clambered
to his feet with great effort and helped her up. She looked at the crimson
split in the side of his surcoat with worry and he smiled reassuringly at her.
“Have no fear, ‘tis but a scratch.”

The breach was
steadily blocked and Tristan took the opportunity to study the aftermath. The
walls had taken a hammering but, aside from the crumbled east tower, had
sustained little damage. Bodies of French and English carpeted the bailey as
dust still settled upon them. Blood and gore seeped into the earthen ground and
Tristan marvelled at the courage of his wife, knowing the odds they had faced.

The English had
fought fiercely and bravely and beaten back an army that should have
overwhelmed them. Prince Louis would not be happy, having wasted a great many
resources and men. Now they had to await his next move.

Picking up his
helmet and gauntlets, he threw his arm around Madeline’s shoulder and they
staggered back into the keep.

***

As they entered the
keep and stumbled up the stairs, Madeline became aware of Tristan leaning more
heavily on her and she wondered if he had taken more of a beating than she had
thought. She could hear his breath rasping harshly, his grunts of pain, and she
feared she would not be able to support him for much longer.

Heading up the last
few steps, his legs suddenly buckled and he dropped to his knees, almost taking
her with him. With a cry, she watched him slump to the floor and realised the
slice to his side was bleeding out, steadily dripping across the leather of his
surcoat.

Madeline dropped to
her knees next to him and grasped his sweat soaked face, noting the pallor of
his skin. As she pressed a hand to his side, it came away coated with blood.
“Oh sweet Lord, Tristan…”

This was all her
fault. If she had not been so stubborn and insisted on fighting, he would not
have been distracted. Guilt and terror tore at her.

He grimaced and
attempted a grin, his breath hissing through his teeth as he attempted to
stand.

As battle-worn
soldiers made their way past them, Madeline seized one. “Take him to the
physician.”

The man hesitated
at being commanded by a woman but, upon viewing the injured knight, he nodded
and grabbed at another to help. They clumsily dragged him into the large chamber,
the floor now swarming with wounded men.  Their groans of agony and the
extent of some of the injuries turned her stomach, in spite of her recent
exposure to such sights. The stark reality of battle resurfaced and a
comprehension of what she had faced struck her.

The smell of filth
and bodily fluids lingered heavily in the air as they laid him on the floor.
Madeline dropped down next to him, hurriedly tearing away his surcoat so as to
get a better view of his wound. He moaned through gritted teeth as she heaved
up his damaged chainmail and pulled at the quilted jacket that lay beneath with
shaking hands.

The wound was
small, but deep, and blood still flowed freely from it. Tearing a strip of
fabric from her surcoat, she pressed it firmly to the laceration, hoping to
staunch the flow. Looking around desperately, she breathed a sigh of relief as
one of the men made his way to them.

The surgeon peered
at the wound and she gripped Tristan’s hand as he attempted to give her a grin.

“
‘Tis
a mere scratch, my love, have no fear,” he rasped.

She attempted to
return his smile with her own shaky one but she knew she did no great job of
disguising her fear.

“‘Twill need
cauterizing,” said the surgeon with a grim look.

Madeline nodded,
expecting as much but her stomach still twisted, having already witnessed
enough men under hot irons to know how excruciating it was. The two men hefted
Tristan onto a large wooden table, its blood stained top bearing the scratches
of its previous unfortunate patients.

While the irons
heated in the nearby fire, Madeline stroked at Tristan’s head, murmuring words
of love and silently praying for his recovery.
She could not lose him now!

She gulped in fear
as the men pinned Tristan’s legs and torso with their brawny strength, and the
surgeon brought forward the hot irons. Tristan clenched his eyes shut as he
gripped onto Madeline’s hand, well aware of the pain to come.

Madeline watched
the irons lower, unable to turn away. The hiss of the red hot metal was quickly
masked by Tristan’s agonising howl and he crushed her hand under his grip.
Tears pricked her eyes and her stomach rolled as the odour of burnt flesh
permeated the air. She had hoped he may pass out from the pain but he remained
alert, seemingly unable to leave her, even
through
his cloud of agony.

She remained by his
side as they transferred him back to a sleeping pallet, quickly clearing the
way for other injured men. Pressing kisses to his clammy forehead, she caressed
his hair, willing him to rest.

Tristan’s eyes remained stubbornly
open as he gazed up at her, his parched throat unable to form the words to
express his love for his wife, but desperate to convey it somehow. If he closed
his eyes now he may never awake and lay his gaze upon her again. The pain was
close to unbearable, the sting of the sealed flesh torturing his mind, but if
he focused enough on Madeline’s touch, on her sweet lips and wide eyes, he
could almost endure it.

She spoke
soothingly to him; words of love and confusingly, words of regret. His pain
saturated mind struggled to comprehend what her mumbled apologies were for, but
he could see distress etched into her face and his wished he could reassure
her.

Attempting to form
some words, his mouth moved silently and, recognising his thirst, she hurriedly
left his side to fetch some water.

The cool liquid
quickly soothed his throat, though most of it trailed down his neck and he
spluttered as it hit the back of his dry mouth. She tenderly mopped up the
liquid and he attempted a smile at her gentleness. Having witnessed her wild
ferocity on the battlefield, he was gladdened to see she had lost none of her
compassionate qualities.
Not that he wasn’t intensely proud
of his fiery wife, for he loved both sides of her with equal intensity.

“Madeline,” he croaked
out.

She shifted
forwards, gripping at his face. “Tristan…
pray
forgive
me. I should not have…‘twas my fault…”

He noted the
glimmer of tears in her eyes and suddenly realised what she wanted forgiveness
for. “Nay…you need not my forgiveness. I am proud to have had you by my side.
Without you that soldier would have surely finished me…I owe you my life,
love.”