Medieval Master Warlords (70 page)

Allaston gasped at the news, but Bretton’s expression held steady. His brow was furrowed, listening to every word his cousin spoke, and when Rod was finished, he continued to stand there with a furrowed brow, frozen, as if he had forgotten how to move. He simply stood there, looking at Rod, until very slowly, his eyes moved beyond Rod to the four horsemen in the distance. But he simply stood there, unmoving, and more than likely not breathing. Allaston finally put a timid hand on his arm.

“Bretton?” she asked hesitantly. “Did you hear him? Your father is here! He is not dead!”

Bretton blinked. Then, it was as if he had been hit in the gut, for he exhaled loudly and painfully, suddenly grasping the portcullis for support.

“It… it cannot be,” he breathed.

Rod could see how stunned he was and he moved closer, putting his hand on his cousin’s fingers as they gripped the old iron grate.

“It is true, I swear it,” he said. “Come with me, Bretton. Come and see your father. He is waiting for you.”

Bretton yanked his hands off the portcullis, away from his cousin’s touch. “You are lying!” he roared.

Rod shook his head. “Bretton, I swear upon my oath as a knight that I am not,” he said. “Grandfather is there, too. They are all there waiting for you. Won’t you please come and see them?”

Bretton was in a world of denial. “It is a trick,” he hissed. “Witchcraft! My father died twenty-five years ago!”

Rod shook his head firmly. “Your father was very badly injured twenty-five years ago,” he said. “He survived but he had no recollection of who he was. He does not remember me or grandfather. Will you please come and see him? Mayhap he will remember you.”

Bretton was seized with shock and disbelief. He stumbled back, slumped against the wall of the gatehouse. His hands were at his mouth as if to hold back his astonishment.

“Why did you bring him?” he demanded. “
Why
?”

Rod watched his cousin, the mighty mercenary who had so flawlessly planned the destruction of Jax de Velt’s empire, crumble before him. The man was falling apart.

“Because we want to exchange Morgan de Llion for Lady Allaston,” he said urgently. “Your father is not dead, Bretton. If he is not dead, then there is no cause for vengeance against de Velt. If you will not come and see your father, then we will take him away and you will never know the truth!”

It was a plot to force Bretton to come to de Velt and de Lohr, but it worked. Bretton bellowed to the sentries to raise the portcullis and they did, chains grinding as the iron grate slowly lifted. When it was about three feet off the ground, Bretton darted underneath it and started running, running for that field where the promise of seeing his father waited. He was blind to anything else.

So was Rod. He ran after his cousin, unaware that Allaston, as she tried to duck beneath the grate, was grabbed from behind by Teague. The man slapped a hand over her mouth and spirited her away from the portcullis, but neither Bretton nor Rod noticed.

As a life-changing event was about to take place in the field below Cloryn, a life-or-death struggle was about to take place inside the walls.

℘

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bretton hadn’t run in this manner since he had been a child. He was running wildly, swiftly, so fast that his chest hurt from the exertion. He was sailing across the road, down the slope, and into the field where the four horsemen await in the distance. As he ran, he began to hear the sounds of children’s laughter deep in his mind, sounds of his sister, Ceri, as she would chase him about. That was what running reminded him of; his beloved sister. He’d not thought of her in twenty-five years. Odd how he could hear her laughter as he ran for his life beneath the bright blue sky.

The four horsemen were drawing closer, three of them dismounting while a fourth remained on his steed. As Bretton drew close, the first thing he saw was Berwyn as the man ripped off his helm and moved to intercept him. But Bretton came to a halt before Berwyn could grab him, and he stared at his grandfather, so much older than he had remembered him, as the man broke down into tears.

“Bretton,” he breathed. “It
is
you. Somehow, I imagined that Rod was wrong. Not until this very minute did I truly believe him.”

Breathing heavily, Bretton focused on his grandfather. “It is me,” he said. “It has been a long time, Grandfather.”

Berwyn simply nodded, smiling through his tears, but he didn’t try to hug him as he’d tried to hug John Morgan. That had only ended in heartbreak. So he stood there, wringing his hands and drinking in the face of the grandson he thought he’d lost. Rod, who had been slower to run because of the heavy mail he was wearing, came running up behind Bretton, breathing so heavily that he nearly collapsed.

“I told him,” Rod said, panting, to Christopher and Jax. “He wants to see John Morgan.”

