He’d come to a fight undermanned.
Fighting at any time was difficult. But fighting in a snowstorm was particularly difficult. It was quickly turning into a blizzard, with snow howling around the men as they fought for their lives. The River Arrow, usually so placid, became a roaring torrent with all of the snow and water rushing into it. At that point, Christopher had given the kill order, not simply the chase order, so his men were intent on killing their opponents.
The river began to catch its fill of bodies.
Still, the Welsh were resilient. Somehow, Christopher ended up by the bridge. The snow was falling very heavily at this point and the fighting on the bridge was ferocious. In full armor, the freezing temperatures created difficulty in movement for the English. The Welsh, bound up in woolens and furs, weren’t having as difficult a time.
The minutes ticked by and Christopher had managed to drop several Welsh. Peter was fighting off to his right, but Christopher didn’t realize it until he saw the flash of the great sword he’d given his son when he’d seen sixteen years. He turned to see his son fighting beside him and Christopher had never been so proud in his life. Seeing Peter in action was something to behold. The young man fought as if he’d been doing it his entire life. Such power, such grace.
It was a magical moment.
Unfortunately, Christopher had taken his eyes off the battle to look at his son and that was his grave mistake. A Welshman with a club swung it as hard as he could at Christopher’s head, hitting him in the helm and sending the man right over the side of the bridge. As he fell, he hit his head on the edge of the bridge itself, ripping his helm off. Another hit to the head on a supporting post and Christopher went straight into the river, unconscious.
Peter had seen the entire incident. Without hesitation, he dropped the sword where he stood and dove over the side of the bridge, landing in the icy water where his father had fallen. Because of the weight of the armor, however, Christopher was sinking and Peter was, too. He struggled to stay afloat and pull his father’s head out of the water.
But help was on the way.
Marcus saw the incident as well. In a panic, he screamed to David, pointing frantically to the river, and began yanking off his heavy armor as he ran towards the riverbank. David, having no idea what was happening, began running to and realized, as he ran, that he didn’t see his brother. His brother’s men, yes – but not his brother.
Terror set in.
With Marcus and David running towards the river, yanking off their armor and mail as they went, Max and Cabot saw what was happening. They raced to help, but Marcus waved them back to the battle. The troops needed commanders and they were forced to remain. By that time, Marcus was at the river in pieces of armor but not nearly the weight Christopher and Peter had.
He dove in.
David was right behind him.
Together, they swam frantically after Peter and Christopher, moving swiftly in the current. The river wasn’t particularly deep, but deep enough to be dangerous. Peter was managing to stay afloat by sheer strength, his father’s head held barely above water. Marcus and David were trying desperately to get to them, but the river was moving quite swiftly in spots. At one point, they ended up on a sandbank, running across it and diving in on the other side, closer to Peter and Christopher now.
It was harrowing.
Behind them, English troops started to jump in the river after them, trying to catch up to the four knights as the water carried them further downstream. Soon enough, they passed the village of Kington and were drifting off into the darkness. The sounds of battle faded, but all around them, the snow continued to fall.
It was growing worse.
The wind was whistling in the darkness now and it was nearly pitch black as Marcus, and then David, caught up with Peter and Christopher. They took hold of Christopher, relieving the exhausting son, but the current was carrying them further and further downstream.
They had to get to shore.
Marcus and David began struggling against the current, trying to get their footing on the riverbed as they dragged Christopher with them. Peter held on to Marcus and his father, trying to push them. He was young and strong, and had his feet underneath him. Together, the three of them finally managed to climb out of the freezing river, tossing Christopher onto the riverbank like a beached fish. They collapsed all around him.
“We will not survive much longer in this weather,” David said, coughing that damnable Welsh river out his lungs. “We must find shelter.”
Marcus was coughing, too, while Peter was shivering uncontrollably. Marcus bent over Christopher, feeling for a pulse.
“Is he alive?” Peter demanded. “God, please tell me he’s alive!”
Marcus nodded. “He is,” he said. “But as your Uncle David said, not for much longer if we cannot find shelter. David, do you know this area very well?”
David was beginning to shiver, too. With the snow swirling around them, and being wet, freezing to death was a very real danger.
“I’m not exactly sure where we are,” he said, looking around and trying not to be blinded by the snow. “We drifted quite a ways down river, so if my bearings are correct, we are out of Kington but there are farms to the south. In fact, there should be a manor house unless we have already passed it and were not aware.”
“Who does it belong to?”
David looked at him. “When I last lived here ten years ago, it belonged to a Welshman named Howell.”
“A Welshman who could be part of that attack we just suffered through,” Peter pointed out through chattering teeth. “What if he turns us away?”
Marcus didn’t have much of an answer for him. Reaching down, he hauled Christopher up. “We haven’t much choice,” he said quietly. “Do you feel brave enough to run up ahead and ask for help?”
Peter looked at his father, barely visible in the darkness. The man was freezing to the touch and still unconscious. Christopher’s state fed Peter’s bravery out of sheer necessity.
“Aye,” he said. “Come on.”
