So she resumed her seat on the bed as she waited uneasily and the room grew warm because of the snapping fire. It felt rather good. Growing restless and jittery, she fingered through the rest of the garments Grayton had brought her, a pile that she had kicked to the floor when she’d gone to sleep. There was part of a brocaded surcoat, just the bibbed portion without the skirt, another surcoat that was a very heavy blue wool, and then a cloak on the bottom of the pile that was dark green in color with a brown rabbit lining. It was quite nice and she pulled it out, inspecting it. She was in the process of fingering the fur when there was a single heavy rap at the door.
Startled, she dropped the cloak and ran to the hearth where the poker rested against the wall. Snatching the poker, she ran to the door, wedging herself against the wall so that when the door opened, she would be behind it. Trembling with both fear and anticipation, she didn’t respond when someone knocked again. She remained still and silent. After a tense pause, the latch to the door lifted.
The door swung open, hitting her as it did, but she didn’t utter a sound. She strained to catch a glimpse of someone entering, her heart beating loudly in her ears as Bretton came into view. He had his back to her as he stepped into the room and it was evident that he was looking for her.
Allaston took it as her moment to strike. The longer she delayed, the more chance there was of him discovering her in the shadows with a poker in her hands. Bringing the poker up, she stepped out from behind the door and aimed for his head, bringing it down as hard as she could right on the back of his skull.
There was a loud, sickening thud as Bretton pitched forward onto his face. He wasn’t out cold, however. He was still moving around and Allaston whacked him again, as hard as she could. He fell still.
Allaston stood over Bretton with the poker still raised, preparing to hit him again when she realized that she had knocked him out. The man wasn’t moving at all. Peering closer, she wasn’t even sure that he was breathing and she could see blood on the back of his head, glistening off his dark hair. Poker still in hand, she bent over to see if she could tell if he was breathing, now having some indecision about her actions. What if she did kill him? That would make her no better than he was. It would make her a brute, capable of violence. She never had liked violence and now that she had committed a violent act, it only served to fuel her distaste.
But she couldn’t back out of her plans now. She had already started the scheme in motion and there was no turning back. De Llion was knocked out cold and it was time for her to move. She had to flee, to somehow get out of this place. Tossing the poker aside, she bent down to make sure Bretton was still breathing before she left. A foolish gesture but she wasn’t entirely cold-hearted about things. Even towards a man who was determined to kill her father. After last night’s conversation with him, she had come to understand him a bit. He was a driven killer, but he’d also led a tragic life. As she looked down at him, she struggled not to feel sorry for the man.
But there wasn’t time for sorrows or regrets now. She put her hand in front of de Llion’s nose to see that he was indeed breathing, slow and steady. At least she knew he wasn’t going to die as the result of her beating. Standing up, she turned hastily for the chamber door and ran headlong into a big, warm body.
Grayton had her around the neck before she could scream.
CHAPTER SIX
Bronllys Castle was a relatively small castle as far as fortresses went, but it was strategic. Originally held by Walter de Clifford, the High Sheriff of England, he had turned the castle over to Christopher de Lohr because the man had more manpower on the Marches and was less involved in London politics, in which Walter was entrenched. With the Marches as volatile as they were, it made sense to have the outpost manned by a lord who had an active interest in keeping the peace. Therefore, Bronllys Castle was an English-held castle, managed by de Lohr, in the midst of Welsh territory.
Sir Berwyn de Llion was the garrison commander for Bronllys, an old man who refused to give up his command. The man had grown grandsons but still he continued to remain active. His once-black hair was now mostly gray but he had a lot of it, and he was built like most of the de Llion men – muscular and big-chested. His teeth were still in good shape if not slightly yellowed, his heart gave him pain now and again, but those were the only signs of age on the man. He was still rugged and strong.
