Devil's Dominion (2 page)

Lady de Llion held her little girl tightly, who now had bright red blood about her lips that were turning shades of blue. She was gasping for every breath, growing weaker by the moment.

“Nay,” Lady de Llion sobbed. “She is… my sweet Ceri is dying. And my husband! He is dead, too!”

One servant broke away from the group and threw open the bolt of the heavy iron door leading out into the kitchen yard beyond as the others hovered around Lady de Llion.

“My lady,
please
,” the woman holding Bretton begged. “Come with us!”

Lady de Llion had already given up the fight. She wasn’t a strong woman in the best of times and now, with the great jaws of defeat snapping at her, she was more inclined to surrender than to resist. She shook her head violently, her wimple coming loose and spilling forth dark hair.

“There is no hope,” she muttered. “De Velt has won. He has put my husband to the stake and soon he will put me to the stake. But I cannot allow it, do you hear? I will not!”

With that, she stood up, carrying her daughter with her, and moved to the butcher block that stood big and heavy in the center of the kitchen. All manner of butcher knives hung from an iron frame overhead and she grabbed a long, slender, and wicked-looking knife that was used to filet meat from the bone. Without hope, without any comfort or sanity whatsoever, Lady de Llion plunged the knife into Ceri’s small chest, stilling the little girl forever. As the servants screamed and moved to stop her, she turned the knife on herself.

Bretton saw the entire incident. It was surreal, beyond the comprehension of the small child, and he was too shocked to utter a sound. He just stared at his sister as her blood ran bright red upon the dirt of the kitchen, mingling with his mother’s blood from a slit throat. It was a horrific scene, but one not unknown in the annals of a de Velt attack. Whenever the man took the offensive, he left no living body in his wake.

Bretton only had a few moments of seeing his mother and sister in their blood bath before Rosalie was stealing him from the kitchen, racing through the dark and bloody night to the postern gate that led down the eastern slope of Four Crosses, down a narrow and treacherous path, through thickets of trees, to a stream below that fed into the castle’s water supply. Others followed in her wake.

It was dark down there, shielded from the castle above by a thick canopy of branches overhead. Bretton, the shock of his mother and sister’s death sinking deep, had begun to weep but Rosalie put her hand over his mouth to still the sound. They could hear men behind them, de Velt’s men, and they were desperate to quiet the boy. The group of refugees plopped into the stream, following its path as it ran through the vale, hiding their tracks from those who would follow. Rosalie carried Bretton until the boy grew heavy and then she passed him to another man, the castle smithy, who carried the sniffling lad for another hour until they felt safe enough to clamor out of the stream.

It was a desperate flight in the dead of night, feeling de Velt’s death-grip that had come upon them all. The land was hilly and rough here and the small group struggled through it with only a sliver moon above to light their way. The smithy, in the lead, ended up on a goat path that wound its way up a small mountain to a relatively flat summit. They had to gain their bearings in this dark land, to determine where to go to safety, but a sight on the eastern horizon caught their attention.

They could see flames in the distance, atop a mountain, and they knew that it was Four Crosses Castle. De Velt didn’t normally burn the castles he confiscated so the refugees of Four Crosses could only imagine that someone, mayhap Lord de Llion himself, had set the castle ablaze. There was no way of knowing who had actually caused the blaze, but one thing was certain: Four Crosses Castle, as they knew it, was gone forever, destroyed by a man whose bloodlust was second only to his evil. Satan himself trembled in fear of Jax de Velt and his apocalyptic destruction. No man survived it. Those who stood on the mountaintop, watching the flames in the distance, knew they were among a very select few. God had been with them this night because they, in fact, had survived.

Gentle tears filled the cold night air, tears from the few women who now realized they were alive, now realized they were homeless. It was much to bear. As the servants began to discuss what they should do now, where they should go, Bretton stood and watched his castle burn.

His papa was there, his mother and sister, too. All he loved was burning before him. He was sad, terrified, and overwhelmed with the course the night had taken. He wasn’t sure what to feel any longer. He was simply numb, as numb as a child could be. All he knew was that a man had caused all of this horror and destruction, a terrible man of terrible reputation, and that man’s name was de Velt.
Ajax de Velt
. It was a name seared into his brain, never to be forgotten.

It was a name he learned to hate. Hatred would breed revenge. Even at his young age, he could feel an unalterable sense of vengeance.

℘

The month of May, 1205 A.D.

Alberbury Priory

Shropshire, England (the Welsh Marches)

The alarm had come after Vespers when everyone was settling down for the evening and soft prayers were being uttered throughout the cloister. The flames from a few lit tapers danced in the darkness, casting shadows upon the wall, tapers that were quickly doused by nuns who were in a panic. Women in coarse woolen garments had raced through the priory, spreading fear along with them like a great, vast blanket of doom. Something terrible had come to their door, something that did not recognize the sanctity of the church, and the only thing left for them to do was flee. Their only defense, the shield of religion, had been destroyed. Death had come to Alberbury.

In the novice’s dormitory that smelled of lye and smoke, a palpable sense of terror filled the long and cavernous room as the Mother Prioress and several senior nuns flooded in, rousing the neophytes from their beds. These women were in training to become the brides of Christ, living spartan lives and being taught that discipline and suffering were the only true paths to God. Clad only in a rough woolen sleeping shift that they had made with their own hands from wool that had come from the priory’s herd of sheep, the young women struggled out of their beds.

