CHAPTER THREE
North of Dumfries, Scotland
Along the River Nith
It was the nooning hour and the camp was filled with the smell of roasting sheep. Three were splayed over the pit, with their juices dripping onto the fire and creating an almost acrid smell. The men stood around waiting hungrily for their portion, conversing heartily. But they were hearty men, used to the harsh elements, harsh women, and harsh food.
Mercenaries were not men akin to luxury.
These were men that slept on their saddles and traveled with everything they owned, for they were men without homes and, in most cases, without families. These were professional soldiers and worth every penny of their fee. Yet, with all of their rugged toughness, the one thing their leader insisted upon was decent clothing. Their breeches and tunics were of durable fabric and their vests and doublets were of excellent leather. Most of them wore thigh-high boots, for they were better protection when mounted, and their chainmail and helms were always in good condition; their commander made sure of that. He wanted them to look like an army that was worth the money spent.
It also meant they were a well-fed army, but the mutton at noon was an unusual occurrence. Usually it was stew and hard bread, but they would be breaking camp in a few hours and their commander wanted them traveling on hearty fare. Therefore, the men stood around and wiped saliva from their lips as they waited for their meat.
Andrew was not one of them. The morning after his horrific nightmare, he didn’t have much of an appetite. Although he had ordered the sheep butchered, he would wait until his men were fed before eating himself. Andrew sat in a collapsible chair under a vast oak tree, leaning back against it on two legs of the chair as he sharpened the non-serrated side of his broadsword. Sunlight filtered in between the leaves and cast rays that fluctuated as the wind blew. They reflected off of his sword as he tended it under expert hands.
It was a fine day, considering the storm that had blown through the night before. It was warm and bright, and was almost too warm for the season, especially this far north. He lowered the sword; his clear brown eyes looked off towards the camp where he could see soldiers sitting in groups, eating their meal.
The camp was a large one, stretching for nearly a half-mile, housing a thousand men. But for all the men-at-arms, they traveled light and fast with six wagons, three hundred horsemen, one hundred archers, and six hundred soldiers. It was the biggest mercenary army in all of England and Scotland, and Andrew was extremely proud of what he’d built.
But it was something he’d had to do as a matter of survival.
The recurring nightmare the evening before had been the spark to this empire he’d created. As the second son of the Earl of Annan and Blackbank, Andrew had been the son who’d had to earn his own way in life for the most part. His father had been a kind man who genuinely loved his only two sons. Alphonse was the eldest by three years, and never did a more lecherous, greedy, and selfish person walk the face of the earth.
The earl knew this, but it was Alphonse’s birthright as the eldest son to inherit the titles and lands when the earl passed on. This distressed him greatly, for Alphonse lacked everything Andrew possessed – fairness, sensibility, uncanny intelligence, and compassion. The earl attributed his eldest son’s disposition to the fact that his mother had Plantagenet blood in her, and Alphonse was very fair, plain, and petty, just like the Plantagenets.
Andrew, however, was different. He had the d’Vant strength and common sense, the d’Vants being an ancient bloodline from the wilds of Cornwall where some of the family still lived to this day. But along with that strength and common sense came the d’Vant comely looks; in a completely masculine sense, he was the most beautiful man God had ever created. His auburn hair was cropped near his skull, although he was lazy about cutting it. Sometimes it grew long enough that with sweat and grime from his warring ways, it would stand straight on end. His face was finely featured: auburn brows arched over the most soulful of brown eyes fringed by thick lashes. His nose was straight and well-shaped, and his chiseled cheeks descended to a square jaw.
Women went absolutely mad for the likes of Andrew and he knew it. He had no shortage of bed partners, but he made sure he never had the same woman twice because that threatened emotional attachment. Women were nothing more than objects of lust or bearers of children and he had no trouble seeing them as such, for he had never met a woman he had even remotely considered forming an attachment with. His life revolved around his sword and his army.
And he meant for it to be that way.
