Sir Richmond le Bec returned Weston’s smile; he was a very handsome man, rather young, but exuding the agelessness of one with great experience and power. He held out a hand and Weston took it amiably.
“And the last time I saw you, I believe it was in a situation much like this one,” le Bec replied, releasing Weston’s hand. “Do you never stop fighting, de Royans, or is this a favorite past time?”
Weston laughed softly. “It is not,” he assured him, his smile fading. “This was a matter of honor. I had no choice.”
Le Bec held his gaze for a moment before wriggling his eyebrows. “Sorrell is one of my men,” he said. “You have put me in an awkward position.”
Weston hardened. “I am not sure why,” he said quietly. “You do not serve Billingham.”
Le Bec shook his head. “I do not, but Henry has stationed me at with Billingham for the time being. He has asked me to keep an eye on the border barons with the turmoil currently going on right now.”
Weston understood; both he and Le Bec had been commanders for Bolingbroke, serving where Henry sent them as evidenced by Weston going to Hedingham those years ago. Richmond le Bec was a friend of Weston’s and a fine knight. But Weston would not back down, not in this matter.
“I am well aware of your position, considering I was stationed at Hedingham for the same purpose,” he replied. “However, the business between Sorrell and myself is personal and I ask that you respect that.”
Above their heads, the peal of horns could be heard as the field was prepared for another joust match. All of the men that had been brawling, for the most part, had returned to their various groups and camps, leaving very few men still standing at the west entrance to the field. Even the lists had filled up again with eager fans, waiting for the next joust between Sir Simon Wellesbourne of Warwickshire and Sir Nicholas de Wolfe of Northwood Castle. As the noise of the games resuming filled the air, Richmond turned his attention to Weston.
“If you ask it, I shall respect it,” he said. “But try not to involve half of England in your battles, West.”
“Keep Sorrell as far away from me as you can and there will be no more battles.”
Richmond nodded faintly, his blue gaze moving between Weston and Amalie, still clutched against her husband’s torso, before departing in the direction of the arena.
Amalie and Weston watched him go, realizing he was heading to a group of men clustered near the arena wall by the entrance. It took Amalie a moment to realize that the men were clustered around a limp body that they were trying to lift off the ground. She could see as they raised him to his feet that the injured man was Sorrell.
She gasped when she saw his face; he was covered in blood, barely recognizable. Weston heard her gasp and realized what she was looking at. As he put himself between the bloody vision of Sorrell and his wife with the intention of returning her to the encampment, guttural and loud shouting could be heard behind them. Both Weston and Amalie turned to see Sorrell staggering towards them.
“De Royans!” he was weaving unsteadily, beaten senseless by Weston’s big fists. “I will meet you in this arena and gore you with my pole, do you hear me? And when you are rotting in hell, I will send your wife there also. I will take every last pleasure with her first before I….”
Le Bec slapped a hand over Sorrell’s bleeding mouth, grabbing the man and turning him away from Weston and his wife.
“Are you truly so stupid, man?” le Bec snarled. “Shut your mouth and live.”
Amalie had hold of Weston; she could feel him tense as Sorrell spouted his antagonistic words. She was terrified that Weston was going to charge the man and she held him tightly, knowing he would not move forward if she remained in his path.
“Come with me,” she begged steadily. “Let us return to our camp. Please, Weston.”
He had his hands on her shoulders, his features set like stone as he listened to Sorrell rant. His fury, his madness, blossomed once again and he was seriously considering charging Sorrell and finishing him off but Amalie’s soft voice was breaking through to him, dousing his flame. She was already upset and he was sure that watching him kill a man would do nothing to help her state of mind. All he could do was let her turn him around in the direction of the encampment, unable to resist her and unwilling to put her through more than she had already been through. But he threw one last piece of advice at Sorrell.
“Let us pray we meet in the arena,” he told the man. “If we do, know that I will be aiming for your head with every pass. I will kill you and take great pleasure in it, you worthless whoreskin.”
“Weston,” Amalie hissed, giving him a push towards camp. “Please; let us go.”
Heath was helping her, putting himself between Weston and Sorrell to block their view of one another. John, having been with one of the local physics having his bloodied knuckles tended, joined the group and along with Heath and Amalie helped push Weston away from the confrontation. But they all knew there would be a time and place for the final battle; there had to be. Weston was bent on blood and now Sorrell was bent on revenge for a bad beating. It would come to a head at some point, some time.
And it would be deadly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He was skulking.
Beaten, bruised and battered, Sorrell was semi-mobile and at the moment, he was skulking in the area of de Royan’s camp. He had spent the rest of the day struggling with the pain of six broken teeth, a broken jaw and a broken nose, but the agony had only gotten worse. His head felt like it was going to explode and as the pain increased, so did his twisted sense of hatred and revenge. All he could think of was getting his hands on de Royans and cutting the man’s heart out, but he knew that would be impossible. De Royans was too big and too strong to fall victim to something that easy. So Sorrell knew he had to be clever.
He waited until Billingham’s camp was silent and sleeping for the most part, slipping free and telling the guards that he was heading in to town to find one of the many whores that were open for business that time of night. The guards laughed lewdly and let him go, but Sorrell headed for the opposite side of the encampment where de Royans was housed.