It was this man who greeted Rod as the knight entered the bailey of Bronllys. From high in the keep, which sat atop a massive motte, Berwyn had seen Rod approaching from the south. The fog that had blanketed the countryside for most of the day had finally lifted, affording brilliant views for miles. Situated at the junction of two rivers, Bronllys guarded one of the main roads into Wales. One could not avoid the castle if one was traveling into Wales.
Excited by the view of his grandson returning, it took Berwyn some time to climb down from the keep, taking the narrow wooden steps down the motte and on into the bailey. By the time he reached the large, oddly shaped bailey, Rod had already been met by some soldiers and was dismounting his frothing steed. Berwyn was very happy to see the man.
“I am glad to see that the fortunes were with you,” he said as he clapped Rod on the back. “And how is our illustrious liege? Did you give de Lohr my greetings?”
Rod was weary from his ride but he managed a smile at his grandfather. “I did,” he said. “He sends his in return.”
Berwyn began to pull Rod towards the great hall, which was built along the eastern wall of the bailey. “How was your journey?”
“Long.”
“What did de Lohr want of you?”
Rod didn’t say anything for the moment. He had been debating what to tell his grandfather about Bretton’s return ever since he had learned of it. He and de Lohr had spent an evening debating about the positive and negative effects of telling the old man, but in the end, Rod knew he couldn’t, in good conscience, withhold such information. It wasn’t fair to Berwyn. Good or bad, the man had a right to know, especially if he had the potential of facing the man in battle.
“Come inside and we will discuss it,” Rod said as they headed into the long, skinny great hall with its massive hearth and roaming packs of cats. No dogs at Bronllys, but feral cats everywhere. Rod even shoved one out of the way as he took a seat at the end of the big feasting table. “I have not eaten since before dawn, so feed me before I faint.”
Berwyn grinned and sent a servant running to the kitchen for food and drink as he sat down opposite his grandson. He was inordinately attached to the man and had been for the past several years, ever since Rod came to serve with him. Missing his own son as he did, his only son who had been murdered those years ago, made him overly attached to Rod. He faced the man over the top of the well-scrubbed feasting table.
“Well?” he said expectantly. “What would de Lohr have of you?”
Rod eyed his grandfather. He was going to have to be very careful in how he brought about the subject of Bretton de Llion. As he’d told de Lohr, it was quite possible that his grandfather, in a fit of emotion, would ride straight to Cloryn to seek out the truth of the matter. Rod didn’t want a big scene on his hands with his grandfather but braced himself for the possibility.
“It would seem that there is much activity happening on the Marches north of Bronllys and we must maintain vigilance,” he began quietly. “De Lohr summoned me to warn us about it. It would seem there is a mercenary army raiding and confiscating castles along the Powis border.”
Berwyn was grim. “It must be serious, indeed,” he said. “Mercenary army, did you say?”
Rod nodded. “Remember when we were told of Cloryn’s defeat by a passing merchant?” he asked, watching his grandfather nod. “Cloryn was just one tragedy in a long line of many. That same army moved on Alberbury Priory and burned it to the ground.”
Berwyn’s bushy eyebrows rose. “They burned a priory?” he repeated, aghast. “Why would they do this? The priory would have nothing of value, at lea
st nothing that mercenaries would want.”
Rod drew in a long, contemplative breath, pausing before replying as servants brought food to the table and set it down. He waited until the servants walked away before continuing.
“These are no ordinary mercenaries,” he said, reaching for the pitcher of boiled fruit juice. He preferred that over watered ale in the morning. “De Lohr received a missive from Robert de Boulers not long ago. Most of the activity has been on de Bouler’s borders and the man is understandably concerned. Evidently, the story is this – an army of Irish mercenaries landed in Liverpool several weeks ago and made its way to the Powis Marches, whereupon they wreaked a good deal of havoc. They badly damaged Clun Castle and Knighton Castle, and attacked Dolforwyn as well, although that castle held. But Cloryn didn’t. They took it and then they moved on to burn Alberbury Priory. They went to Alberbury with a purpose, however. They were looking for someone.”
