Shadowmoor (de Lohr Dynasty #6) (26 page)

But not too much remorse. He was getting the better end of the bargain as far as he was concerned. Fifty men and fifty gold coins would be waiting for him at the Cock and Comb Tavern in Ilkley. He had promised Bramley he would go to the tavern after speaking with Etzel, and Brynner was rather eager to get on with what needed to be done. The sooner he convinced his father to turn over Shadowmoor, and Liselotte, the sooner he would have his wine.

If his father didn’t agree, then Brynner knew what he had to do. He had tried not to think on that part of the bargain too much because he wasn’t particularly eager to murder his own father but, then again, Etzel had never done much for him so in that regard, he wasn’t all that sorry. At least, the part of him that needed wine badly, on a daily basis, told him he wasn’t all that sorry. But the honorable son of Etzel, long buried under an avalanche of sorrow, might have shown a twinge of regret if he’d let him.

So Brynner headed to the keep, trudging through the mud of the bailey. There were people around, people who scraped by their existence at Shadowmoor and whose families had lived at Shadowmoor for generations, but they didn’t acknowledge him and he didn’t acknowledge them. That was usual. Brynner existed in a world of his own. No one else lived there or visited, so the people of Shadowmoor might as well have been phantoms for all he cared. At the moment, however, he was focused on finding his father and since he didn’t pay attention to the man’s habits, he thought to start to look for him in the keep. Just as he approached the entry, a servant dressed in little more than rags appeared. Brynner grabbed the skinny old woman by the arm.

“My father?” he demanded.

The old woman, fearful at the sight of Brynner, the drunkard and volatile son, pointed to the hall in a panic. Attention diverted, Brynner let the woman go and she scurried away as he turned for the hall. Nearly slipping in the mud as he neared the entry, he tried to scrape the mud from the soles of his worn boots as he entered the darkened hall.

There was a fire in the pit in the center of the room, but a weak one. It gave off a little heat and warmth but what it mostly gave off was the smell of urine because most everyone had used it as a urinal in the morning to relieve themselves when they had awoken. That was usual in Shadowmoor because there were no garderobes, only fire pits and holes behind the stables where a man could piss in peace. Therefore, the hall always smelled of urine to Brynner. His senses may have been dulled by the liquor but his sense of smell was quite sharp. It was a sickening smell.

He immediately spied Etzel sitting at the feasting table, carefully sharpening his two precious daggers on a very worn piece of pumice stone. Brynner kept his gaze on his father and saw when Etzel happened to glance up in the dim light, but he gave no reaction to his son’s appearance and continued sharpening his dagger. Once, long ago, there had been warmth in a father’s greeting but no longer. His eldest son usually ignored him so Etzel made no move to initiate conversation with the man. It was, therefore, somewhat surprising when Brynner actually spoke to him.

“Father,” he greeted without emotion. “I have a need to speak with you.”

Wary, Etzel stopped his sharpening. “I have no money for you if that is what you will ask,” he said. “I am sorry, but I have nothing you can use for coinage, to sell or otherwise.”

Brynner sat down across the table from him. The beastly old table was well-scrubbed but very worn, with one broken leg that was propped up with stones. “I have not come to ask for money,” he said. “But I have a need to speak with you. It is important.”

Etzel kept sharpening. “Speak, then.”

Brynner noticed his father wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t even seem happy to see him, but that was of no great concern. In fact, it made what Brynner had to do easier.

“You have no great love for me nor do I have any great love for you,” he said. “If I had even a small amount of money, I would leave this place and never think of it again. But I do not have any money. The fact remains that you leave me a bereft legacy that is of no worth to me whatsoever.”

Etzel glanced up from his pumice stone. “Are you just realizing this?”

Brynner’s jaw ticked at his father’s lack of concern or sympathy. “Nay,” he said, his tone turning unfriendly. “I have known it for years and because I have known it for years, it now comes to this – I have seen Lord Bramley. Before you fall to the floor in a panic, know this; he wants Shadowmoor and is willing to pay for it. I will not lose this opportunity because you are foolishly hanging on to a heritage that was gone two hundred years ago. The moment our ancestors brokered a deal with the Normans that allowed our kind to keep Shadowmoor was the moment we became Normans ourselves. We have been puppets of the Norman kings ever since. I care not for this land or the legacy, and Bramley is willing to pay for it.”

