Next to her were the remains of a man in pieces of armor and chain mail. He was impaled like the woman, without his helm, and the wind blew his dark blond hair gently as it framed his sunken features. Against his legs, a body of a small boy was trussed up with rope and secured to him. The child’s face was buried between the man’s legs so she couldn’t see it, and his little body was all wrapped up in the rope. In death, the child was tied to his father. It was both horribly saddening and horribly touching.
Every terrible story Allaston had been told about the family and about the horrors de Llion’s army cast against them came crashing down on her and, with a sob escaping her lips, she pulled her horse to a stop and dismounted, making her way through the ghoulish forest of bodies until she came to Lady Miette and her husband. She fell to her knees in front of Lady Miette.
“Ave María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum,” she prayed, tears streaming down her face as she crossed herself. “Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.”
Her actions didn’t go unnoticed by Bretton, or any of the others. Bretton was behind her as they’d exited the gates, too far away to prevent her from dismounting her horse. Quickly, he spurred his horse forward and dismounted, moving through the army of the dead until he came to Allaston as she prayed and wept over the family. He didn’t even look at the bodies, for he had seen them before. But he knew she hadn’t. He couldn’t quite grasp why it upset her so, other than there was a child visible. He knew she was sensitive, he’d seen it. But the emotion she was displaying was foreign to him.
“My lady,” he said quietly. “We must be….”
She cut him off, hissing. “How could you do this?” she demanded. “How could you kill this woman and her children? I do not understand what kind of monster would do this heinous thing.”
He stiffened. “You are not to judge my methods, bearing de Velt blood as you do,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice, which he wasn’t very good at in any case when it pertained to her. “Your father did this to my family. This should not upset you so.”
Her head snapped up to him, the pale green eyes blazing. “I am not my father,” she snarled, tears and mucus raining down her face. “Whatever my father did was well before my time, and you and I have traversed this subject before. Whatever he did, it is in the past. I do not hold the same views as he once did. When I see things such as this, all I can think of is the pain and terror this woman must have suffered. And the child… Sweet Jesus, he was just a little boy. Why did you have to kill him?”
She was weeping loudly and Bretton knew everyone could hear her. Reaching out, he grabbed her so hard by the arm that he nearly snapped her neck. Pulling her up against him brutally, when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth.
“I told you to be careful how you spoke to me,” he growled. “This will be your final warning.”
Allaston wasn’t intimidated. She was too emotional to care. “Or what?” she countered as if daring him to make good on his threat. “What will you do? Will you put me on a post as you did this woman? Then I say do it, do it now. You want to hurt my father, don’t you? You want to draw him to Cloryn? Imagine how hurt and shattered he will be to see me on a pole by the gates. You will put me there, of course, won’t you? In a place of honor to be seen by all?”
She was out of control and he shook her again. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Keep your mouth shut and get on your horse.”
Allaston shook her head, struggling to pull away from him. “I will not,” she said. “I am not going anywhere with you. Lock me in the vault or put me on a pole as you did the rest of these poor people. I am not afraid of you, de Llion. You are a weak, pathetic man to do this to people who were only defending what belonged to them. You are a monster!”
Bretton almost struck her in that instance but something prevented it. He wasn’t sure what because his emotions were running wild, but something stopped him from taking his hand to her. Somehow, he just couldn’t do it. Still, she had embarrassed him, humiliated him, and there was only one way to deal with insubordination. If he didn’t, he would lose the respect of his men and he knew it.
Men were watching him, men who would see any sign of weakness from him and exploit it. He had no choice. Everything was building up inside him, thoughts and emotions that were threatening to explode in every direction. Damn her! Pushing Allaston to the ground so that she fell squarely on her bum, he turned and marched for Lady Miette.
Bretton was a man of incredible strength. It took him little time to push the pole down so that Miette was lying in the dirt. Frustrated, infuriated, Bretton put a foot on the woman and held her firm as he yanked the pole out of her body, which wasn’t a great feat considering she was mostly a dried cluster of skin and bones at this point. There was no blood, no innards. With the pole in his hands, he turned to Allaston, who was still sitting on the ground, watching him with a hysterical expression. His features darkened as he marched over to her.
“Get onto your hands and knees,” he rumbled.
She looked up at him as if she didn’t understand the question. “I…?”
“I said roll over onto your hands and knees!”
He shouted it so loudly that it reverberated off the walls. Startled, and realizing what he was about to do, Allaston showed surprising control. Hysterical one moment to calm the next, she gazed at him steadily.
God’s Beard, had her mouth finally gotten her into trouble? Had she finally signed her death warrant with her uncontrollable tongue? Allaston could hardly believe it, but the proof was in front of her. Bretton was poised and ready to move. He was ready to ram the pole into her body, in one end until it came out of the other. She knew it was going to hurt. She understood the concept. She just hoped she could bear the pain without pleading forgiveness from the man. She’d rather die than ask for his forgiveness for what she said because she wasn’t sorry in the least. He was a monster. Perhaps all of those silly notions about him having kindness and understanding beneath all of that warfare were just foolish dreams. Perhaps all of those feelings she thought she might have for him were simply bouts of madness.