Berwyn was frowning now. “I do not understand,” he said. “Who were they looking for?”
Rod sighed faintly as he poured his drink. “Ajax de Velt’s daughter,” he said. “She was apparently a novice nun at the priory. They took the girl, burned the priory, but left one solitary old nun alive to deliver a message regarding their actions.”
Berwyn was shocked. “What message is that?”
Rod took a long drink before answering. “The message is for Ajax de Velt,” he said. “The mercenaries are following the same pattern de Velt did when he raided the borders twenty-five years ago. Every castle they have hit has been a castle de Velt hit, and Cloryn belonged to de Velt. They have taken it and they have taken his daughter. The message to de Velt is simple – if he wants his daughter, he must come and get her. This mercenary army is calling forth de Velt, Papa. They are summoning The Dark Lord himself.”
Berwyn’s initial shock faded and now he simply sat and mulled over the situation. He was an old man and didn’t get too excited over things, no matter how bad they were. Calmer heads prevailed because panicked ones couldn’t. After several moments of pondering the circumstances, he grunted and shook his head.
“I do not want to see de Velt on this border again,” he said. “I remember when the man tore through here twenty-five years ago. It was as if Hell itself had opened up and Lucifer was marching upon us. The fear of that time was tangible. When he took Four Crosses Castle… well, that is a time I do not wish to relive. I cannot even stomach the thought.”
The time had come for Rod to divulge what he knew. He tried to be gentle. “The commander of the mercenary army had a name,” he said quietly. “He told the old nun to make sure she relayed it to de Velt. He gave his name as Bretton de Llion.”
So much for not getting excited over things. Berwyn stared at Rod for a long, tense moment before his eyebrows lifted and his face went pale. He was having difficulty speaking, stammering and stuttering, until the words finally came forth.
“Bretton?” he repeated, aghast. “Bretton de Llion?”
Rod nodded, hoping his grandfather wasn’t going to seize up right in front of him. “That is why de Lohr summoned me, in truth,” he said steadily. “It was because of the name the mercenary commander gave. He knew that name was somehow related to us, to you. He thought it would be better if I told you.”
Berwyn just stared at him. It was clear he was reeling. He began to shake his head, back and forth, almost wildly.
“Impossible,” he gasped. “Bretton died twenty-five years ago.”
Rod wasn’t unsympathetic to the man’s reaction. His, in fact, had been worse, comparatively speaking. At least Berwyn wasn’t yelling about it.
“That is what I told de Lohr,” Rod said. “But the man made some very good points. We never found Bretton’s body. If there is no body, then there is no confirmation of death. It is quite possible that Bretton somehow escaped and has now returned to seek vengeance for what happened to Uncle Morgan. Isn’t it possible, Papa?”
Berwyn was so off balance by the revelation that he literally reeled over backwards, catching himself on the table. Disoriented, he stood up unsteadily and Rod also stood up and went around the table to take hold of his grandfather. The man was all shades of incredulous and the grief, long buried these years, began to surface again.
“Nay,” he hissed. “It is not possible. Bretton died along with Morgan and Ceri and Brethwyn. He has not come back from the dead.”
Rod had hold of the man as he struggled. “Then why would this commander give that name?” he asked, trying to force the man to think. “Why would he say he was Bretton if he was not? There is no reason for him to lie about his identity. All things are possible, Papa. Sometimes… sometimes the dead do return. Sometimes they are not really dead at all.”
He was referring to his brother Rhys, of course, but he was not prepared to divulge that information, too. It would have been too much for Berwyn to take. As it was, the old man was struggling.
“Nay,” Berwyn said again, more firmly. “It is not Bretton.”
Rod wasn’t surprised at the denial. In fact, he was oddly relieved by it. At least Berwyn wasn’t demanding his horse so he could ride to Cloryn and see for himself if his grandson had indeed returned. Maybe he would, eventually, but for now, he was in utter denial. Not that Rod blamed him.