Etzel had stopped sharpening his dagger, looking at his eldest son with some horror in his expression. “You
saw
Bramley?” he repeated, nearly choking on the words. “Why? Brynner, in God’s name, why would you do such a thing? You have not spoken to me in months, yet you have taken the time to go behind my back and meet with Bramley?”

Brynner could see the fire in his father’s eyes now, the fire of betrayal. He sought to play his hand. “That was not exactly how it happened, but I will not explain those facts,” he said. “They do not matter, anyway. The fact of the matter is that Shadowmoor is my legacy. I do not want it. Bramley does. When you die, I am going to turn it over to him, anyway, so why continue to suffer for something that will soon come to an end? I do not want this place, Father. I want you to give it to Bramley.”

Etzel set the pumice stone and the dagger onto the table, looking at his son as if the man had completely lost his mind. He shook his head, bewildered. “You want me to
give
it to him?” he said, aghast. “You have completely lost your mind, boy. Why would I do such a thing?”

Brynner sat back on the bench a little, away from the strike of the very sharp dagger that his father had put on the tabletop. “Because it is worthless to us,” he said. “It has been worthless to us for generations but your foolish sense of duty and family causes you to see golden towers and cherished memories here where none exist. You were stupid to turn down Bramley’s offer in the first place. He is willing to pay good money for this place. Why did you not take him upon on his offer when he first came to you? It is
your
fault that Shadowmoor has deteriorated so terribly, Father. Your selfishness has brought us to ruin.”

Etzel could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’d hardly had ten word with his son over the past few years and now, he was hearing more than what he wanted to. Somehow, somewhat, Brynner was now an ally of Bramley. Etzel didn’t know how it had happened, but it had. He couldn’t even feel hurt or betrayal any longer; all he could feel was unadulterated astonishment.

“You
are
mad,” he hissed.

Brynner’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap I am, but at least I will not be starving after you are dead,” he said. “I will turn this entire place over to Bramley and welcome him. But I do not want to wait that long. If you truly adore your family as you say you do, then you will turn it over now without further delay. Bramley may still be willing to compensate you for it. Or do you take great pleasure in watching your children starve?”

Etzel had heard enough. Moving fast for an old man, he stood up and lashed out a big hand, slapping Brynner across the face. Brynner nearly toppled over with the force of the hit, managing to roll awkwardly onto his feet so that he was no longer in his father’s range. He stood up, glaring at his father, as Etzel nearly climbed onto the tabletop to get at him.

“Shut your drunken mouth,” Etzel growled. “You are who would spend your days and nights drowning in any kind of ale or wine you can find, crumbling under the weight of memories that you have allowed to destroy you. It is
you
who are worthless, not Shadowmoor. You were my shining star, my eldest son, and I was immensely proud of you until you turned into a spineless weakling because some woman refused to marry you. Anyone who allows himself to become a slave to a lost love has no right to accuse me of being selfish. You embody all that it means to be selfish and hopeless!”

His words hit Brynner right in the gut, right where he was most vulnerable, as he brought up the loss of the Lady Maud. Brynner’s smug manner vanished.

“If I had any respect for you, those words might have hurt me,” he said. “As it is, they are hollow. Father, you have no choice in the matter. Give Shadowmoor over to Bramley and he may compensate you well for it. Go live out your life in the city somewhere and spend your money. Take Gunnar and at least let the lad know what it is not to be hungry. At least try to provide for him as a father would.”

Etzel was pale with rage. “Liselotte and Gunnar know….”

Brynner cut him off. “Liselotte will go with Bramley,” he said. “He has made that clear. I do not understand your aversion to his marital offer. Do you think she will have a better one than that, dressing in rags and living like an animal? No decent man will want her. Bramley offers her a good life. You are a fool to have refused it for this long.”

