Cloryn Castle. She had heard of it before. In fact, she’d heard her father mention the name but little else. Her father wasn’t one to discuss his business with his children, although he did discuss it with her older brothers, Coleby and Julian. They were being prepared to take over her father’s empire one day so it was natural that her father spoke to them about such things.
As she sat in the cooling water, she began to think on her siblings, sisters and brothers she missed very much. There was Coleby, her eldest brother who was big like their father but blond like their mother, and then Julian, who was the spitting image of her father. She was next, as the eldest daughter, and she tended to favor her father more than her mother also. Then came Effington and Addington, or Effie and Addie as they were called, two blond sisters that were born thirteen months apart and resembled twins more than single-birth siblings. She missed them the most. Effie had a loud mouth and loved jokes while Addie was very sweet and sickly a good deal of the time. Then, there was baby Cassian, who wasn’t so much a baby as he was an active toddler. He was as smart as a whip and a joy to the family.
Aye, she missed her family very much. She hadn’t seen them in over a year and she could only imagine how her father was going to react to a gift of her hair delivered to his doorstep. Even though she had never known her father to go to war since she’d been born, there was always a first time. He was fiercely protective over his family and she knew he wouldn’t take her abduction lightly. But she would not tell de Llion that, not when the man was so eager for Jax to respond to him.
So she sat in the tub and pondered her fears for the future as the water cooled. Eventually, she was forced to climb out, drying off her prune-like skin with one of the shifts that Grayton had brought her. She didn’t have anything else. The oil he’d brought her was still on the bed and she picked up the phial, smelling the contents. It, too, smelled of lavender and she smoothed it sparingly over her parched skin before donning a second shift of very soft wool. It was very fine and, she was sure, very expensive.
Much as Grayton had warned her, however, it was too big for her but she didn’t care. She put it on, and gladly, and also put on a dark blue brocaded robe over the top of it. The robe was very heavy, lined with rabbit fur, and sleeveless so the long, belled sleeves of the shift were revealed. Digging around in the pile of garments, she came across a pair of mismatched woolen hose with no ribbons to secure them, so she simply put them on and folded them down so they would stay on her feet.
Dressed warmly for the first time in weeks, she sat by the fire to dry her dark hair, running her fingers through it because she had no comb. She kept inspecting the ends, ends that de Llion had so brutally cut, lamenting the fact that he had cut her hair by at least two feet. But in the same breath, she thought it rather foolish to lament cut hair when she would be cutting it anyway when she took her ecclesiastical vows. Still, it was her last claim to vanity.
On the floor next to the hearth, Allaston continued to dry her hair and reflect on thoughts of her family and future. The fever still lingered and she would cough every so often, but overall, she felt much better than she had in a very long while. She was lost in thought, basking in the warmth of the fire, when the chamber door opened. Startled, she turned to see a most unwelcome sight.
*
Bretton was still in the great hall, still at the feasting table lingering over a sixth cup of murky red wine when Grayton entered. Around them, the men had finished feasting and were now playing games of chance or telling loud stories over the buzz of conversation. The hall itself had grown smokier from the fire that had been stoked into mammoth proportions as Grayton crossed the floor, kicking the wandering dogs aside and refusing to get sucked into any gambling games. He managed to reach Bretton without getting pulled into a dice game, which was difficult for him. He usually didn’t have much self-control when it came to games of chance.
“It seems that the men do not intend to sleep tonight no matter how weary they are,” he commented as he sat down on the bench next to Bretton. “We may end up breaking up fights from all of the money changing hands in these games.”
Bretton was exhausted and the wine was making him half-lidded and somewhat drunk, a rare state for him. But he had worked harder than any of them as of late and, for once, was letting his guard down. He glanced at Grayton as he took another deep drink from his cup.
“Mayhap,” he said, somewhat neutrally. “How is the prisoner, Mother?”