With David on one side and Marcus on the other, they began to drag Christopher between them as Peter led the way. He was never more than a few steps ahead of them because of the storm, but as they traveled south, following the river, they began to see a light in the distance.
“There,” Peter said as he came to a halt, pointing. “That must be the manor house. I’ll run on ahead. Can you manage without me?”
Marcus almost laughed at the arrogant young knight, but his face was starting to freeze and he couldn’t manage to move his mouth that way. So, he simply nodded as Peter took off as fast as his freezing legs would carry him.
In truth, Peter hated to leave his uncle and father and liege behind, but they needed help and he was the only one capable of finding it. His entire body was turning into a block of ice because the water on his clothing was beginning to freeze, so literally, he was covered in ice. But he kept on, following the light, until it abruptly disappeared.
Peter stood there a moment, wondering why the light was suddenly gone, when he realized he was standing in front of a wall. Snow was piling on top of it, at least a foot of the white stuff, so he felt his way around the wall until he came to a gate, which was locked. There was no movement in the yard beyond but he could see the big house, with soft light emitting from the windows. He rattled the gate but it was solid.
Undeterred, he was going to jump over the wall to find help. It was too tall for him to jump over at this point, but around the side where he’d first seen it, the ground seemed to be higher and the wall lower. He staggered over to that side, knowing Marcus and David would soon be bringing his father, so he made a run at the wall to leap onto hit, but his frozen fingers wouldn’t grip. Slipping, he fell flat on his back into the snow.
He was cold; too cold. He could feel that he was starting to slow down. Peter wasn’t one to panic, not even at his young age, but he could feel fear clutching at him. His father needed
help and they all needed warmth very soon or they would all die. Making another run at the wall, he managed to get a good grip on it but he was so cold that he simply couldn’t heave himself up. He tried very hard but, soon enough, his fingers slipped and down he went, onto his back again.
For a moment, he simply lay there.
God, please don’t let us die here.
He wondered if God would hear his plea.
CHAPTER THREE
A CHRISTMAS EVE TALE
Apparently, God had.
“Oh!” came a decidedly female gasp with a decidedly Welsh accent. “What are you doing?”
Peter could hardly open his eyes against the cold, but he turned his head in the direction of the sound to see a woman standing there, bundled up against the elements. She had a lantern but with the snow the way it was swirling, it could barely be seen in the darkness. Peter tried to sit up.
“Please help us,” he said. “My father fell into the river and we fished him out, but we are wet and frozen, and he… I do not know how he is. He hit his head when he fell. Will you please help us?”
The woman peered more closely at him, reaching out to touch his arm. “You are frozen,” she said, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him up. “Come with me.”
Peter let her yank on him as he staggered to his feet. “I must wait for my father and uncle,” he said, turning to see if he could make them out in the storm. “They were right behind me. We saw the light coming from the house and I came to find help.”
The woman held the lantern up in time to see Marcus and David emerged from the darkness, dragging a body between them. The women motioned to them sharply.
“Quickly,” she said. “Come with me.”
They did.
It didn’t matter that her Welsh accent foretold of her country and her loyalties. All that mattered was that they get out of the snow before they all froze to death. The four of them followed her around the wall, to the rear of the manse where there were outbuildings including stables and a corral, now covered in snow drifts. But the woman pushed through the snow piles, going to a small postern gate at the rear of the wall. She had a key, a big iron one, and she shoved it into the lock. As the lock came away, she heaved at the gate.
“Hurry,” she said.
They followed her into a small kitchen yard and she took them through a back door to the manse that wasn’t locked. Immediately, they were into a warm, dimly-lit kitchen. The heat hit them like a slap in the face.
“Get your clothing off,” the woman commanded as she shut the door and bolted it. “You’re already freezing to death. Get over near the fire and get your clothing off. I will find some blankets.”
As she hurried off, David and Marcus, at the end of their strength, dragged Christopher over to an enormous cooking hearth that had a small fire in it. It was tremendously warm, however, the stones radiating a good deal of heat from the day of cooking, and the men began to pull their wet outer layer of clothing off.
Steam was rising off of them as gloves and tunics came off. David was so cold that he couldn’t quite get his gloves off, so Peter yanked them free. Everything was coming off, being laid out on the hearth as the steam rose into the warm, fragrant chamber. It smelled of meat and bread. Once Peter removed his hauberk and mail coat, he didn’t waste any time moving for his father.
Already, David and Marcus were pulling Christopher’s clothing off. Gloves, boots, tunic, belts, mail – it was all coming off. As Marcus bent over to inspect the lump on the side of Christopher’s head, the man began to come around. A fist came up, catching Marcus in the throat.
“Chris,” David was suddenly in his brother’s face, holding down the fists that were starting to fly. “You are safe. Do you hear me? Look at me, Chris. Look at me.”
Christopher, groggy and dazed, struggled to focus. His arms stilled as he looked at his brother. “You,” he grunted, confused. “Where are you?”
