Swords and Shields (Reign of the House of de Winter) (4 page)

Drake nodded, already heading for the spiral stairs that led up through a hatch in the kitchen floor. “My army should be well north of Leister by now,” he said. “I should be able to catch them in a week or two if I ride hard.”

Davyss followed his son as the man mounted the stairs. “I’ve already sent men with Edward on this quest,” he said. “The rebellion is heavy with Clan Maxwell and Edward wants to secure their castles near the border. They are using them to launch attacks as far south as Carlisle, or so I have been told.”

Drake nodded. “I know,” he said. “I have been told the same from my liege, de Bretagne. He is taking a good portion of the garrison at Sherborne Castle up north and I should be right along with them.”

Davyss cocked a dark eyebrow. “When do you think you will return to Norwich to swear fealty to your father instead of being thick as thieves with Cortez de Bretagne?”

Drake paused on the stairs, grinning at his father. “If I come back to Norwich, it will be Mother in command and not you,” he said. “Give me another year or two with de Bretagne before I return to my mother’s bosom. Cortez and I have a bloody good time, you know.”

Davyss chuckled, knowing that Drake and his liege were the best of friends and had been since they were young squires. It was a very strong bond. As Drake continued up the stairs, Davyss reached out to touch the man’s leg before he could get away completely.

“Take great care,” he said to his son, the conversation taking a serious turn. “I wish I could fight with you but I am not much good with it these days. Moreover, I promised your mother that I would not, so I send you with my blessings and prayers. May God watch over you, my son.”

Drake grasped his father’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “My thanks, Papa,” he said softly. “I love you very much. Tell Mother… tell her that I love her, too. I will be back, I swear it.”

Davyss simply nodded his head, letting the man flee up the stairs and disappear into the darkened hatch above. For the longest time he simply stood there, thinking on his eldest son and praying that he would again see him back at Norwich. He wished very much that he was going with him, off to fight the rebel Scots. As Drake had said, that was where the de Winters belonged. They did, indeed, but Davyss had selfishly kept his other three sons with him at Norwich, not sending them on Edward’s quest. Having sent most of his army with the king, he reasoned that he needed his knights here with him. He wished he could keep Drake with him as well, but that was not to be. In Drake’s case, it was because the man had a wandering spirit that kept him away from home most of the time. Wanderlust was a good term for the essence of Drake de Winter.

Murmuring a silent prayer for Drake’s safety, Davyss left the vault in search of what turned out to be a very upset wife and an even more upset Lord Summerlin.

July

Caerlaverock Castle, Scotland

Whoosh!

Drake had heard the sing of the arrow coming and had been fast enough to hit the ground before the arrow pierced his skull, but some of his colleagues had not been so lucky. As archers on the battlements of Caerlaverock Castle let loose with a barrage of arrows, many of Edward’s men were caught in the storm of flying wood. Drake could hear the grunts of agony around him as he rolled over on the ground, pelted by the arrows that had ricocheted off solid obstacles, men included. By the time he stood up, there was a scattering of injured around him.

“Damn,” he hissed as he beheld the carnage.

Bending over the soldier nearest him, he ripped the arrow from the man’s shoulder and tossed it aside. Men were starting to stand up now, wounded, while still others were being dragged off to safety by those who had missed the arrow barrage entirely. The ground, having been saturated by a summer storm the night before, was muddy and bloody, and Drake was ankle-deep in the sludge. He helped an injured man out of the range of archers, turning him over to some colleagues before heading off to the west. He could see his liege in the distance, waiting for him.

“Drake!” a dark-haired, dark-eyed man in expensive, well-used armor lifted a hand as Drake drew closer. “You escaped the barrage? God be praised.”

Drake nodded, wiping mud from his left cheek where he had hit the ground. “I did,” he replied, turning to eye the big, triangle-shaped castle in the distance. “We cannot get near the gatehouse or the moat in front of it without being a clear target for the archers. They have the gatehouse completely covered, as you just saw. They will cut us down if we try.”

Sir Cortez de Bretagne, garrison commander of Sherborne Castle in Dorset and also Drake’s liege, simply nodded as he looked around him. The siege of Caerlaverock Castle was in full-swing and had been since yesterday. About fifty great houses and warlords, including a total, so far, of eighty-seven knights, had followed Edward up to Scotland to quell the rising Scottish rebellion, beginning with the Maxwell property of Caerlaverock. About a day’s ride from Carlisle, it was a strategic location and Edward wanted it badly.

But there was a distinct problem with Caerlaverock; the castle was moated and well-protected, and the Maxwell garrison was having little trouble repelling the superior English forces. Edward had ordered de Bretagne and the son of the Earl of Warenton, William de Wolfe, to plan for the breach of the gatehouse while the rest of Edward’s army distracted those inside the garrison by bringing up the siege engines, but so far, the garrison of Caerlaverock would not be distracted. They had been ready and waiting for Drake and de Wolfe. Even now, de Wolfe was falling back with his men and de Bretagne was doing the same. The group charged with the gatehouse siege moved away from their target, gathering out of range to re-think their strategy.

