Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (47 page)

Stephen saw the movement and he
reflectively flinched, moving for a sword that was not at his side.   Kynan’s
men were armed but they did not move to draw their weapon; they simply came to
a halt, facing the figure that stood between them and the postern gate.  Kynan
saw the figure, the face, and hissed under his breath. He really was not
surprised.  But he was extremely disheartened.

Morgan de Velt was standing
between them and freedom.

***

Hidden by the reeds growing by
the river’s edge, Joselyn gazed up at the massive bastion of Berwick.  She
could see the familiar postern gate and the path she had taken once from the
castle to the river where she had found her fawn.  The soft breeze blew the
grass around her, folding it to the wind, as she crouched low and watched.  She
knew she should not have come, but that knowledge had not stopped her.  Stephen
was inside and she was determined to get to him and to free him.

Tate had meant well. He’d had
Kynan take her to the last standing hostel in town, a place called the Sword
and Fife.   Kynan had procured the best room they had to offer, an abundance of
bread, oatcakes and cheese, and had left her there with four men at arms as
escort.  They were Tate’s men, seasoned and weary, and had all ended up down in
the main room drinking.  Joselyn had told the innkeeper to give them as much
ale as they could drink.  They ended up getting ragingly drunk and she was able
to slip out unnoticed.

Now she was here, hidden in the
grass as she watched the activity upon Berwick’s soaring walls and having no
idea what she was going to do to get her husband out.  She crept closer on her
hands and knees, trying to stay as quiet as possible.  At one point she thought
she heard the grass moving several feet behind her and she froze, ears cocked,
but everything remained still. 

Thinking the sound was a figment
of her paranoid imagination, she paused and sank to her buttocks, watching the
walls and gate that were now closer.  The castle loomed above her, a place with
the most wonderful and terrible memories for her.  She felt as if she had come
home again, to a place that did not belong to her yet was a part of her. It was
an odd sensation.

She sat for some time, gazing up
at the pale stone walls. Everything was quiet and peaceful until a hand
suddenly went over her mouth and an enormous arm encircled her waist.  Joselyn
screamed but the massive gloved hand blocked the sound.  She tried to fight, to
struggle, but whoever had her was far too strong.  She found herself on her
back with a big body over her.  Panic overtook her until she looked up into ice
blue eyes.

Kenneth was gazing down at her,
his jaw tight and eyes blazing.  Joselyn’s eyes widened when she realized who
it was.

“I would ask what you are doing
here but I already know,” Kenneth whispered. “The next thing you feel is going
to be the palm of my hand to your buttocks, and your husband be damned. He
would do the same thing in my position.”

His hand came away from her mouth
and she took a big gulp of air. “Please do not be angry,” she whispered, fright
in her eyes. “I… I simply could not stay away, sitting in a strange room and
wondering if my husband is going to live or die. Please do not send me back. If
he… if he is going to die, I must be here. I must be close to him. Do you not understand?”

Tears rolled down her temples as
Kenneth gazed down at her.  He was beginning to feel like a lout, struggling to
maintain his fury at finding her at Berwick crawling around in the grass.  But
he also knew how much Stephen meant to her; he was coming to understand it more
and more as the hours passed.  Truth be told, he really was not surprised to
find her here. In fact, he probably would have been disappointed had he not. 
With a heavy sigh, he sat up and pulled her with him.

“I understand that you are
risking your life and if your husband found out, he would blister your
backside,” he made a good try at maintaining his firm stance. “Lady, I am here
to ensure that your husband does not die but if I have to worry about you as
well, Stephen’s chances are greatly diminished. If the choice comes down to
saving Stephen or saving you, then you know what I will have to do.  Stephen
would never forgive me if I did not. Do you understand the position you have
put me in?”

She looked up at him with her
pale, sad eyes and nodded. “I am so scared, Kenneth.  I had to come. I could
just not sit and wait.”

