Devil's Dominion (13 page)

“It would seem that there is much activity happening on the Marches north of Bronllys and we must maintain vigilance,” he began quietly. “De Lohr summoned me to warn us about it. It would seem there is a mercenary army raiding and confiscating castles along the Powis border.”

Berwyn was grim. “It must be serious, indeed,” he said. “Mercenary army, did you say?”

Rod nodded. “Remember when we were told of Cloryn’s defeat by a passing merchant?” he asked, watching his grandfather nod. “Cloryn was just one tragedy in a long line of many. That same army moved on Alberbury Priory and burned it to the ground.”

Berwyn’s bushy eyebrows rose. “They
burned
a priory?” he repeated, aghast. “Why would they do this? The priory would have nothing of value, at least nothing that mercenaries would want.”

Rod drew in a long, contemplative breath, pausing before replying as servants brought food to the table and set it down. He waited until the servants walked away before continuing.

“These are no ordinary mercenaries,” he said, reaching for the pitcher of boiled fruit juice. He preferred that over watered ale in the morning. “De Lohr received a missive from Robert de Boulers not long ago. Most of the activity has been on de Bouler’s borders and the man is understandably concerned. Evidently, the story is this – an army of Irish mercenaries landed in Liverpool several weeks ago and made its way to the Powis Marches, whereupon they wreaked a good deal of havoc. They badly damaged Clun Castle and Knighton Castle, and attacked Dolforwyn as well, although that castle held. But Cloryn didn’t. They took it and then they moved on to burn Alberbury Priory. They went to Alberbury with a purpose, however. They were looking for someone.”

Berwyn was frowning now. “I do not understand,” he said. “Who were they looking for?”

Rod sighed faintly as he poured his drink. “Ajax de Velt’s daughter,” he said. “She was apparently a novice nun at the priory. They took the girl, burned the priory, but left one solitary old nun alive to deliver a message regarding their actions.”

Berwyn was shocked. “What message is that?”

Rod took a long drink before answering. “The message is for Ajax de Velt,” he said. “The mercenaries are following the same pattern de Velt did when he raided the borders twenty-five years ago. Every castle they have hit has been a castle de Velt hit, and Cloryn belonged to de Velt. They have taken it and they have taken his daughter. The message to de Velt is simple – if he wants his daughter, he must come and get her. This mercenary army is calling forth de Velt, Papa. They are summoning The Dark Lord himself.”

Berwyn’s initial shock faded and now he simply sat and mulled over the situation. He was an old man and didn’t get too excited over things, no matter how bad they were. Calmer heads prevailed because panicked ones couldn’t. After several moments of pondering the circumstances, he grunted and shook his head.

“I do not want to see de Velt on this border again,” he said. “I remember when the man tore through here twenty-five years ago. It was as if Hell itself had opened up and Lucifer was marching upon us. The fear of that time was tangible. When he took Four Crosses Castle… well, that is a time I do not wish to relive. I cannot even stomach the thought.”

The time had come for Rod to divulge what he knew. He tried to be gentle. “The commander of the mercenary army had a name,” he said quietly. “He told the old nun to make sure she relayed it to de Velt. He gave his name as Bretton de Llion.”

So much for not getting excited over things. Berwyn stared at Rod for a long, tense moment before his eyebrows lifted and his face went pale. He was having difficulty speaking, stammering and stuttering, until the words finally came forth.

“Bretton?” he repeated, aghast. “
Bretton
de Llion?”

Rod nodded, hoping his grandfather wasn’t going to seize up right in front of him. “That is why de Lohr summoned me, in truth,” he said steadily. “It was because of the name the mercenary commander gave. He knew that name was somehow related to us, to you. He thought it would be better if I told you.”

Berwyn just stared at him. It was clear he was reeling. He began to shake his head, back and forth, almost wildly.

“Impossible,” he gasped. “Bretton died twenty-five years ago.”

