Chapter Six
Bronllys Castle was a relatively small castle as far as fortresses went, but it was strategic.
Originally held by Walter de Clifford, the High Sheriff of England, he had turned the castle over to Christopher de Lohr because the man had more manpower on the Marches and was less involved in London politics, in which Walter was entrenched.
With the Marches as volatile as they were, it made sense to have the outpost manned by a lord who had an active interest in keeping the peace.
Therefore, Bronllys Castle was an English-held castle, managed by de Lohr, in the midst of Welsh territory.
Sir Berwyn de Llion was the garrison commander for Bronllys, an old man who refused to give up his command.
The man had grown grandsons but still he continued to remain active.
His once-black hair was now mostly gray but he had a lot of it, and he was built like most of the de Llion men – muscular and big-chested.
His teeth were still in good shape if not slightly yellowed, his heart gave him pain now and again, but those were the only signs of age on the man. He was still rugged and strong.
It was this man who greeted Rod as the knight entered the bailey of Bronllys.
From high in the keep, which sat atop a massive motte, Berwyn had seen Rod approaching from the south.
The fog that had blanketed the countryside for most of the day had finally lifted, affording brilliant views for miles.
Situated at the junction of two rivers, Bronllys guarded one of the main roads into Wales.
One could not avoid the castle if one was traveling into Wales.
Excited by the view of his grandson returning, it took Berwyn some time to climb down from the keep, taking the narrow wooden steps down the motte and on into the bailey.
By the time he reached the large, oddly shaped bailey, Rod had already been met by some soldiers and was dismounting his frothing steed. Berwyn was very happy to see the man.
“I am glad to see that the fortunes were with you,” he said as he clapped Rod on the back. “And how is our illustrious liege? Did you give de Lohr my greetings?”
Rod was weary from his ride but he managed a smile at his grandfather. “I did,” he said. “He sends his in return.”
Berwyn began to pull Rod towards the great hall, which was built along the eastern wall of the bailey. “How was your journey?”
“Long.”
“What did de Lohr want of you?”
Rod didn’t say anything for the moment. He had been debating what to tell his grandfather about Bretton’s return ever since he had learned of it.
He and de Lohr had spent an evening debating about the positive and negative effects of telling the old man, but in the end, Rod knew he couldn’t, in good conscience, withhold such information.
It wasn’t fair to Berwyn. Good or bad, the man had a right to know, especially if he had the potential of facing the man in battle.
“Come inside and we will discuss it,” Rod said as they headed into the long, skinny great hall with its massive hearth and roaming packs of cats.
No dogs at Bronllys, but feral cats everywhere.
Rod even shoved one out of the way as he took a seat at the end of the big feasting table.
“I have not eaten since before dawn, so feed me before I faint.”
Berwyn grinned and sent a servant running to the kitchen for food and drink as he sat down opposite his grandson.
He was inordinately attached to the man and had been for the past several years, ever since Rod came to serve with him.
Missing his own son as he did, his only son who had been murdered those years ago, made him overly attached to Rod.
He faced the man over the top of the well-scrubbed feasting table.
“Well?” he said expectantly. “What would de Lohr have of you?”
Rod eyed his grandfather. He was going to have to be very careful in how he brought about the subject of Bretton de Llion.
As he’d told de Lohr, it was quite possible that his grandfather, in a fit of emotion, would ride straight to Cloryn to seek out the truth of the matter.
Rod didn’t want a big scene on his hands with his grandfather but braced himself for the possibility.
“It would seem that there is much activity happening on the Marches north of Bronllys and we must maintain vigilance,” he began quietly. “De Lohr summoned me to warn us about it. It would seem there is a mercenary army raiding and confiscating castles along the Powis border.”
Berwyn was grim. “It must be serious, indeed,” he said. “Mercenary army, did you say?”
Rod nodded. “Remember when we were told of Cloryn’s defeat by a passing merchant?” he asked, watching his grandfather nod. “Cloryn was just one tragedy in a long line of many. That same army moved on Alberbury Priory and burned it to the ground.”
