Medieval Master Warlords (61 page)

Bretton stood there impassively, arms folded across his broad chest as they approached. Silently, he indicated for Dallan to take the women into the kitchen structure. Once the women were inside, Bretton had Dallan and the soldiers vacate the kitchen and take station outside in the kitchen yard until they were needed further. Then, Bretton went into the kitchen were the four women were trying to comfort one another.

It was a distressing scene to watch. The mother was being mostly stoic about the entire thing but it was clear she was quite terrified. Bretton had never given any thought to that kind of fear before but, because of Allaston, he was noticing now. The younger girls were perhaps five and four years of age, respectively, and they were clinging to each other in terror. After several moments of watching the group, Bretton cleared his throat softly.

“You, lady,” he said quietly. “What happened to your daughter?”

He pointed to the eldest girl with the torn dress. The mother, quivering, responded.

“The enemy soldiers did this,” she said. She wasn’t accusing, simply stating a fact. “They took her to sport.”

Bretton eyed the pale young girl with a big bruise on her left cheek. “Did they accomplish their task?” he asked. “Or did they simply beat her?”

The lady sighed heavily. “One of them mostly accomplished the task,” she said, trying not to cry. “But the others were prevented from following suit. It could have been much worse.”

She was trying very hard to be brave, which strangely impressed him. He saw something of Allaston there.

“What of the other two?” he asked. “Are they intact?”

The lady nodded. “They are,” she replied, now getting a better look at him. “Whom may I have the honor of addressing, please?”

Bretton shook his head. “My name is not important,” he replied. “Suffice it to say that I am the new Lord of Comen and you and your daughters are my prisoners. Do you comprehend, madam?”

The woman nodded respectfully. “Indeed I do, my lord,” she replied. “We are your humble servants. May… may I ask a question?”

For a woman whose home had just been overrun and her daughter raped, she was exceptionally brave and level-headed. A measure of respect sprouted for the woman.

“Not until I have finished with my questions,” he said. “You will tell me your name and the names of your children.”

The lady nodded. “I am Lady Amalia de Gault,” she said, then indicated her daughters in order from the eldest to the youngest. “These are my daughters Lucy, Isla, and Aurora.”

Bretton eyed the girls, who were still quite shaken. “No sons?”

Lady Amalia shook her head. “None living, my lord,” she replied. “There was one, but he died in infancy last year.”

Bretton absorbed the information. Strange that he was starting to see these women as living, thinking creatures and not objects. Usually, those he conquered were simply items, possessions to be had. With this foursome, he had names and he had a tragic event in their past. He was feeling emotion whether or not he wanted to.

Please show mercy….

“You had a question to ask me, madam,” he said. “What is it?”

Lady Amalia maintained her composure as she spoke. “I would simply like to inquire as to the condition of my husband,” she asked. “We saw the men taken away and saw… saw what was done to them. I would like to know if my husband was…”

She trailed off, trying to find the right words, and Bretton interrupted her. “Impaled?” he supplied.

The woman was incredibly brave, nodding stoically. “Aye, my lord.”

Bretton shook his head. “Nay, he is not among them,” he replied. “I have your husband and his father held in another location. I have not yet decided their fate.”

For the first time, Lady Amalia showed some emotion. “My lord,” she said. “I understand that we are your prisoners and you may do with us as you will, but I was wondering… I was hoping… might I see my husband one last time? I would consider it a great show of mercy and would be forever grateful, no matter what comes.”

A great show of mercy.

There was that word again. He looked at the family of girls. There was no point in killing them or letting his men have them. He remembered something Allaston had said to him once, that it could have quite easily been her castle he had conquered and then she would have been fodder for his men. Looking at these girls, he could see Allaston among them, terrified and cowering, and he didn’t like that thought one bit.
God’s Bones, what is happening to me? Am I becoming weak in my old age? Is that what emotion does to a man, weaken him? Or does it create bonds so strong that a wife would risk my wrath by asking to see her husband one last time?
He wondered.

“Remain here and do not move,” he told them. “If you do, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

Lady Amalia nodded and Bretton left the structure, ducking underneath the low doorway and emerging into the kitchen yard where Dallan and several soldiers were waiting. He went to Dallan.

“Bring the two knights to me,” he told the man. “Make sure they are both stripped of all weaponry and armaments.”

Dallan nodded, heading off to complete his orders. Meanwhile, Bretton sent the soldiers gathered in the kitchen yard back out to the bailey where all the action was happening. The men left without question, happy to get back to the process of securing the castle and destroying their enemy. When they were gone, Bretton stood in the kitchen yard, alone for several minutes, until Dallan returned with the prisoners.

The old knight’s expression never changed but the younger knight, who wasn’t so much young as he was an adult male who had seen at least twenty-five years, appeared rather anxious. Bretton knew why - if Bretton had a wife and three daughters held captive, he would have been anxious, too. Crooking his finger at the men, he indicated for them to follow him to the kitchen structure. When the three of them reached the doorway leading into the warm, cluttered kitchen, Bretton stood back and indicated for the two knights to enter first. They did, and Bretton could hear the squeals of delight and relief as he entered behind them.

Bretton stood just inside the doorway, watching Lady Amalia hug her husband tightly. The woman’s stoic demeanor had broken down and she was weeping softly, kissing his cheeks, her hands on his face, studying him closely in an expression that was nothing short of adoring.

As Bretton watched, he realized that he wanted to see that in Allaston’s expression when she looked at him, too. He wanted that great, all-encompassing adoration that came with true love, something he’d always believed to be a fool’s dream until now. Watching Lady Amalia and her husband, he wanted what they had. He wanted that fool’s dream, too.

