Devil's Dominion (8 page)

“D’Avignon,” he said, turning the focus away from Grayton and his correct assessment of their prized prisoner because he was starting to feel foolish about it. “Now that we have been returned to Cloryn for a few hours, how do the men fare? Well enough so that we should be prepared to move to our next target by the coming week?”

Sir Olivier d’Avignon, the burly blond knight, paid great attention to his liege’s question. After a moment, he nodded. “They seem well enough,” he said. “Since we landed in Liverpool, we’ve done nothing but march from one place to another, so if we could remain at Cloryn for a few days, it would serve the men well. They need to rest after the warfare we have conducted. It has been rather taxing.”

That was putting it mildly. Sieges, death, destruction, men impaled on poles and decapitations were only part of the havoc they had wreaked. But that was their way, the manner in which Bretton’s army functioned, having taken their clues from Ajax de Velt and his reign of terror those years ago. Bretton thought back to the path that had brought him to this moment in time, thinking over all of the work and sacrifice he had to make in order to see his desires fulfilled. Lost in reflection, he sipped pensively at his wine.

“From Liverpool, we laid siege to Clun, Knighton and Dolforwyn. We weren’t trying to take those castles, only harass them. Then it was straight to Cloryn Castle,” he muttered. “Once our base was established at Cloryn, it was on to Alberbury for the de Velt daughter. The man we paid to locate the de Velt children took three years to find one we could get to and, in the end, we found de Velt’s daughter just where he said she would be. Once we confiscated her, we brought her back to Cloryn and locked her in the vault while we moved on to Ithon Castle, another of de Velt’s holdings. Now, it belongs to me as well. After Ithon, we will take Rhayder Castle and then we will have an unbreakable link of three castles, all bordering one another. Once we have that stretch of the border secured and under my control, we will move to Comen Castle, Erwood Castle, and finally Four Crosses Castle. By that time, I will have taken every castle along the Marches that de Velt ever held and, hopefully, he will be moving his army to engage me.”

The commanders listened to the plan that had been drilled into their heads ever since they had known Bretton. Much like the rest of them, Bretton had a background as a mercenary but, unlike them, he had lived the life of a mercenary with an end goal in mind. The man had plans. Mercenaries didn’t come any meaner or deadlier than Bretton de Llion. Since having lost his parents at a young age, his younger years were rather blurred but it was rumored that he had been sold to a merchant who had taken him to Ireland and subsequently abused him until he had been old enough to fight back.

After that, it had been established that Bretton had become a squire for an Irish mercenary who had taught the lad his trade. Powerful and skilled at only seventeen years of age, Bretton left his Irish master and began to sell his sword to anyone who would pay a high price, earning himself a great deal of money in the process. Then, it was his turn to hire men on, and with his army for hire, he had made even more money because Ireland was full of lords willing to pay to destroy their neighbor. But there came a point where de Llion had his own plans for his army, and that was to take six castles along the Welsh border, castles that belonged to the feared English warlord, Jax de Velt. Bretton’s men came to understand that there was a vendetta in these plans, a vengeance that sang of bitterness and sorrow, something de Llion wouldn’t easily discuss.

But he did discuss it, every so often when he was drunk, and the reasons behind his vendetta would make brief appearances, enough so that his commanders understood that de Velt had murdered his family and stolen his father’s castle. Men with vendettas were often the fiercest and the most isolated of men. Fierce because there was emotion in their cause and isolated because their pain was their own. Bretton de Llion was one of these men. He kept his emotions bottled up, yet wore his pain on his sleeve in the guise of blood-letting brutality, an odd combination. He was lonely, as he had been his entire life, and that was the way he wanted it.

“It is difficult to believe that we are finally here,” the commander with the heavy Irish accent spoke in response to Bretton’s statement. Sir Dallan de Birmingham was from a fine Irish family and had indeed been knighted, but he discovered early in his career that he liked being paid for his services. His loyalty could be bought and de Llion paid handsomely for the privilege. “All of the years we have been planning this – how long has it been? At least six years that we have been planning to take de Velt’s castles in Wales. The plan has become a part of my very foundation and I am eager to establish myself along the Marches.”

Bretton eyed Dallan. The man was in it for the money and power, purely. He was greedy and he could be shifty, so Dallan was a commander that bore watching. As long as things were going his way, he was loyal to the core, but the moment he was displeased, he could very easily show that displeasure in dangerous ways.

“Your time will come,” Bretton said steadily. “I promised you a castle and you shall have it, but it will be a castle of
my
choosing. Rhayder is rumored to be a large castle with two villages paying tribute, so mayhap that will be the one I grant you. Mayhap not. Either way, you will never forget that your loyalty is to me above all else.”

Dallan’s easy manner hardened somewhat as he gazed at Bretton. “You need not remind me,” he said. “My loyalty is yours for always. I swore fealty to you and that is not in question.”

Bretton’s gaze was deadly. “See that it is not,” he said, lingering on Dallan a moment just to make sure the man understood his message clearly. After a long pause, he turned his attention to the fourth commander at the table, sitting silently as the others conversed. “Teague, you have mentioned that Rhayder sits on an outcropping of jagged rocks and incorporates those into its defenses. When was the last time you visited Rhayder?”

