“Impressive,” Christopher said. “I have never been here.”
“William,” David said, gesturing to the gatehouse. “We are being met.”
They looked to the gatehouse to see a couple of men heading out in the darkness on foot, holding torches. The first man that came into view was older, with a crown of silver hair, and William came to within ten feet of him before reining his steed to a halt.
“Lord Bernicia?” he said hesitantly. “Alastor de Bourne?”
The man looked him over before replying. “And you are?”
“William Marshal.”
That brought tremendous relief and the man visibly relaxed. “My lord,” he said. “Welcome to Castle Keld. Cole told me that it was you, but I wanted to make sure. I wanted to see your face.”
“And so you have,” William said, looking over Alastor’s head to features he recognized. A smile tugged at his lips. “Cole, you are to be commended. Your work on behalf of England has been flawless.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Cole said as he stepped forward, smiling as he held the torch up to get a look at the men accompanying The Marshal.
He recognized them in an instant.
For some reason, everyone accompanying William began to chuckle. Looking at a smiling Cole had them laughing. The man never smiled and even when he did, there was something sinister about it, like the cat who was about to swallow the canary. Or already had. In fact, it was Peter who dismounted his steed first to go and greet Cole as one would a long-lost brother. Since their father’s were great friends, the men knew each other well.
He embraced Cole fondly.
“Cole,” Peter said, squeezing him. “You ugly fool. How long has it been?”
Cole snorted. “Not long enough, Peter,” he said. “I would insult you in return, but your father is within earshot and he might not take kindly to it. Suffice it to say you are no uglier than usual.”
Peter grinned, patting him on the cheek, as Cole turned his attention to the rest of the knights. “Max,” he greeted Maxton, looking to the man behind him. “Achilles. I thought I smelled you the moment the army entered the village.”
Maxton laughed. He had a sense of humor. Achilles, however, did not. He frowned. “You nasty cuss,” he said. “Come and say that to my face. I dare you.”
That made Maxton laugh harder, slapping an arm across Achilles’ chest to prevent him from dismounting. “You would never survive,” he said. “He is a de Velt, remember?”
As Achilles conceded the point, Alexander dismounted his steed and headed in Cole’s direction. Alexander was known as Sherry to his friends and he turned his black eyes on Cole, studying him for a moment.
There was warmth there.
“I’ve not seen you in four years,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “I heard you had infiltrated the Scots. Quite a task, de Velt. A lesser man would not have handled it so well.”
Alexander was more sedate than the others, perhaps more introspective, a man who preferred working alone than in a group, but he was a deeply loyal friend to those he loved and admired. Cole was one; they’d met several years ago when Alexander had first returned from The Levant and The Marshal was recruiting more knights for his stable of spies. Since Cole had the de Velt legacy, he’d made a perfect candidate and it had been Alexander’s task to seek him out, at Norwich Castle during that time, and essentially interview him. He liked what he had seen.
He still did.
Cole, too, considered Alexander a loyal and true friend. He took his extended hand and held fast.
“It is good to see you, Sherry,” he said. “I’ve missed that face, always looking at me as if expecting more from me than my own father does.”
Alexander laughed softly. “Because I do,” he said. “You are greatness, Cole, as proven by your most recent task.”
“Speaking of tasks,” The Marshal said as he dismounted his horse stiffly. “What has happened to this village? Have you suffered a recent attack, Bernicia?”
He was addressing Alastor by his formal title and Alastor sighed heavily. “Aye,” he said. “In fact, there is a great deal to tell and little time to act, so come inside and let us discuss the situation. Much has changed since you received de Velt’s missive.”
The Marshal nodded, handing over his reins to Dashiell, but his focus moved to Cole. “Did your father raze Fountainhall as I commanded?” he asked.
All eyes were on Cole has he nodded. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Fountainhall is no more.”
“And her army?”
“Still on poles, as far as I know,” he said. “It was my father’s habit to leave them up until they were nothing left but leather and bone.”
That was an impactful statement. The Dark Lord had indeed razed a castle and destroyed an army as only he was capable of. It was eerie and terrifying. The Marshal looked at Christopher, who lifted his eyebrows as if to emphasize the scope of the horror that had undoubtedly occurred.
“Good,” The Marshal said simply. “And Canmore? Was he captured?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Where is he?”
“That is what we must discuss, my lord.”
The Marshal didn’t ask anymore questions. He had what he wanted, mostly, but he was intensely curious about the rest. He could see by the expressions on Cole and Alastor’s faces that a good deal more must have happened.
Perhaps the abduction of Alpin Canmore had only been the beginning.
Without another word, he followed Alastor into the vast bailey of Castle Keld.
“He burned to death?” Christopher repeated, shocked. “Christ. The man fell into the hearth and burned to death?”
Alastor nodded. “Of his own accord, I might add,” he said. “In fact, that hearth right there. You can still smell the burned flesh. The stench is in everything.”
He was pointing to the enormous hearth against the wall, the one blazing with a friendly fire that hadn’t been so friendly when Alpin had fallen into it. Everyone turned to look at it, as if there were something different about it than other hearths, but the truth was that it looked normal enough.
Normal enough and deadly enough under the right circumstances.
Alastor’s solar was crowded with the men who had accompanied The Marshal north, as well as his own sons and Cole de Velt. All of them now looking at the hearth after hearing a rather horrifying story about Alpin Canmore’s death.
In fact, The Marshal took a good look at the black-stoned fireback before turning away with a grimace.
“Astonishing,” he muttered, returning his attention to Alastor. “And he spoke of Berwick before he fell into the hearth? That is not something I have heard before.”
“Nor I,” Alastor replied. “It was Cole who translated what he said, for he spoke it in the Scot’s tongue. Mayhap to tease us, since I do not speak the Gaelic. Mayhap he knew that.”
The Marshal looked at Cole. “What did he say, exactly?”
Cole didn’t hesitate. “Tha an fhìrinn ann am Bearaig.”
The Marshal lifted his eyebrows, curious. “I see,” he said. “So the man said that the truth lies in Berwick. And that was all?”