Rod wasn’t unsympathetic to the man’s reaction. His, in fact, had been worse, comparatively speaking. At least Berwyn wasn’t yelling about it.

“That is what I told de Lohr,” Rod said. “But the man made some very good points. We never found Bretton’s body. If there is no body, then there is no confirmation of death. It is quite possible that Bretton somehow escaped and has now returned to seek vengeance for what happened to Uncle Morgan.
Isn’t
it possible, Papa?”

Berwyn was so off balance by the revelation that he literally reeled over backwards, catching himself on the table. Disoriented, he stood up unsteadily and Rod also stood up and went around the table to take hold of his grandfather. The man was all shades of incredulous and the grief, long buried these years, began to surface again.

“Nay,” he hissed. “It is
not
possible. Bretton died along with Morgan and Ceri and Brethwyn. He has not come back from the dead.”

Rod had hold of the man as he struggled. “Then why would this commander give that name?” he asked, trying to force the man to think. “Why would he say he was Bretton if he was not? There is no reason for him to lie about his identity. All things are possible, Papa. Sometimes… sometimes the dead do return. Sometimes they are not really dead at all.”

He was referring to his brother Rhys, of course, but he was not prepared to divulge that information, too. It would have been too much for Berwyn to take. As it was, the old man was struggling.

“Nay,” Berwyn said again, more firmly. “It is
not
Bretton.”

Rod wasn’t surprised at the denial. In fact, he was oddly relieved by it. At least Berwyn wasn’t demanding his horse so he could ride to Cloryn and see for himself if his grandson had indeed returned. Maybe he would, eventually, but for now, he was in utter denial. Not that Rod blamed him.

“Mayhap,” he said softly, still holding fast to Berwyn. “In any case, there is a mercenary army running amuck on the Marches and we must be vigilant. De Lohr suggested we move south to Whitebrook until the threat has passed. He is very concerned should this mercenary move on Bronllys.”

Berwyn was gripping his grandson as he stared at the ground. There were a million thoughts rolling through his mind but mostly, he was struggling against bone-numbing grief, the same grief he had experienced when his son had been killed. He was feeling it again, now for the grandson he had lost. Someone was playing a horrible trick on all of them. Along with that grief came rage.

“Nay,” he said yet again, lifting his head to look at Rod. “I do not know who this… this
bastard
is who poses as my dead grandson, but I will find him and I will kill him, do you hear? He will pay for defiling the de Llion name. Are we now to be held in the same contempt as the name of de Velt because of the death and destruction he is committing along the Marches? I will not stand for it!”

Rod shook his head firmly. “You cannot do anything about it, at least not now,” he said. “To ride to confront the man will only see you killed and I am not prepared to lose my grandfather so soon after losing my brother. Would you really do that to me? You will calm yourself, Papa. Go up to your chamber and remain there until you have calmed. I will send the physic up with a draught for your nerves.”

Berwyn didn’t want any part of Rod’s mothering. “Nay, I will
not
,” he said loudly. “I do not wish to rest. I wish to wrap my hands around the demon that falsely uses my name!”

Rod watched his grandfather pull away from him as he began to pace angrily. He had already said everything he could to calm the man so perhaps the only other alternative was to distract him. He was willing to try.

“What do you remember of de Velt’s conquest on the Marches those years ago?” he asked, hoping Berwyn would follow his lead. “Whatever this mercenary commander is doing, it seems to emulate de Velt in every way. Did he come this far south?”

Berwyn was still raging about the imposter. “He took Comen Castle and Erwood Castle,” he said angrily. “You know where those castles are, Rod. They are each about a half day’s ride from here. He came very close to Bronllys but he did not try to take us. Let this imposter come now! I want to see his face!”