Marcus looked down at him, rubbing his throat where he’d been hit. “Chris, we are in a manor house somewhere south of Kington,” he said steadily. “You were hit in the head and pitched into the river. We all went after you and brought you here.”
Christopher blinked his eyes, looking between David and Marcus. Then, he lay his head back, staring up at the ceiling.
“Cold,” he muttered. “I’m so cold.”
Peter swung into action, throwing more wood on the fire and stirring up the embers as David and Marcus moved Christopher so he was literally next to the hearth where all of the clothing was steaming. He still had his undertunic and breeches on, which were soaked, so Marcus pulled the undertunic off as David yanked off the soaking breeches.
Nude, Christopher lay on his back in front of the fire, shivering uncontrollably, as two women rushed into the kitchen, their arms laden with blankets. But once they saw the naked man on the floor, the first one came to a halt and the second one banged into the back of her. Gasping at the sight, the women quickly turned their backs.
“Here,” the first woman said, putting the blankets down on the big kitchen table in the middle of the room. “Cover up with these.”
With only his breeches on himself, David grabbed the blankets and covered Christopher up with almost all of them. He watched his brother tremble, getting a good look at the big, ugly lump on the side of his head.
But it could have been so much worse.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “You saved us from certain death.”
“From the looks of you, I believe it,” the woman said.
“May we know the name of the lady who saved our lives?”
The woman timidly looked over her shoulder to see that Christopher was covered up and the rest of them were covering up with the remainder of the blankets she’d brought. Since it was safe to look now, she looked at them a little more closely.
“My name is Andra,” she said. Then, she peered over at Christopher as he lay on the warm stone. “You say that this man hit his head?”
Peter was looking at her. “Aye,” he said. “He has come around, but I do not know how bad the injury is.”
The woman took a step or two closer. It was the same woman who had led them in out of the storm. Her voice told them that, but she had dropped all of the heavy clothing somewhere and, now, a pale but pretty maiden faced them, a lass with hair as black as coal and big, black eyes.
“May I look at him?” she asked.
Marcus didn’t seem so willing but David waved her over. “Come,” he said. “He needs a poultice or compress of some sort for this bump.”
Andra moved around Peter to get to Christopher’s head. His eyes were closed but his injury was clear. She bent over him, looking close at the egg-sized lump. Gently, she touched it, watching the man flinch in pain.
“It is a serious bump,” she said, removing her hands from his head. “You must not let him sleep tonight. He may go to sleep and never awaken. I will bring snow in from outside and you will use it on his head; several minutes on, several minutes off. You must do this all night to keep the swelling at bay.”
David eyed her. “Do you know something of healing, then?”
Andra looked at him. “My mother is a great healer,” she said. “I shall summon her from her bed because she will want to look at him, too.”
With that, she snapped her fingers at the other woman who had come with her, rushing to help her gather bowls, which they took outside into the snow. Very quickly, they returned with bowls full of white snow and put them on the table. They continued to bustle around, securing rags, one of which they stuffed with the snow. Andra handed it to David.
“Hold this to the lump,” she said. “I will fetch my mother.”
David took the rag, holding it carefully to his brother’s head as Andra and the other woman fled the kitchen, which was becoming very warm now as the fire increased in size. Once the women were gone, Marcus pulled off the rest of his clothing and wrapped a dry blanket around his waist to cover himself.
He pressed it against Christopher’s bump as David and Peter stripped off everything, wrapping up in dry blankets as Marcus had done. With the clothing laid out by the fire, steaming and drying, Peter sat down at the table to watch Marcus tend his father. Now that the rush to find shelter and help was over, there was a sense of what the future might hold for them.
They were in enemy territory.
“So now what?” he asked quietly. “Clearly, Andra is Welsh. What do we tell her when she asks who we are?”
Marcus shook his head. “Look around you,” he said. “We are wearing armor and have weapons. We are wearing the tunics of Hereford, Canterbury, and Somerhill. It will not take a great intellect to see that we are English.”
Peter knew that but he was still very concerned. “Mayhap I should bolt the kitchen door so no one can come in,” he said. “That will keep us safe until morning.”
“Or it will alarm the lady so much that she summons help to break down the door and throw us all out into the snow.” Marcus looked up at him. “Keep your wits about you, Peter. Be calm. At the moment, we have no need to defend ourselves or tell the lady who we are and I wish to keep it that way.”
Peter forced himself to relax as he realized Marcus’ words were correct. He looked at Marcus and his Uncle David, quietly and efficiently going about taking care of Christopher as the man lay at their feet. There was no panic, no stress, simply men going about their business to ensure Christopher was well taken care of. Perhaps their world was upended, at least at the moment, but one would never know by looking at them.
Peter may have been an excellent warrior, but he still had a lot to learn.
Looking around, he began to hunt for some food. They’d left Lioncross before the Christmas feast and now that they had shelter and warmth, food was the next order. Wrapped up in a blanket with his icy clothes drying out on the stones, he went in search of something to eat.
A Blessed de Lohr Christmas (de Lohr Dynasty Book 9) Page 4
