Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sir Simon rode down the way, seething and grinding his teeth against the anguishing pain that shot unceremoniously from his shattered shinbone. His men rode out around him, some of them suffering from similar wounds and all of them terribly disheartened by their sudden defeat. It was not supposed to have happened that way.
“What of the silver?” One of the knights asked, trotting up beside Simon. The rain was finally lightening up, and the wind was slowing down, and in that slow stagnation of the violent weather, the Englishmen felt the stagnation of their ambition.
“There was no silver, you fool!” Simon shot back, hissing the words out from between his gritted teeth. “Can’t you see? We’ve been had!”
“Was the rebel Scot in on it?” the knight asked, looking Simon up and down and expressing clear concern for his physical appearance.
“Who’s to say,” Simon replied, heaving a deep breath while his horse gave a bit of a leap over a large pool of murky water that had occupied the center of the road. “He’s dead now anyways.”
“Why did we run?” another knight asked from behind, calling up in a hoarse voice. “We had them!”
“Question me again,” Simon spat over his shoulder, “and I’ll kill you myself.”
The pain of his leg was excruciating, and it was dominating every piece of his mind, screaming out at him to stop riding and give up, to lay down in the grass and wait for the Scotsmen to finish him off. Why run when running was this painful? It didn’t make sense. Just give up.
Never. Sir Simon Blackmarch was not one to give up, or lay down, especially for some hotheaded Scotsmen. He would have the best of them before all of this was out, of that he was entirely sure. He had lost battled before. Who hadn’t? It was a natural cycle of life in the brutal world of medieval warbands and mercenaries. But he had never lost so personally and so painfully, and he was determined to get the best of this Kyle McGowan.
They pressed on, and the rain ceased falling entirely. There even shone a small ray of sun that emerged from the swirling clouds, some of which were losing their menacing storm-ridden glare. After a short while, the wind had died entirely as well, and the countryside held a strange stillness as if the world itself knew how much blood had just been spilled.
“Hold a moment!” Simon grunted out and held his hand aloft to bring the party to a halt.
“What is it?” one of the knights asked. Simon looked around at them. There were only twenty-two left. They had ridden out early that morning with forty-five. They were devastating casualties, and in any other theater of war, they would be enough to disband the war party and send them hiding away or seeking employment with a larger corps of mercenaries. But this was not a war. This was a small-scale personal conflict, and the stakes were personal.
These Englishmen wanted revenge. They wanted the promised spoils of the silver caravan. They wanted to inflict pain. No number of casualties would take away that drive and vigor, that thirst for blood only hardcore veterans who had lived on the trauma of full-scale war for decades would understand. They were killers, all of them, and Simon knew that he had to deliver what they wanted, or they were just as likely to kill him out of frustration if nothing else.
Simon took a deep breath as he steadied himself against the near blinding pain, trying to make himself appear as tough as possible in front of the harried and injured warband. “They will pursue us.”
“Aye,” one knight growled. “Let us turn and face them. We still have the advantage.”
“We only ran because you got yourself bloody banged up!” another knight accused. “Let’s ride back at them!”
“I know your minds!” Simon called out, trying to impose some command in his shaky voice. “I know what you want! And I want it too! Together, we—” but then he trailed off, his eyes wandering across the horizon, where a peculiar pair of shapes stood out against the newfound sunrays.
“The devil is that?” a knight asked, trotting up beside Simon, and everyone squinted at the fast-moving shapes, trying to make out their nature.
“I don’t believe it,” Simon uttered, narrowing his gaze and focusing in on the two horses, for it was indeed two horses, but they carried four people, and one of them stuck out compared to the rest, on account of her flowing hair and her stature.
“Believe what?” one of the duller knights asked, putting his hand to his brow, trying to get a better look against the newly emerging sun.
“It’s that wench!” another knight called out, pointing frantically.
“Who all wanted a go at her?” Simon asked with a snarl, and the remaining Englishmen gave out a cheer. “Come on! Ha!” and he spurred his horse on, nearly breaking out in tears from the pain in his leg. As he rode off the road and into the grassland, barreling toward the two horses, he felt his consciousness slipping, and he fought to stay awake against the nauseating feeling that poured forth from his shin. It was perhaps the worst combat wound he had ever received, and it would follow him for the rest of his life. There was not a shadow of a doubt of that fact. Medieval surgery was tricky at its best, and a wound like the one the young McGowan had given him would never fully heal. He would limp forever, and just for that, he demanded satisfaction.
It did not take long for the riders to spy them bearing down, and they became frantic rather quickly, but there was nothing they could do. As they came closer, Simon saw the Willby brothers escorting their sister. So, they had balls, after all. It was respectable; indeed, even the pope’s dream of a knightly tale rescuing a damsel in distress. Unfortunately for them, Simon thought, the pope was corrupt, and knighthood was simply a license to kill those who annoyed you. Then he saw Walter, a crossbow bolt sticking crudely out of his back, clinging to the elder brother, and he was briefly taken aback.
Simon had never thought the little weasel of a man was anything more than just that, a rodent to be played with by Lord Hamilton, but here he was. He had finally taken a stand. Good for him, Simon thought. It was almost a pity to kill him after what he must have been through, but Simon had often imagined crushing the little man’s head, expecting Lord Hamilton to order the deed one day or another eventually when his patience was at an all-time low. It would be a fine place to start, to put a good scare into those Willbys.
“Well, hello!” Simon called out, his knights rapidly forming a circle around the travelers. They had tried to run, but with the weight of two people per horse, they never had a chance of escaping. In a few moments, they were completely surrounded, the knights with anger and lust on their faces and Scottish blood still on their weapons. “What have we here?”
“Simon Blackmarch,” the young Jacob shot back. “I would not have thought to see you here.”
“Oh, no?” Simon laughed, trying not to show how damaged his leg truly was. “And why is that, I wonder?”
“Kyle,” he heard Laila say.
“Your lover brute is just fine,” Simon snapped back, grimacing as he drew his sword from the movement it caused his leg. “But that is more than can be said for you, wench, and your fool brothers. And Walter! What a pleasant surprise! Did you finally find some minerals? Cheeky wretch, I’ve looked forward to this a long time!”