In fact, the entire family was hugging and weeping, and Bretton’s heart began to break, just a little. He remembered having that kind of love with his mother and father, too, a love that kept them safe and comforted no matter what happened in life. Even if Bretton was to kill the two men, or the entire family for that matter, they still would have shared something he himself had only had a fleeting taste of – true and pure love. All men searched for it but only the good, the true and spirited man, ever found it.

But he was not a true and spirited man. He was a man who had let vengeance and hatred eat him from the inside out. He was damaged and broken in many ways, whilst Allaston, who had lived a life of such love as he was seeing before him, was true and pure in many ways. She was, in fact, too good for him and it was only just occurring to him now that he did not deserve a woman such as her. She deserved better than what he was. She deserved that love that all women would be grateful for. At that moment, his heart, which was a closely guarded and fragile thing, shattered into a million pieces because he knew he didn’t deserve what he so badly wanted.

Allaston.

As the family before him hugged and wept softly, Bretton knew what he had to do. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy such purity, such unbridled emotion. It was so very rare and he hadn’t the right to destroy it no matter how envious he was of it. No matter if that old knight, one of de Velt’s original knights, had taken it from him. Allaston had been right in so many ways. Killing her father, or any of her father’s original knights, wouldn’t bring his family back again. It wouldn’t even make him happy again. It would just be more deaths in a long line of many, deaths that would never bring fulfillment to anyone. With that stark realization, as the pieces of his heart scattered to the wind, never to be reclaimed, he cleared his throat softly.

“You will all listen to me and listen well,” he said. “You will remain in this kitchen. If I see one of you outside of it, even in the kitchen yard, I will kill the lot of you. Is that clear?”

The younger knight, the father, still clutching his wife, nodded. “It is, my lord,” he said in a beautiful, deep voice.

Bretton eyed the man. He felt such envy for what he had. Something Bretton now realized he would never have.

“Stay hidden and stay low,” he said. “I will close the door to the kitchen but there may be soldiers who enter, looking for valuables. That being the case, you must stay hidden. When night comes, I will come for you, but until then, remain out of sight. If you do not, your lives will be at risk. Do you understand what I have told you?”

The younger knight nodded again. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “We will hide ourselves.”

Bretton nodded shortly but he didn’t say another word. He couldn’t. He was all broken up inside. Leaving the kitchen structure, he returned to the bailey where his men were impaling what was left of de Gault’s army. An army of the dead and dying once again rose outside the walls of Comen Castle as it did twenty-five years ago when de Velt had done the same thing. When Bretton was finished supervising that madness, he had his men settle down in the bailey into individual groups with a cooking fire between them, cooking their booty of stolen chickens and other ill-gotten food stuffs. It was Bretton’s way of avoiding anyone using the kitchen where the old knight and his family were hiding out.

His men drank and ate into the night while Comen’s army, on spikes outside of the walls, groaned and gasped into the darkness, men dying out like lights being snuffed, lives dimming one by one. Bretton remained with his commanders around a fire of their own, eating and drinking as if all was well between them again, with no mention of Allaston or the troubles they had experienced because of her. Talk was on their next target, Erwood Castle, and Bretton assured them that they would march on Erwood once Comen was secured.

Bretton decided that Grayton should remain at Comen to oversee the rebuild, and Grayton was more than happy to comply because Comen was a truly big and rich castle. With Grayton appeased, Bretton could think a bit more clearly. His thoughts were on the family in the kitchens, hiding out, waiting for his return, until Grayton brought up the subject of the fate of the commander of Comen and his family.

Bretton looked at Grayton, realizing he was going to have to lie to the man. In order to show mercy, he was going to have to be underhanded about it unless he wanted real trouble on his hands. It seemed rather ironic that in order to do something good, he had to do something bad.

“I am sure you all saw the older knight that we captured,” he said, looking at all three commanders as he spoke. “He was, in fact, an original knight of Jax de Velt and he was present when Four Crosses Castle was sieged. He more than likely had a hand in killing my father, so I consider his capture a stunning stroke of luck. Therefore, I am keeping the family alive until I decide what to do with them. My first thought is to kill the family and leave the old knight alive to watch, but I am mulling over other opportunities as well.”

“Such as?” Grayton wanted to know.

Bretton looked at the man, seeing suspicion in his eyes. It infuriated him and he struggled not to show it. It also disappointed him because he had always considered Grayton his closest friend and colleague. It was evident that things had changed with the introduction of Allaston. Bretton wondered if things would ever been the same again.

“Very well, Grayton,” he said snappishly. “Let me ask you what
you
would do to them? Keep in mind that the older knight had a hand in killing my father. What would you do to the lot of them to exact your revenge?”

With the focus turn on Grayton, the drunk knight tried to think clearly. “I suppose I would make the old man watch as we kill his family,” he said. “Make him feel what he made you feel, Bretton. Make the man watch while you put his family on spikes.”

Bretton eyed Grayton steadily. “I have thought of that,” he replied. “But I have thought of something else, too – putting all of them to death together. Having the old knight’s last memories be those of sorrow and grief, knowing he could not save his family because he, too, was dying. I have them in the kitchen right now, in fact. I am thinking of simply burning it over their heads and letting that be the end of it.”

Grayton liked that idea, as did Dallan. Teague didn’t give an indication either way. “Why would you not want the old knight to feel the pain your father felt?” Teague asked. “Put the man on a spike and let him rot there. Let him feel what your father felt in his last moments.”

Bretton turned his gaze to the fire, snapping softly in front of him. “Because there is not enough pain in that death,” he said quietly. “Burning of the flesh… there is extreme pain in that, mayhap even enough pain to ease some of my vengeance. I would want the man to suffer more than my father did, whatever death I choose for him.”