Sir Teague de Lara was the last of the four commanders, the youngest at twenty years and four, and also the biggest. He was a big, silent, brooding man, long-limbed, with light brown hair and a granite-square jaw. Another knight from a fine family, the House of de Lara was one of the most powerful families on the Welsh Marches. Teague had fostered at Godric’s Castle on the Marches and had an intimate knowledge of the area, which is why Bretton had recruited him. He knew the families and the locations of much along the border, if not much in England, and had proven himself a valuable resource. Because of it, Bretton paid the man better than the others and treated him with more respect than most.

Teague was aware of his value but never made a show of it. Like the other men, he was in it for the money. The fifth son of a brother to the Lord of Trelystan, he would be inheriting little upon the death of his father. He saw his time with Bretton as a means to make his fortune and, so far, that had proven to be the case. At his young age, he was quite wealthy, and he listened carefully to Bretton’s question.

“Fifteen years ago, at least,” he replied. “I went there for a tournament when I was fostering at Godric’s. Because of the way Rhayder sits, the tournament was held on a field below while the castle sat up overhead like a great sentinel. I have told you that the rocks would be very difficult to scale and there is but one way in and out of the castle. Taking the gatehouse is the key.”

Bretton listened again to what he already knew for the most part. “At some point over the next few days, I should like to see Rhayder for myself,” he said. “Mayhap you and I can travel to the area and see the castle. In fact, I must see it in order to plan an effective assault.”

Teague nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said, “but know that Rhayder will be one of the more difficult conquests. That castle and Four Crosses Castle are difficult simply because of the way they are built.”

Bretton nodded faintly. “That is why I am leaving Four Crosses until the end,” he said, his expression taking on a wistful hue before just as quickly vanishing. “I have not seen Four Crosses in twenty-five years but I still remember the manner in which she is perched atop a mountain. I also remember a postern gate and a secret path, which may work to our advantage.”

Teague, Dallan, and Olivier were watching him, listening to the man’s words reflect on a subject he very rarely spoke of. Teague was the first one to reply.

“I have never seen Four Crosses although I know where it is located,” he said. “What do you know of her gatehouse and defenses?”

Bretton thought back to the years of his childhood, inevitably remembering the last day he spent there without worry, remembering his father as the man had put him on a pony and allowed him to ride about in the stable yard. He could still hear the voice of Morgan de Llion telling him to sit up straight and keep his heels down. But he shook himself from further reflection, mostly because it still upset him after all these years. He focused on Teague’s question instead.

“Four Crosses has no gatehouse,” he told them. “The walls are circular, fifteen feet high in places, so the matter will be destroying the gate to gain access. If de Velt could do it those years ago, then I certainly can. It should not be an issue although the general siege on the castle will be more difficult than some of the others because of its location. Still, I do not anticipate failure. Just the opposite, in fact. We will prevail.”

Olivier and Dallan appeared confident, passing assured glances between them, but Teague kept his focus on Bretton.

“Mayhap we should do a reconnaissance of Four Crosses as well,” Teague said. “Things could have changed in twenty-five years.”

Bretton nodded thoughtfully. “It would mayhap be wise to see it again,” he said. “We still have Comen and Erwood Castle as well. You had better send scouts out to survey them and report back. Now that we are here, and established, it is time to educate ourselves on the future of our undertakings.”

Teague agreed. Pouring himself and Bretton more wine, they eventually turned the focus of the conversation to other things, things that were well away from the horrors of battle. It was rare when they spoke of anything other than business, but in this case, after three major sieges, they took the liberty to relax, just a little, although each man did not relax completely. They were due to move to Rhayder Castle in a few days and the conversation inevitably turned in that direction.

For Teague, Dallan, and Olivier, war was never far from their thoughts and the riches it would bring them. For Bretton, war was his only thought and the vengeance it would provide him.

It was all he lived for.

℘

Someone was nudging her foot.

At least, she thought so. She could have very well been dreaming because the fever she had been sporting for the past few hours had given her very odd dreams. She dreamt that she had bird wings at one point, and yet still another dream had her being able to breathe underwater. And then there was the foot-nudging, which she thought was all part of her bizarre dreams until she opened her eyes and realized she was no longer dreaming. She was awake and someone was still nudging her foot.

Coughing, she turned her head slightly, bringing it off the stale straw to see a big warrior standing at her feet. He was tall, with wavy auburn hair that flowed to his shoulders. When the warrior realized she was lucid and looking at him, he cleared his throat softly.

“Demoiselle,” he said quietly. “You will come with me.”

Allaston wasn’t clear on his words. In fact, she didn’t particularly understand him. “Where will I go?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

The big knight didn’t say anything, he simply held out a hand. Allaston stared at it before eventually realizing that he wanted her to stand up. Feeling as poorly as she did, that was no simple feat, and it was a laborious process before she was able to get to her knees. Coughing had overcome her and she had to pause in order to let a coughing spell run its course. On her knees as the sputtering died down, she was in the process of trying to get to her feet when the knight reached out and grasped her arm.

It wasn’t a rough grasp, nor was it gentle. He was simply taking hold of her. The next thing Allaston realized, the knight was putting a hand on her forehead to feel for her temperature. As she shivered in his grip, she heard him hiss.

“God’s Bones, woman,” he exclaimed. “You are on fire.”