On the opposite side of the table, Jess chimed in. The man had been silent for most of the meal gorging himself, but now he considered the weakening of Torston’s resolve fine after-dinner entertainment.
“Oh, please, Torston?” he repeated with mock sweetness. “Tell us of your virile male exploits.”
Torston cast the man a heady glare. “Who invited you into this conversation?”
Jess laughed softly, lounging lazily on the bench. “Not you, darling boy.” He popped a grape into his mouth, the last possible morsel he could manage to squeeze in. Then he looked at Alyx, a twinkle in his eye. “How many bandits were there, my lady?”
She immediately perked. “Twelve!”
“Swarthy heathens?”
“Torston said they were Slavic.”
“So far from home?”
Torston sat back, listening to Alyx explain the particulars of the tale to Jess, who had already heard the story several times. But Alyx told it with such flare that even Torston was becoming impressed with himself. He was about to add a particular detail that she forgot when Morley approached the table in his usual timid fashion.
“Great Caesar,” he said. “A guest has arrived. Lord Winslow has honored us with a visit.”
Alyx immediately perked up, as did Torston, for crossing the smoke-filled hall and heading straight for their table was Alyx’s father, Winslow de Ameland. Tall, thin, and perpetually pale due to heart condition, Winslow smiled weakly as Harringham called out to him.
“Winslow!” he said. “My great and true friend. It must be important, indeed, if you have traveled into the night.”
“There is a full moon this night. It was no trouble across the moors.”
“Then what brings you to The Lyceum at this hour?”
Winslow looked at his daughter, sitting next to Torston de Royans, which was expected. “I came to discuss the raid yesterday,” he said. “I also came for my daughter. I expected that she would be brought home today, yet I see she is still here.”
There was a rebuke in that statement as Alyx smiled at her father rather innocently. “I was coming home tomorrow, Papa, I promise,” she said. “Torston was going to escort me. You should not have exerted yourself so to travel here.”
Winslow passed Torston an expression as if he didn’t quite believe what he was being told but, to his credit, he didn’t challenge her statement. As long as Torston de Royans was around, Alyx would not be leaving any time soon, hence his trip to The Lyceum. If he didn’t bring his daughter back home, she might never return.
A wise and reasonable man who was much adored, Winslow also had the patience of a saint when it came to his errant child.
And he understood well a young woman in love.
“It seems that the skirmish yesterday was mostly focused near The Lyceum,” he said as food and drink was brought to him. “Brockenhurst told me about it. We did not lose any men, thankfully.”
Lionel made sure that his friend and ally had more than enough of the fine, red wine as he insisted Winslow be given two cups of it. “Nor did we,” he said. “But we lost at least ten head of sheep. The Kerr targeted the herds to the north, where your sheep mingle with mine.”
Winslow sighed heavily. “Kerr,” he growled. “Foul barbarians. Barely above animals themselves.”
Harringham nodded patiently, lethargic with the overindulgence of his banquet. “Torston saw men he recognized and, I would imagine, so did Lance. I trust he has given you his full report.”
“He did,” Winslow replied. “And he mentioned Gordon, as well. Is it true we now have Gordon reinforcing the Kerr raids against us?”
“If I may, my lords.” Torston entered the conversation as he answered Winslow. “I am not truly concerned how or why the Kerrs have suddenly allied themselves with the Gordons, a bigger and more aggressive clan. What concerns me is that fact that, although their numbers are relatively small, they are cruel and highly aggressive and I fear that having them lead the raids on our sheep will only lead to more than mere sheep being lost. As it is, we lose several dozen head a year to Clan Kerr. If Clan Gordon become involved, those numbers will increase.”
“And we will send men into Scotland to regain them.” Winslow cocked an eyebrow. “What are you driving at, Torston?”
Torston matched the man’s expression. “That mayhap, my lord, an offensive move of our own might be in order.”
Winslow was interested. “To wipe them out?”