Grayton grinned. “She is in the keep and bathing three weeks of cold and filth from her body,” he said. “I will send our surgeon to tend her. There may be something he can do for her fever.”
Bretton scratched his head. “Is she going to die?”
Grayton shrugged. “It is hard to say,” he muttered, reaching to collect a cup of wine from the center of the table where it lingered with a full pitcher nearby. “I do not think so, but I suppose time will tell.”
Bretton grunted. He thought on his prisoner, a spawn of de Velt. He hated her purely based on her father in contradiction to the lie he told earlier. He had said that he neither hated nor loved her, which was far from the truth. He hated her because she bore the name de Velt. He hated her because the man’s blood ran through her veins, and he hated her because it was her father who had ruined his life. He had abducted her because he knew what it was like to lose those he loved and he wanted de Velt to feel the same pain. Aye, he wanted to hurt Jax, a man he didn’t even know, because Jax had hurt him in the course of his conquest. Twenty-five years of a simmering hatred had matured into a horrible vengeance.
The wine flowing through his veins was dissolving his self-control. It was causing him to have wild thoughts. So the prisoner was bathing, was she? Although he had given Grayton permission to tend the woman, he wasn’t particularly keen on the fact that his prisoner had some freedom. He wasn’t too keen on a de Velt moving freely about the keep. She was a prisoner, wasn’t she? She deserved no more consideration than she’d had before, languishing in a vault. No de Velt deserved more than that, in his view.
The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became until he slammed the cup down and rose abruptly from the table. His destination was the keep but he didn’t mention that to Grayton. He didn’t want the man to come with him. Therefore, he kept silent as he quit the hall, even when Grayton and Dallan called after him. He ignored them. He had a prisoner to see.
The keep of Cloryn Castle was tall and built like a big, square box. It even had stone steps leading to the second floor entrance which was a rare feature. Most stairs that led into keeps were wooden so they could be burned and keep access cut off in the event of a siege. But Cloryn’s keep had an enormous entry door that was made of iron, impossible to burn and nearly impossible to breach, so it was this door that Bretton moved through. By the time he reached the steps that led to the upper floors of the keep, he was working on a righteous rage. Damn de Velts!
He hit the second floor landing and was preparing to take the stairs to the third floor when he heard coughing. Lured by the sounds, he ended up at the second of two large chambers on that floor. He could feel the warmth from the room escaping through the gaps between the door and the door frame. Hand on the latch, he shoved the door open.
Very warm air hit him in the face. The first thing he saw was Allaston on the floor next to the hearth, her eyes wide on him and her fingers frozen in her hair as she had been raking the digits through it, trying to dry it in the warm air. Bretton took several big, angry steps into the room, his gaze fixed on the prisoner, but as he drew close it occurred to him that she was an extremely beautiful woman. Cleaned up, with some color in her cheeks, she was utterly spectacular.
The realization set his anger back a few notches, inviting an extreme amount of bewilderment into his drunken mind. Beautiful? Was it possible a de Velt could actually be beautiful? Momentarily stumped by his conflicting thoughts, he just stood there and stared at her as if he wasn’t entirely sure which di
rection to take. Should he bellow and be angry and drag her back to the vault? That was his original intention. But now, at this moment, he couldn’t seem to do it. He just stared.
Allaston stared back. His appearance was startling and unwelcome. The last time she had seen the man, he had threatened to impregnate her. She had threatened to kill herself if he tried to touch her. She wondered if they were about to see these events come to pass. Taking a deep breath for courage, for strength, she removed her fingers from her hair.
“Your man, Grayton, brought me here,” she said steadily. “I am most appreciative of the consideration. My thanks to you.”
His anger was knocked back another notch. He’d never noticed before, but she had a rather sweet voice. Was it the wine making him notice such alluring traits about her, he wondered? The wine was doing bizarre things to his thought processes.
“Have you eaten?” he asked. God’s Beard, man, why should you care?
