Chapter Fifteen

“I have your horse ready for you, my lord.” Robin, the young page, handed Otto his shining helm as soon as he and Gaius appeared in the outer courtyard.

They had run all the way from the tower, keenly aware that every second held vital importance. Otto caught his breath as he paused to consider his next move, holding his arms out to receive the heavy chainmail which Robin fastened around him. His mind was whirring with regret and betrayal. Surely this invasion proved that the one person in Darkmoor who he thought he could trust had turned out to be working against him. Realization cut through him like the sharpest blade, leaving wounds that would fester for many moons to come.

Otto stretched his hand inside his gauntlet reflexively. This was no time to be thinking of Ariana. He must concentrate all his wits and energy on the battle ahead. Sir Leon’s men had the advantage of surprise, but the knights of Darkmoor were an elite group of highly trained warriors. The situation could still be turned around if he moved quickly and cleverly.

Otto nodded his thanks to his page. “Are the knights already assembled?” he asked Gaius.

“Aye, sir. They headed to the meeting point at the first sound of the warning bell.” Gaius sheathed his sword and turned to his own waiting horse.

Otto sprung up onto his battle charger, the spirited animal half rearing beneath him. “Let’s go,” he said shortly. They both knew there was no time to lose. Together, they clattered over the cobbles and through an ivy-strewn archway to the knights’ meeting point. Already the sounds of the battle were growing closer. Otto clenched his jaw at the familiar clash of steel on steel, the shouts of victory and the sickening groans of the injured.

Ten knights bearing the distinctive crimson colors of Darkmoor were waiting for him, their armor gleaming in the darkness, their horses snorting in anticipation. Otto held up his hand, commanding the attention of all.

“Your speedy arrival does you credit,” he said, speaking quietly but forcefully. “Tonight, much will be asked of you in the service of Darkmoor. Enemies are within our very walls; threatening everything we hold dear.” His horse pranced beneath him, splashing in puddles caused by the afternoon’s downpour. Otto took a tighter hold of his reins and flipped up the visor of his helmet so he could better see his men. Drizzle fell like a gauzy blanket, muffling sound and making everything shine in the torchlight “We do not know how many we face. We do not know how many of our soldiers are already fallen. All we know is this, the enemy must be defeated. We fight, for the honor and glory of Darkmoor.”

His knights cheered as one, Gaius amongst them. Otto spun around in the saddle to face the encroaching battle. Once they were out over the drawbridge, who knew what carnage they would discover? He looked back at his knights, their red cloaks fanning about them in the evening’s breeze. “Gaius and Edmund, I want you to go quietly through the western gates to approach the enemy from the rear. With luck, they will be focused on our attack. You’ll be able to pick them off, one by one.”

“Very good, my lord.” Gaius nodded to the tall, red-haired knight by his side and together, they split off from the group.

“The rest of you, on me.” Otto pointed forward with his sword and dug his spears into his horse’s side. The animal broke into a canter, moving quickly over the drawbridge and out into the unknown. Otto led his small band of knights as he had done on countless occasions. He sat tall in the saddle, knowing that all warriors, however strong and experienced, take courage from the one in the front.

Show no weakness; show no mercy.

The knights’ code had been writ for occasions such as this. Darkmoor must prevail, especially against such dishonorable opponents who struck without just cause or fair warning.

Somewhere to their left, a dog howled in misery and a gust of wind brought a splatter of rain through Otto’s visor. He blinked away the raindrops, pricking his ears for clues as to where the enemy were situated.

A clue came with the piercing whistle of overhead arrows. Otto had no sooner shouted a warning than he heard the sickening thud of one of them meeting its mark. From the corner of his eye, he saw the knight diagonally behind him clutch at his chest, then fall to the side, heavy as a rock. As he tipped over, his helm came off to reveal a shock of brown curls.

Otto’s heart sank into his leather boots. Not young Benedict.

He yanked hard at the reins, but his horse had already carried him far from the fallen boy, and Otto knew that this could well be the first of many casualties amongst his men. Still, sorrow for the senseless death washed over him as his horse bolted forward. Just days earlier, he had spared young Benedict in the joust, only for the young squire to take a fatal arrow the first time he rode out to battle.

His burgeoning grief hardened into fierce resolve as the shouts of fighting grew nearer. He would wield his revenge on Sir Leon of Kenmar, whatever it took.

Soon he was amongst a sea of bodies, thrusting with his sword and battering would be attackers away with his shield. His horse snorted and reared as the deafening clang of steel on steel filled the night air. He clamped his thighs around the saddle, holding himself steady as he bent low over the horse’s neck to deliver a fatal blow to an enemy knight. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the earthy scent of wet mud and hot horseflesh assaulted his nostrils as he pushed through the fray. Otto’s mind was fixed solely on the task in hand, and he carved up the encroaching army with deft flashes of his sword. He had been raised to fight like this. Man on man. Sword on sword. A splintering whinny broke through the battle cries as a horse crashed onto its side. His own horse stumbled, and Otto knew a thrill of alarm as the muddy ground rose up to meet him, but he drove down into the saddle and shifted his weight backwards, allowing his charger to recover her footing with seconds to spare. Otto plunged his sword into the chest of a man on a magnificent towering beast beside him. In another moment, the man would have swung his sword and sliced straight into Otto.

High overhead, the clouds shifted, and a sudden burst of moonlight illuminated the battleground. Otto had forced his way through the melee to come out on the other side, where Gaius and Edmund, as instructed, were making short work of taking out the straggling Kenmar soldiers.

He twisted around in the saddle to survey the scene. Billowing red outnumbered the purple. Darkmoor had the advantage.