“To subdue them,” Torston said. “To date, The Lyceum and Makendon have been exceedingly tolerant of their attacks. We defend ourselves when necessary and regain our sheep if the need arises. The last time we launched an offensive against Douglas Kerr was six years ago when he raided one of our villages and killed several villeins. It took the laird a year to recover from our siege. If he is now enjoying Gordon support, we will have to act before the raids become worse.”
Harringham shook his head and Torston knew exactly what the old man was going to say. “I would lose men, Torston,” he said. “I cannot lose any more men.”
Torston sighed slowly, his patience thinning. Harringham was the reason they had been tolerant of the attacks and had rarely gone on the offensive. “Great Caesar, we have over one thousand men-at-arms,” he said. “More than enough combined with Makendon to….”
Harringham held up a silencing hand. “Nero had tens of thousands,” he pointed out. “I cannot afford to lose any men. Besides, the gods frown upon warring ways as I have told you time and time again. Except for Mars, of course, and his bloodlust is expected, though not entirely condoned.”
Torston eyed Winslow, both men thinking the same thing; Harringham was possessed with the need to be lord and master over thousands, hence the fact that they did little more than defend themselves against Kerr’s raids. As if he lost one man, no matter how insignificant, his empire would somehow weaken. The man was neurotic in his urge to surround himself with soldiers, to rule his mighty Roman palace, and he was completely opposed to sending them off to attack a pesky nemesis.
“Then I suppose the raids shall grow worse, Mighty One,” Torston said with a hint of frustration. “They shall grow worse and worse until we are sufficiently weakened. And then The Lyceum shall be no more.”
Harringham flared. His lethargy was gone as the golden chalice dropped to the ground and he staggered up from the couch. “Blasphemy!” he hissed. “The Lyceum is too powerful to collapse! We hold the power of Rome within our bosom and you, my Lord Centurion, command that power! I will not hear this sacrilege!”
Torston remained calm in the face of Harringham’s rage, although the entire room had come to an eerie standstill. Even Alyx was watching, her wide eyes on Torston and Lionel as they faced off against one another.
“I do not speak sacrilege, Great Caesar, but the truth.” Torston’s voice was quiet and firm. “You are most brilliant in your reasoning that the Kerrs have joined the ranks of the Gordons. And for that reason, I am concerned that their petty raids on our sheep will grow into something far more sinister. You realize, of course, that before the coming of the Normans, Clan Gordon claimed the very land we sit upon.”
“It’s mine!” Harringham said viciously. “They cannot have it!”
Torston’s soft brown eyes glittered. “They may try. They have before. As I recall, your father fended them off regularly.”
Lionel opened his mouth to refute him, spittle dropping from his lips, when a soldier entered the great hall in a panic.
“My Lord Centurion!” He did not forget his manners, especially in the presence of Caesar. “The Scots are raiding the herds again!”
A night raid. Torston wasn’t surprised. In fact, raids by moonlight weren’t unusual at all, but this one was fairly soon after the previous raid. He was on his feet.
“A large party?”
“At least one hundred, my lord. The north pastures are crawling with them.”
Winslow stood up. “I’ve fifty men with me, Torston,�
�� he said. “I left Lance back at Makendon, but he can bring another five hundred within six hours.”
“Then send word to him, my lord,” Torston said as he motioned him onward. Then, he turned to Jess. “Summon the men, Jess. You know what to do.”
Jess did. As he fled, Torston turned to Harringham, who was still standing before him, panting and irked. Torston knew his condition wouldn’t last, however. He would forget all about the anger, the harsh words, by morning. But Torston wondered if he would forget the subject, too. Every time they had this conversation, the exchange grew more heated as if Lionel knew, deep down, that his captain was right but was too afraid, too stubborn, to concede.
It was that same stubbornness that had gotten the original Centurion, Lionel’s long-time captain, killed six years ago. Collin de Lara had been killed in a skirmish, one he’d instigated with the Scots, to drive them off against the wishes of Harringham. It was Torston who had brought Collin back to The Lyceum, holding the man in his arms as Lionel wept over him.
