Medieval Master Warlords (39 page)

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 been 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.”

Instead of flare, Bretton actually found himself listening to her. She spoke rationally, not with fear or emotion, and he found that her manner intrigued him. She was a calm and collected lady in the face of death and, in spite of everything, a small seed of respect sprouted for her. Nothing she said was untrue. In fact, it made a good deal of sense. After a moment of digesting her words, he actually smiled.

“Mayhap that is true,” he said, watching her as she tried not to look at him. He could tell that she didn’t like what she saw. “But I intend to find out. In any case, this is what I have planned for most of my life and no one will convince me otherwise. It is something I must do.”

Allaston was looking at her hands, the floor, anything not to look the man in the eye. “These men that fight with you,” she said. “Do they feel the same sense of vengeance that you do? Did my father wrong them as well?”

Bretton shook his head as he sat back, ending up on his bum a few feet away from her. “Nay,” he said. “They are in it for the money and properties I can provide them. We are a mercenary army, my lady. Did you not realize that?”

She glanced at him, sidelong. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“But where did you find all of these men?”

He cocked his head thoughtfully, his gaze moving between her and the snapping fire. “In Ireland,” he said. “After I escaped your father’s carnage, I was sold to a merchant and ended up in Ireland. That is where I grew up, where I learned my craft, and where I compiled an army big enough to take on Jax de Velt. My men are well paid, my lady.”

Allaston’s head came up and she looked at him. In the soft light of the fire, he actually looked quite handsome with his square jaw and dark hair. He looked almost… normal. But he wasn’t normal. The man was a killer.

“Who sold you to a merchant?” she asked. “You were a mere child. Who did this?”

His rather pleasant expression faded. “Servants that used to work for my family,” he said. “I escaped with a few of them and, in the end, they simply didn’t know what to do with me. An old woman had been taking care of me and when she died, her husband sold me. He did not want a young boy about the house and opted for the money I could bring him.”

Allaston was listening intently to a rather sad story. “The merchant used you as a slave?”

Bretton’s features tightened as he stared into the flame of the hearth. “Among other things,” he muttered softly. “When I became older, I ran away and found an Irish mercenary who agreed to take me as an apprentice in exchange for work. It was a difficult life but I learned a great deal. I am not afraid of hardship.”

Allaston was rather surprised he was opening up so much about his personal life, but she knew it was the drink. He was still exhibiting some signs of having imbibed too much. Still, his tale was a sad one. It began to occur to her that if perhaps she played to that sad tale by showing sympathy, perhaps she could gain his trust somewhat. Perhaps if he stopped viewing her as the flesh and blood of his hated enemy, things might be different. One could hardly kill someone they liked or at least felt a connection to. Perhaps if she was nice to him, it would pay off in the end. She had to try.

“I do not imagine that you are,” she said. “It sounds as if you have had a very difficult life. I suppose, in a sense, that I do not blame you for what you feel. I cannot say I would feel any differently if a warlord had killed my father.”

His bright blue eyes were intense on her. “A warlord will,” he said. “Make no mistake, my lady. A warlord
will
kill your father.”

She held his gaze steadily. “So you would do to me what my father did to you?” she asked. “You would take away my father, too?”

“At least you had your father for a good deal of your life. That is more than I can say for myself.”

He was making it difficult for her to be nice to him but she continued to try. “And you think that killing my father will somehow replace those missing years with your father?”

He shook his head. “Not replace,” he said. “I am not looking to replace anything. I am looking to right a wrong.”

“By creating another wrong?”

“Call it a reckoning, if you will. An eye for an eye.”

Allaston believed him. The more she spoke with him, the more she realized he meant every word he said. It was a sad and sickening realization. “You have thought this way for so long that it has become a part of you,” she muttered. “What happens after you kill my father? Do you go on with your life, marry well, and raise a family on the blood of vengeance? Will killing my father make all things possible for you? I wonder.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t,” he said, his gaze lingering on her. “There is no reason to discuss this any longer because you will not convince me otherwise. I must do as I must, and you will have to accept it.”

I must do as I must
. He sounded rather final. She realized that she had to do what she must as well. Her attempt to be sympathetic to him hadn’t worked, so she had to try another tactic. She wasn’t sure what that was yet, but she realized she couldn’t wait around for the end of Jax de Velt to come. Perhaps it would be her end, too. She had to do something. She had to fight. She simply couldn’t stand by and watch de Llion kill her father. Much as he had plans, she would have to have plans, also.

She would have to fight back.

℘

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning at Cloryn dawned foggy and cold. In the great hall, the soldiers who had slept in various positions all around the room were just beginning to stir. Bretton was up, having slept very little last night after his conversation with Allaston. She had planted things in his minds, things that made him think, and he had lay awake most of the night thinking on what she had said. So much of what she’d said made sense to him, but there was one particular question she had proposed that he couldn’t seem to shake.

Will killing my father make all things possible for you?

