Shield of Kronos

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Rickard thought it was an excellent plan of action. “Then have your women pack what is necessary,” he said. “Go down to the bailey immediately. There is no time to waste.”

  He turned away from Grace but she grasped his arm. “What will you do, Rickard?” she asked. “Whatever you do… Jago will not be pleased if you try to control him. You know this. It would be best to let his fit run its course. Mayhap… mayhap you should bring him drink. With enough drink, he will sleep. He might even forget.”

  Rickard could hear the sorrow in her voice. She had no control over her husband just as Rickard had none.

  “I will do what I can,” he muttered. “I will keep him occupied while you remove your ladies.”

  “It would not be a pity if he fell out a window in his drunken state.”

  Surprised, Rickard looked at the woman at her overt suggestion but she simply averted her gaze and turned back to the bed. He had to admit it wasn’t a bad suggestion at that.

  It would certainly solve a lot of problems.

  Quitting the chamber, he was immediately refocused on Jago’s position in the house. When he reached the second floor, he no longer heard the angry ravings but now he was hearing soft shrieks, perhaps even shrieks of pain. Following the sounds, he came upon Jago assaulting a servant woman in a darkened chamber. She was shoved up against the wall as Jago tried to kiss her and God only knew what else. Appalled, Rickard thumped his fingers on the door loudly.

  “My lord,” he said.

  Startled from his attack, Jago looked up from the weeping woman to see Rickard standing there. Then, his mood changed drastically.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I sent for you and no one could find you!”

  Rickard stepped in, catching the attention of the weeping woman and motioning her out the door. She slipped out, gladly, as Rickard took the full focus of Jago’s anger.

  “I am here now, my lord,” he said steadily. “What has happened tonight?”

  He didn’t mention the wounded women, at least not yet. But Jago rushed at him. “Do you know what your brother did?” he snarled, completely ignoring the question. “He took that which belongs to me.”

  “What belongs to you, my lord?”

  Jago was so angry that he was spraying spit from his lips. “I feed her and I clothe her,” he said. “She belongs to me and your brother has no right to touch her. He touched her! I saw him!”

  Rickard knew what he meant but he wasn’t going to give in and pretend he understood. Somehow, someway, Colchester knew about his brother and Lyssa, but Rickard wasn’t going to ask how he knew. He continued to play ignorant.

  “My lord, we are not speaking of my brother,” he said. “What happened tonight that I have seen injured women?”

  Jago eyed him, hatefully. “You have no right to ask me anything,” he finally said. “It is not your business, any of it. Go back to your wife and leave me alone.”

  That was the answer Rickard had expected, truthfully. He didn’t want to leave Colchester alone for fear of what the man would do when left to his own devices. Therefore, he sought to occupy his time and attention, at least until the duchess could get her women out of the manse. But all the while, he was suppressing the inherent desire to wrap his hands around the man’s neck on behalf of his brother and the lovely woman that had been beaten senseless on this night. Rickard wasn’t so devoted to the duke that he didn’t feel that urge, and any devotion he did feel was based on duty and nothing more.

  Duty towards the man he’d been gifted to in payment of a debt.

  He was coming to curse the day when Lincoln decided to use him as a form of currency.

  “My lord, I am sworn to you and I am here to assist you,” he said. “Mayhap, we should go to your solar and sit. Mayhap some wine would calm your nerves.”

  Jago was pacing now, looking out of the window that overlooked the garden and the river beyond. The moon was sitting low in the sky at this point, a brilliant crescent whose reflection rippled out over the water. But it wasn’t the water that caught his attention; it was the garden below. Visions of what happened that morning came flitting back to him, visions of a woman who had slapped his hand away. Even thinking of it infuriated him.

  “Do you know what I saw today?” he said to Rickard. “I saw your brother bed a woman that belongs to me. Lady Lyssa… she is my wife’s lady but all of the women belong to me. You know that. Every last one of them. I saw your brother at a tavern and he had Lady Lyssa with him. I watched him kiss her. I watched him take her to the sleeping rooms in the tavern. That is why I say I saw him bed her, for I know that is what he did. He touched something that belonged to me.”