It was very quiet and the night was still as he approached. He could count at least four guards around the de Royans encampment, their movements illuminated by two smoldering bonfires that crackled in the darkness. The various encampments were fairly close so it wasn’t a difficult matter for him to creep closer and use other tents to hide his movements.
As he drew near the de Royan’s encampment, he knew he would have to be swift in order to remain unseen, so he lay in wait by the shadow of a neighboring tent as one of the de Royan’s guards made his rounds. When the man passed by, Sorrell took the opportunity to slip through the perimeter and hide in the shadows of a small blue and white tent.
He could hear loud snoring coming from inside, correctly assuming that it must house the knights and feeling some fear as he silently crept away. He certainly didn’t want to wake any of the de Royans knights, so he slithered on his belly towards the second small tent that was nearer to one of the bonfires. Lifting the edge of the tent, he stuck his head inside.
He could see a woman sleeping on the grass on a pallet and another woman with blond hair sleeping on a more luxurious bed. Seized with fury and an unholy sense of vengeance, he saw the blond hair and thought that perhaps it was de Royan’s wife. Lady Amalie de Vere. The woman, the whore, who started everything. He should have killed her when he had the chance. Now, he had the chance. Grabbing the blond head, he plunged his dagger deep into the woman’s belly.
The woman gasped but did not scream; he slammed his hand over her mouth to ensure that no sound came forth. But when the woman on the grass awoke and saw him, he dropped the dagger and wrapped both hands around her neck, squeezing tightly. The life drained out of her as he watched.
Collecting his dagger, Sorrell slipped from the tent when the de Royan’s guard made another pass on his rounds. Slipping back
into the darkness, he retreated to the safe haven of the Billingham camp, pleased with his work for the night. One by one, he would destroy everything and everyone precious to de Royans.
He would make the man pay.
Amalie was so distraught that she could not get out of bed. She lay there in the big bed she shared with Weston and the children, sobbing deeply. The children seemed subdued as well because their mother was so upset. They sat on the bed next to her, Colton playing with his little sword and Aubria with her poppet and toy bird. They sat next to their mother silently, sensing the mood of the camp even at their young age. Colton eventually snuggled down next to his mother and just lay there, sucking his thumb.
They could hear Weston outside of the tent as he berated the guards who had the night watch. His voice was bellowing and tense, intermingled with other male voices as the entire encampment went in search of the diabolical murderer who had killed Lady Elizabeth de Royans and a female servant during the night.
The truth was that Weston already knew who had committed the unspeakable crime. Billingham’s encampment was in a lock down and le Bec had arrived to discuss the issue. Amalie could hear her husband shouting at him.
So she lay there and cried, so very devastated at the death of Lady Elizabeth. It didn’t seem real. But a panicked guard had awoken them before dawn with a shocking tale of blood and Weston had bolted from their bed to see what the trouble was. He had found his mother dead of a stab wound to her belly and Esma dead of a broken neck. Shocked, sickened, he had roused the entire camp, including his brother, who had rushed to the tent in horror. As Weston stood in the doorway of the small tent, fighting off the urge to vomit, Sutton had taken his mother in his arms and wept.
He was still there, holding his dead mother, praying over her body. Weston had returned to Amalie to tell her what had happened and she had immediately burst into painful tears. Since Weston was Constable of the Northern Dales, he was the law in situations such as this but he was having great difficulty composing his thoughts due to the personal nature of the circumstance. Therefore, several field marshals had gathered, as well as the mayor of Keighley and several other ranking knights, to help Weston deal with the situation.
Amalie could hear Weston’s agitated voice over the buzz of other male voices outside the tent. He was distraught and struggling to keep himself under control. As Amalie lay there and wept, she began to think that perhaps she was being selfish in her reaction.
Although she had grown to love Lady Elizabeth, the woman was Weston’s mother and by that right he had the priority to grieve. She thought perhaps she would be of more help to him if she calmed down and tried to comfort the man in his hour of need. This was not the time for her to think only of herself.
So she wiped her tears and got out of bed, fighting off her morning nausea as she used some cold water from the night before and a cake of rose-scented soap to quickly wash her face and body. It was very cold but she struggled through it, drying off quickly and donning a soft white shift and a delicate yellow surcoat. With her hair brushed and braided, hanging long over her right shoulder, she quickly cleaned up the children and made sure they were dressed for the day. She bit back tears when she thought of Esma’s passing and how they would all miss her. She was like one of the family. She knew Neilie would be devastated.
Peeking her head from the main tent, she took stock of the scene outside; she could see Weston over by the smaller tent where his mother and Esma were, surrounded by several men including le Bec. She also saw John and Heath, standing a few feet from her husband, their young faces grave. She didn’t see Sutton at all. There were at least six soldiers surrounding the main tent and she sent one of them for Heath.
The redheaded knight came to her quickly and she asked him to remain with the children while she attended Weston. Heath entered the tent and Amalie could hear her son squeal happily as he caught sight of the knight. It made her smile, a warm moment in a morning that had been filled with horror. With her skirts swishing softly, she made her way across the grass towards her husband.
