The knight stood in the cell, filling it up with his fearsome presence. His gaze was steady upon Allaston as she stared back apprehensively.
“We must speak on a few things,” he said in that rumbling, hoarse voice. “I am assuming that three weeks in this hole has not dulled your sense of reasoning. I am assuming we may carry on an intelligent conversation or has the mold gone to your head?”
Allaston shook her head, her fear turning into disgust at his callous attitude towards her current situation. It was in his tone, in everything about him. He couldn’t have cared less for her state of being. She should have known that from the three weeks he had left her in the vault, but hearing him speak was the ultimate confirmation. In fact, the more she looked at him, the more disgusted she became. He was heartless, cold, and evil, and biting her tongue had never been one of her strong points. She spoke before she could stop herself.
“What kind of man would keep a woman locked up in this… this beastly place?” she asked. “I have committed no crime yet you treat me as a criminal. Why have you done this to me?”
The knight’s gaze remained even. Slowly, he cocked his head. “I suppose it is natural that you want to know who I am and why you are here,” he said. “That is a fair expectation.”
“Fair?” she repeated, her tone bordering on incredulous. “What would you understand about fair? Fair is not locking an innocent woman away in a horrible, moldering cell when she has done nothing to warrant it. How have I wronged you that you would abduct me from Alberbury and lock me away?”
It was a snappish tone she used, one of rebuke. Her abhorrence toward him was evident, but the knight’s expression didn’t change.
“I would suggest you not speak to me in such a fashion,” he said evenly. “You might not like my reaction.”
Frustrated, furious, Allaston sighed harshly and turned away. She couldn’t stomach looking at the man any longer. She started coughing, struggling with the illness that was sweeping her, and trying not to succumb to the depression that grasped at her like cold, knowing fingers. Those fingers knew she could be easily snared given her circumstances. As Allaston grappled with her emotions, she could hear the knight’s joints popping as he shifted on his big legs.
“My name is Bretton de Llion,” he said, his raspy voice low. “I was born in Wales at a castle called Four Crosses. It is north of our location, near Powis Castle. When I was five, a great plague swept through the Marches, destroying everything in its path. Castles were burned, men put to the stake and murdered, and babies crushed. The plague soon came to Four Crosses and killed my father, my mother, and my sister. That plague had a name – Ajax de Velt.”
Allaston, who had been facing away from him, remained still as his words sank in. Even when the full impact hit her, she didn’t look at the man because, suddenly, everything was coming clear. Now, she understood why he had taken her from Alberbury without benefit of further explanation. Aye, she understood a great deal now.
As she’d know on that bloody, terrible night when Alberbury burned, the knight, now given the name of Bretton de Llion, had come to the priory with a purpose. He had been seeking a de Velt, but the mystery had been his purpose. Now, he had revealed it. Allaston was no fool. She could smell vengeance upon the still air of the cell. She knew what her father had done those years ago. Her parents had never hid the fact, although the man Jax de Velt was today was quite different than the man he was years ago. The man back then had been an animal. This knight, this big and horrible knight, was out for vengeance against that animal. Allaston’s depression deepened.
“Just kill me now and be done with it, then,” she muttered. “That is why you took me from Alberbury, is it not? To kill me? Then do it and let us be done with this madness.”
Bretton continued to stare at her. He was very good at remaining impassive. “Who said anything about killing you?” he asked. “I do not intend to kill you, at least not at the moment.”
Allaston sighed heavily. “Is that so?” she asked, turning to look at him with dark-circled eyes. “If you do not intend to kill me, then you must intend to punish me somehow for what my father did to your family. That is the only reason I am here, is it not? I will say again that if you intend to torture me, get on with it. Your hesitation and your mind games do not impress me. If you are going to make me suffer, then do it.”
Bretton met her gaze without flinching. It was difficult to tell if she had angered him with her slander against his behavior because he hadn’t reacted one way or another. The man had a good deal of self-control. That much was clear. After a moment, he folded his big arms across his chest.
“I am not intending to impress you or tease you,” he said. “But you wanted to know why you are here. Now you know.”
Allaston shook her head, her dark hair stringy and dirty along her cheeks. “You have told me that my father killed your family,” she said, “but you have not told me why I am here. What do you intend to do with me?”
She had a point. Bretton cocked an eyebrow. “That should be obvious,” he said. “I intend to use you to get to your father.”
Allaston stared at him then she burst out in weak, taunting laughter. Illness and fatigue had weakened her manner and she found she had little control over what she said. She felt so terrible that it didn’t matter any longer. She’d spent three weeks in this hellish hole. The only way out was death and she was coming to welcome it. She was so very, very tired.