Before anyone could react, the fourth rider, still astride his steed, removed his helm. Bretton caught the movement and turned to look at the man, realizing the moment he removed his helm that Rod had not been lying. Morgan de Llion no longer had his head of dark, curly hair, and he was missing his beard, but the face was the same and the eyes were the same. They were Bretton’s eyes.

The emotion in the field was palpable as Bretton faced down the man he thought he’d lost. There were no words to describe his joy, no song beautiful enough to describe the moment. It was something he’d never thought he’d see again and he was at a loss. He could only think of four simple words, the four greatest words he could have ever used to define the moment.

“Papa,” Bretton breathed, tears coming to his eyes. “It
is
you.”

John Morgan gazed down at the warrior impassively. Stiffly, because he knew it was expected of him, he climbed down off the horse and faced Bretton, a man who looked a good deal as he had in his youth. He had difficulty meeting his gaze at first, that open and emotional stare that made him uncomfortable, but after a few moments, he found that it was nearly hypnotic to look into those bright blue eyes. There was something in them, something deep inside the depths that made him unable to look away.

“I am told that I am your father,” John Morgan said.

Bretton nodded, tears falling from eyes and onto his stubbled cheeks. “You are,” he whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

John Morgan eyed the man who was coming increasingly more interesting for him to look at. He wasn’t sure why, but something made him study the man who was supposed to be his son. He was still uncertain, however, and nervous. He was surrounded by strangers and struggling not to back away as he normally did.

“I do not know you,” he said. “But you will take me in exchange for de Velt’s daughter. Where is the girl?”

Bretton wasn’t finished looking at his father. All he could do was stare at the man. “Look at me,” he begged softly. “You do not know me? You used to call me Fish Bait. Do you remember that, Papa? You would take me fishing with you and tell me that you would throw me in the water to attract fish, and that they would nibble my toes. Don’t you recall?”

Bretton was moving closer to John Morgan and the man took a step back, uncomfortable with Bretton’s close proximity. “I do not,” he said. Then, he tore his eyes away, looking up to the imposing walls of Cloryn Castle. “But what have you done here? My son would not kill people and abduct women. I have heard that about you. Why did you do such a thing?”

A hint of guilt began to creep over Bretton, an odd sense of shame as his father’s words registered. When he replied, the words that came forth were the truth. “To avenge you,” he said. “I thought you were dead at the hands of de Velt. I am here to avenge you.”

John Morgan frowned. “Did I teach you that?” he wanted to know. “Did I teach you that vengeance is the way to live? I would not teach my son that. Where is this woman? Her father wants her back and you will turn her over immediately.”

Bretton’s joy at his father’s appearance was dashed as shards of disapproval poked holes in his happiness. In fact, he felt as if he’d been slapped in the face, shamed for all to see, scolded by a man he had held up as nothing short of saintly. As he stood there, realizing this joyful event was becoming not so joyful, Jax walked up behind him and put a blade to his throat.

“It was foolish of you to come out here without protection or weaponry,” Jax growled in Bretton’s ear as he grabbed the man from behind. “You will tell your men to bring my daughter forth or this will end very badly for you.”

Christopher hadn’t seen Jax’s action coming and he stepped towards the pair, holding out a quelling hand. He didn’t want to see Jax do anything rash, at least not until they had Lady Allaston in their possession.

“Jax,” he said, calmly but firmly. “Let him go. He will bring Allaston forth of his own free will but if you harm him, I fear what his men will do to her.”

Jax had Bretton by the hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. He heard Christopher but he ignored him. “You called forth The Dark Lord and now you have him,” he snarled. “If my daughter is harmed in any way, I will make you pay the price with every bone in your body. What made you think you could challenge me and win, boy? I will filet you as I have fileted countless others, better men than you. I will make you feel pain as you have never experienced it in your life.”

Bretton wasn’t afraid. He was fairly certain de Velt wouldn’t do anything to him with de Lohr so close but, then again, he was dealing with an enraged father so it was impossible to know just how serious the threat was. Still, he kept calm.

“Your daughter is in perfect health,” he told him. “She is at the gatehouse.”

Rod, concerned for his cousin’s life against an angry Jax de Velt, turned to look for Allaston. He had last seen her standing at the portcullis.

“I do not see her,” he said. “Where could she have gone?”

Bretton couldn’t turn his head because Jax had him by the hair. “She was standing with me,” he said. “She must still be there. She must….”

A distant scream filled the air, echoing against the castle walls. It was a woman’s scream. There was no doubt about it. Another one came right after it, hysterical and piercing. Rod looked at Bretton, his eyes wide with shock, only to see Bretton as he struggled to get away from Jax.

