The Dark One: Dark Knight (57 page)

    
Come home to me, my love.  I need you.

***

     Templehurst was a bloodbath from the moment
Gaston had arrived.  Three rebellious barons had attacked the fortress with the
sole purpose of razing the structure to send a message to Henry.  They were
Yorkist loyalists to the core and wanted nothing to do with the Welsh bastard
king, even one year after the decisive battle at Stokes, and had decided to
make an example out of Sir James de Wolfe.

     The battle was worse than the soldiers had
led him to believe.  The fortress was badly compromised even though de Wolfe
had done an outstanding job of holding off the onslaught. Wasting no time,
Gaston had ordered an immediate assembly of block-style ranks and, just after
dawn, they began to lay siege to the attackers.

     Gaston's men were magnificent, as always. 
They mercilessly pummeled the opposing barons with sheer skill until the ranks
started to weaken and headway was gained toward the fortress. De Wolfe, inside
Templehurst, could do naught else but watch from his vantage point as the Dark
One came to his aid.  He did, however, give every man who was able a crossbow
and from the walls, they weakened the baron’s forces as best they could.

     Gaston was in the middle of the fight as he
always was.  Astride Taran, he was an invincible force, immune to the paltry
attempts of enemy soldiers to fall him.  There was no one who could even come
close to the Dark Knight before they were cut down by the massive broadsword he
wielded.  Nearly a half-length longer than a standard broadsword, it was also
several pounds heavier and quite capable of cutting a man cleanly in half.

     Gaston, Arik and Patrick were working in a
cozy group, fighting off enemy soldiers and engaging a host of knights who had
fought for Richard and Edward in days past. Gaston recognized a few of them,
but that fact did not render exception.  They took their lives in their hands,
literally, as they engaged the Dark Knight.  Gaston personally struck down
three mighty knights before the rest retreated, leaving the fighting to the
overwhelming number of men-at-arms.

     He was tireless in the field, effortless as
if he were doing nothing more than strolling along the river.  Every blow was
calculated, every thrust meaningful.  There was no waste of effort in Gaston's
tactics. As large as he was, as purely powerful, no man could survive for long
against him.

     The first day of fighting saw the barons'
forces breaking rank and dispersing.  There were groups of holdouts, but
nothing of major concern to Gaston, who personally rode to the moat of
Templehurst and ordered the bridge lowered.  Without question, he was obeyed.

     Sir James met him at the gate, a devilishly
handsome man with dark hair and wide green eyes. He was extremely large, nearly
as large as Gaston, and the two made quite a pair when they shook hands for the
first time.

     Pockets of fighting went on around
Templehurst into the night and Gaston worked his way to every group, fighting
fiercely until the rebels disbanded and scattered. Baron Tivton of Crigglestone
Castle was the final resister, engaging Gaston near the northwest wall of
Templehurst with a hundred or so men. It was a few hours before dawn as the
armies clashed in the second wave of violent fighting.

     The skirmish was short lived.  Weary and
defeated, Baron Tivton was captured and slapped in irons, displayed in the
bailey of Templehurst until Gaston and James could decide what to do with him.

     Gaston stood in the large solar of
Templehurst, a cup of wine in his hand as James and Arik discussed punishment. 
Usually he was an integral part of such discussions, but not today.  He was
tired, ready to return home and into Remington's arms.  Campaigns such as this
usually satisfied him, but all he could think of was Remington's soft body
against his and his impatience to return was growing by the minute.

     “My lord is quiet,” James said in his deep,
husky voice.

     Gaston broke from his train of thought,
smiling weakly.  Arik eyed him, knowing exactly what his problem was but
keeping his mouth shut.

     “'Tis nothing, merely my own fatigue
catching up with me,” he replied vaguely.  “Tell me what has been decided so
that we may carry out the sentence.”

     “I believe the baron should be drawn and
quartered,” James said, glancing at Arik.  “But your second believes he should
be sent to London for Henry to deal with.  What are your thoughts, my lord?”

     Gaston scratched at his itchy face,
sporting heavy stubble.  He thoughtfully drained the last of his wine.  “Spare
him. Send him home with a warning for all other warlords who might consider
action against the crown.  My mercy is not infinite; it is applicable only one
time.  The next foolish incursion will bring my full wrath and there will be no
lives spared.”

     James nodded, satisfied with the judgment. 
“My lord is wise.”

     Gaston put the cup down, twisting his big
body to loosen his tightening muscles.  “These people we have fought this day
are English such as we are; they are not Scot nor Welsh raiding the land.  We
must learn to get along amongst ourselves no matter what king we support.  For
the good of England, we must do this and we must start somewhere.  Mayhap a
show of mercy will convince them that Henry is truly intent on a peaceful
reign.”

     James rose, moving to Gaston.  “I
appreciate your reinforcements and your prudence, my lord. Both have been
invaluable to Templehurst this day.”

     Gaston began pulled his gauntlets tight,
retrieving his helm from a nearby table.  “Your presence here at Templehurst is
equally invaluable to Henry and myself, de Wolfe.  I could ask for no finer
vassal.”

     James bowed to his liege, following he and
Arik from the room and into the bailey.

     The sultry day was miserable already. 
Patrick, Antonius and Nicolas were waiting for them as they exited the castle
and Gaston knew they were as eager to return to Mt. Holyoak as he was.  He
almost laughed; since when did his knights have anything on their mind other
than soldiering?  Since when did he?  Being a victorious campaign, they should
be celebrating loudly with ale and any food they could find.  Instead, they
were subdued and impatient.

     James thanked Gaston again, watching as the
Dark Knight rode from his destroyed bailey. Confident that his situation was
contained, he spun around to his own knights and began demanding motivation for
clean up.