Weston was speaking with the group, who turned their attention to Amalie as she approached. Weston, seeing that his audience’s attention was diverted, turned to see his wife also. She smiled at him and the careful control he had labored with all morning threatened to come apart. All he wanted to do was collapse in her arms but he steeled himself, reaching out to her as she came upon him. She took his hand tightly and he pulled her up against him, a big arm around her shoulders.
“If you have not yet met my wife, this is the Lady Amalie de Royans,” Weston introduced her, then continued on what he had been saying when she had distracted them. “As I was saying, there is no doubt who committed these atrocious acts. You all heard him threaten me and my wife yesterday. It is my intention to take him into custody and have him executed for the murder of my mother. Le Bec himself said that Sorrell left the encampment last night, telling the guards on watch that he was going into town. Instead of doing as he said, he snuck into my encampment and murdered my mother.”
Le Bec was standing next to Weston, his big arms folded across his chest as he listened carefully. “And you heard nothing, West?”
Weston shook his head. “Not a sound. Certainly if I had, the situation would be different.”
Le Bec wriggled his dark eyebrows. “You have every right to seek justice if what you suspect is true. I am very sorry for you and your family for this tragedy.”
“Spare me your sympathies. Give me Sorrell.”
He sounded harsh, brutal. Amalie put a hand on his arm to ease him.
“West,” she admonished softly, looking to le Bec. “We are thankful for your support, my lord. But knowing the situation as you do, perhaps it would be best to deliver Sorrell to my husband.”
Le Bec looked at the beautiful blond woman with the big green eyes. “We cannot locate Sorrell this morning, my lady. My men are scouring the area as we speak. When we find him, I intend to interrogate him myself.”
Weston’s jaw began to tick. “You will turn him over to me, Richmond. It is my right.”
Le Bec was trying to stay as neutral, and supportive, as possible. “I have a duty to my men as well as to you, West,” he replied steadily. “Let me interrogate Sorrell and see if I can discover the truth of his whereabouts last night. It might not have been him at all. At least give the man a chance to explain himself before you gut him.”
Weston exploded. “Give the man his due?” his control was vanished as he faced off against le Bec, a substantially taller man. “Did Sorrell give my wife her due when he beat her senseless and raped her to the point of death? Did he give her any consideration at all when he broke her wrist, beat her servants and announced to all who would listen that he had violated Robert de Vere’s sister?” He was in le Bec’s face, squaring off against him and as angry as anyone had ever seen him. “John Sorrell is the vilest sort of creature that slithers across this earth, a danger to all good men and women in England. I have no doubt he skulked into my camp last night and murdered my mother in her sleep. There would be no-one else with the motive or the means to do it. And you ask me to give this beast of a man his due? I will slit his throat before I give him any due consideration and I will kill anyone who stands in the way of my retribution, including you.”
Le Bec hadn’t moved even though Weston was shouting at him, inches from his face. He remained calm and steadfast, although Weston’s words had an impact on him. He swallowed, fighting the sense of sorrow that swept him. He couldn’t even look at Lady de Royans.
“All I knew is that you were seeking vengeance because Sorrell attacked your wife,” he whispered. “You did not tell me he beat and raped her.”
“He did,” Weston hissed. “He beat her so badly that she tried to kill herself from the shame of his attack. And you want to give this man his due? He deserves only death and I shall be happy to painfully and resolutely deliver it.”
Le Bec couldn’t help the anguish in h
is expression. Now, everything made much more sense. Weston was so wound up that his breathing was coming in harsh, terrible pants and his big body was coiled, prepared to strike out at any moment. He could feel Amalie pulling at him, softly urging him away from le Bec, a man who was his friend and only trying to help.
Weston was beyond rational thought at the moment; he couldn’t think for himself. He allowed his wife to pull him away, leading him away from the group of men.
They ended up back in the main tent and Weston made it just inside the flap before throwing his arms around Amalie and collapsing to his knees. She remained on her feet in spite of his substantial burden, her arms wrapped around his head and neck as he buried his face in her belly. The sobs came.
They were heavy and painful. Weston sobbed deeply into his wife’s stomach, seeking comfort and absolution and salvation as he held on tightly to her. His grief was being expended and Amalie understood that; she held him tightly, rocking him gently in her arms as he wept. The most powerful man in Northern England was having the weakest moment of his life and she was his rock, his sole source of strength in his desolate darkness.
Amalie stroked his blond head with one hand, feeling his pain to her very bones. Glancing up, she noticed that Heath and the children were over in a corner of the tent, playing with the toys that Sutton had purchased. All three of them looked shocked at what they were witnessing, especially Heath; he had known Weston for years and had never known the man to be anything but completely in control. He looked at Amalie and their eyes met.
“Wine,” she whispered to him. “Please, Heath.”
The knight bolted from the tent. Meanwhile, Aubria and Colton were watching their father curiously, edging their way over to him as he made strange noises against their mother. Colton got the closest, holding up his little sword against his father’s heaving shoulder.
“Surd, Dada?” he said in that hopeful tone that children often use. “You have it.”
Lords of the Kingdom Page 29