But his path had been decided for him long ago. That’s where the nightmare came in, why it was something that repeated itself again and again. The moment his father had died, brother Alphonse had taken firm control of the d’Vant properties. He’d greedily devoured the title and the lands, imprisoned his own mother, and had threatened Andrew with his very life unless he left immediately. Young Andrew, still grieving for his father, ran out with only the clothes on his back. He was afraid that his newly titled brother, the earl, would send his newly commanded soldiers to make good on the threat.
His departure was not an act of cowardice but rather it was an act of wits. Still, those nightmares were his guilt talking. He swore that, someday, he’d return and avenge his mother’s imprisonment and punish Alphonse for every unkind deed and barbarous act he ever committed.
But he needed help. Andrew believed it was truly fate that brought him to a man named Trey. Trey led a small army of mercenaries that traversed the wilds of northern England and southern Scotland, preying on travelers and small villages. Trey was older, having traveled from France several years before, and Andrew believed he was the most worldly man he had ever known. He fell in to Trey’s group, eventually becoming his page and learning everything he could from him. Trey took the place of his late father to young Andrew, and opened up a whole new world of education to him.
Trey le Bec saw something truly special in his young friend. Not only was Andrew a quick learner, but he handled a sword with extraordinarily raw talent; for from the size of him, someday he would make the best of soldiers. Even so, Trey sensed a great sadness in the lad, for he was silent almost to a fault, and only spoke when spoken to. Questions about his past and heritage were usually met by answers that were completely off the subject. Trey respected the lad’s unwillingness to speak of his past and, in spite of everything, the two became the best of friends. He even discovered a devilish sense of humor which lurked within young Andrew.
One day, Andrew had cut undetectable slits in Trey’s cup. That evening at dinner when he sipped his wine, the red liquid seeped out all over his tunic. Only he didn’t realize it until everyone began laughing loudly. Enraged, he realized he had been made a fool, and he grabbed the man nearest him and put a dagger to his throat as he roared at the top of his lungs. At that point, Andrew flew up and over the table, and placed himself between the innocent man and the wild-eyed Trey. Although he did not confess in so many words, it did not take a man of great brilliance to realize Andrew had played the joke.
The boy had a tricky streak in him.
The relationship grew from there. Andrew eventually rose to become Trey’s general, the best fighter anyone had ever seen, and he earned a reputation in the heat of battle for fighting so furiously it was as if he were fighting the devil for his very soul. He treated all of his enemies in the same fashion, as ruthless against a smaller man as he was against a larger one. His standard rule was to never underestimate anyone.
It was a mantra that served him well.
Still, there was a fire that fed him. Everyone who knew him could see it. It was the fire of vengeance, the hatred against his brother that was fuel in his veins. It was what made Andrew such a vicious fighter, as if every man he battled was, in fact, his hated brother. The Red Fury, the men called him. Even so, Trey grew to heavily depend on him because, in spite of that cancerous sense of vengeance, Andrew related to the men better than Trey did. He was a cunning negotiator and he was excellent at recruiting. He would incorporate smaller bands of mercenaries into Trey’s army with his silken tongue, making the army bigger and stronger than ever before. The ranks swelled, as did the coffers, and Trey was generous with Andrew.
As a grown man and a full-fledged commander of Trey’s mercenary army, Andrew wanted for absolutely nothing, but creature comforts were not his main concern. He did very nicely with just what he needed. It was a good life for all concerned, and Andrew’s taste for revenge on his brother seemed to fade with time. He became more focused on his skills, his men, and his wealth.
But things soon changed.
Fifteen years after Andrew joined le Bec’s army, Trey was killed in a battle and Andrew grieved for him as he had for his father. But, unlike his father, Trey had left him a legacy. The massive army now numbered close to one thousand men and they all looked to Andrew as their leader now. He stepped up into the role magnificently, yet without fanfare. But the word soon spread that Trey le Bec’s army was now under the control of his general, Andrew d’Vant.