His sword arm throbbed, and his ribs ached, where someone had jammed the hilt of their sword into his side before Otto swiftly dispatched them. But it was not yet time to rest. He knew he must ride back into the heat of the battle and help his knights finish the job. Before he could turn his horse around, a glint of steel far off in the distance caught his eye. Focusing his gaze onto the rolling hills to the east, he spied a lone figure on horseback, a plume of purple helmet feathers giving his identity clear away.

Sir Leon of Kenmar.

His wife’s father.

Otto gathered his reins, hatred boiling in his gut. The man was a no-good coward, attacking would-be allies under the cover of darkness and sending his men off to fight while he stayed safe atop a distant hill.

How Otto would love to gallop over to him, right now, and challenge Sir Leon to one-on-one combat. His pulse raced with temptation as the sour taste of malice filled his mouth. The idea of slicing into the man who had ordered his father’s death was hard to deny. But he must. If he rode away and abandoned his knights to pursue his own ambitions, he’d be little better than a coward himself.

Channeling all his rage into a roar of determination, Otto pressed his horse back into the blood-soaked throng.

No more than an hour later, the skirmish was over. What remained of Sir Leon’s army had fled into the hills. The Darkmoor castle guards rounded up a dozen torn and bloody prisoners and Otto ordered them to the dungeons; he would question them tomorrow.

As Robin led his tired horse back to the stables, Otto tossed his helm aside and sank down onto a low wall. He tilted back his head to look up at the magnificent fortress which had successfully withstood yet another assault. The familiar granite stone was illuminated with pools of light from numerous flaming torches affixed to the pillars. He had defended his home, his lands, and his title today, but had his instinctive trust of Ariana brought danger to his people?

His heart ached more than the bloody gash in his side, and he waved away the physician when he came bustling over to tend his wounds.

“It is nothing but a scratch, Merek,” he stated calmly. “Others need your ministrations more than I.” The memory of Benedict floated through his mind, and he put up a muddy hand to scratch at his scar. “Have the bodies of our dead been recovered?” He forced out the question.

“It is underway, my lord.” Merek bowed his head.

“See they receive the proper rites.” Otto sighed. There was still much to be done out here in the courtyard, but he could not properly dedicate himself to his duties before he had confronted the woman who had brought such treachery to their gates.

“Of course.” Merek hesitated. “If I may say, my lord, you appear out of sorts. Shall I prepare you a restorative draught?”

Otto waved his hand. “Perchance later, Merek. I need my wits about me for now.”

On tired legs, he walked through the darkness to the back of the castle. His mind played a spool of images from the short time he and Ariana had spent together. He saw her tremulous smile and her cascade of dark hair, he recalled how they had ridden down to the river, conversing easily as friends, then coming together instinctively as lovers. He had been impressed by her courage from the first; but her nerves of steel had been employed to the betterment of his enemies.

How could she have betrayed him so?

At the bottom of the tower, Otto paused, leaning an elbow against the rough stone. He closed his eyes and felt his body sway like the trunk of a young tree. He was bone weary and despairing. Most bitter of all was the realization that his cold-hearted uncle had been right all along.

Perchance Althalos was right about everything, not just Ariana. Mayhap the men questioned his leadership, thinking him soft. The events of the past day had certainly given credence to such allegations. His father’s earlship had never been challenged from within, never so much as queried.

Show no weakness; show no mercy.

Was this the only way to rule after all?

Otto would have to embrace the code, else face Darkmoor turning to chaos, just as Sir Althalos had predicted.

Unable to swallow down his rage, he beat his fist upon the heavy wooden door, starting back in surprise when it swung noiselessly open. Immediately, he was on high alert. He’d left orders for this door to remain locked and bolted. Even with his best men fighting at the castle gates, his bride should not have been left undefended.

Cautiously he lifted a flaming torch from a nearby wall and shouldered the open door aside. All was quiet in the stairwell; the stone steps rose silently upwards just as they always had. Breathing softly, and cursing the ache in his ribs, he began to ascend.

He was less than halfway up when he realized something was wrong. Even with the light from his torch, the stairs were too bright. That could mean just one thing; the upper door was open.

Swallowing down instinctive panic, he broke into a jog, bursting into the tower room with a roar of rage intended to intimidate anyone still lurking inside.

But he didn’t have to search the chamber to know that it was empty. The fire he had lit earlier still flickered in the grate; its embers glowing a deep orangey red which cast shadows up the walls. He swung his torch towards the table, noting the half-eaten meal of bread and fruit sitting beside an unfurled parchment. Had Ariana left in something of a hurry? The blanket he’d brought her was abandoned on the bare floor. He picked it up, wishing some narrative of the night’s events could be gleaned from its folds.

“You’re a fool,” he said aloud, sitting heavily on the nearest chair. He didn’t need anything or anyone to explain what had happened here. It was clear enough.

Ariana had stayed loyal to Kenmar; she’d been plotting tonight’s escapade long before exchanging marriage vows with Otto. Although she must have been working with an accomplice, he mused. One who opened the gates to receive the soldiers and told them where to find her. The fact that Sir Leon’s forces had been defeated did not in any way lessen the fact of her betrayal.

Otto’s fist clenched around the blanket. To think that he had softened towards her. Just hours earlier, he had dreamed of a future for them, together.

He had dreamed of a new way to rule Darkmoor.

Up until this moment, he’d been but a boy, full of na?ve fancies. Now he was a man, ready to put his innocent hopes aside, determined to defend his people and his lands against all who intended harm. He would embrace the lessons espoused by his father, a warrior earl who had given his life for his lands.

And if he ever saw Ariana again, she would regret crossing the Earl of Darkmoor. No matter how his heart still pined for her.