  Rickard was shocked to say the least. He’d known that Colchester had gone into town, whoring, and he also knew that his brother had taken Lyssa out of The Wix for the day, precisely to keep the woman from Colchester. To realize that Colchester was at the tavern where Garret evidently took the lady was shocking, indeed. Of all of the taverns in London, Garret had to pick that one. He was certain his brother hadn’t known because Garret surely would have said something, but now it made sense as to why Colchester was so enraged.

  He’d seen them together.

  But that rambling diatribe also underscored Colchester’s unsteady mind. It was in the way he spoke the words, as if he truly believed them, and Rickard was convinced that Colchester believed every bloody word. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to calm Colchester down when the man believed something had been stolen from him.

  “Let us go into your solar and have wine, my lord,” Rickard said again. “Mayhap with some sleep, the situation will look different on the morrow.”

  Jago looked at him. “And mayhap it will not,” he said, unhappy that his knight was trying to soothe him. “Where is Lady Lyssa? I would see her.”

  Rickard knew he was going to have to take a stand. “Nay, my lord,” he said. “Let the woman heal. You dealt her a terrible beating this night.”

  Jago frowned. “It was nothing less than she deserved,” he snapped, stomping in Rickard’s direction. “Where is she?”

  “Ask your wife, my lord. I cannot give you any information.”

  The mention of Grace stopped him and he backed off, perhaps rethinking his demands. After a moment, frustration took over and he barged out of the room, heading for the main stairwell.

  “Wine,” he boomed. “Bring me wine!”

  Rickard followed. There were still a few servants in the house, hovering fearfully, and Rickard caught the attention of one of them as he followed Jago down the stairs. As the servant went running for wine, Rickard followed Jago into his solar where the man threw himself onto a chair that nearly collapse with the force of his actions. When the chair wobbled, Jago got out of it and threw it into the fire.

  As it began to catch fire, Rickard had to fish it out because it was sticking well out of the hearth and could possibly set the whole room ablaze. As he put out the chair, beating on it until it stopped flaming, a terrified servant arrived with wine and Jago began to drink from the pitcher. He didn’t even bother with a cup or the formalities of offering Rickard a cup. He simply took the whole thing for himself, which was typical.

  But it was a good situation and Rickard wasn’t going to cause any stir. Jago was in his solar, with wine in hand, and he was quiet for the moment. The only problem was that the windows overlooked the bailey and the duchess would soon be taking her women from The Wix, and it wouldn’t do for Jago to see that.

  But Rickard had an idea. Since Jago was having difficulty looking at him, Rickard positioned himself over by the window to ensure that Jago more than likely wouldn’t look at him and, therefore, wouldn’t see anything happening beyond the windows. He prayed that behavior wouldn’t change until the duchess left in her carriage, so he stood there by the window and waited.

  And waited.

  Time passed. Jago drank sloppily from the pitcher and Rickard simply watched. He kept thinking of the duchess’
comment – it would not be a pity if he fell out a window in his drunken state. They were on the ground floor, so falling from his solar window wouldn’t do any damage at all. But if Rickard could get him up to the top floor and give him a shove… aye, that would do some damage. He should have been ashamed in his thinking, but he found that he was not.

  He wasn’t ashamed in the least.

  But thoughts of pushing Colchester from a top floor window faded from his mind when he heard activity at the gatehouse. He didn’t turn around because he thought it might have been the duchess leaving with her women, but he didn’t hear the sound of a carriage. He only heard men moving around at the gate and the sounds of the great iron panels opening. Curiosity force him to look and when he did, his eyes widened in shock, for what he saw coming through the gate was something he hoped he’d never see.

  His brother had arrived, fully armed, ready for battle.

  Oh, God… no….