Berwyn’s bushy eyebrows rose. “They burned a priory?” he repeated, aghast. “Why would they do this? The priory would have nothing of value, at least nothing that mercenaries would want.”
Rod drew in a long, contemplative breath, pausing before replying as servants brought food to the table and set it down. He waited until the servants walked away before continuing.
“These are no ordinary mercenaries,” he said, reaching for the pitcher of boiled fruit juice.
He preferred that over watered ale in the morning.
“De Lohr received a missive from Robert de Boulers not long ago. Most of the activity has been on de Bouler’s borders and the man is understandably concerned.
Evidently, the story is this – an army of Irish mercenaries landed in Liverpool several weeks ago and made its way to the Powis Marches, whereupon they wreaked a good deal of havoc.
They badly damaged Clun Castle and Knighton Castle, and attacked Dolforwyn as well, although that castle held.
But Cloryn didn’t. They took it and then they moved on to burn Alberbury Priory.
They went to Alberbury with a purpose, however. They were looking for someone.”
Berwyn was frowning now. “I do not understand,” he said. “Who were they looking for?”
Rod sighed faintly as he poured his drink. “Ajax de Velt’s daughter,” he said. “She was apparently a novice nun at the priory. They took the girl, burned the priory, but left one solitary old nun alive to deliver a message regarding their actions.”
Berwyn was shocked. “What message is that?”
Rod took a long drink before answering. “The message is for Ajax de Velt,” he said.
“The mercenaries are following the same pattern de Velt did when he raided the borders twenty-five years ago. Every castle they have hit has been a castle de Velt hit, and Cloryn belonged to de Velt. They have taken it and they have taken his daughter. The message to de Velt is simple – if he wants his daughter, he must come and get her. This mercenary army is calling forth de Velt, Papa. They are summoning The Dark Lord himself.”
Berwyn’s initial shock faded and now he simply sat and mulled over the situation.
He was an old man and didn’t get too excited over things, no matter how bad they were.
Calmer heads prevailed because panicked ones couldn’t.
After several moments of pondering the circumstances, he grunted and shook his head.
“I do not want to see de Velt on this border again,” he said.
“I remember when the man tore through here twenty-five years ago. It was as if Hell itself had opened up and Lucifer was marching upon us. The fear of that time was tangible. When he took Four Crosses Castle… well, that is a time I do not wish to relive. I cannot even stomach the thought.”
The time had come for Rod to divulge what he knew. He tried to be gentle. “The commander of the mercenary army had a name,” he said quietly. “He told the old nun to make sure she relayed it to de Velt. He gave his name as Bretton de Llion.”
So much for not getting excited over things. Berwyn stared at Rod for a long, tense moment before his eyebrows lifted and his face went pale. He was having difficulty speaking, stammering and stuttering, until the words finally came forth.
“Bretton?” he repeated, aghast. “Bretton de Llion?”
Rod nodded, hoping his grandfather wasn’t going to seize up right in front of him.
“That is why de Lohr summoned me, in truth,” he said steadily.
“It was because of the name the mercenary commander gave. He knew that name was somehow related to us, to you. He thought it would be better if I told you.”
Berwyn just stared at him. It was clear he was reeling. He began to shake his head, back and forth, almost wildly.
“Impossible,” he gasped. “Bretton died twenty-five years ago.”
Rod wasn’t unsympathetic to the man’s reaction. His, in fact, had been worse, comparatively speaking. At least Berwyn wasn’t yelling about it.
“That is what I told de Lohr,” Rod said.
“But the man made some very good points. We never found Bretton’s body.
If there is no body, then there is no confirmation of death.
It is quite possible that Bretton somehow escaped and has now returned to seek vengeance for what happened to Uncle Morgan. Isn’t it possible, Papa?”
Berwyn was so off balance by the revelation that he literally reeled over backwards, catching himself on the table.
Disoriented, he stood up unsteadily and Rod also stood up and went around the table to take hold of his grandfather.
The man was all shades of incredulous and the grief, long buried these years, began to surface again.
“Nay,” he hissed. “It is not possible. Bretton died along with Morgan and Ceri and Brethwyn. He has not come back from the dead.”