“Mayhap,” he said softly, still holding fast to Berwyn. “In any case, there is a mercenary army running amuck on the Marches and we must be vigilant. De Lohr suggested we move south to Whitebrook until the threat has passed. He is very concerned should this mercenary move on Bronllys.”
Berwyn was gripping his grandson as he stared at the ground. There were a million thoughts rolling through his mind but mostly, he was struggling against bone-numbing grief, the same grief he had experienced when his son had been killed. He was feeling it again, now for the grandson he had lost. Someone was playing a horrible trick on all of them. Along with that grief came rage.
“Nay,” he said yet again, lifting his head to look at Rod. “I do not know who this… this bastard is who poses as my dead grandson, but I will find him and I will kill him, do you hear? He will pay for defiling the de Llion name. Are we now to be held in the same contempt as the name of de Velt because of the death and destruction he is committing along the Marches? I will not stand for it!”
Rod shook his head firmly. “You cannot do anything about it, at least not now,” he said. “To ride to confront the man will only see you killed and I am not prepared to lose my grandfather so soon after losing my brother. Would you really do that to me? You will calm yourself, Papa. Go up to your chamber and remain there until you have calmed. I will send the physic up with a draught for your nerves.”
Berwyn didn’t want any part of Rod’s mothering. “Nay, I will not,” he said loudly. “I do not wish to rest. I wish to wrap my hands around the demon that falsely uses my name!”
Rod watched his grandfather pull away from him as he began to pace angrily. He had already said everything he could to calm the man so perhaps the only other alternative was to distract him. He was willing to try.
“What do you remember of de Velt’s conquest on the Marches those years ago?” he asked, hoping Berwyn would follow his lead. “Whatever this mercenary commander is doing, it seems to emulate de Velt in every way. Did he come this far south?”
Berwyn was still raging about the imposter. “He took Comen Castle and Erwood Castle,” he said angrily. “You know where those castles are, Rod. They are each about a half day’s ride from here. He came very close to Bronllys but he did not try to take us. Let this imposter come now! I want to see his face!”
Berwyn went off on a rant about how he would tear the man limb from limb if he ever got ahold of him. Rod stood there and watched him, knowing the old man meant every word. Even at his advanced age, he was still formidable on the field of battle. Berwyn didn’t get worked up very often but when he did, it was often unstoppable. Therefore, he simply stood back for a few moments and let the man work through his fury.
All the while, Rod kept thinking about the mercenary army and their mimicry of Jax de Velt. As his grandfather raged, he began to recount some of the factors that he and de Lohr had discussed. They were factors that would interest Berwyn.
“If this mercenary army is indeed emulating Jax de Velt, then there is less of a chance they will come to Bronllys,” he said. “However, they may very well move on Erwood and Comen. We will be able to smell the destruction from here.”
Berwyn was muttering to himself, still pacing about, but he stopped when Rod’s words sank in.
“That is true,” he agreed. “We will have to make sure the castle is locked up. We will have to bring the villeins into the fold. It would not be safe to leave the villagers without protection.”
Rod dared to move towards the old man who seemed to be calming somewhat. “Mayhap you should ride to the village and speak with them,” he said, hoping it would deter the man from his outrage and focus him on something constructive. “We must tell them to be on their guard should the mercenaries make it this far south.”
Berwyn nodded. “That would be wise.”
“Would you like for me to go with you?”
Berwyn was weary now that the explosion of rage had eased from a roaring fire to a simmer. He was sweating and pale, but at least he was sufficiently calming. The storm had passed, for the moment.
“Nay,” he shook his head. “You have traveled all day. You must rest. This is something I will do alone. I will go and speak with the priests so they can help spread the word.”
Rod didn’t push. He was glad that his grandfather was focused on something other than the imposter using the de Llion name. Now, the man was focused on the small village that was near the castle. There was a good working relationship between the two, something Berwyn had cultivated for many years.
“Very well,” Rod said, watching his grandfather head for the exit of the great hall. “Are you sure you will be well?”
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