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Like the horsemen of the apocalypse riding through the gates of Hell, Garret and his men rode into the bailey of The Wix under the cover of darkness. But it wasn’t simply Garret and his knights, all fully armed for battle. There were far more people with them than Garret could have ever imagined there would be.

  Hubert Walter was one of them. Roused from his bed by a panicked soldier, he was riding in his fine cab behind them. The man wasn’t even dressed; he’d thrown a heavy leather robe over his sleeping clothes and had come to Westminster only to be confronted by six heavily-armed knights heading to The Wix, one of them being Garret de Moray. He couldn’t even get Garret’s attention. It had finally been Zayin who had informed him of what had transpired. Upon hearing such troubling news, Walter had followed the knights up The Strand, heading to The Wix that was not so far away.

  There was also a contingent of soldiers from Westminster following. Word had evidently spread about Garret’s intentions and there were men that would support him no matter what his endeavor. Garret de Moray had a deep well of loyalty among his men and there were those who would happily accompany him, straight into death if necessary. Garret was challenging a man who had beaten the woman he was going to marry, and there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t understand Garret’s need for vengeance. But it wasn’t just any man; it was a cousin of the king, a duke, and a man beyond reproach of a mere knight.

  But that didn’t seem to matter.

  Therefore, a group of about fifty senior soldiers followed the knights from Westminster, leaving the younger soldiers behind to man the palace. It made an odd procession in the middle of the night, heading for the iconic manse with the legendary garden.

  But it was a manse that had Satan for a master.

  All of the men knew of Colchester’s reputation and Garret’s challenge of the man, to many, had been a long time in coming. It was time for Colchester to pay for the vile and terrible things he had been rumored to commit.

  Finally, someone was standing up to him.

  But if Garret knew of the procession behind him, he didn’t let on. In fact, he never looked back because he was singularly focused on what he must do this night. The only thing in his vision was that big manse at the bend in the river. Lyssa was lying in a bed gravely injured from Colchester’s beating, and perhaps even dying, and nothing else mattered except punishing the man responsible.

  But the word of Garret’s challenge was spreading. People along The Strand were turning out to see a procession of heavily-armed knights and were told why by the soldiers more than willing to discuss such things. De Moray shall challenge Colchester, they said. That meant more men were following now, lured by the idea of a grand fight, lured by the rumor of a man who was going to kill Colchester because of what he’d done to his lady. There were other fine houses along The Strand between Westminster and The Wix, one of them being Hollyhock, the House of de Winter townhome.

  The de Winters were great supporters of Richard and Garret was friends with Hugh de Winter the Elder, who happened to be in residence at Hollyhock because he was sending more troops with de Lohr to France. Hugh was too old to fight any longer but he wasn’t too old to send his army where it was needed. When Hugh’s soldiers woke him to tell him what was transpiring, he, too, yanked his clothes on to follow. If that bastard Colchester was about to meet his maker, then Hugh wanted to see it.

  He wanted to lend a hand if necessary.

  Therefore, the procession up The Strand grew. It grew in attitude and strength, with men coming along to see what would happen and others coming simply to be part of it. They were trudging up the road with both purpose and anger, and when the group finally reached The Wix, the gate guards opened the panels wide at the sight of Garret de Moray leading the pack. They had no reason not to, as word of Garret’s approach had not reached them. After that, it seemed as if the entire world poured in.

  Anticipation was building.

  Now, Garret was back at the scene of the crime. He dismounted his horse in the middle of the vast bailey and unsheathed the broadsword from the scabbard attached to his saddle. His broadsword was an enormous thing in a world where most swords were not so large. He’d had it forged in Damascus during his time in The Levant and it was made of Damascus steel, an unbreakable and powerful alloy that was as sharp as a razor. It was a unique-looking blade, with marbling running through it, and over three feet in length. With a leather-bound hilt, it weighed as much as a small child but it was a miraculous weapon, much-envied by his peers, and he was quite skilled with it.