“So you are going to kill me,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. “I am not surprised. My death should not matter in the least to you considering how many people you have killed. When my father comes, you make sure to tell him that I met my death bravely. I am not afraid. At this moment, I have more courage than you do.”
Bretton was so angry that he was grinding his teeth. “We shall see,” he said. “Get on your hands and knees.”
She simply stared back at him, mulling over the command. After a moment, she shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I will not make this easy for you.”
Her attitude was only serving to infuriate him more. “I will have my men hold you if that is your wish.”
She gaped at him, knowing he would probably do just that. Her fight was with him, not with the men who would try to hold her down. She didn’t want to lose control of the situation, not now. She was coming to think that perhaps he wouldn’t impale her after all. There was something in his eyes, some flicker deep in the brilliant blue depths that told her he had no intention of doing to her what he’d done to countless others. The man had confided in her, protected her, and laughed with her for these past few weeks. An odd relationship between a captor and captive. Something told her he wasn’t going to kill her. It was a hunch she had. She decided to play it.
Slowly, she rolled over onto her belly, propping herself up on her hands and knees with her buttocks facing him. If he was truly going to impale her, that would be the point of entry. Presenting her arse to him, she lowered her head and waited.
His response wasn’t long in coming.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lioncross Abbey Castle
“Chris!” Edward de Wolfe stuck his head into de Lohr’s solar where the man had been working over some documents. “Come quickly!”
Startled up from h
is desk, Christopher made haste from the solar, following Edward who was showing distinct signs of excitement, into the great hall of Lioncross. The big room was part of the keep and it was scented with fresh rushes that had been replaced that morning, giving off a strong greenery smell. There weren’t any dogs in the hall because Lady de Lohr didn’t like the smell of dogs, and Christopher entered the fragrant room on Edward’s heels only to find one of his soldiers standing near the hearth, slurping up a cup of wine that a servant had brought to him. When the man saw de Lohr, he quickly put aside the cup.
“My lord,” the soldier, bearing the blue and yellow de Lohr tunic, greeted his liege. “I have just come from the northern borders of your lands. I was on patrol with four other men and we saw it on the horizon, north of Pearl Lake.”
Christopher was listening intently. Edward leaned over into his ear. “North of the River Arrow,” he told the man helpfully. Christopher waved him off.
“I have no idea what the man is talking about yet,” he said, focusing on the soldier. “What did you see?”
The soldier took a deep breath, his gaze moving between his liege and Edward. He was an older man who had been at Lioncross for many years. In fact, he had grown up on the Marches. He didn’t like what he was about to say, as it dredged up old fears from days long past, days he hoped were gone forever.
“At least one thousand men,” he said. “A very big army is heading in our direction.”
Christopher’s first reaction was that it was somehow the mercenary they’d heard tale of and his sense of concern grew. Perhaps the man, having grown weary of smaller targets along the Marches, was now moving to bigger game.
“Did you see any colors?” he asked. “Surely they were flying standards.”
The soldier sighed heavily. “Aye, they were,” he said. Then, he shook his head. “My lord, I grew up in these parts. I know the stories and I know the history. The last time I saw standards of black and red with a boar’s head in the center, Jax de Velt was sweeping through the Marches.”
Christopher stared at the man, trying not to show his astonishment. “De Velt?” he repeated. “That is impossible. Jax de Velt’s reign of terror ended twenty-five years ago.”
The soldier nodded firmly. “I know it, my lord,” he said. “But unless someone else is flying the red and black boar’s head, Jax de Velt has returned to the Marches and he is coming our way.”
Christopher could hardly believe what he was hearing, but in the same breath, he remembered the conversation with Rod about the newest threat on the Marches and how the man had burned Alberbury Priory to get to de Velt’s daughter. Christopher was terrified that his prophecy was about to come true; and Hell followed with him. Was it possible that de Velt was returning to the Marches to seek vengeance for his daughter’s abduction? Christopher could only guess. But one thing was for certain. He had to be prepared for whatever was coming. There was no time to waste. After a few moments of deliberation, he turned to Edward.
“You know what to do,” he said calmly. “Get the men moving, Edward. We will prepare for de Velt as if the man intends to attack us. Warn the village and take all who will come inside to the safety of the castle. Time is critical, so move quickly.”
With that, he turned away from the soldier and headed out of the hall with Edward beside him. Their manner was business-like and calm for the most part even though they were both rattled at de Velt’s appearance. It was exactly what they hadn’t wanted. Running a thoughtful hand through his thick blond hair, Christopher continued to focus on what needed to be done in order to secure Lioncross. He was certain he could hold de Velt off in any case, but he had to make sure they were fully prepared. He couldn’t take any chances.