“What is the matter, Mother?” a young woman gasped. “What has happened?”

The Mother Prioress, a very old woman who was, in fact, a distant member of the royal family, grabbed the girl by the arm and very nearly yanked the limb out of its socket.

“No questions,” she hissed. “Thou must do as thou art told. We must leave this place now.”

The reply only bred more fear and confusion. “Please, Mother,” another girl said as she gathered a worn cloak from the stool next to her. “Will you please tell us what has happened? Why must we leave?”

The old prioress didn’t look at her charge. In fact, she didn’t look at any of them. There were eleven altogether, young women from the finest families throughout England, and it was her duty to keep them safe. But it was a duty that she could quite possibly fail at and the thought scared her to death. The proud old woman had never failed at anything. As she opened her mouth to chastise yet another question, a massive crash could be heard back in the abbey, as if the very walls were coming down. The young novices looked terrified while the older nuns simply appeared sick; sick because their world, their lovely and pious world, was about to come crumbling down around them.

“God’s Beard,” the girl who had asked the initial question gasped. Her eyes were wide with fright. “What on earth was that?”

The prioress eyed her associates a moment before answering. “A plague has come to Alberbury,” she whispered, grabbing two of the girls closest to her. “We must flee now or we will not survive. Doest thou understand?”

The girls could feel the woman’s terror, mingling with their own, and it was enough to get their legs moving. It was so dark, however, that one girl tripped over the nearest bed, falling to her knees before being pulled up by her friends. Together, the group of four nuns and eleven novices headed for the rear entrance to the dormitory. It was a chaotic and hectic flight, and as one of the older nuns brought up the rear, hanging on to a small young woman with golden hair, she began to mutter.

“The Devil has come to our door,” she hissed. “Satan himself has emerged from the darkness and now he intends to feed upon us. We will become fodder for his demons.”

The novice nuns looked to the old woman, fear and confusion on their faces, but the Mother Prioress scolded her.

“Sister Mary Josepha, silence!” she breathed. “Thou speaketh nonsense. Keep thy lips closed for if thou must murmur, be it a prayer to God.”

The older nuns’ squabbling was nothing new. It happened constantly and the novice nuns were unmoved by it. As they ran, however, one young woman kept glancing over her shoulder, seemingly above the panic for the moment. She seemed to be calculating the situation, pondering it more than the others. She was afraid, that was true, but she was also trying to figure a way out of it, if such a thing were possible.

“But where will we go?” the young woman with dark hair and bright green eyes wanted to know. She was a pale, delicious beauty with a sharp and inquisitive mind that often saw her knuckles rapped as a result of that outspoken intelligence. “If men are trying to burn down the priory, it would stand to reason that they have more than likely compromised the village down the hill. We cannot go there and there is no safe haven left for miles around.”

The Mother Prioress hissed at the woman. “Silence, Allaston Eugenia,” she demanded. “We will head to the creek and hide amongst the grass and trees. Remember thy Bible; let the rocks and the trees be my army. They will protect us.”

Lady Allaston Eugenia Coleby de Velt wasn’t entirely sure the old prioress was correct but she kept her mouth shut. It seemed to her that they needed to do more than simply hide in the bushes. They needed to get far, far away, but not knowing the area particularly well, for she grew up in Northumberland, she wasn’t at all sure where they should go. Still, it seemed as if the old prioress was being foolish. There had to be more they could do than shield themselves in the bushes and pray they were not discovered. But she was at a loss to know exactly what that “more” should be.

So she followed the group of women, stumbling through the dormitory door that led into the cloister and out across the well-kept dirt of the gardens. The prioress’ accommodations were directly in front of them, a dark and loveless building, and they skirted the one-storied structure, heading for the rear of the priory and the open fields beyond. The moon, a silver sliver in the blackness of the sky, provided little light. Everyone was tripping and scuffling as they went.

The smell of smoke was heavy as they moved and they could hear the shouts of men and the bray of animals coming from the east and south sides of the priory, the areas that were mostly exposed to the road and the world beyond. Although there were fifteen in their small group, there were at least thirty more nuns who were still unaccounted for, women who had either already fled or were foolishly hiding in the priory. At the moment, there was no way to hunt for all of them, so the Mother Prioress had gathered who she could. Fifteen out of a total of forty-five nuns was a dismal statistic but it was the best they could do under the frightening circumstances.

Allaston was towards the rear of their group as they made their way around the prioress’ lodgings. She was helping Sister Mary Josepha with a young woman, not a particularly healthy young woman, who was having trouble running. The girl was wheezing and coughing with the exertion.

“Please, Annie,” Allaston begged softly. “You must be brave. You must hurry. We must run!”

Annie was having a great deal of difficulty. “I am trying!” she gasped, tears in her eyes. “But I am so frightened, Allie. Who would attack a priory? It is a house of God and meant to be safe from all!”

Allaston shushed her because she knew the Mother Prioress would only yell at poor Annie for sounding so weak. The Mother Prioress did not like weak women. “Evil men have attacked us,” she said simply. “In the end, it does not matter who it is. All that matters is that we must get away from them.”

Annie was bordering on sobs, made difficult by her heavy breathing. “What will become of us?” she wept. “Where will we be safe?”