  As Garret tightened up one of his mail gauntlets, Hubert Walter climbed out of his cab and approached him. It seemed as if he were the only one in the entire group willing to do that. He came alongside Garret, watching the man prepare for the fight to come.

  “Zayin told me what happened, Garret,” he said quietly, wrapping his robe around him against the cool, damp wind from the river. “I understand why you are here, but are you sure this is what you want?”

  “It is.”

  Walter knew that would be his answer, as sad as he was to hear it. “Then I will not try to talk you out of it,” he said, “but you know as well as I do that even if you win tonight, you may very well lose everything.”

  Garret wouldn’t look at him. “I am aware.”

  Walter sighed faintly, looking to the faces of the men around him; Gart, Rhys, Knox, and Gavin. They were all dressed for battle, ready to pick up and take over should Garret falter. Walter knew very well what this all meant; where knights were concerned, there was nothing stronger than their love for each other. If one suffered, they all suffered. He returned his focus to Garret.

  “I will ask you one question and then I will say no more,” he said. “When Richard asks me why you have done this, what shall I tell him? I want your words, Garret. Tell me what I should say.”

  Garret looked at him, then. “Tell him that I did it for love,” he said with raw honesty. “Colchester savagely beat the woman I love. She may not survive. What I do, I do for her. I would be only half a man if I did not follow my heart in this matter.”

  Walter was deeply troubled, as well as deeply touched, by his words. “And your heart is telling you to kill?”

  “My heart is telling me to seek justice. My lady deserves it.”

  Walter couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he couldn’t argue with any of this because he knew no matter what he said, Garret would do as he felt he must. It was a sad thought, one filled with unfathomable tragedy. But in that tragedy, Walter admired Garret immensely. Knowing what he was facing, knowing very well he could ruin everything he worked so hard for, Garret was still determined to do it.

  With the greatest of respect, Walter gave him one final thought before he walked away and to leave Garret to his fate.

  “I have known you for many years, Garret,” he said quietly, looking to the weaponry the man was carrying, including the shield slung on the left side of his horse. He studied it a moment, an old shield with ancient writing around the edges
of it. Greek, it was said, as befitting the Father of the Gods. “In the battles you have fought in days past, your shield has always been one of righteousness and honor and glory. Sometimes, it was even a shield of vengeance. But never has it been a shield of love that I know of. I pray that your shield of love is the strongest shield of all, Garret. I pray that it brings you victory this night, however you choose to measure that victory.”

  With that, he walked away, leaving Garret to ponder his words. I pray that the shield of love is the strongest shield of all. Garret uttered that prayer, too, but the truth was that he’d never felt more powerful in his life because no battle had ever meant so much to him.

  He was ready.

  Sheathing his sword at his waist, he began to walk towards the manse. His steps were purposeful and firm, without fear. As he approached the building, a hush seemed to settle over the crowd because they knew what was coming. But before Garret could reach the entry, the door flew open and Rickard was suddenly rushing out to intercept him. When Garret saw his brother, unarmed, he came to a halt.

  “Garret,” Rickard said, his voice already full of a pleading tone. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

  Garret’s gaze lingered on his brother. “I must,” he said simply. “Bring Colchester to me, Rickard. Do not make me go inside to find him, for I will. You know I will.”

  Rickard could see, very quickly, that this situation was going to go badly if he didn’t get a rein on it. Even though he’d told his brother not to come, he had to admit that he wasn’t surprised to see him. But it didn’t change the fact that Garret was about to do something incredibly foolish and, more than likely, incredibly futile.

  “Garret, think,” he said, looking at all of the men standing behind his brother, ready and willing to back him up. “Have you lost your senses? Do you truly intend to wrest Colchester out of the manse under force?”

  Garret didn’t like being at odds with his brother but, given the situation, he had little choice. “Lyssa may be dying,” he said, his throat tightening with emotion even as he said it. “The physic said she is badly broken up. She may be bleeding in her gut. And that bastard you serve did it, Rickard. I cannot let this go unanswered.”