“Is that it?” she asked. “You intend to use me as bait? Lure my father to his doom? He is too smart for that and too smart for you. You have wasted your time, knight, and now you would waste my life with your foolish plan. He will never come. You will have to think of something else if you plan to engage my father.”
Bretton didn’t react for a moment and Allaston didn’t particularly care one way or the other. She coughed heavily after the laughter faded and averted her gaze once more, too sick to give in to the fear that had clutched at her these many weeks. Now that she knew why she was here, it all seemed so foolish and wasteful. As she lost herself in a powerful coughing fit, Bretton broke from his stance.
One minute he was standing near the cell door and in the next, he was unsheathing a sharp dirk that was strapped to his left forearm. Allaston saw the flash of the knife as he descended on her, flinching away from him just as he grabbed her hair. He snatched the entire bunch of her dark hair, which hung loose to her knees and, looping the mass in his fist, he used the dagger to cut through the loop and therefore cut off about two feet of her hair.
Allaston gasped as she watched the man come away with a big fistful of her hair. She grabbed at her remaining strands to see how much he had cut off and was met by blunt-cut ends that were about the length of her buttocks. Her hair had been very long before and was now just simply long, glorious strands of liquid silk. Her eyes flew to Bretton accusingly and he met her gaze, as impassionate as always.
“We shall see how foolish my plan is when your father receives your hair as proof that I hold his daughter captive,” he said, sounding rather confident. “We shall see if that brings him to my doorstep.”
Allaston was furious that he had cut her hair. “It will not.”
“We shall see.”
“And if it does not?”
Bretton cocked a dark eyebrow. “Then mayhap I shall use you as a concubine,” he said, watching her pale cheeks flush red. “What could be worse to the almighty de Velt than to have his daughter a slave of an enemy? I shall impregnate you, again and again, and teach my sons to hate their grandfather. I shall breed an army of warriors against Jax de Velt from the loins of his own daughter.”
Allaston was overwhelmed with the horror of his suggestion. “You cannot,” she hissed. “I am destined for the Church. I am to be a Bride of Christ!”
Bretton cocked his head, a thoughtful gesture. “A bride, aye,” he said slowly. “But not of Christ. Mayhap I will wed you myself, a further insult to de Velt. I will send the bloody be
d linens from our wedding night to him to show him that I have taken his flesh and blood as my own, to do with as I will. And you still do not think that will bring the man to my doorstep? Think again.”
Allaston gazed at him with more hatred than she had ever experienced. In fact, she was wild with it.
“I will kill myself before I let you touch me,” she snarled. “You will lose your bait, your captive… you will lose everything!”
Bretton had little doubt that she meant what she said. “Mayhap,” he said quietly, eyeing the woman. “But I would not worry about taking your own life. Whatever illness you have will more than likely kill you before you can take a dagger to your throat.”
Allaston nodded with great flourish. “One can only hope,” she said. “As long as I am dead before I have to feel your filthy hand against my flesh, that is all I am concerned with.”
Bretton actually cracked a smile, thin and without humor. “Then I will have to take you before you rot away from whatever is killing you,” he said. “I prefer my women pliable. The only way you will be pliable is if you are too ill to fight back.”
Allaston’s hatred was turning to rage. “Touch me and you will regret it,” she hissed, “for I will fight you to my dying breath.”
He didn’t doubt her for a minute.
*
In the great hall of Cloryn Castle, men were settling down for the evening. The hall was older, with a great fire pit in the center of the room rather than a hearth in the Norman fashion, and smoke billowed up to the ceiling and hung about in great clouds before escaping through several roof vents in the thatching. It was long and skinny, with a dirt floor and four massive feasting tables in various positions around the room. It was a big enough room for de Llion’s entire army of twelve hundred men. Rough, crude, brutal mercenary soldiers that lived life moment by moment rather than day by day. Such were the uncertainties of their world.
Soldiers that were currently celebrating another victory in a campaign that had been full of them. After the destruction of Alberbury Priory, Bretton and his army of Irish and Germanic mercenaries had moved south to Ithon Castle, a rather small but important outpost and they had succeeded in breaching it. The garrison commander, a son of one of Jax de Velt’s greatest generals, had been killed along with his wife and three daughters. Bretton hadn’t shed a tear throughout the event and, when everyone was dead, he had decapitated the dead commander and had sent the head with one of his soldiers to Jax de Velt’s residence in Northumberland. By his estimation, ten days after Ithon’s destruction, de Velt should have the head. De Velt should already be concerned with what was happening to his Welsh properties.