“Gather the officers in the bailey so we can tell them what has happened,” he told Edward. “And find Max and Jeffrey. They must be given instructions. I need my knights, Edward.”
Edward nodded grimly. “I wish we had Gart and Rhys and Lawrence with us,” he muttered. “I would feel better about this whole thing.”
Christopher grunted agreement as they reached the keep entry. Beyond, he could see the massive bailey of Lioncross, busy with commerce and activity. Men were going about their business and the gates were open because it was the time in the morning when the kitchens dealt with local farmers. It tore at him to think all of it would soon be under siege. His peaceful, lovely world would soon be under threat.
“I wish that as well, but we do not,” he said quietly. “Gart is in France for my brother. As for Lawrence and Rhys… well, God rest their souls, they are no longer with us. And I sincerely wish my brother was here but he had to marry a woman who lives in Kent, so it would take him weeks to reach us. That being said, we must think of other options for assistance. De Boulers, mayhap?”
Edward nodded. “Unless de Velt has already torn him to pieces,” he said. “The scout said that the army was approaching from the north, which meant they had to pass through Shropshire lands. But I will send a messenger to Shropshire.”
Christopher agreed quickly. “Do it immediately,” he said. “But provided Shropshire is compromised, we will send a request to assistance to someone else.”
“Who?” Edward wanted to know. “Anyone else on the Marches is days away. Chepstow, mayhap? Or Gloucester?”
Christopher already had an idea of who to summon. “Nay, not them,” he said. “There are English outposts in Wales that are closer to us, Keller de Poyer, in fact. We have sent men back and forth to each other since he has been in Wales, nearly eight years now. He is two days away on a swift horse. He carries almost a thousand men.”
It was an excellent idea and Edward was already moving, preparing to send off messengers. Christopher caught sight of Max Cornwallis, one of his other knights, and summoned the man with a flick of the hand. From across the dusty bailey, Max came on the run and, soon, he too was off with orders from de Lohr. Much needed to be done in a short amount of time because from where the soldier said de Velt’s army was camping, they could be upon them in mere hours. Time was of the essence.
Time moved swiftly, indeed. The messengers were sent off in short order to Shropshire and de Poyer as Christopher had a conversation with his wife instructing her and their children to remain in the keep. The Lady Dustin de Lohr, a spitfire of a beauty, was fearful but resolved to her husband’s instructions to barricade the keep, and Christopher was better able to focus knowing his young family was safe.
And it was a very good thing that he was clear-headed with determination. A little more than a half-hour since Christopher had been told of de Velt’s presence, he heard the sentries on the wall take up a cry. A rider had been sighted, heading towards Lioncross on the main road leading in from the north. Christopher raced up to the walls to catch a glimpse of what had the sentries so excited and ended up standing in a group with Edward, Max, and Jeffrey, watching the incoming rider. As the man drew close, Jeffrey, an older Germanic knight who had spent many years on the Marches, hissed under his breath.
“De Velt,” he muttered in his thick accent. “He wears the red and black.”
They could all see that, adding to their unease. The rider drew close to the castle as the men glared down from the walls, scrutinizing him, and the rider wisely came to a halt well before he reached the walls. It was clear that Lioncross had been warned because peasants were streaming in from the village and the gates were open. Christopher, seeing the man come to a halt, made his way down from the walls and to the open gates of his fortress.
Since Lioncross had been many things before it became a castle, it was not moated, nor did it have a motte or a keep in the general sense. Lioncross depended upon her massive walls for protection, walls that were twenty-five feet high in places, with extended fighting platforms and murder holes from which to destroy the enemy. At the moment, however, the gates were open to allow the villagers easy entry, and one lone rider was clearly no threat against the hundreds of soldiers at Lioncross.
With
that in mind, Christopher made his presence known at the front gates, flanked by Edward and Max while Jeffrey remained upon the walls to keep watch on the horizon. Dust was being kicked up in their faces by the villagers scurrying in through the open gates of the fortress as the three knights eyed the rider in the distance.
“Max,” Christopher said, his eyes still lingering on de Velt’s messenger. “Go out and tell him to drop his weapons. Strip him.”
Max, a massive knight with long, dark hair, made his way out to the distant rider. Christopher and Edward watched as Max explained the way of things to the rider, who dismounted his horse without a word of protest and began dropping his weapons to the ground. The sword and scabbard went down into the grass and so did a small array of daggers.
Max gestured to the man again, obviously giving him more instructions, and the rider peeled off his tunic and hauberk, followed by his mail coat and finally his boots. Nearly everything came off the man as Max had him strip down to his tunic and breeches. Even then, he patted the man down to make sure he wasn’t carrying a concealed weapon. Only when he was convinced the man was weaponless did he gesture to Christopher and Edward, who came forward through the crowd of villagers trying to enter the fortress. When they came to within about ten feet of the messenger, Christopher came to a halt.
It was an odd standoff, three big and fully armed knights against a man in his dirty tunic and breeches with no shoes. Christopher studied the man a moment before speaking.
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