Some said he had been in control all along.
It was something that had only grown more powerful over the past few years, bringing them to this moment in time. Now, Andrew had an entire empire he was in control of, although it was a transient empire. They moved from place to place with no real home base. They were gypsies in the most basic sense of the word.
But thoughts of Trey, of transient empires, and of recurring nightmares faded from Andrew’s mind as he sat under the tree, watching the men around him. He caught sight of a figure approaching him and he recognized his general, Thane Alraedson, as the man approached with his sword scabbard smacking against his thigh-boots. Thane flashed a grin at Andrew as he squatted down beside him and began picking at the grass.
“The men will be ready to move within the hour,” Thane said. “Have you decided that we shall definitely accept the task at Torridon?”
Andrew looked down at him. Thane was flamboyantly handsome with his cropped, blond hair and granite jaw. He wasn’t as tall as Andrew, but he was wider with muscle. He was a knight, but he had been chased from the lord he’d once served by the irate lord whose daughter Thane had deflowered. With nowhere else to go, Thane had joined up with Trey and Andrew right before Trey’s death and was closer than a brother to Andrew. He could be childish, and not always very bright, but he followed orders without question and could command capably.
“I have,” Andrew replied in his deep, rich voice. “Torridon is several miles north of our location and I should like to make the castle by midnight.”
Thane thought that might be the answer. Moreover, it wasn’t unusual for Andrew to move the army in darkness. Sometimes it was better that way; less chance of confrontation with other armies or nervous fortresses.
“Very well,” he said, then threw down the blade of grass he was toying with. “Are you sure you wish to accept Torridon’s offer? We have other offers that will pay us more.”
“We will fight for Torridon,” Andrew said decisively. “Tell me what you know of it.”
Thane shrugged. He generally knew a great deal about most fortresses in the border and lowland region. “It is a mighty fortress,” he said. “Big and rich, from what I have heard. That is why I find it hard to believe you would accept their contract for only five thousand marks.”
This time, Andrew shrugged. “I have yet to learn the terms of the contract,” he said. “I would like to know what they want us to do. We could be making this trip for nothing.”
Thane cocked an eyebrow. “But you told the messenger to return and inform the master that you would come,” he said. “That will lead them to believe that you have accepted their money.”
“But I have not,” Andrew said, as he rose on his long legs and sheathed his broadsword. “Until I take their money, there is no commitment. Besides… I hear the Dalmellingtons are fierce fighters.”
Thane stood next to Andrew, bracing his fists on his slim hips. “I also hear that they were once a part of the de Carron Clan,” he said. “I have lived my entire life in this area, so I know the tales that abound. Blood feuds are always the worst.”
“What else have you heard?”
“That this is a battle that has been going on for the past two years,” Thane said. “Quite bitter, from what I’m told. Truthfully, I’m surprised it has taken Torridon this long to seek our assistance.”
“Anything else?”
Thane grinned. “Only that the most beautiful woman in all of Scotland resides at Torridon.”
Andrew cocked an eyebrow in mock interest. “I wonder if she is the one who has sent the missive?” he said. “Lady Josephine? Someone told me that the earl and his son died two years ago, leaving only women. Call me foolish, but this job has my curiosity.”
Thane looked at him quizzically. “Me, too,” he said. “I would like to know who is in command of Torridon.”
Andrew looked off towards the camp. “That,” he said steadily, “is a very good question, one I am sure we will quickly find the answer to.”
Thane thought so, too. But he wondered if the answer was to be a complicated one. It seemed to him that if two women were the heiresses, then it must, indeed, be complicated. Women always were.
Within the hour, the army of The Red Fury had pulled up stakes and headed north towards the mighty bastion of Torridon Castle. With the promise of compensation on the line, the men were all eager to move, and this was all about the money.
In the minds of the mercenaries, there could be nothing else.
Blood feud be damned. What the mercenaries did, they did for profit.