“Allaston,” Bretton breathed, throwing up an arm and catching Jax in the face. As de Velt fell back, struck in the nose, Bretton took off at a dead run towards the castle. “
Allaston!
” he yelled.

Christopher grabbed Jax and shoved him toward his charger. “Mount up!” he bellowed. “Follow him!”

Christopher vaulted onto his horse, taking off after Bretton, passing Rod as the man took off running, too. Jax, nursing a bleeding nose, leapt onto his horse, followed by Berwyn and John Morgan, all three of them thundering towards the castle and the source of the screams, but Jax held off Berwyn as the man raced beside him.

“Return to the army!” he yelled. “Send de Poyer and a contingent of infantry immediately. Then have Wellesbourne and de Wolfe bring up the rest of the troops and position them at the gatehouse. We may need them!”

Berwyn obediently broke off from the men racing for the gatehouse, heading back to the army camped about a half-mile away. Jax, however, continued on, passing Rod and Bretton, on foot, and making it to the gatehouse just behind Christopher.

As the big knights dismounted their chargers, someone inside the gatehouse began to lower the portcullis. Christopher rolled under it, followed by Jax, before Bretton or anyone else could get beneath it. Suddenly, it was just Christopher and Jax against several hundred mercenary troops. Christopher quickly realized they were in a very bad position and he unsheathed his broadsword, as did Jax. Eyes on the mercenaries who were staring them down, he spoke to de Velt.

“Go find your daughter,” he told Jax. “I’ll try to lift the portcullis.”

Jax was deeply torn. “You cannot do it alone,” he said. “You will need my help.”

As they stood there, backs against the portcullis, Bretton reached through and grabbed Jax. “I have two armed commanders,” he said, breathless and wild with worry. “It is possible… oh, God, anything is possible. But if you come across them, do not underestimate them.”

Jax nodded as Bretton turned to the others. “There is a postern gate,” he said. “It is possible we can breach it. We must try.”

As Jax and Christopher faced off against the mercenary army, trapped like dogs by the lowered portcullis, Bretton, Rod, and John Morgan made haste for the postern gate near the kitchens. As Rod ran to collect his charger, still grazing by the side of the road, Bretton began to run but a hand in his face prevented his forward momentum. Startled, he looked up to see John Morgan extending a hand to him.

“Ride with me,” John Morgan said. “We will move faster.”

Bretton looked at the hand in his face.
His father’s hand
. He had visions of being a young boy again as his father offered him a helping hand. The emotions were swirling again, now joined by emotions of fear for Allaston’s safety. As he heard another scream from inside the castle, he grabbed John Morgan’s hand and vaulted onto the back of the horse. Holding onto his father, touched deeply by the feel of his father’s big, warm body for the first time in twenty-five years, he gripped him tightly as the man spurred his big Belgian charger along the massive curtain wall of Cloryn Castle in search of the postern gate.

In search of Allaston.

℘

Teague had dragged Allaston away from the gatehouse and across the bailey. He had her around the waist, hauled up against his body, as she struggled and fought. He was very strong, however, and managed to carry her up into the keep even as she tried to kick his knees out. It was a vicious battle.

Once inside the keep, Allaston managed to make contact with his tender inner thigh and he faltered, tripped, and ended up dropping her to the ground. Allaston hit heavily on her right hip but she scrambled up and away from the warrior before he could grab her again. She ran into the open room with the table where she and Bretton had made love, rushing to the other side of the table, as far away as she could get from Teague de Lara. He was a big, frightening man and she was understandably terrified.

Teague stumbled into the room behind her, seeing that she now had a big, heavy table between them. His handsome face was dark with anger.

“You thought you could make a difference,” he said, breathing heavily from their struggles. “You thought you could stop that which was already in motion. You cannot stop us, do you hear?”

Allaston, panicked, shook her head at him. “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said. “Why did you grab me like that?”

Teague began to move around the table, noting that with every step he took she took another step away from him. “Grayton was right,” he said. “You are a danger. You have bewitched Bretton. He owes us a measure of glory and I will not let you stop it.”

Allaston was edgy and frightened. Teague was trying to get close to her again and she would not permit it. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean,” she said. “I have not bewitched Bretton.”

Teague came to a halt, wondering how he could get across the table and grab her again. “Aye, you have,” he said, “whether or not you realize it. He is obsessed with you and that means his focus on our campaign, our plans to confiscate your father’s Welsh holdings, is in jeopardy.”