He could see by the look in her
eyes that she was not going anywhere. He could send her back to the hostel and
she would just find another way to return.  After a moment, he simply nodded
his head in resignation.

“Then if you are not going to
leave, I need for you to stay right here,” he said quietly. “Do not make any
attempt to get closer to the castle for if you do, you will be within the range
of the archers.  Is that clear?”

Joselyn nodded seriously. “Aye,
Kenneth.”

“Good.”

His attention suddenly turned
back to the castle, the ice-blue eyes intense.  He looked at if something had
his interest. Joselyn was about to ask him what the trouble was when she heard
it, too. It sounded like metal on metal but as she listened more closely, it
sounded like a sword fight.  Kenneth shoved her down into the grass.

“Stay here,” he commanded. “Do
not move for any reason.”

She watched him crawl away,
hidden by the tall green river grass. But the sounds of the sword fight grew
more intense and she dared to lift her head, looking towards the source. 
Movement caught her eye and she could see where it was coming from.

From the between the iron grates
of the postern gate, a full-scale battle was in bloom.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

De Velt just stood there and
shook his head. He had an amused look on his face that one would have took for
a friendly gesture had he not gripped an enormous broadsword.   His dark eyes
moved between Kynan and Stephen.  Even though Stephen’s head was covered with
the tartan, the cornflower blue eyes that blazed beneath it were unmistakable.

“You know,” de Velt stroked his
chin, “when one of my men came to tell me that he saw Pembury released from the
stocks, I almost cut his throat for lying because I know that no one under my
command would be that stupid. But I had to come and see for myself if he spoke
the truth and look at what I have found.”

Kynan was stiff with
anticipation, waiting for the broadsword to come flying out at him. “Ye’re a
hired man, de Velt,” he growled. “Ye’ve no real stake in Berwick other than
what ye’re paid for.  Ye would carry out orders against a fellow Englishman for
his death?  Ye’ve nothing agin’ Pembury. Why would ye kill him?”

De Velt cocked an eyebrow.
“Because, as you have said, I am being well paid for my services. Moray wants
Pembury dead, so dead he shall be.”

Kynan shook his head. “He’ll not
be dead,” he said, more forcefully. “Because I am removin’ him from this place.
He’s beaten and weary, can ye not see? Yer men have done their worst tae him.
Now leave him be. He has a wife and child waiting.”

De Velt focused on Kynan. “I
would not expect this from you, of all people,” he said. “Were you not in
Berwick’s vaults after the siege? Did Pembury not torture you? Tell me the
truth and then tell me why you defend him.”

Kynan’s lips flattened into a
hard line. “’Tis none of your affair,
Sassenach
,” he hissed. “How would
you know what happened tae me after the siege?”

“Because I was told of your
captivity by men who served with you.  Is this not true?”

Kynan’s frown grew. “Ye dunna
belong here,” he spat. “Ye’re not Scots. We dunna need yer kind here.”

De Velt lifted an eyebrow. “Need
or not, I am here and here I will stay.  But you will give me back my
prisoner.”

Kynan didn’t have a weapon but
several of his men did.  He reached out to the man closest to him and
unsheathed his broadsword, a razor-sharp weapon that was surprisingly well
made.  He leveled the weapon at de Velt.

“Ye’ll have tae fight me for
him,” he snarled. “But I warn ye; I shall make it a tough fight.”

De Velt shrugged disinterestedly,
a move that infuriated Kynan as it insulted his skill. As he lifted the sword
and prepared to take the offensive, a big hand suddenly stopped him.

Stephen stood next to him, his
hand on the weapon and his eyes on de Velt.  The tartan covering his head had
fallen to the ground and he was standing tall and proud as if he had never been
injured.  He looked whole and powerful, and quite ready to kill de Velt.

“Nay,” he said softly. “I will do
this. It is between de Velt and me.”