That was how de Llion wanted it. The nun left alive to deliver a message, the daughter of his greatest enemy kidnapped and languishing in the vault… aye, that was how Bretton wanted it. All of this was quite calculated and, so far, had gone according to plan. Bretton, as well as his hired men, were pleased. But Bretton couldn’t take the time to savor the victories. He had a schedule to keep and it was that schedule that occupied his thoughts as he made his way into the loud, smoky great hall. As he approached one of the big tables where his commanders were gathered, one of them, a big man with a bald head and big teeth, lifted a cup to him.
“Another castle is ours, Bretton,” the man had a heavy Irish accent. “That is cause for much celebration.”
Bretton sat down on the bench opposite the man. There was a pitcher of cheap red wine and a few cups within his reach and he took a vessel, filling it to the rim.
“Aye,” he agreed, almost modestly. “Ithon is indeed ours and now staffed with my men. My messenger should have reached Northumberland by now and I suspect de Velt is looking at the head of his garrison commander and wondering what in the Hell has happened.”
There were three other commanders at the table in addition to the big, bald one. One commander, with a shock of wild blond hair and big arms, pounded the table with his fist in agreement.
“He will want to know,” he declared. “De Velt’s curiosity will get the better of him, bringing him right to our doorstep.”
Bretton eyed the man. “What will bring him to our doorstep is the daughter,” he said. “I have just sent a rider off with a second token for de Velt, one he should be receiving in a few days.”
The commanders were curious. “What token?” the big blond asked.
Bretton drank deeply from his cup before answering. “Hair belonging to his daughter,” he replied. “I have just sent him a mass of silken dark hair.”
The blond commander looked at the others, surprised by de Llion’s statement. “Did you kill the woman?” he asked, rather hesitantly. “You did not mention that you would kill her.”
Bretton shook his head. “Nay, d’Avignon, I did not kill her,” he replied. “She is still safely tucked away in the vault, although she seems to have become ill during her stay. She is not well.”
A big commander with curly auburn hair reached for the pitcher and began refilling his cup. “What do you intend to do about it?” he asked. “If she dies before we can lure de Velt, then our efforts will have been for naught. We were lucky to find her as it was. Who knows how much trouble it would take to find another de Velt offspring.”
The man had a point. Bretton turned to look at his second in command, a friend for many years. Grayton du Reims was related to the Earl of East Anglia and was a wise and powerful man. He was a warrior with impeccable bloodlines, a younger son of a father who would not inherit lands or titles. Therefore, Grayton had to make his own way and, at the tender age of eleven, had run away from home to earn his fortune. He had worked for a mercenary knight who had taught him his trade, a vocation that Grayton eagerly took to. He was not a consecrated knight but should have been. He was skilled and powerful, and Bretton relied on him a great deal. His wisdom was paramount in all things.
“Then what would you suggest?” Bretton asked. “Send for a physic? Purchase expensive medicines? She is a prisoner and nothing more.”
Grayton frowned. “She is a valuable bargaining tool,” he countered. “Take your emotion out of the situation, Bretton. What you have is a very valuable commodity. I have been against you putting her in the vault since the beginning, you know this. I have made no secret of it. You must take care of this prize if you are truly going to use her to lure her father. It seems to me that you have turned your hatred of de Velt onto the daughter. She is the embodiment of all you loathe. If she dies, she will do us no good, and I did not burn a priory and kill nuns in vain.”
Bretton didn’t want to admit that Grayton was correct. He was stubborn. “You are mad,” he muttered, noting that the servants were starting to bring forth the evening meal. “She is an object and nothing more. I do not hate her nor do I love her. She means little more to me than this table.”
Grayton shook his head. “You would repair this table if it was broken because it serves a purpose,” he said. “So does the woman serve a purpose. Get her out of the vault, make her comfortable, and hope she recovers.”
Bretton made a face. “You get her out of the vault and make her comfortable,” he said, too prideful to admit Grayton was right. “I put her in your care if you are so concerned about her.”
“Then you agree with me?”
“I agree that you worry like an old woman. And if she escapes from you, I will have your head.”
Grayton grinned. Bretton was as stubborn as they came. Slapping the man on the shoulder, he stood up and made his way from the hall. The other commanders watched him go, including Bretton, who eventually turned back to his wine.
“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 attent
ion 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.
Nunnery Brides Page 102