He couldn’t honestly answer that question. The truth was that he’d never given much thought to his life after killing Jax de Velt and damn the man’s daughter for bringing the subject up. Of course he wanted to marry, if only to have heirs, but he had no chance of a good marriage from a good family, so he would have to take what he could get. He
could
get Allaston de Velt. She already belonged to him so he had been thinking on a marriage of convenience with her more and more. And even more than that after last night.

She was a beautiful woman. Aye, she was, even though it was difficult to think that way over a woman who carried de Velt’s blood. That meant their children would also carry de Velt’s blood. Did he really want to mix his blood with the blood of the man he hated most in the world? He had been wrestling with that very question. God forbid, what if one of his sons ended up
looking
like Jax de Velt? Would he hate the lad every time he looked at him? He simply didn’t have an answer for that.

Exhausted, frustrated, and in a foul mood, he entered the great hall in search of food and his commanders, in that order. The room was dark for the most part, the fire pit in the center having long gone cold, and it smelled badly of unwashed bodies and dogs. Over near one of the feasting tables, servants were starting to set out bread and drink. He made his way to the table and collected a mug of watered ale, stuffing some bread into his mouth as Grayton entered the hall well behind him. Bretton caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“A blessed morn to you, my lord,” Grayton greeted him pleasantly. “I hope you rested well.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Bretton looked at the man and scowled. “I did
not
,” he said. “Where are the others? I intend to ride to Rhayder today to scout the location and I would take Teague and Dallan with me. I will leave Olivier here with you.”

Grayton eyed the man. He knew he had spent a good deal of time with the prisoner the previous night but he’d not seen him after that. Bretton had evidently gone to bed after speaking with her, so this was the first that he’d seen the man. He was very curious to know what had gone on between him and the prisoner.

“As you wish,” he said casually, eyeing the man as he reached for a lopsided cup of ale. “I’ve not yet seen your prisoner this morning. How is she faring?”

Bretton was back to his usual emotionless expression. “I would not know,” he said. “I have not seen her this morning.”

Grayton took a bite of his bread. “I did not send the physic to her last night,” he said. “I had the odd feeling that you did not approve of my removing her from the vault, so I did not want to press the matter. If she dies, she dies. Her fate is consigned to God.”

Bretton took great slabs of tart white cheese and put it on his bread, taking a big bite. “She was coughing last night when I spoke with her but she did not seem to be deathly ill,” he replied, chewing. “In fact, she seemed quite well.”

Grayton looked at him with surprise. “She did?” he said. “Most interesting. Mayhap she is healing, after all.”

Bretton didn’t say anything for a moment as he chewed his meal. Swallowing what was in his mouth, he spoke.

“Have you thought about what you shall do when we are finished with de Velt?” he asked.

Grayton shook his head. “I confess, I have not,” he said. “I always thought we would move on to other targets.”

Bretton glanced at him curiously. “Targets? What targets?”

Grayton shrugged. “We must continue to pay the men,” he said. “I assumed we would continue doing what we are doing, even after we confiscate de Velt’s holdings. Why? Did you have another idea about it?”

Bretton took another bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully. “I do not know,” he said. “My goal has always been to reclaim de Velt’s properties and kill the man to avenge my father. After that, I figured that  I would live in one of these castles and administer my domain.”

Grayton nodded, still not entirely sure why Bretton had asked the question about life after conquest. He’d only asked it after spending time with de Velt’s daughter. Grayton was coming to wonder if the woman hadn’t said something to Bretton to get the man’s mind working. In any case, he picked up another piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth.

“We do not have to decide anything at this moment,” he said, mouth full. “Complete conquest of de Velt’s holdings is still a long way off. We have four more castles to claim and that will not prove easy. For now, I will go find Dallan and the other commanders and send them to you. Shall I send them here?”

Bretton nodded. “Aye,” he said. “And make sure the grooms have the chargers prepared. Make sure the horses are well fed and watered.”

Grayton nodded. “If you are agreeable, I will also make sure your prisoner is well fed and watered.”

Bretton merely shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. With a quick glance at his liege, Grayton wandered out of the hall to complete his tasks as Bretton remained behind, eating the warmed mutton and gravy the servants brought around, watching the soldiers sleeping in the hall become lucid.

Men were stretching, groaning, and farting. A few were pissing in the fire pit. Bretton looked at his men, seeing brutal and seasoned soldiers, men who would probably continue as mercenaries long after Bretton decided to settle down and remain in one place. The more he thought on it, the more he realized he didn’t want to continue conquest after he had confiscated all of de Velt’s holdings.

At some point, he wanted to stop and enjoy the fruits of his labor and impeccable planning. He knew it was strange for a mercenary to think that way, but he couldn’t help it. At some point in his life, he realized he wanted peace. He wasn’t out for everyone’s blood, only de Velt’s. But until such time as he spilled it, he would continue to kill, maim, and burn until it got him what he wanted.