***

     The men probably could have used a rest,
but Gaston was eager to return.  He set a slow pace for their benefit, however,
even though he could have easily raced the entire way home.  Taran danced
nervously, unused to the easy pace.

     “At this rate, we shall be home next week,”
Nicolas muttered to his brother.

     Gaston, riding alone several feet ahead,
heard him.  “We shall be home this eve, Nicolas.  Your Lady Skye will not be
lonely tonight.”

     Patrick snorted in amusement as Nicolas
looked sheepish.  Arik simply shook his head. “Women.  I cannot recall speaking
of women after a battle. Since when did the female sex become acceptable war
conversation?”

     “If you had a woman you would know,”
Patrick shot back tauntingly, then turned to Nicolas and Antonius.  “We must
make it our mission in this life to find Arik a woman who will have him.”

     The two knights chuckled in agreement but
Arik put up his hand.  “God, no.  Knowing you three, you shall saddle me with
Medusa.  I shall find my own woman, if you please.”

     Gaston listened to the banter silently,
thinking of Remington.  His heart ached to be away from her, even for a day or
two.  He was glad his days of warring were drawing to a close so he would not
have to be separated from her any more than necessary.  He decided right then
that when he traveled to London to seek Henry, Remington would accompany him. 
He couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind.

     It seemed he could only think of her. 
Distraction could be deadly in his profession, but he wasn't concerned.  He
could fight battles in his sleep and Remington was a welcome subject to his
mind.  My God, he couldn't wait to hold her again.

     The army did not even stop for the nooning
meal; it was eaten as they marched.  Gaston, however, never ate on a battle
march.  He would wait and sup this eve with Remington, in between making love
to her.

     The army by-passed Boroughbridge and Gaston
could literally smell his keep.  His anticipation grew as he strained to catch
a glimpse of the massive structure on the horizon, and he was not
disappointed.  Like a massive gray sentinel, the stone edifice rose out of the
northeast sky and Gaston's body washed with satisfaction. 
My keep
, he
thought with contentment he had never known. 
Remi’s and mine.

     He would be holding her in no time.

     Mt. Holyoak greeted its native son with
open arms.  The gates were flung wide and an honor guard lined the drawbridge
as Gaston brought the army back to the fold.  He couldn't remember ever feeling
more welcome, or more at home, even though the honor guard had been standard
fare at Clearwell.  Mayhap it was because he felt more comfortable at Mt. Holyoak
than he ever had at the home he had shared with Mari-Elle.  Mt. Holyoak was
already in his blood.

     Sir Roald met him in the outer bailey,
smartly saluting his lord as he dismounted Taran. Gaston's eyes were scanning
the grounds for Remington.

     “Where is Lady Stoneley?” he asked his
knight casually.

     Sir Roald looked even paler than usual. 
“We have a bit of a situation, my lord.  A papal envoy arrived while you were
away with a message from our king, and another message from Lord Stoneley for
his wife.  Lady Stoneley has taken to, uh, your room and will not come out.”

     Gaston tried to control his shock.  “What
did the missive say?”

     Roald shook his head.  “I know not, my
lord. I have not read either one of them, since they were not directed at me. 
Lady Stoneley refuses to read the missive from her husband.”

     Gaston's nostrils flared slightly, an
overwhelming indication of his level of emotion.  Arik had heard the majority
of the conversation and stepped forward.

     “Where is the envoy?” he asked.

     “I have made him comfortable but little
more,” Roald said.  “He's a pushy bastard and I have kept him restricted to the
lower floor.  He demands to be shown Lady Stoneley; he believes her to be a
prisoner.”

     Gaston fought to maintain his control. 
“You said Lady Stoneley is in my room?”

     “Aye, my lord,” Roald replied.

     Without another word, he left his knights
and disappeared into the innards of the castle.

     The familiar dank smell comforted him as he
made his way to his bower.  By the time he hit the second level he was nearly
running. He had to get to Remington, to speak with her and comfort her before
he dealt with the envoy.  If he went to the envoy now he would most likely
explode and commit murder.  Only if he saw Remington first could he gain a
handle on his rocketing emotions.

     The family wing was softly lit, the heat of
the day seeping away.  The doors were open, as they usually were during the
day, and he passed by Rory and Jasmine on his way to see Remington. The sisters
did not utter a word to him; with expressions of glee, they raced from their
rooms and off to find their returned knights.

     He was focused on the great double doors of
his bower straight ahead, but as he passed by Remington's room, he suddenly
heard her voice and jerked to a halt.  Fully prepared to charge into the room
and pull her into his arms, he came to a skidding stop at the open door, his
eyes drinking in the atmosphere of the room.

     Remington lay upon her bed, her back
propped up with several pillows.  Dane lay with his head upon her lap and
Trenton sat with his legs folded right next to her, his handsome young face
alive.  From the tone of her voice and the looks on the boy's faces, he knew
that she was telling them another glory tale.

     “But if the lion of Nemea was invulnerable
to injury, then how did Hercules kill it?” Trenton was asking.

     “Hercules was very clever, Trenton,”
Remington replied.  She sounded tired. “First, he whacked the lion over the
head with a club, and then he strangled it with his bare hands.  Quite a feat,
I would say.”

     “Who else did he kill?” Dane demanded.

     Remington ran her fingers through her son's
hair.  “It wasn’t so much as who he killed, but why. Hercules was not a vicious
murderer; in fact, he was a very wise and great man.  If he did kill, it was because
he had to.  And he mostly killed ferocious animals with a taste for flesh.”

     “Then what else did he kill?” Dane
rephrased his question.

     Remington looked thoughtful.  “He killed
the man-eating birds of Arkadia, and he killed the three-headed monster Geryon,
whose home was near the sunset.  But he did a lot of good things, as well.”