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CHAPTER FOUR

N ight was approaching.

On the battlements of the castle, one could gain a perfect picture of the defeat of Brython. Not only was the ground outside the castle torn up by the de Lohr army, but inside, the siege engines had done far more damage than they could have imagined. Every projectile over the wall, every flaming mass, had damaged something.

There was carnage everywhere.

Brython used to have a large stable block, but that was now in ashes. The small, sturdy Welsh ponies that the Welsh tended to favor had been housed in that structure. Most were able to get out alive, but a few had perished in the flame and the smoke. Also dead were almost an entire coop of chickens, which had also been burned to the ground by the same flames that had spread through the stables. Although there were still some chickens pecking around, along with a few goats and a cow and her calf, most everything living in the animal world had been either killed or eaten during the siege.

The English knights thought it was rather strange that there were any animals at all after such a siege. They had cut off the water supply and backed up the sewer, so the logical thing would have been for the Welsh to eat anything they could. But that clearly did not happen. What was obvious, however, was the fact that the English had a massive cleanup in front of them before the castle could even be remotely functional. In addition to the damaged walls and gatehouse, Brython was a compromised structure, and would be for some time.

Now, with the night upon them, the time had come to settle the posts for the night. The quartermasters of the de Lohr army were still outside the wall in their traveling kitchen, and the smells of food and smoke were heavy in the air. The Welsh prisoners, as it turned out, numbered nearly one hundred and fifty men. Those men hadn’t eaten regularly or well since the English cut off the water supply, and many of them were quite ill. Still others had run off. The English had set up a section of the encampment specifically for the prisoners, and provided the men with decent food and fire. The de Lohr army had the reputation of being one of the more merciful armies on the marches in their treatment of the Welsh, so even the defeated could count on fair dealings from the mighty Earl of Hereford and Worcester.

But with some of the men who served him, it was a different story.

A knight with dark eyes hiding an even darker soul stood upon the wall walk, gazing over the twilight below. He was weary and bloodied from Welshmen who didn’t take kindly to having their castle confiscated, but to him, any blood or bruises were a badge of honor. He wore them proudly, even if the men who had resisted were now in a pile of the dead down far below at the base of the wall. The battle had been over, and the dead were Welshmen who had surrendered on the wall walk. When the knight had attempted to throw them over the wall, even after their surrender, they’d fought back. And they’d lost.

Those wounds were his badge of honor.

Dark soul, indeed.

“Well?” A knight with fair hair, balding, was approaching from the north side of the wall walk. “Does it look like a complete victory to you, Amaro?”

Amaro de Laraga glanced over at his comrade. “It does,” he said. “Another victory is ours, Hugo. How does that make you feel?”

Hugo de Bernay grinned as he stood next to Amaro, surveying the vast and torn-up landscape below. “I feel as if I want to return to Lioncross and sleep for a week,” he said. “I am glad this is finally over. To be truthful, I wasn’t sure if we were going to gain the upper hand.”

Amaro laughed softly, clapping Hugo on the shoulder. “De Lohr will always gain the upper hand,” he said. “Sometimes it takes time, but Curt is a master tactician. No one can best him.”

“True,” Hugo said. “But the Welsh certainly tried.”

Amaro couldn’t disagree. “That they did,” he said, turning to look at the interior of the castle and the horrific mess it was. “It cost them dearly, I’m afraid. They should have known better.”

“They have not known better for two hundred years.”

Amaro nodded, looking to the battered western wall, barely visible because of the enormous keep in the way. “Foolish Welshmen aside,” he said casually, “I have heard a rumor.”

Hugo snorted. “You are always hearing rumors.”

Amaro shrugged. “If this one is true, then we are looking at our new home.”

That comment wiped the smile off Hugo’s face. “What do you mean?”

Amaro gestured to the castle around them. “I mean that Curt will be garrison commander of this massive place,” he said. “Rumor has it that Henry himself wants Curt here, so we are looking at our new home. I must say, I am very pleased. No longer will we be in Hereford’s shadow. Curt deserves a command of his own. We deserve the chance for glory without Hereford hanging over our every move.”

Hugo looked around, puffing his cheeks out wearily at the prospect that what Amaro said was true. “This is one of the most coveted castles on the marches,” he said, scratching his dirty head. “But Gwenwynwyn garrisoned it for John for many years. It has always been Welsh-held, English-loyal.”

“Not anymore,” Amaro said. “I am certain that William Marshal had a hand in this decision, but now Henry wants it held by the English. By a de Lohr. This will be our time to shine, Hugo.”