Etzel just stared at him. The disbelief, the rage, was fading as he came to understand that this situation was about to turn very, very bad. If Brynner was allied with Bramley, then Bramley had someone inside of Shadowmoor who could do a great deal of damage. It was a shame, truly. In spite of Brynner’s behavior over the past several years, the fact remained that he was still Etzel’s son. He remembered Brynner as a young boy, bright and happy, and he had loved that little boy. Somewhere, however, that little boy had died and Etzel had tried to love the sullen drunken man who had taken his place. But looking at Brynner now, it was like he was looking at a stranger.

An enemy.

He had to protect himself.

“Go away, Brynner,” he told him. “Go back to Bramley and tell him that he cannot have Shadowmoor or Liselotte. In fact, since you are such good friends with Bramley, you can remain with him. You are not welcome at Shadowmoor. Get out of here now before I kill you.”

Brynner didn’t move. “You cannot banish me so easily,” he said. “I am still your son, your heir. When you die, this heap of ruins becomes mine and I am not leaving it.”

Etzel picked up the dagger on the tabletop. “I told you to get out.”

Brynner eyed the dagger. “I will not.”

Etzel was infuriated enough, and frightened enough, to be reckless. Instead of leaping over the tabletop as he’d done before, he walked around the table and approached his son, brandishing the dagger between them. The look in his eye was a distinct mixture of sorrow and fear.

“I do not know how you became what you are, Brynner,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Some demon inside of you has made you careless and greedy and wicked. I will not give Bramley Shadowmoor. I do not want you to have it, either, knowing what you will do with it, and your sister, after my death. I therefore disown you. I will make Gunnar my heir. It is within my right. You and your wickedness no longer exist to me and you will leave my sight forever. I will not tell you again.”

Brynner’s eyes glittered, his focus moving between his father’s face and the dagger in the man’s hand. There was a flash of doubt in what he was doing, in the truth of his father’s words, but that flash was just as quickly gone. He could see now what he had to do; his father would have to die. There was no choice now, especially if Etzel was threatening him. He knew there would never be peace between them now, not ever. From this point forward, it would always be a fight for his life.

The honorable son in him was sorry that he would never again know happiness with his father, but the drunkard who would stop at nothing to get his next drink didn’t care in the least. That man was stronger. Quick as a flash, Brynner reached out and grabbed his father’s hand as it clutched the dagger. From that point, the fight was on.

They struggled over the dagger for several long and painful moments, each man trying to wrest it from the other. Etzel had been strong in his youth but that had diminished with age, and Brynner’s strength was sapped by the drink, so it was nearly a fair fight. But that was until Brynner lifted a fist and struck his father in the face. Etzel saw stars and stumbled back, falling over the tabletop.

Brynner had the dagger now and pounced on his father, but Etzel was able to grab the man’s wrist and prevent him from plunging the dagger into his chest. Etzel lifted a knee, ramming Brynner between the legs, and Brynner grunted and faltered but maintained his hold on the knife. The two of them rolled over the tabletop and onto the floor, kicking and punching, each man trying to gain control of the weapon.

Etzel was eventually able to knock the dagger out of Brynner’s hand and the blade went sliding across the floor towards the fire pit. Both of them scrambled after it but Brynner was faster. He picked it up and turned it on his father as the man ran at him.

Seeing the very sharp blade pointed right at him, Etzel tried to stop his forward momentum but he couldn’t; he stumbled and fell forward onto the dagger, slicing it through his chest and into his heart. Blood gushed as he collapsed, falling head-first into the fire pit.

He was dead before hit the ground.

Stunned, and breathing heavily, Brynner turned to see his father half in the fire pit, catching fire from the waist up. He could clearly see the dagger protruding from Etzel’s chest and shocked hands flew to his head in disbelief of what he had done. He hadn’t really meant to kill him, only take the dagger from him, and the honorable son made a resurgence as he grabbed hold of Etzel’s feet and pulled him out of the flame.

But it was too late. Etzel’s torso and head were on fire and Brynner kicked dirt up over him, trying to extinguish the flames as the scent of burnt flesh mingled with that of the stench of urine. Once the flames were out sufficiently, Brynner put his hand on Etzel’s neck to feel that there was no pulse. His father was dead. Then he tried to pull the dagger out of Etzel’s chest but burned his fingers on the scorching metal, so he left it there.