The Centurion

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Lady Alyx would never forgive me if I permitted your death,” he finally said.

  Torston cocked an eyebrow. “Lady Alyx has nothing to do with this.”

  “Doesn’t she?”

  “You are changing the subject, Mighty One. We were speaking of Scots, not Alyx de Ameland.”

  Harringham turned away from him, his sandaled feet dragging across the cold stone floor. “What would become of her if you were killed, I wonder?”

  Torston emitted a frustrated sigh, dragging his fingers through his thick, dirty hair. “Nothing that would not have become of her should I live. I have no bearing on her life, nor she on mine.”

  Lionel paused by the windows, feeling the damp breeze on his face. “Did you know that I was betrothed once?”

  Torston nodded faintly. “A long time ago.”

  “She died, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I never married at all.”

  “I realize that.”

  Harringham looked over his shoulder, his muddled eyes strangely sharp. “I oft wonder what would have become of my life had I married.”

  Torston leaned back in the chair, wondering where this conversation was going. “That is difficult to say, Great Caesar.”

  “It is,” Lionel said, turning once more to gaze over his beloved Lyceum. “But take heed of my advice; should you die, you will condemn Lady Alyx to a life of misery. She loves you far too much to continue without you by her side.”

  Torston snorted. “How cunning of you, Great One, to use Lady Alyx’s sympathies in an attempt to manipulate me into recanting my advice on attacking Kerr.” With great effort, he rose on his long legs. “But your shrewdness is to no avail. I stand firm in my suggestion that we destroy Kerr before he can destroy us.”

  Harringham didn’t look at him. After a moment, he began to stroke the edge of his toga, running his fingers over the gold leafing.

  “Go now, my Lord Centurion,” he said softly. “You have served your usefulness this day. And I must offer thanks to the gods for our victory.”

  Torston cocked an eyebrow and shook his head. It was obvious that Harringham had no intention of further discussing a topic whose argument was based on weak reasoning. With a feeble salute, right fist over left nipple, he silently quit the room in search of his chamber.

  Sleep came almost immediately for Torston and, with it, dreams of Scots and flails and Alyx’s smiling face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Makendon Castle

  The day was bright, the birds singing loudly of the fine morning.

  Across the green fields of Northumbria sat a mighty fortress, surrounded by a moat that was nearly twenty feet deep in places. A heavy drawbridge was the only access to the fortified castle, held together with sturdy rope and iron bolts the size of a man’s head. Flapping in the wind from the corner turrets of Makendon’s protective stone walls were the standards of the House of de Ameland, yellow and white flags with a bird of prey in the center.

  It was a proud and mighty standard.

  Alyx could see the gently rustling banners from her bower. Her father had expressly forbidden her to go into the forest this day under penalty of great punishment and the young woman found herself confined to her rooms, a large lavish chamber with a small solar off to one side. It was far too restricting for a lass whose dreams extended well beyond the boundaries of Makendon’s mighty walls.

  It wasn’t so much boredom as it was the desire to be out among the flora and fauna, sensing the world and dreaming of the future still to come. That was the dreamer in her with wanderlust. Alyx sat before her tapestry loom, hardly having worked a stitch since the morning meal. Her chin was in her hand, her gaze lingering on the cotton-puff clouds beyond the window.

  “Whatever is the matter, Alyx?” A soft, motherly voice interrupted her thoughts.

  Alyx glanced at the wimpled woman seated across from her. The Lady Lygia Brockenhurst, wife of Lance, smiled as the wrinkles around her eyes deepened. Beside the woman, a young girl of thirteen mirrored her mother’s expression.

  “It is a beautiful piece, Alyx.” Lady Charlotte Brockenhurst adored her liege’s daughter and it showed. “I wish I could weave with the skill you display.”

  Alyx smiled weakly, tearing her dreamy thoughts away from the window. She wore a gown of persimmon-colored silk this day, her considerable mane braided into a single rope that draped elegantly over one shoulder. It was Torston’s favorite gown, as he had told her many a time.

