She took a few steps but he called out to her. “Allaston?”
She paused to look at him. “Aye?”
Bretton’s gaze never left her as he crossed the floor, taking her into his arms one last time and kissing her with all of the power and anguish he was feeling. Allaston felt it, too. When he let her go, she ran up the stairs. He could hear the chamber door slam on the second floor. He swore he heard her sobbing, too.
With a heavy heart, yet with great determination, he headed out to the bailey to greet the incoming army.
To greet de Velt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
John Morgan hadspent the past two days trying to figure out why he was in Wales. He was surrounded with people he didn’t know, men who had told him he was really somebody else. It was damn confusing and he didn’t like being confused.
The trek into Wales had been steady and methodical, as de Lohr, de Poyer, and de Velt were moving a fairly large army and they had thirteen provision wagons between them. De Velt had brought almost a thousand men from Pelinom, de Poyer had brought eight hundred men with him from Nether, and de Lohr had eleven hundred, making for a massive movement of men and material. All of these soldiers and knights heading into Wales, preparing to take on a mercenary who held de Velt’s daughter hostage with John Morgan right in the middle of it. According to de Lohr, he was a very important part of it.
Unhappy, John Morgan followed de Lohr and de Velt into Wales because he had been ordered to, but he kept to himself. Unfamiliar people always made him nervous. On the morning of the third day out from Lioncross Abbey and after a restless night on John’s part, the army was in sight of a castle in the distance and word spread through the ranks that it was Cloryn Castle.The sunrise was behind them, as they were coming from the east, bathing the castle in a golden glow. It looked rather pretty, to be truthful, but being that it was their destination, something evil await them there. John Morgan didn’t like the look of it.
As he pondered the castle in the distance, riding off to his left was a young knight and an old knight astride their big war horses, men that de Lohr had told him were relatives of his. The old man was even his father, although John Morgan hadn’t recognized him. But that wasn’t unusual. He was very bad with faces and names. In fact, he was pretty bad at most things. He wasn’t a bright man.
“I have been noticing your horse,” came a voice beside him. John Morgan looked over to see a handsome young knight smiling back at him, a young knight he was told was his nephew. The knight gestured to the big bay stallion John Morgan was riding. “He has the long-legged look of a Belgian charger. Is that where you got him?”
John Morgan wasn’t comfortable in conversation with men he didn’t know so it was an effort for him to answer. “Nay,” he said. “He was given to me.”
“How old is he?”
“I am not sure. I think he is ten years old.”
Rod had wanted to engage his uncle in conversation for two days but de Lohr had told him to stay away. He was afraid of upsetting John Morgan and possibly upsetting the entire campaign if the man decided to run off. But Rod was very sociable and he was also very concerned. Berwyn had been a wreck since the day he met John Morgan and Rod very much wanted to ease the way for his grandfather to have a conversation with his son. It was a heartbreaking circumstance.
“Have you had him long?” Rod continued.
John Morgan shook his head. “Not too long.”
Rod wouldn’t let the conversation die. He forged onward. “It looks as if he has a smooth gait,” he said. “I had a fine Belgian charger once that was as smooth as silk but he had a nasty habit of farting all the time. It made travel rather unpleasant. Do you travel much, then?”
John Morgan shook his head. “Not much.”
Rod was coming to see that the man wasn’t much of a conversationalist but it didn’t deter him. “How was your trip down from Northumberland?” he asked. “I’ve actually never been to Alnwick. I hear it is a big place.”
John Morgan nodded. “Big enough,” he said. “My trip was bearable.”
Rod eyed the man, trying to think of something that would possibly engage him in more of a conversation. So far, he wasn’t doing very well. “I am pleased to hear that,” he said, eyeing the horse again. “Have you ever used that horse in a tournament? He has a big chest. I imagine he would have a lot of power in the joust.”
John Morgan shook his head. “I do not joust.”
“Have you ever?”
Again, John Morgan shook his head. “I have not.”
Rod was struggling to keep the conversation going. “I notice you’re missing a finger,” he said. “How did it happen?”
John Morgan lifted his right hand, looking at his little finger, taken off to the second knuckle. He inspected it a moment. “A horse took it off.”
Rod felt a jolt of hope roll through him.It happened long before his head injury. How did he know that?“A shame,” he said, eyeing the man. “I had an uncle who lost the same finger to a horse. As a child, I was scared of horses because of it. I thought they ate fingers for the longest time.”
John Morgan didn’t say anything. He continued plodding along, occasionally looking at his missing finger. “You mean me,” he finally said.
Rod nodded, his heart softening. He found himself praying that somehow, someway, the man would remember them. For Berwyn’s sake, he prayed.
