Page 112 of Feathers in the Wind
“Farrington will be back in Ludlow,” Luke said.
“How do you know?” Deliverance asked.
Luke turned to face the room and shrugged. “I’m guessing that Farrington’s returned to Ludlow to report to his father, celebrate his success and gather reinforcements before he marches on us. Ned, send out a scout to report if he’s left a guard on the castle. If he’s just marched away we’ll go and see for ourselves at first light.”
Ned rose to his feet and left the room. “It could be a trap,” Deliverance said.
A thousand thoughts crossed her mind. If he were to be captured on this escapade, what would become of the castle? Of her? She could not imagine how she could sustain a siege without Luke Collyer. He had taught her to depend on him and that thought caused a rush of anger. Before Luke she had managed quite well. She had never been dependent on anyone else in her life and the thought frightened her more than the threat of Farrington.
“Don’t argue with me, Deliverance,” Luke said. “I’m not in the mood.”
“No, you’re feeling guilty,” Deliverance said. “You’re thinking you should have gone to Byton’s aid.”
She could see from the anguished twist of his mouth that she was correct.
“You wouldn’t have achieved anything,” she said. “You said yourself Farrington’s men outnumbered anything we have to throw at him, and you were right. We had no choice but to stay here. Stay safe.” He scowled. “Safe? Deliverance we have less than a hundred men to hold this castle.”
“Yes, but we have something Byton didn’t have and that is ample supplies and a clean water supply and we’re well prepared. We can hold out until help comes. If you’re riding out into a trap we are losing the only other thing we need...you.”
To her surprise he laughed. “I thought it would please you to see the back of me?”
She sniffed. “You are quite good at what you do and I’ve grown rather accustomed to having you around.”
He crossed over to where she stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. Beneath its warmth and weight, the gesture gave her a curious comfort.
“You’ve read the books, Deliverance. There is no science to shutting the door and letting Farrington knock away to his heart’s content. I doubt your father will let Kinton Lacey go unrelieved for any length of time. Good night.” He pulled his hand away and turned for the door, walking with a slow heavy step as if he, not she, carried the world on his back.
Deliverance touched the place where his hand had rested. She had to stop him, whatever it took.
As he reached the door she blurted out, “Luke, you’ve heard Lovedie’s story. What are you going to accomplish by riding out to Byton?”
He stopped at the door and turned to look at her. “Peace of mind,” he said.
Chapter 8
The scout Ned sent out reported back that Byton castle appeared to be deserted, but when he admitted that he hadn’t gone right up to the ruins, Luke decided to see for himself.
They set out before first light and encountered no enemy on the road from Kinton Lacey. The acrid smell of smoke reached them even before the former stronghold of Byton loomed out of the dawn mist, grey and ominous. He remembered how he had last seen it, golden and soft in the summer sun, a family home not a fortress. Now the broken, jagged teeth of the walls reached to the sky from a mire of trampled gardens and destruction.
He drew rein, his nose twitching. Even two hundred yards, over the stench of burning from the slighted castle, he could smell death.
He dismounted and led his horse across the churned-up grass and mud of the battlefield to the ditch that lay before the castle. He steeled himself to look down into the inadequate defensive ditch below the castle walls. Just as Lovedie had said, they had tied the men of Byton’s garrison in pairs and cut their throats. He counted twenty-eight bodies. Farrington hadn’t even spared the powder for a merciful bullet.
Luke’s own men dismounted and stood beside him looking down at the carnage, undisguised horror written on their faces. The man beside him turned away, retching and two went down on their knees, their hands clasped in prayer. Luke reflected, with some gratitude, that at least they had not heard Farrington’s chilling message.
Kinton Lacey will be next.
He looked up, conscious of women’s voices and weeping coming from the broken buildings and a group of four women appeared in the gateway. They walked towards him, past the shattered remnants of the gate hanging drunkenly from its hinges, their hands outstretched, beseeching the newcomers to retrieve their menfolk for decent burial.
Without the necessity of him giving the order, Luke’s men set to the gruesome work retrieving the bodies and giving the dead some dignity in their last resting place. Luke left the men to their grisly task.
With his pistol primed and at the ready, he entered the smoking, ruined stronghold. Farrington had set charges and brought down the towers and much of the curtain wall. Fire had taken much of the rest. Byton would pose no more threat to the royalist cause. He thought of Kinton Lacey and the fate that awaited it—that awaited the garrison—if they should fail to hold it.
In the remains of the hall, he stepped over the charred and still smoking timbers. A rattle of stone above him alerted every nerve in his body and he crossed to the stone stairs to the upper level of the only surviving tower.
He softened his step, his hand tightening on the stock of his pistol as the stairs opened out into a large, square room that had apparently been quarters for the garrison. Straw mattresses had been piled in a corner with neatly stacked blankets. He scanned the room, and in the soft morning light caught the faintest flicker of movement from behind a buttress.
He braced and cocked his pistol, levelling it in readiness. “Come out,” he said.
