Devil's Dominion by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

a father who would not inherit lands or titles. Therefore, Grayton had to make his own way and, at the tender age of eleven, had run away from home to earn his fortune. He had worked for a mercenary knight who had taught him his trade, a vocation that Grayton eagerly took to. He was not a consecrated knight but should have been. He was skilled and powerful, and Bretton relied on him a great deal. His wisdom was paramount in all things.
    “Then what would you suggest?” Bretton asked. “Send for a physic? Purchase expensive medicines? She is a prisoner and nothing more.”
    Grayton frowned. “She is a valuable bargaining tool,” he countered. “Take your emotion out of the situation, Bretton. What you have is a very valuable commodity. I have been against you putting her in the vault since the beginning, you know this. I have made no secret of it. You must take care of this prize if you are truly going to use her to lure her father. It seems to me that you have turned your hatred of de Velt onto the daughter. She is the embodiment of all you loathe. If she dies, she will do us no good, and I did not burn a priory and kill nuns in vain.”
    Bretton didn’t want to admit that Grayton was correct. He was stubborn. “You are mad,” he muttered, noting that the servants were starting to bring forth the evening meal. “She is an object and nothing more. I do not hate her nor do I love her. She means little more to me than this table.”
    Grayton shook his head. “You would repair this table if it was broken because it serves a purpose,” he said. “So does the woman serve a purpose. Get her out of the vault, make her comfortable, and hope she recovers.”
    Bretton made a face. “ You get her out of the vault and make her comfortable,” he said, too prideful to admit Grayton was right. “I put her in your care if you are so concerned about her.”
    “Then you agree with me?”
    “I agree that you worry like an old woman. And if she escapes from you, I will have your head.”
    Grayton grinned. Bretton was as stubborn as they came. Slapping the man on the shoulder, he stood up and made his way from the hall. The other commanders watched him go, including Bretton, who eventually turned back to his wine.
    “D’Avignon,” he said, turning the focus away from Grayton and his correct assessment of their prized prisoner because he was starting to feel foolish about it. “Now that we have been returned to Cloryn for a few hours, how do the men fare? Well enough so that we should be prepared to move to our next target by the coming week?”
    Sir Olivier d’Avignon, the burly blond knight, paid great attention to his liege’s question. After a moment, he nodded. “They seem well enough,” he said. “Since we landed in Liverpool, we’ve done nothing but march from one place to another, so if we could remain at Cloryn for a few days, it would serve the men well. They need to rest after the warfare we have conducted. It has been rather taxing.”
    That was putting it mildly. Sieges, death, destruction, men impaled on poles and decapitations were only part of the havoc they had wreaked. But that was their way, the manner in which Bretton’s army functioned, having taken their clues from Ajax de Velt and his reign of terror those years ago. Bretton thought back to the path that had brought him to this moment in time, thinking over all of the work and sacrifice he had to make in order to see his desires fulfilled. Lost in reflection, he sipped pensively at his wine.
    “From Liverpool, we laid siege to Clun, Knighton and Dolforwyn. We weren’t trying to take those castles, only harass them. Then it was straight to Cloryn Castle,” he muttered. “Once our base was established at Cloryn, it was on to Alberbury for the de Velt daughter. The man we paid to locate the de Velt children took three years to find one we could get to and, in the end, we found de Velt’s daughter just where he said she would be. Once we