Hugo smiled wanly. He didn’t have the delusions of grandeur that Amaro had. He knew the man was ruthless and ambitious. He also knew the man had killed surrendering Welsh by throwing them off the wall. It wasn’t the first time the Spanish-born knight had been brutal with prisoners, but no one challenged him. No one ever said anything. Curtis knew, but he had to weigh the man’s ruthless streak against the fact that he was a truly excellent knight and a strong fighter. He was also the son of the Conde de Zidacos , or the Earl of Zidacos, a very powerful Spanish warlord in Navarre that Christopher was allied with.

There were a lot of things overlooked when it came to Amaro.

And that made Hugo nervous.

“I have a feeling this post will not be so romantic as you say,” Hugo finally said, watching Amaro chuckle. “I have a feeling we may see daily harassment from the Welsh. They are going to want this place back.”

“That is possible,” Amaro said. “But I prefer to look at it is a fresh challenge. My father may be Spanish, but my mother was Norman. The hatred for the Welsh is bred into me by blood.”

“Your mother was from a family closer to Scotland.”

“I hate the Scots, too.”

That had Hugo laughing at the man. Together, they shared a chuckle, a release of sorts and a moment of levity in a situation that hadn’t seen much of that kind of thing. It also kept Hugo on Amaro’s good side, something he always tried to stay on because he didn’t want Amaro’s ruthless streak turned on him. But the humor faded as torches were lit to stave off the coming darkness, and Amaro sighed heavily.

“I suppose we must get about our rounds,” he said. “Curt will want a report.”

Hugo nodded, scratching his head again. “I’ve had the men collect the dead from around the wall,” he said. “We either need to return them to the Welsh or burn them. Curt should make the decision.”

“I’ll make the decision,” Amaro said quietly. “Burn them. Let’s pile them out there, away from the encampment, and simply burn them.”

Hugo glanced at him. “That might enrage the clergy in the nearby town,” he said. “Any burning should be cleared with Curt. Ultimately, he will have to answer for it.”

Amaro knew that. The clergy usually greatly disapproved of burning corpses of enemies, especially in a volatile area like the marches. But Amaro wasn’t beyond overstepping himself when Curtis wasn’t around. He didn’t like it when his commands were questioned.

“Then find him and tell him,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “In fact, tell him that I—”

He was cut off by a shout over near one of the towers where the stairs led up from the bailey. As he and Hugo turned to the source of the noise, they could see a soldier emerging from the tower, dragging someone with him. As he drew closer, they could see that it was a woman dressed in the clothes of a male servant.

The soldier had her by the hair.

“I found this one hiding in the kitchens, my lord,” the soldier said, dumping the woman in front of Amaro. “She says that Gwenwynwyn is her uncle and she is hiding because she fears for her life from the English.”

Amaro and Hugh looked at the woman. She was tiny, with dark hair and dark eyes, a little slip of a woman who was clearly terrified. She put her dirty hands over her face, weeping, as Hugo crouched in front of her.

“What’s your name, lass?” he asked.

The woman was a mess. Shaken and thin, she wiped her eyes with the back of her dirty hand. “M-Melusine,” she said, her voice trembling. “Melusine ferch Cadwallon.”

“And you are from Gwenwynwyn’s family?”

She nodded, her dark hair flapping in her face. “He is my uncle,” she said. Then she burst into a new round of tears. “He supported the English king, my lord. He was not the enemy. I am not the enemy!”

“Yet you hid from us,” Hugo said. “Why did you do that?”

There was fluid coming out of every feature of her face. “There was fire coming from the sky,” she said, shakily indicating the flaming projectiles. “It burned everything. And then she went mad, so I hid!”

“Who went mad?”

“M-my cousin, my lord,” she said. “She wanted to kill me and kill her brother.”

“What cousin?”

Melusine shook her head. “Elle, my lord.” She sniffled. “She put Gruffydd in the vault, so I hid.”

Hugo looked up at Amaro. “Do you know anything about a cousin?”

Amaro shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “But we should take her to de Lohr. He will want to talk to her if she is who she says she is.”

He motioned to the soldier, who took the hint. Grabbing Melusine by the arm this time, he dragged the woman off the wall. Amaro and Hugo could hear her weeping all the way down the stairs. They could see her down below, in the darkened bailey, as the soldier pulled her toward the gatehouse with the English encampment beyond.

Screams always excited Amaro.

When he heard them, he knew he was accomplishing his tasks well.