  “You do have skill, Charlotte, with every stitch you create.” Reluctantly, she went back to tapestry. “If I want to finish this before Father’s birthday, I suppose I had better hurry.”

  “Your father’s birthday is next month,” Lady Lygia said as she resumed her needlepoint, a brilliantly edged piece with butterflies and bees. “’Twill be the finest celebration in Northumbria for years to come.”

  “You forget about Lord Harringham’s feasts,” Alyx said. “We cannot compete with his Roman orgies of food and wine. We dare not try lest he send his legions to attack us.”

  Lady Lygia laughed softly. She had known Alyx for twelve years, having come to live at Makendon with her husband shortly after the death of Alyx’s mother. She could well recall the waif-like child with the unruly corkscrew curls, sad and sullen after Lady Abigail’s passing. Even though she had been occupied with her own child, a baby that was constantly sick, Lygia made an effort to be kind and gentle to Alyx. It was a kindness Alyx had never forgotten.

  “I am thankful I was not able attend the most recent feast due to Charlotte’s illness,” Lady Lygia said. “I am not much fond of dyed snails.”

  Alyx made a face as if to agree. “There were no snails this time, fortunately. But there was goat in a very rich sauce that upset my stomach terribly.”

  “Did Torston eat with you?” Charlotte’s voice was eager.

  Alyx glanced at the red-haired girl, a sweet eager child on the brink of womanhood. Had Alyx not loved her like a sister, she might have loathed her for her infatuation with Torston.

  “He did,” she replied, struggling not to sound guarded. “As did my father.”

  Charlotte grinned, her protruding canine teeth marring an otherwise pretty face. “Did he speak any more of his travels?”

  Alyx continued working on her tapestry, very carefully weaving white silk thread into the clouds of her blue sky. It was apparent that she wasn’t the only one Torston had enticed with tales of his adventures.

  “Not much,” she said. “He hasn’t had any recent adventures since the last time you saw him.”

  “But he saved you against the Scots last week.”

  “Aye, and you have already heard that tale.”

  Charlotte returned to her needlepoint dejectedly. Alyx continued to work on her loom until the boredom became so great that she could hardly focus. With a heavy sigh, she rose from her chair and went to the window.

  The puffy clouds had blown away, leaving the sky as clear as a jewel. Alyx leaned against the sill, the wispy breeze blowing her corkscrew tendrils about as she thought of Torston. In the few days since she had last seen him, her mind had lingered on nothing else. She wondered how he had fared, how the gash on his wrist was healing. He’d not permitted her to tend it, as time had been pressing. Even when she had begged, he had done nothing more than pinch her cheek with a wistful look to his tired face. But when he had left her at Makendon, he had taken her hand and flipped it over, kissing the tender underside of her wrist in parting.

  Alyx could see the longing then, more powerful than she had ever witnessed before.

  A yearning look that haunted her dreams.

  Even now, as she gazed over the green countryside of her beloved Northumbria, she could think of nothing else. She was so consumed with thoughts of Torston, in fact, that she failed to see the dark specks on the horizon, growing more defined as they approached. The cluster seemed to spread out, creating a blanket that covered the hills, trampling the g
rass with booted feet. Men with pikes became apparent but still, Alyx was staring at the trees, the sky. She saw the incoming tide just as the sentries blew their frenzied alarms, and she was instantly afraid.

  “Scots!” she sputtered.

  Lygia and Charlotte were on their feet, crowding around the slender window to gain a better view.

  “Oh!” Charlotte gasped fearfully. “There are thousands of them!”

  Lygia wasn’t much calmer than her daughter. “Hurry, ladies,” she said quickly. “We must hide in the tower until the siege is over!”

  Alyx stopped them, gripping the fine blue silk around Lygia’s wrist. “Wait,” she said, her panic cooling as she continued to watch the advance. “Do you notice anything strange about them?”

  Charlotte was too terrified to look and shook her head fearfully. Lygia, however, followed her mistress’ gaze. Her eyes narrowed as she peered closer. “I… I would wager to say that it is strange they are not screaming their battle cries.”