De Wolfe was the grandson of the great border knight, William de Wolfe. He was the son of William’s eldest son, Scott de Wolfe, who now held the title of the Earl of Warenton since his father had passed away some years before. But the earl suffered from the same painful joint affliction that had fallen many great de Wolfe knights and did not fight these days at his advanced age. His son, however, did, and he was an enormously powerful and cunning fighter very much in the image of his legendary grandfather. It was this big knight, with his dark hair and pale green eyes, who faced de Bretagne and his group, including Drake.

“There is no way to get near that gatehouse even with the distractions that Edward is presenting,” de Wolfe said, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You just saw what happened. We lost several men trying to get close. It will be my suggestion to the king that he bring forward that beastly trebuchet he has named after my ancestor and try to breach it with that thing. I fear that may be our only option at this point.”

The group was listening carefully. De Wolfe was speaking of the massive trebuchet that Edward employed in battle, the biggest one in existence, and it was, indeed, named after de Wolfe’s ancestor. That ancestor had come over with the Duke of Normandy, a man who had been a key general in the conquest and had possessed such legendary skill that he had passed into a demigod-like status among warriors. It wasn’t every man who had battle machines named after him.

“The
Warwolfe
?” de Bretagne asked, speaking the name that Edward had given his massive trebuchet. “It is on the east side of the castle. Edward has been using it against the walls. But it will take hours for him to bring it around. It will sink straight into the earth under its weight in this mud.”

De Wolfe shrugged. “That is true, but I feel we have no option unless we all wish to be cut down by Maxwell’s arrows.”

Before de Bretagne could reply, another man in the group asserted himself. “Madness,” he hissed. “We do not need the
Warwolfe
to beat down the gatehouse. We need to test the depth of the moat while our men build ladders across it. To breach it, we must swarm it.”

All eyes turned to the man who spoke. John of Brittany, nephew to the king and son of the Duke of Brittany, was a favorite of Edward’s. It was unfortunate because the man was a mediocre soldier at best in spite of the name and wealth he carried. He was not particularly talented in battle, nor did he have a mind for strategy, but Edward loved him like a son, which made him, perhaps, the strongest voice in the group. John could say, or do, almost anything he wanted and by his sheer relationship with the king, men would be forced to follow. Knowing this, de Wolfe and de Bretagne braced themselves.

“Unwise, John,” de Wolfe said evenly. “You saw what just happened. If we approach the gatehouse again, they will cut us down. The best strategy is to have the trebuchet pummel it enough so that it drives them from the gatehouse and gives us the opportunity to get close to it.”

John spat. “Ridiculous,” he said. “I will take my men now and charge the gatehouse. We will get across while you are sending for Edward’s war machine. We will be there and have it open before you can even move that monstrosity into position.”

He started to move but de Wolfe put out a hand, stopping him. “You will get yourself and your men killed,” he said, his voice low. “In this case, you are very wrong.”

John flared. “Take your hand from me,” he said. “I shall lead my men and you cannot stop me.”

De Bretagne stepped in. “Think about what you are saying, my lord,” he said, more placating than de Wolfe had been, although Cortez was known to have a fiery temper when aroused. “You just saw several men cut down by arrows. By now, those inside of the castle have had time to reload. If you go now, you will be walking into a hail of arrows. You and your men will be cut down. I do not think that will please the king.”

John faltered; anything that displeased the king always made him think twice. But his indecision didn’t last long, for he came back quickly, stronger than before. He was determined to assert himself, in any situation, especially over men who were wiser and more talented than he.

“Edward favors the brave,” John said arrogantly. “I am going now. If you wish to come with me, I will not stop you.”

With that, he turned swiftly and began calling to his men, gesturing for them to approach while he relayed his plans. The men he had so recently left, the group including de Bretagne and de Wolfe and Drake, watched Brittany gather his men with some trepidation.

“You cannot let him go this alone, my lord,” Drake said to de Bretagne. “If you do and he is cut down, you know that Edward will blame you. He will think you responsible for Brittany’s folly.”

De Bretagne grunted unhappily, making a face of displeasure as he looked to de Wolfe. “Drake is correct,” he said. “You know that Edward will blame us if we do not protect that idiot.”

De Wolfe snorted in both humor and disgust. “Idiot hardly encompasses what I think of John of Brittany,” he complained. “I would like nothing better than to watch the man cut down by a storm of arrows and then I will not have to worry over him any longer, but you are absolutely correct – Edward will blame us if he suffers harm.”

There was resignation in that statement, for they all knew what had to be done - the fool would have to be protected which meant putting good men at risk. De Bretagne turned to his knights, all three of them – in addition to Drake, there was Sir Oliver St. John and Sir James de Lohr, both of them fair, blond, and big knights from excellent families. He threw his thumb in Brittany’s direction.