Allaston shook her head. “I have not,” she said. Then, she pointed to the bath. “But I have bathed. Your man was very kind to provide me with clean clothes.”
Bretton looked at the bath, now full of cool water. He could smell the lavender. Then his eyes returned to her, noting the glistening dark hair, reflecting red highlights in the firelight, and her bright green eyes were spectacular against the backdrop of her alabaster skin and dark brows. Rather appalled at his lustful thoughts, he moved away from her, aimlessly, noting the garments on the bed and then her dirty clothing on the floor. He pointed at the collection on the floor.
“Burn these,” he said. “You will no longer need them.”
Allaston watched him as he moved near the bed, which put her on edge. Beds were where marriages were consummated. She wasn’t quite sure how she could fight the man off if he was intending to force her into bed so she remained by the fire, nervously looking about for a weapon should he try. There was a large fire poker a few feet away. It made her feel a bit better knowing she was closer to the poker than he was. She could get to it first should he try anything. At least, that was her hope.
“They can be washed,” she replied evenly to his statement about her clothes. “I see no need to burn serviceable clothing.”
Bretton looked up from the bed, staring steadily at her. He just stood there and looked at her but it was clear there was something on his mind. His entire manner held something odd, something of curiosity and angst and bewilderment. After a moment, he tore his gaze away from her and resumed his aimless wandering.
“Tell me something,” he said.
Allaston watched him pace. “If I can.”
His wandering eyes found the great tapestry near the bed, the one with the lord and lady on it courting in romantic love. He fingered the expensive piece.
“Explain this to me,” he said. “Explain to me what kind of man your father is.”
Allaston wasn’t sure this was a safe subject but she obliged. “I can only tell you from my experience,” she said. “That is all I know.”
“I realize that. Tell me.”
Allaston paused a moment to collect her thoughts, hoping she wouldn’t set him off with whatever she said.
“He is a generous man,” she said. “He is strict, that is true, but he is a man of warmth and humor. He also has a head for mathematics and business.”
Bretton turned to look at her, surprised. “Business?”
Allaston nodded. “My father has many holdings and between him and my mother, they manage them very well,” she said. “Although I believe my mother is much smarter than my father is. She thinks so, too.”
She was smiling faintly as she said it and Bretton realized it was the first time he had ever seen her smile. It was glorious. He could have very well been swept away with it upon his alcohol-hazed mind but he fought it. He fought it furiously. He mostly battled it by thinking of his hatred of de Velt and of the terrible things the man had done.
“And you are fond of him?” he asked as if bewildered by the entire concept. “Do you truly not have any idea the atrocities your father has committed? Do you truly not know what a monster he is?”
Allaston’s smile faded. “I told you that all of that is in his past,” she said. “I know he did some terrible things, but….”
“Terrible?” Bretton nearly bellowed. He came away from the tapestry and headed in her direction. “Terrible is to burn a house down, or loot a village. Terrible is to kill a man who was only defending what was his. What your father did went beyond terrible! Do you know that he would take all of the knights and soldiers he conquered and run big stakes through their anus, up through their intestines, until the sharp part of the stake emerged from the man’s neck or chest or shoulder? Then, he would drive the end of the pole into the ground and leave the man to die as if he was no more than a mindless animal. If the loss of blood or the destruction of his entire body didn’t kill him quickly, the elements surely would. Your father, this man you speak so fondly of, did that to my father. My father was a good man, a man with great love for his family, and your father put him to the stake as if he was less than human. Jax de Velt treated my father as if he was no more than a side of beef and not a man with a heart and soul. That is what your loving father did to my father.”
By the time he was finished, Allaston was looking at him with tears in her eyes. In that rather drunken tirade, she understood a great deal, more than she ever had. She was both terrified by it and touched by it. Sympathy and fear played hand and hand in her mind. Aye, she had known that her father had done atrocious things, but it wasn’t something she ever thought about or dwelt upon. She didn’t like to think her father capable of such things, but now, she was forced to face it.
