Alastor was listening intently. “Please do.”
Cole turned his back to Alpin and the room completely so that no one could read his lips or even hear him before continuing.
“Get the man drunk,” he muttered. “I’ve seen him when he’s drunk and he becomes one of those men who cannot keep his mouth shut. He’ll argue, scream, laugh, tell stories… all of it when he’s drunk, so if you ply him with ale, I have a suspicion you will learn what you want to know.”
Alastor was intrigued by the suggestion. “Did your father do this?”
Cole shook his head. “My father has his own ways of doing things and getting a man drunk is not one of them,” he said. “He would rather use intimidation than try an easier way. But that is the way of Jax de Velt and the man’s methods are his own.”
Alastor’s eyebrows lifted. “Indeed, they are,” he said. “And they work for him. I would not presume to question The Dark Lord’s methods. But I like your suggestion. Did Canmore say anything on the journey here?”
“Nay,” Cole said. “Not a word. The man had just seen all of his men killed and his home burned, so he was not exactly in a talkative mood.”
Alastor understood. He sent a servant for wine – copious amounts, as he put it – and went to the hearth to throw more peat upon it. The moors of Northumberland and North Yorkshire were full of peat bogs, so there was quite a bit of it. Soon enough, the hearth was flaring with fuel and the chamber began to warm up considerably.
Alastor could see from the corner of his eye that Alpin leaned into the heat, holding out his hands and closing his eyes. At least, he could see the man until Ares and Atlas began to crowd around him and blocked his view.
“Well?” Ares demanded. “What are you waiting for, Papa?”
Alastor eyed his sons. Ares looked much like he did in his youth, big and muscular, but also quite handsome with brown eyes and light brown hair. Ares de Bourne had no shortage of female admirers and as Sheriff of Westmorland, he was quite sought after by rich lords for their eligible daughters. Atlas, on the other hand, looked like his mother’s father – enormous and bald was the best way to describe him. He was more of a follower than a leader, but there was no finer warrior in the land.
Alastor paused a moment before answering.
“I want you two to listen to me carefully,” he said quietly. “Ares, I realize your position in life is bringing justice to the north on a regular basis and you are well aware that I am proud of you for your fair and just judgment, but I will tell you again that I am in control of this situation. It is extraordinarily delicate and has nothing to do with judging a crime or dispensing justice. We are speaking about the potential of a terrible war, so you will allow me to deal with this man in my own way. You will keep silent, both of you, unless I ask for your help or opinion. Do you understand me?”
Ares wasn’t happy; that much was clear. He looked at Atlas, who wasn’t particularly thrilled by their father’s directive, either, but they knew better than to argue. At least, Atlas did. Ares tried and Alastor simply pointed a finger at him, but it was a finger that shut the man’s mouth.
For a moment, anyway.
“Can you at least tell me what you are planning?” Ares hissed in frustration.
Alastor’s gaze drifted over to Canmore, laboring to warm himself after a day and a night of no heat and little food. After a moment, he rubbed his chin, a move that was meant to shield his mouth a little so there was less chance of anyone other than his sons hearing what he had to say.
“That man over there is the one who has been sending missives demanding we side with the Scots and their Northman allies,” he muttered. “According to Cole, Canmore has just seen his castle burned to the ground and his men butchered, courtesy of Ajax de Velt.”
Ares’ brow furrowed. “Is that how he became de Velt’s prisoner?” he said, aghast. “Ajax de Velt declared war on him?”
Alastor nodded. “You were not here when Cole and his men first arrived,” he said. “Cole told me that The Marshal ordered Ajax de Velt to raze Canmore’s castle of Fountainhall and take Canmore a prisoner, and raze it he did. He butchered every man and woman in that castle. The Dark Lord of old was unleashed on the Scots to send a very specific message, lads – that we are aware of their plans and that any attempts to roll into Northumberland will be met with similar force. Ajax was able to glean some information out of him, but now it is my turn. I am going to find out everything I can and in order to do that, I am going to ply a man who has seen little food in the past two days with a goodly amount of drink. I’ve sent a servant for it.”
Ares looked at him as if he were expecting more. His eyebrows lifted. “You are going to get him drunk?”
“At Cole’s suggestion. He says it loosens the man’s tongue.”
“In vino veritas, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
Ares glanced over at Cole de Velt, standing near the hearth. He was an absolutely enormous knight, with dark blond hair and eyes that almost had a reptilian appearance because of the strange coloring. Ares knew the of the man’s family, of course. Everyone in the north did. Cole had distinguished himself in a some of the baron’s wars against the king a few years ago, but he hadn’t heard of the man for the past couple of years. Still, here he was, in the middle of a serious situation. He’d captured a prisoner that was important to the de Bourne cause, and the cause of all of northern England.
Because the directives to his father were coming from a de Velt, Ares shut his mouth. The family’s reputation was beyond contestation and he wasn’t going to argue about it.
In fact, he wanted to see where it went.
Backing off, Ares and Atlas headed over to a corner of the chamber where Anteaus was leaning against the wall.
Watching… and waiting…
They were willing to see just how far a little drink would take them.
“My father asked for what?”
The question came from Corisande as she faced the servant her father had sent to the kitchens. The servant was the man who shadowed her father at The Keld, an older man with missing teeth and a round form, but humbly obedient.
“Drink, my lady,” the servant said. “He asked for the frost wine from Saxony.”
She frowned. “That is our most expensive wine,” she said. “It will also get a man drunk after only one cup. It is very strong.”
“He asked for it, my lady.
Corisande had come to the kitchens to make sure food was prepared for their visitors and she thought the servant’s request for the very sweet, very strong “frost” wine was a strange one. They didn’t have very much of it because it was expensive, and when there was a gathering, her father and brothers favored apple ale from York that had been brewed by the same family for two hundred years. They bought it by the wagon loads.
But her father wasn’t asking for the apple cider ale this time.
He was asking for the strong wine.
“Is someone ill and needs reviving?” she asked curiously. “That wine is so strong that I have given it to my father and my brothers when they do not feel well. It is medicinal.”
The servant shook his head, his jowls quivering. “No one is ill that I am aware of, my lady,” he said. “Although… although one of the men does not look very well.”