So he sat there and brooded over the future until the men began to crowd around the feasting table where he was sitting, grabbing at food and drink. When that happened, Bretton finished the remainder of ale in his cup and quit the smelly, cold hall. His intention was to go to the stable to see if his charger was prepared but as he quit the hall, he inevitably noticed the keep to his right. Dark and shadowed against the rising sun, his thoughts turned to the contents of the keep, to Lady Allaston de Velt sleeping peacefully on the second floor.

Damn that woman and her logic!
He refused to admit that the woman was coming to intrigue him even though she was. He wasn’t sure why but until he could figure it out, she would continue to weigh on his mind and he didn’t like that at all. She could prove to be a deadly distraction.

He shifted course and headed for the keep.

℘

She was ready for him.

Allaston hadn’t slept most of the night, either, even though she had been ill and exhausted. Every time she closed her eyes, visions of de Llion and his hatred of her father filled her mind. To her, Jax de Velt was a loving father and a strict task master. To de Llion, he was a killer. She could hardly believe that she and de Llion were speaking of the same person but she knew in her heart of hearts that there was no mistake. She had known of her father’s past. But to her, it was just that – a past. That was not the man he was today. She wondered if de Llion believed he was doing the world a favor by eliminating the hated Jax de Velt, but that was a fleeting thought. After having spoken to the man in depth about it, she knew his motives were entirely self-serving. He was doing it for himself. For vengeance. It was vengeance she had to disrupt.

So she tried to sleep, and she did for a few hours, but well before dawn she awoke, her mind racing. She couldn’t simply let de Llion lure her father to his death. She was determined to fight back, to stop him somehow, even if it meant her own life. She simply couldn’t stand by and let de Llion complete his plans. Therefore, she rose very early with a plan in mind. It would mean de Llion’s life or her own. Today, that would be decided.

The thought of violence terrified her. She had never really been around it until the night de Llion and his men came to Alberbury. She knew, however, that it would take violence to stop Bretton de Llion so she crafted an idea. The fire poker, the one she had noticed last night, was sitting near the hearth. It was the only thing in the room that could be construed as a weapon so it was what she intended to use. She fully intended to kill the man with it because she knew if she didn’t kill him, he would kill her. It was his life or hers, and she would do all she could to ensure she would remain alive.

But it would be trickier after she killed him. She still had to escape the castle and that would be no easy task. But she presumed that if she could at least find the kitchens, then perhaps she could also find a postern gate. Most castles had them near the kitchens because of the commerce that was conducted with the cooks. Her hope was that she could get to the postern gate and flee before de Llion’s body was discovered. She had to have that gift of time if she had a hope of escaping, and once she was free, she would run to the nearest church and ask for help.

Perhaps it wasn’t a brilliant plan but it was the only one she had and, at the moment, she was desperate. She knew she had to strike first. De Llion had filled her head with frightening images and thoughts that were feeding her anxiety. All that waited for her here was doom and enslavement and she wasn’t one to accept such a situation. She would fight for her life, for her father’s life, or go down trying.

So she changed out of the heavy leather robe she had worn to bed, swapping it out for a few of the garments that Grayton had brought her. The first thing that went on was a shift of heavy linen the color of eggshells, as most linen was that color because it did not dye well. Wool was easily colored and she found a woolen surcoat of dark yellow that, once pulled over the sheath, fit her fairly well. It was well-made and expensive, she thought, simply by the way it was sewn.

Once her clothing was changed, she sought out her leather slippers. They were badly damaged from her time spent in the vault, shriveled and with some mold, but she put them on anyway over the hose she still wore from the previous night. Her hair, a rather unruly mass of black silk, was tamed by smoothing her hands over it and running her fingers through it, straightening it as much as she could, before braiding it tightly and securing the braid with a piece of cloth she tore from the hem of her dirty old clothing. She was dressed warmly and had shoes on her feet, so she was prepared when the time came to flee.

Her plans were briefly interrupted by a knock on the door. Nervously, she ran for the poker until she realized that it was a servant, so she went back over to the bed and sat as a small old man, dressed in ill-fitting clothing, brought her a meal to break her fast. Allaston eyed the food and noticed that it didn’t look like scraps, which was surprising considering that was what she had been fed for the past three weeks. She was hungry, too, but she remained on the bed as the servant stoked the fire with some peat and wood he brought with him. When the fire was burning nicely, he quit the chamber and left her alone.

Once he was gone, she leapt up and ran to the food, shoving bread in her mouth and struggling to chew because it was so full. The bread was warm, freshly baked, and delicious. There was also cheese on the plate along with a cup of watered ale, and she drank deeply, thirsty. A little mound of warmed mutton didn’t survive her hunger long and she chewed it up eagerly. In fact, she cleared the tray in little time, feeling much better after everything was gone. With her stomach, and manner, fortified she was better able to focus on what needed to be done. She had a feeling that de Llion would come around again today, this morning perhaps, and she would be ready for him.

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.