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 wascalculated, 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 cleanup.
*
The men probablycould 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 mustmake 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.