“Every man has a past,” she whispered. “Many men have killed.”
Bretton’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, many men have killed, but what your father did was beyond killing,” he said. “He took what was most valuable to a five year old boy. He took away my entire life in a single, dark night. Memories are all I have of a wonderful life that was. My life since then has been focused on one thing – the destruction of the man who took everything away from me. Destruction of the man who nearly destroyed me.”
Allaston could see, in those few short sentences, that there was pain somewhere in that anger. There was a flicker of grief there that drove de Llion. It was what fed his spirit. At that point, she did the only thing she could do; she begged forgiveness.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I am so terribly sorry your happiness with life ended that way, but the man that did that… I do not know him. That is not the father I know.”
Bretton stared at her, feeling very strange as he did so. He wanted to give in to her sympathy, he truly did, but then he would remind himself that this was the daughter of the man he had sworn to hate. His inner struggle was great.
“Mayhap you do not know that man, but he still exists,” he assured her. “Your father still exists. Therefore, his evil still exists. Do you know what I plan to do?”
Allaston shook her head fearfully. “Nay.”
Bretton drew close to her, going down on one knee so he could see her better. He could smell the lavender on her, assaulting his senses, and he struggled to ignore it. His heart was nearly bursting with emotion, brought on by the wine, and he was unable to stop the words spilling out of his mouth.
“I intend to take back every castle your father conquered on the Welsh Marches,” he said. “I have two already, Cloryn and Ithon. Then, I will proceed to take Rhayder, Comen, Erwood, and finally, Four Crosses. Your father’s men man these outposts and those I have captured, I have put to the stake in the same fashion your father did. Jax de Velt is getting a taste of his own tactics and once I am finished confiscating his castles, I will meet the man on the field of battle. It is inevitable that he will come to me, for I have several things that belong to him. But I have something that means more to him than all of the material possessions combined. I have you, and you will bring your father to
my doorstep whereupon I will best the man in battle and put him on a stake just like he put my father on a stake. I will watch Jax de Velt die a slow and agonizing death and call it justice. That is what I intend to do.”
Allaston looked up at him with baleful eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You cannot do that,” she whispered. “My father is not the man you knew. He has changed. You must allow that men see the error of their ways and proceed to live a good life.”
Bretton’s eyes were riveted to her, seeing such haunting beauty the more he scrutinized her. He struggled not to let himself be distracted by it.
“Mayhap,” he agreed, his raspy voice low. “But your father did not see the error in his ways before he killed my family. We all have to pay for our sins one way or the other.”
Allaston couldn’t help but notice he was leaning rather close to her and instinctively, she pulled away. “Are you God, then?” she asked, wiping at her cheeks. “Only God can punish sinners. That is not your right.”
Bretton stared at her a moment before breaking down into a grin. The man had a devastating smile of big, white teeth.
“Nay, I am not God,” he said, “but I have been called the Devil, and these castles I take back from your father are now part of my dominion. There has never been another warlord like me nor shall there ever be another one like me. I am unique unto myself, with more power than Jax de Velt could ever hope to have.”
Allaston sighed heavily at his boast, which turned into a coughing spell. She ended up coughing into her hand, struggling to breathe. She was starting to feel ill again, from his words more than from actual illness. It was frustrating to hear him speak of such hatred for the man she loved.
“Then I am sorry for you,” she said. “Look at you. You are obviously a powerful and well-spoken man, and men like you are a premium commodity. You could do so many things with your life, swear fealty to any number of wealthy lords or even to the king himself, but instead, you focus all of your power and intelligence on vengeance. Your father is dead and killing my father will not bring him back. In fact, I would suspect that even if you are able to murder my father, all you will feel is a hollow sense of accomplishment. What will my father’s death bring you? Happiness? I doubt it. You are an embittered and unhappy man and no amount of killing is going to satisfy that hole in your heart you are trying so desperately to heal.”
Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 104
