The Dorston Fall [Book I in the Dorston Legacy]

Chapter 49 - Allegiance

"Is he dead?"

"Yes sire."

Rowland stared down at his brother's corpse; feeling and looking indifferent to his pale and tatted appearance. The men - in their haste to apprehend Katelyn - had stormed right over his body without care or respect. His face was red now and bruising with boot prints. His lips were cracked and bloody. His cheeks were cut and swelling. He must have been kicked a dozen times, he reckoned. He hated to imagine what was going on beneath the surface; what his blood and organs were enduring. His grim, greying hair frayed around him like an old lion's mane. Many of the arrows in Richard's back had snapped in two; the heads still buried in his flesh. His blood strained the filthy land beneath him. He was on his side still, just as he had fallen; his arms and legs curled inwards like a defenceless babe in the womb. His last attempt to save himself. Or to die with some dignity.

Rowland tilted his head to the side and smirked, gleefully, for the first time in days.

In his personal opinion, Richard had never looked better. He was, at last, where he belonged: in the dirt and at his feet. He sighed contently, as he kneeled to the ground beside the body; admiring the precision of the archers and handiwork of the soldiers. The arrows went deep onto his brother's body, no doubt piercing his lungs, his heart and guts. There was no coming back from that. No remedy or magic was strong enough to bring him back.

Wonderful! He thought, resisting the urge to clap his hands and jump up and down like a child. This was better than he'd hoped.

In the beginning, Rowland had wanted to cut off his brother's head and place it on a spike for all to see. It was clean and contained, merciful by his own standards. It was either that or have him hung, drawn and quartered; his parts sent to Agnes in chests with bows and fanfare. He chuckled to himself, amused by his dark imaginings. But no, somehow seeing his big, scary brother this way - his body crumpled, cold and in dust - was far more satisfying.

"I've been in your shadow for far too long," he growled, his heart swelling with intense loathing, a loathing that had lasted forever and a day.

The seemingly perfect and faultless king was dead. The rivalry between them was won. Rowland had come out on top, just as he'd always intended.

"You should have run when you had the chance," he jeered; pushing himself to his feet and turning to his quiet and nervous company. He stared at every man present. They were hesitate to meet his gaze. Were they afraid of him? Were they ashamed of what they'd done to their king? Were they anxious for his approval? Rowland couldn't put his finger on it. What reason had they to be nervous?

Then, on the edge of his senses, he heard the rumble and tumble of rocks. He turned towards the mountain and hissed under his breath. Behind a cloud of dust, the ant figures of Katelyn and her peasant darted up the cliff face; moving with the jagged path. The sunlight bounced and jolted off their blades, and winked as if to signal him. Moving out of the castle's shadow, he chuckled; the sound resonated deep within his throat.

"Go on little girl," he murmured. "Run. Run away and never return."

For a girl so determined to free her father, she'd done a very poor job of it. She'd come all this way, endured all sorts of dangers, only to fall and fail spectacularly at the last hurdle. He couldn't deny it, it was a welcoming sight to see the daughter of the 'great' King Richard running away like a timid mouse, but it was also shaming and frightfully disappointing. She was a Dorston; headstrong, honour-bound and stubborn. He'd expected her to put up more of a fight. He'd expected her rage to get the better of her, for her to challenge him, for her to seek revenge. But no, she'd allowed that peasant boy to drag her away from the fire. She was a Dorston. How did a mere peasant persuade her otherwise?