Morgan might not have cared about
fighting Kynan, but he did care about fighting Pembury.  His disinterested
expression turned to one of curiosity and perhaps approval. He seemed to
straighten in the face of the conflict.

“If you can fight me given your
present state, then I commend you,” he told Stephen. “But it changes nothing. I
will subdue you, kill your friends, and tomorrow you shall meet your execution
date. Why not make it easy on everyone and simply surrender?”

Stephen took the sword from
Kynan, feeling the pommel in his grip, acquainting himself with the feel of
it.  In truth, he felt better than he had in days; now with a weapon in his
hand, he felt as if he had a fighting chance. Finally, he could defend himself.

“If you were in my position,
would you surrender so easily?” he asked.

De Velt smiled faintly. “Nay,” he
replied.  “I would not.”

“Then it comes to this.”

“I understand completely.”

“No mercy.”

“None given.”

As Stephen and de Velt faced off,
Kynan suddenly shoved Cade and Roman out of the way; they had been hovering
behind Stephen in a terrified huddle, but as Stephen uttered those fateful
words, Kynan knew what was coming.  His own men scattered as several of de
Velt’s men charged in from the direction of the hall.   Swords were unsheathed
and men began charging one another.  And in the middle of it, Stephen launched
a blow against de Velt that sent the man reeling backwards. 

The battle had begun.

***

Kenneth could see that the men on
the walls were facing towards the bailey.  The sounds of sword blows grew
louder as he crept nearer and nearer, thinking it was an odd blessing indeed
that the sentries on duty weren’t paying attention to the tall grass beyond the
postern gate.  The men with Kenneth were also creeping forward, making their
way to the wall.  Kenneth made it to the edge of the grass, noting that there
was about a fifteen foot area between the grass and the walls that had been
cleared away.  There was absolutely no cover.  Glancing upward to ensure that
the sentries had not turned around, he bolted to his feet and raced across the
cleared area.

Kenneth threw himself up against
the wall, noting that the men with him had done the same. Silently, he motioned
them to stay in position as he made his way towards the postern gate.  The
sounds of sword fighting were very loud now and he dared to peer into the iron
bars of the gate to see what was going on. What he saw shocked him.

Stephen, beaten and bloodied, was
battling for his life with a big knight who was healthy and skilled.  As
Kenneth watched, horrified, he could see that Stephen was not able to lift the
sword with both hands; his right arm was wrapped around his torso, as if
holding his guts in, as his left arm did the fighting. This was troubling
because Stephen was not left-handed, leading Kenneth to believe that his right
hand was injured. No matter how skilled a knight Stephen was, he was obviously
at an extreme disadvantage. 

Kenneth knew he had to do
something; although the consummate and controlled knight, he was not beyond
feeling some panic for his friend at the moment. He rattled the gate but it was
clearly bolted; there was no way for him to enter.  He went for the blade at his
side, knowing even as he grabbed for it that a broadsword could not reach
through the grate.  But in touching the broadsword, his elbow bumped up against
the weapon strapped to his back.  And that gave him an idea.

Kenneth ripped off the crossbow
and positioned it in the grate, training it on the knight battling against
Stephen.  He almost let the arrow fly, twice, but both times other men doing
battle had moved between him and his target.  He could see that there was a
rather large battle going on in the bailey of Berwick, Scots against Scots, and
Stephen was somehow in the middle of it. It was confusing but there was not
time to question.  Kenneth kept his eyes trained on the target, praying they would
not move out of range, because he could see that Stephen was growing weaker. 
One blow from his opponent almost took Stephen’s head off because he had grown
considerably more drained.  His reflexes were weakening also.  

Kenneth watched with aggravation
as Stephen and his opponent shifted positions and suddenly Stephen was between
the crossbow and Kenneth’s target.  He almost yelled with frustration but was
distracted when a very recognizable face suddenly appeared, looking back at him
through the iron grate. Kenneth nearly fell over when he realized it was Roman
de Lara.  His mouth flew open in surprise.