“Go,” he muttered. “Stay vigilant, but stick with Brittany. See if you can save him from himself. I am going to find Edward and get that enormous war machine moved into position so we can batter the gatehouse.”

The knights were on the move, taking with them a host of de Bretagne soldiers lingering nearby. De Wolfe went with de Bretagne in search of Edward while his men followed Drake, all of them fanning out in Brittany’s direction. Beneath sunny skies that were beginning to cloud up again with angry gray clouds and brisk winds, the men made their way to Brittany as the man began shouting both commands and encouragement to his men.

His commands were simple and stupid. He ordered his men to charge towards the gatehouse and make their way to the moat. Brittany reasoned that if even some were cut down by arrows, a few would survive and make it. All he wanted was for his men to get across that moat and seemed to care about little else. His troops seemed hesitant and even though they were armed with shields, arrows had a way of penetrating them. No one wanted to commit suicide in spite of what Brittany was saying. As Brittany began screaming and charging towards the gatehouse himself, the first singing sounds of flying arrows could be heard.

Arrows began to rain down upon them and men began to scatter. Brittany was still screaming, calling his men cowards now, as Drake bolted in his direction. He was closer than anyone else and therefore logically assumed that he could get to the man faster to protect him. Or kill him. At this moment, with arrows falling from the sky, Drake was considering either action just to shut the fool up. As he came up behind Brittany, he threw himself on the man, tackling him with his big body, and sending him straight to the ground.

As Brittany screamed beneath him, infuriated, two arrows hit Drake – one in the back of the right thigh and the other in his torso near his right shoulder blade. The truth was that if the arrow had been a couple of inches to the right, it would have missed him altogether, but as it stood, Drake had taken two arrows that surely would have hit Brittany. As he lay there in pain, Brittany managed to free his arm from beneath Drake’s body and began pummeling Drake’s head

“Get off me!” Brittany howled. “How dare you touch me? How dare you…?”

“My lord!” one of Drake’s men had come up, seeing the state of his liege. “Can you hear me, Sir Drake? Can you move?”

Drake grunted as someone grabbed Brittany and dragged Brittany out from beneath him. He hit the muddy ground once Brittany was removed, propping himself up on his left elbow.

“I can move,” he said, sounding disgruntled and in pain. “Remove these arrows. Be quick about it.”

By now, there were a few men standing around Drake, including Brittany, who suddenly wasn’t so angry at the knight when he saw the arrows sticking out of him. In fact, he became rather aghast when he realized that the knight’s actions quite possibly saved his life. With that awareness, he changed his attitude rapidly.

“Do not touch this man!” he barked. “I will have my personal physic tend him. Do not touch him, I say! Quickly! Call for my litter bearers!”

A couple of the men began to scramble as thunder rolled overhead, signaling the onslaught of yet another rain storm. As Drake tried to get a look at the arrow in the back of his thigh, a heavily armored knight knelt down beside him.

“Good Christ,” the knight muttered. “You took arrows for that fool. Why did you not let them hit him?”

Drake managed to grin up into James de Lohr’s face. “I should have,” he said. “Look at me. Now I am a martyr for Idiotdom.”

James laughed. He and Drake had been good friends for many years, as long as they had both served de Bretagne. But his smile quickly faded. “How bad is it truly?” he asked. “Can you breathe well enough? You took one in the back.”

Drake nodded his head. “I can breathe fine,” he said. “If you can remove the arrows, I would be grateful.”

As Brittany stood over Drake and screamed at de Lohr, James ignored the man and quickly removed both arrows. Carefully, he inspected the open wounds.

“Neither one of them went very deep,” he told Drake. “But the wound in your thigh has mail shoved into it. You will need to have a physic remove it.”

Drake pushed himself up onto his knees. “I can walk.”

“Nay!” Brittany cried. “You will not walk. My litter bearers are coming and we shall remove you to my tent, do you hear? Stay where you are!”

Drake rolled his eyes, looking at James, who shook his head at Brittany’s antics. “Let his physic tend the wounds,” de Lohr mumbled. “You will never hear the end of this if you do not. Besides, he may feed you fine wine to ease your pain that you would otherwise not have the opportunity to sample. You know he travels with the finest wine money can buy.”

Drake wasn’t in any mood for Brittany and his foolery, but as he struggled to stand, Brittany’s litter bearers appeared and Brittany began shouting at them, demanding they remove Drake immediately. Drake found himself manhandled by six men, all trying desperately to move quickly to do Brittany’s bidding. Soon enough, he was on the litter and being carried off towards Brittany’s tent. He had to hold on to the sides of the litter or risk being bounced off because of the rapid and unsteady pace, and he caught a glimpse of James’ grin as they carted him away. He cursed James under his breath.