Berwyn went off on a rant about how he would tear the man limb from limb if he ever got ahold of him. Rod stood there and watched him, knowing the old man meant every word. Even at his advanced age, he was still formidable on the field of battle. Berwyn didn’t get worked up very often but when he did, it was often unstoppable. Therefore, he simply stood back for a few moments and let the man work through his fury. All the while, Rod kept thinking about the mercenary army and their mimicry of Jax de Velt. As his grandfather raged, he began to recount some of the factors that he and de Lohr had discussed. They were factors that would interest Berwyn.

“If this mercenary army is indeed emulating Jax de Velt, then there is less of a chance they will come to Bronllys,” he said. “However, they may very well move on Erwood and Comen. We will be able to smell the destruction from here.”

Berwyn was muttering to himself, still pacing about, but he stopped when Rod’s words sank in.

“That is true,” he agreed. “We will have to make sure the castle is locked up. We will have to bring the villeins into the fold. It would not be safe to leave the villagers without protection.”

Rod dared to move towards the old man who seemed to be calming somewhat. “Mayhap you should ride to the village and speak with them,” he said, hoping it would deter the man from his outrage and focus him on something constructive. “We must tell them to be on their guard should the mercenaries make it this far south.”

Berwyn nodded. “That would be wise.”

“Would you like for me to go with you?”

Berwyn was weary now that the explosion of rage had eased from a roaring fire to a simmer. He was sweating and pale, but at least he was sufficiently calming. The storm had passed, for the moment.

“Nay,” he shook his head. “You have traveled all day. You must rest. This is something I will do alone. I will go and speak with the priests so they can help spread the word.”

Rod didn’t push. He was glad that his grandfather was focused on something other than the imposter using the de Llion name. Now, the man was focused on the small village that was near the castle. There was a good working relationship between the two, something Berwyn had cultivated for many years.

“Very well,” Rod said, watching his grandfather head for the exit of the great hall. “Are you sure you will be well?”

Berwyn nodded unsteadily, like a man who had too much on his mind. “Well enough,” he said, pausing by the door to look at his grandson. “What you have told me… you have not told anyone else, have you?”

Rod shook his head. “Who else would I tell?”

“Orlaith.”

Rod cocked his head, pursing his lips reproachfully. “I would tell my mother before I told you?” he asked in a tone that suggested it was a ridiculous question. “Of course I have not told her. I have not even seen her. She is at Whitebrook and it would have taken me at least four days to get there. Until we can confirm any of this, I see no reason to tell her that her nephew may be alive.”

Berwyn wagged his head back and forth. “There is no reason for her to know in any case,” he said. “Your mother was quite attached to her brother. His death saddened her greatly, as did the passing of his family. There is no need for her to know anything.”

With that, Berwyn quit the hall to go about his business, leaving Rod behind to ponder that very statement.
There is no need for her to know anything
. But what if it was true and Bretton had returned as a hated mercenary? If that was truly the case, then he had to agree with his grandfather –it would be better for his mother to not know at all.

Still… he had to wonder if they would ever know the truth. Maybe Bretton
had
returned. If that was what had happened, then he had to wonder why the man hadn’t contacted them. He had been asking himself that question since nearly the moment de Lohr revealed the name behind the mercenary army. Surely Bretton remembered his family. If he remembered Jax de Velt and the havoc the man wrought, then surely he would remember those who loved him from his childhood. Surely he remembered that he had family here on the Marches.

There was only one way to find out.

℘

It was her fault, really. She’d had the courage to attack the man but she hadn’t been able to escape as she had hoped. Therefore, she was forced to face the punishment. She had taken a risk and it had come back in her face.

Allaston was back in the vault again. Grayton, upon discovering her over Bretton’s unconscious body, had grabbed her by the neck and dragged her back down to the moldering depths of Cloryn’s dark vault. He had quite literally thrown her back upon the dirty straw that had been her only bed for three weeks before slamming the grate and making sure it was bolted. The entire time, he’d never said a word, and neither did she. In truth, there was nothing for either of them to say.