Chapter Eighteen

Rotri had Domnall in his arms.

The man was hysterical.

“My son,” he wept, spittle dripping from his lips. “My son is dead!”

As the village of Millford burned around them, the men from Dordon were facing a difficult scene. Domnall had been discovered near the southern edge of the village, crumpled and smashed in a gutter because he’d evidently been trampled. Even his head was smashed. When Rotri was notified, he’s rushed to the southern end of the village as men gathered around the corpse, only to see his son lying in a pool of his own blood.

It had been a gruesome scene.

Cristano, Adan, and Benedicto were standing around, watching Rotri mourn his son, the only one out of all of them who seemed to show any common sense or reason. It was true that he went along with his father’s plans in whatever the man wanted to do, but he wasn’t a fanatic about it like Rotri was. How he’d been killed was anyone’s guess because no one had seen it happen, but it was clear that he’d been trampled or run over, because his entire body was broken.

And so was Rotri.

“My lord,” Cristano said, “I realize this is a terrible moment for you, but the Stafford army is coming. We can see them along the road. Are we to follow the plan we discussed at Dordon? Are we still to go through with it?”

Rotri was sobbing openly, holding his son, feeling how broken he was. “Oh, God,” he breathed as if he was losing his mind. “God help me. Please, God help me!”

Cristano had lookouts on the northern end of town, watching for the Stafford approach. The entire situation was working as it should have and he didn’t want to lose this opportunity. Domnall’s death was unfortunate, but that didn’t change facts. Cristano wanted revenge against de Reyne. He wanted his money and possessions back, everything he’d been forced to leave behind at Stafford Castle. All of this he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get that if Rotri fell apart.

They had to stay the course.

“My lord, please,” he said, trying not to be insensitive because it might turn Rotri against him. “We… we must not let your son’s death be in vain. If we lose this opportunity to capture de Reyne, then Domnall would have died for nothing. We must hurry because the Stafford army will be upon us shortly. May we continue to follow the plan?”

Rotri’s head came up. Every orifice on his face was leaking something. He was beyond grief at the moment, but not so far gone that he didn’t hear Cristano’s words. The only thing he could think of was blame. He had to blame someone for this.

Someone was going to have to pay.

“I want you to kill him,” he spat. “Kill de Reyne when you see him!”

That hadn’t been part of the plan. “If we kill him, we cannot ransom him,” Cristano said evenly. “We were going to ransom him, my lord. Lure him into an ambush and abduct him. That was our plan.”

“Nay!” Rotri shouted. He jabbed a finger at Cristano. “I will give you everything I have, pay you every coin I possess, if you will kill de Reyne. This is his fault! He is to blame for my son’s death!”

Cristano looked at his cousins, who were gazing back at him with expressions that could have been taken as agreement. Benedicto in particular seemed highly agreeable because he didn’t like the fact that one of de Reyne’s knights had bested him in a fight. He had a score to settle with de Reyne, and the knight who bested him, so he was perfectly agreeable to kill them. Either way, revenge would be exacted. When he made eye contact with Cristano, he nodded. Just once.

But it was enough.

“Very well,” Cristano said, more to his cousins than to Rotri. “Find the crossbows and secure positions around here. Quickly. Get a clear shot at de Reyne and take it. I will do the same. But tell the soldiers to continue with their original orders—they are not to engage the Stafford men or the knights. They are simply to run about and make chase.”

“At some point, de Reyne will end up in front of us,” Benedicto said with satisfaction. “I could take that man out and sleep like a baby afterward. My conscience would be clear. He deserves what he gets for the way he has treated us.”

Cristano waved a hand at him. “Go,” he said. “Find your vantage point and stay out of sight. If de Reyne or his men see us…”

Benedicto was already on the move, grabbing Adan as he went. Together, the two of them headed off, shouting to the Dordon men who were gathered, discussing the death of Domnall and the situation in general in hushed tones. But the shouting knights had them moving. As the entire Dordon contingent began to move, Cristano returned his attention to Rotri.

“My lord,” he said. “Let me help you move your son. You must not be sitting out in the open when the Stafford army comes. They will want to know why you are here.”

Rotri was still weeping, still holding Domnall. “I want them dead,” he sobbed.

“I know,” Cristano said steadily. “And we shall make it so. But we must get you and your son to safety first. Please, my lord. I will help you.”

It took some coaxing for Rotri to comply, but eventually, Cristano took Domnall by the legs and Rotri held him under the arms. They moved him across the road and into a livery, one of the only buildings they hadn’t burned because it was sheltering some of their horses. Once Domnall was lying on a bed of straw in a darkened corner, Cristano turned to leave, but Rotri stopped him.

“You and your cousins may serve me at Dordon and I will still give you all of the coin I have if you kill de Reyne,” he said, his face swollen and wet. “He did this to my son.”

“I know, my lord,” Cristano said. “But I do not want your coin. I want something else.”

“What is that?”

Cristano’s dark eyes glittered in the dim light of the livery. “When de Reyne is dead, I want his wife,” he muttered. “Robert de Tosni was an ineffective earl. De Reyne will not be the earl long enough to matter. But Stafford… It belongs to me. It has more of my blood and sweat in it than any de Tosni whelp. I will marry Lady Caledonia, take Stafford, and give you Tamworth. That’s what you want… isn’t it? Tamworth?”

Suddenly, Rotri didn’t seem so despondent, as if Cristano’s suggestion was enough to bring him some comfort. It was the perfect solution to their problem. He eyed the man, realizing that de Reyne’s death would be a blessing in more ways than one.

“Aye,” he said. “Tamworth was my brother’s title. It should have been mine.”

“It will be,” Cristano assured him. “Do we have a bargain?”

“A marriage to my niece to secure Stafford?”

“I deserve it. More than that, I want it.”

“Then we have a bargain.”

As Cristano rushed off to collect his crossbow and find a place from which to hunt de Reyne, Rotri turned to his son lying dead upon the straw. Grief threatened to consume him as he gazed upon the only thing that had given him a reason for living. That reason was gone now. But his vengeance would be satisfied. In the end, Tamworth would still be his.

And that was all that mattered.

At that moment, something in him snapped.

Reality altered.

Lying in the straw at his feet, Domnall’s right arm was over his head, his palm facing outward. He was waving at his father, encouraging him to go forth and see this plan to the end. That was logical, wasn’t it? Domnall was telling him to continue. Stafford belonged to Cristano, but in order for the man to fully assume it, he needed to marry Caledonia. That elusive woman who had been forced into a marriage with de Reyne. It wasn’t her fault, after all. She was a pawn. De Reyne and the king were the players. With de Reyne dead, she should thank Rotri for his intervention. Wasn’t that what a good uncle would do?

Perhaps it was time to collect his niece. He knew where she was—all he had to do was go and get her. He was already out the door, heading for Stafford Castle. De Reyne would be here, at Millford, a victim for Cristano’s crossbow. But Caledonia would be all alone, waiting for her uncle to save her.

She was finally his.

Once and for all.