Devil's Dominion by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

around the room. It was a big enough room for de Llion’s entire army of twelve hundred men. Rough, crude, brutal mercenary soldiers that lived life moment by moment rather than day by day. Such were the uncertainties of their world.
    Soldiers that were currently celebrating another victory in a campaign that had been full of them. After the destruction of Alberbury Priory, Bretton and his army of Irish and Germanic mercenaries had moved south to Ithon Castle, a rather small but important outpost and they had succeeded in breaching it. The garrison commander, a son of one of Jax de Velt’s greatest generals, had been killed along with his wife and three daughters. Bretton hadn’t shed a tear throughout the event and, when everyone was dead, he had decapitated the dead commander and had sent the head with one of his soldiers to Jax de Velt’s residence in Northumberland. By his estimation, ten days after Ithon’s destruction, de Velt should have the head. De Velt should already be concerned with what was happening to his Welsh properties.
    That was how de Llion wanted it. The nun left alive to deliver a message, the daughter of his greatest enemy kidnapped and languishing in the vault… aye, that was how Bretton wanted it. All of this was quite calculated and, so far, had gone according to plan. Bretton, as well as his hired men, were pleased. But Bretton couldn’t take the time to savor the victories. He had a schedule to keep and it was that schedule that occupied his thoughts as he made his way into the loud, smoky great hall. As he approached one of the big tables where his commanders were gathered, one of them, a big man with a bald head and big teeth, lifted a cup to him.
    “Another castle is ours, Bretton,” the man had a heavy Irish accent. “That is cause for much celebration.”
    Bretton sat down on the bench opposite the man. There was a pitcher of cheap red wine and a few cups within his reach and he took a vessel, filling it to the rim.
    “Aye,” he agreed, almost modestly. “Ithon is indeed ours and now staffed with my men. My messenger should have reached Northumberland by now and I suspect de Velt is looking at the head of his garrison commander and wondering what in the Hell has happened.”
    There were three other commanders at the table in addition to the big, bald one. One commander, with a shock of wild blond hair and big arms, pounded the table with his fist in agreement.
    “He will want to know,” he declared. “De Velt’s curiosity will get the better of him, bringing him right to our doorstep.”
    Bretton eyed the man. “What will bring him to our doorstep is the daughter,” he said. “I have just sent a rider off with a second token for de Velt, one he should be receiving in a few days.”
    The commanders were curious. “What token?” the big blond asked.
    Bretton drank deeply from his cup before answering. “Hair belonging to his daughter,” he replied. “I have just sent him a mass of silken dark hair.”
    The blond commander looked at the others, surprised by de Llion’s statement. “Did you kill the woman?” he asked, rather hesitantly. “You did not mention that you would kill her.”
    Bretton shook his head. “Nay, d’Avignon, I did not kill her,” he replied. “She is still safely tucked away in the vault, although she seems to have become ill during her stay. She is not well.”
    A big commander with curly auburn hair reached for the pitcher and began refilling his cup. “What do you intend to do about it?” he asked. “If she dies before we can lure de Velt, then our efforts will have been for naught. We were lucky to find her as it was. Who knows how much trouble it would take to find another de Velt offspring.”
    The man had a point. Bretton turned to look at his second in command, a friend for many years. Grayton du Reims was related to the Earl of East Anglia and was a wise and powerful man. He was a warrior with impeccable bloodlines, a younger son of