  Alyx nodded shortly. “Exactly. And look; other than the pikes, they are not dressed for battle. That is not how they usually look.”

  “And they are walking, not running,” Charlotte said, pleased that she was brave enough to not only look out the window, but to voice her thoughts.

  Alyx nodded in agreement. “They are indeed, Charlotte,” she said. “Those who are carrying swords have them sheathed.”

  Charlotte’s fear faded as her curiosity took hold. “Then they are not coming to attack us?”

  Alyx shrugged, a bewildered gesture. “I do not know.” Something caught her attention and she craned her neck, attempting to gain a better look at the activity of the bailey directly below. “Look. There is Lance, and my father.”

  Lygia nearly pushed Alyx from the window in her haste to see her husband. “He’s in armor,” she gasped. “Heavens, what is he doing?”

  Alyx opened her mouth to reply when a series of shouts echoed off the wall. The Scot army had come to a halt and it was apparent that the sentries of Makendon were demanding to know their business. Alyx wished she could hear their words, but by the time their voices reached her, they were a muted growl. Down below, her father was being given details of the conversation and she could see his head wagging.

  Whatever he was hearing, he didn’t like.

  “What is happening?” Lygia asked softly.

  Alyx could only shake her head. Several more minutes passed, tension and confusion filling the air, when suddenly a distant groaning could be heard. It took Alyx a moment to realize the massive drawbridge was being lowered.

  “Lance is going out to meet them?” She turned with amazement to Lygia and Charlotte. “Whatever for? Why don’t they simply kill the Scots where they stand?”

  The loud rattling sound of the portcullis being lowered echoed against the stone walls. The drawbridge continued to go down as Lance and a few lesser knights prepared to ride out to meet the enemy. Winslow was in the middle of it, issuing instructions and commands as Lance organized the escort party.

  The drawbridge smacked against the opposite side of the moat with a thundering boom. A small grate in the portcullis was removed, permitting one knight at a time to ride through. Lance was first, followed by five other men clad in war-weathered armor. The six of them congregated hesitantly at the edge of the drawbridge, as if in conference, when one of the men abruptly broke away and took off at a gallop toward the east. Alyx watched the man go, knowing he was heading in the direction of The Lyceum.

  They were sending for help.

  When the rider had disappeared over the horizon, very slowly, Lance and his party made their way forward.

  Into the waiting arms of the enemy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Next Day

  “Haven’t you ever heard the old adage – beware of Greeks bearing gifts?” Torston could hardly contain his emotions.

  Winslow sighed patiently. “Torston, they’ve not come bearing gifts. They’ve come with an offering of peace.”

  Torston stood in the middle of Winslow’s comfortable solar, clad from head to toe in heavy battle armor. His helm remained on his head, the three-point visor raised and his eyes blazing with skepticism and displeasure.

  Lionel was with him. Covered in yards of baby-soft linen with a golden belt around his skinny waist, he was so involved in the volatile emotions taking place that he ignored Winslow’s collection of fine wines. Usually, it was the very first thing he paid attention to when he visited Makendon.

  But this wasn’t a visit for pleasure.

  Something life-changing was on the horizon.

  “A peace offering, Torston,” Lionel said as he watched his Centurion pace angrily about the room. “Think of it, lad. Douglas Kerr himself is riding at the head of that army camped in the moor beyond. He’s come personally to propose a truce!”

  Torston stopped pacing, looking at both his liege and Baron de Ameland. “What I want to know is why?” he demanded. “Only days ago, he was pounding us to a pulp and now he suddenly wants peace? Why would he make the attempt when he knows full well that his sheep raids are close to overwhelming us?”

  Winslow knew Torston spoke the truth, the man who was always in the forefront of the battle against the Scots. Sighing heavily, he averted his gaze as he spoke.

  “I’ve arranged for a feast tonight, Torston,” he said evenly. “Douglas Kerr wishes to state his terms personally and I have extended him Makendon’s hospitality.”