Torston knew that Lionel still lived with that guilt.
Hopefully, Torston would not be faced with the same fate. With a lingering glance at Alyx’s worried face, Torston quit the hall to once again defend the herds against Kerr’s outlaws.
CHAPTER FOUR
The raid lasted for two days.
When it was finally over, Torston had lost nearly thirty men and ended up with a huge gash across his wrist, the spiked ball of a flail having smashed his gauntlet to ribbons. The five hundred men from Makendon Castle had been little reinforcement against the hordes of Scots who were determined to not only confiscate the sheep, but to murder the English in the process.
Alyx and Winslow had stayed at The Lyceum throughout the fighting and on the third day, Torston personally escorted them home. His time with Alyx had been limited to a brief farewell and he was back on the front lines again, fending off yet another wave. This one was smaller, however, and was over in a matter of hours. Exhausted and battered, Torston returned to The Lyceum to evaluate the losses.
“They were not even secretive about it this time,” he muttered to Lionel as the two of them sat in the lavish solar with a pitcher of sweet wine between them. Against the far wall to the right was a half-burned cake of incense; Torston knew it was from Lionel’s prayers to the gods for victory, but he ignored the paganistic symbolism as he focused on the matter at hand.
“I caught sight of Gordons among the Kerrs,” he said. “You know how they often wear that brown sash into battle. Several of them were wearing it.”
Lionel was picking at the wax from melted candle, marring the smooth surface of his desk. “Then my speculation was correct,” he muttered. “They have merged the clans.”
Torston nodded slowly. He was still in his armor, his face stubbled and dirty and the wrapping on his wrist stained brown with blood. He couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted.
“The problem with the Kerrs is that they are fearless,” he said quietly. He didn’t have the strength to speak any louder. “They charge at you with complete disregard for themselves. I cannot count the number of men I speared in the throat simply because they gave me an easy target. But, by damn, if they aren’t fairly invincible with their wild tactics.”
Lionel looked up from the chipped wax, nodding at Torston’s bandaged arm. “Is that how that happened?”
Torston glanced at the torn, filthy wrapping. “Aye,” he said softly. “A flail came sailing at me, went around my shield and clipped my wrist. I lost the shield entirely when it fell to the ground.”
Harringham continued to stare at his powerful Centurion, pleased the man was alive but distressed over the entire circumstance. Flashes of Captain de Lara filled his brain.
It had been the most vicious raid yet.
“But my legions were victorious in the end and that is all that matters,” he said.
“Only by sheer fortune, Great One.”
“We are more powerful.”
Torston wasn’t going to let the man fool him into thinking this had been an easy victory. “They are becoming more powerful as we speak,” he said. “With the Gordons strengthening Kerr’s forces, they’re utterly fearless. They weaken and unbalance us just enough to give Douglas Kerr the advantage.”
Harringham rose from his chair, carefully arranging the drape of his expensive linen toga over his shoulder as he moved to the large lancet window overlooking the bailey. Torston hardly heard the man as he began to recite.
“‘So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow their armor was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthy anvil
Did such rare armor gleam,
And never did such gallant steeds
Drink of an earthly stream.’”
Torston sat in silence, reflecting on the message of the ancient passage. “Thanks to you, Great Caesar, I am well-versed on my Greek poetry, but what, exactly, do you mean?”
Harringham was silent a moment, his faded blue eyes staring over his great empire. The sun, the dust, the flies in the bailey. All of this was his own perfect world, unbreachable by the Scots no matter what Torston said.
“It means that the Scots can never defeat us,” he whispered. “We are too powerful.”
Torston couldn’t help the cynicism in his voice as he caught a whiff of incense. “Did the gods tell you that?”
“They did not have to.”
Torston’s tired gaze stared at the man for a moment before looking to his drink. “We need to destroy them before they overcome us.”