  Torston stared at Winslow as if the man had gone mad. In fact, he was so overwhelmed that he was momentarily speechless and Lance, nearly as incensed as he was, stepped in.

  “I have advised you against such a thing, my lord,” Lance said steadily. “Let us do our negotiating with Kerr out in the open, not welcome him into the bosom of our stronghold where he can destroy us under the guise of truce.”

  Standing near the smoldering hearth, Torston snorted bitterly. “Christ, the tale of the Trojan Horse certainly comes to mind,” he said, looking directly at Lionel. “Have we learned nothing from the folly of Troy?”

  For the first time, Winslow seemed to flare. “It will not be like that, I assure you,” he said. “Do I sense that you do not trust my judgement in these matters, Sir Torston? Or that I would be so dishonorable as to not trust a man’s word when he says his interests are peaceful?”

  “Nay, my lord,” Torston replied evenly. “I know you are an honorable and trusting man. It is Kerr I do not trust.”

  “But the man permitted you and your army to ride through his ranks, unmolested, not four hours ago,” Winslow said as he stood up, his pale face beaded with perspiration. He seemed particularly stressed, with good reason. “Had he been intent on betrayal, he could have started at that very moment and may I remind you that, in fact, he has requested your presence at these proceedings.”

  Torston held Winslow’s gaze a long moment before turning away. His outrage was fading, being replaced by an overwhelming sense of confusion and caution.

  “Probably because he wants to meet the man who has single-handedly destroyed hundreds of his men,” he said. The confusion finally overwhelmed him, giving way to weariness. He was weary of the whole damned thing. After a moment, he scratched beneath his hauberk in a gesture both frustrating and curt. “This is your land, Lord Winslow. If you want to invite the Scots to a feast, then that is your choice. But know that I do not approve and I shall have my men standing vigilant guard at all times.”

  Winslow nodded. “So noted, Torston. I told Kerr that he could only bring five of his most trusted men. The rest must stay with the army and the drawbridge will remain up during the feast.”

  Torston shrugged weakly. Truthfully, there was nothing more to say, as Winslow had made up his mind. But it was obvious he continued to disagree, as did Lance. The two knights looked at one another, knowing there was nothing more either of them could do. They were the warriors; their lords were the peacemakers.

  All they could do was hope for
the best.

  “Aye, my lord,” Torston finally said.

  Winslow dismissed Lance. Lionel watched Torston pace about before finally suggesting the man retire to the knight’s quarters to prepare for the coming evening. Torston went without hesitation, stomping from the solar in his big boots. When the sounds of his footsteps faded, Lionel turned to Winslow.

  “He is not a happy man,” he said quietly.

  The sun was setting in the west, creating ribbons of pink and gold across the walls of the solar as Winslow went for his reserve of fine Spanish wine. He found at this moment he needed it.

  “I know,” he said, pouring Lionel a large cup of the ruby-colored liquid. “But I have been fighting Kerr longer than Torston has and I think, mayhap, I know him a little better. Your brilliant Centurion will simply have to trust my judgement.”

  Harringham accepted the cup, extending it well away from his very best toga. “And if you are wrong?”

  Winslow’s expression hardened slowly as if, inch by inch, his features were being turned to stone. “If I am wrong,” he said softly, “then Makendon and The Lyceum shall be no more. But for the possibility that Kerr’s overture is sincere, I am willing to take the chance. Since you refuse to send your men into Scotland to destroy Kerr’s forces, and I cannot go it alone, I suppose there is little choice for either of us.”

  There was reproach in that statement. Lionel drained the entire cup in one gulp, as if to swallow away his guilt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alyx was sitting on a small flight of stairs around the corner from her father’s solar. She could hear the voices but little of the actual conversation. Occasionally, Torston’s deep baritone would rumble like thunder and she would smile to herself, pleased to have him at Makendon once again. The fact that it was because the Scots were camping on her doorstep didn’t seem to matter. Whatever the excuse to have Torston through the entry door of Makendon was good enough for her.