Harringham acted as if he hadn’t heard him. More and more, the man was retreating into his own world where he was in control of everything and nothing unplanned, or unwanted, happened. It was a fantasy world and one that increasingly concerned Torston. Finally, Torston sighed with some exasperation and set his cup to a small table with a thud.
“Great Caesar, remember your Greek history for a moment,” he said. “Do you recall the story of Alexander the Great’s victory in the Battle of Issus? Even though Alexander’s forces were outnumbered by King Darius’ men nearly ten to one, Alexander took the offensive by charging their lines, taking a sharp turn into their ranks, and carving a path straight up the middle. Resistance was fierce, but with Darius’ men divided, they panicked and fled.”
“What is your meaning?”
“I mean that we should do the same thing, Great One. Divide and scatter the Kerrs before they grow too strong.”
Lionel continued to stare out over the bailey, listening to the shouts of the soldiers or the sneers of the warhorses.
“They will not,” he said.
Torston drew in a deep breath, struggling with his frustration. Out of the corners of his eyes he caught sight of Harringham’s map table and he gave it his full attention.
“You are so precise when you map out our position against the Scots,” he said. “Our red and yellow pieces against Kerr’s black. Soon enough, there will be more black than red and yellow. Is that what it will take for you to realize the seriousness of the situation? Little wooden marks announcing our defeat?”
Lionel kept his gaze averted to the window, unwilling to meet his mighty Centurion’s intense expression. “I have lost thirty men over the past few days, Torston. If you charge into Scotland, there is no telling how many more will perish.” He finally turned to Torston, the expression on his face bordering between regret and madness. “I cannot effectively rule my empire with only a scant few legionnaires. And I most certainly cannot rule without you.”
“You will not have to rule without me. I will always be here, by your right hand.”
“Not if you pursue this foolish desire to divide and scatter Kerr’s forces. I am afraid of what will happen if he kills you.”
“He will not. And you are using that reason as an excuse to avoid the real issue.”
Harringham’s brow furrowed faintly, his features
rippling with the nature of his thoughts. “I am not attempting to avoid anything. But you, my Lord Centurion, appear to be neglecting the fact that you are not immortal.”
Torston’s eyes, so recently lined with fatigue, were hard with confidence now. “I am not neglecting the fact, but there is not a man in Scotland who can best me in battle. Not one.”
Harringham looked at him. “And why is that?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. “It is because the blood of the Scots runs through your veins as well. Why are you so confident that your own kin cannot destroy you? Are you somehow immune to their wrath?”
Torston’s jaw flexed. “Not only do I bear the ancestry of Normandy, but the lineage of the Black Kerr. With the power of their strength combined into one man, who on earth can possibly defeat me? I am as powerful a man who has ever lived and I believe my reputation stands for itself.”
Harringham smiled faintly, fortified by Torston’s declaration. Not arrogance, but simply fact. Lionel wanted so desperately to believe him, the man who was the son he never had. The man who was secretly his heir; he’d decided that long ago and had written that into the document to be read upon his death. Perhaps that was why he resisted Torston’s desire to charge into Scotland to divide and conquer. He depended on the man more than he could fathom and the thought of losing him scared him to death.
“Well spoken, my Lord Centurion.” Lionel’s voice was soft. “And your formidable reputation does, indeed, stand head and shoulders above the rest. But the fact remains that you are a mere mortal and subject to mortal weaknesses. I truly cannot stomach the thought of sacrificing you on something as foolish as laying siege to Kerr’s forces.”
Torston shook his head. “You are not making sense. I risk my life every time I engage them in a skirmish for our sheep. Why is launching an offensive against Kerr any different?”
Harringham shrugged vaguely. Truthfully, he didn’t have an answer. Therefore, he decided on a different approach. For an old man whose mind drifted the fine border between reason and madness, at times he could be most cunning when it was to his advantage. Torston liked to call it selective sanity.
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