And he loved every minute of it.
“He’s a good man to have,” Curtis said, having grown to appreciate Asa. “Every time the siege engines launched, he cheered as if he had just witnessed the greatest event of all time.”
Peter grinned. “He loves it all,” he said. “Speaking of greatest events, surmounting the wall was a brilliant move on your part. You have ended this awful siege, and I, for one, am grateful.”
Curtis dipped his head in thanks. “When will you be heading home?”
“Soon,” Peter said, scratching his head wearily. “You?”
Curtis moved his gaze to the hulking bastion of Brython, his mood sobering. “I think Iamhome,” he said after a moment. “Papa has mentioned that he wants to garrison Brython, and he wants me to assume command. He’s fearful of the Welsh tide that will undoubtedly return to reclaim it.”
Peter waggled his eyebrows in sympathy, slapping Curtis on the shoulder. “I do not envy you, Curt,” he muttered. “In fact, I think I am going to—”
They were cut off by a shout, and they both turned to see a soldier approaching, one of the men who served Christopher personally. The man was calling Curtis by name, so Peter left him to head to the interior of the castle while Curtis went out to greet the man.
“My lord, your father has summoned you,” the soldier said. “If it would not be inconvenient, he asks that you come now.”
Curtis glanced at the top of the wall, where he could only see his men now. The platform, full of frenzied men less than an hour ago, was now calm as soldiers moved up and down at a careful pace. He emitted a piercing whistle between his teeth, catching the attention of most of the men in view.
“Is there fighting still?” he shouted.
The men waved him off. “No more, my lord,” one of them shouted. “We have them subdued.”
Curtis nodded. “Where are my knights?” he asked. “Amaro and Hugo?”
Several soldiers were pointing to the north end of the wall. “Organizing the prisoners,” the same man answered. “Shall I summon them?”
Curtis waved them off. The wall was being handled by two men sworn to him, Amaro de Laraga and Hugo de Bernay. They were seasoned men from good families who served him at Lioncross Abbey, giving him his own command within his father’s command. He even had five hundred soldiers that were sworn only to him. They were good men, all of them, and they were the more elite soldiers out of his father’s army. Even now, they were on the wall with Amaro and Hugo, and Curtis knew they would secure the wall. He wasn’t needed.
He followed his father’s soldier back to the man’s tent.
Sunset was approaching, and the campfires, which had burned all day, were now being stoked by squires. The cooking fires, manned by sergeants, cooks, and servants, were being stoked to epic proportions at the rear of the encampment. Food was already on the spits, being turned by young servant boys who followed the army as workers. The smell of smoke was in the air, blending in with the dampness of the coming night.
To Curtis, it was the smell of victory.
But he suspected why his father had summoned him. Probably something to do with the wench he’d dumped on him earlier. Perhaps his father had discovered something. Or perhaps he wanted to verbally swat Curtis for leaving off the banshee in the first place. As Curtis approached the tent, he removed his helm, revealing close-cropped hair soaked with sweat. He was about to enter the tent when his father emerged and caught sight of him.
Christopher came out to meet him about ten feet from the tent.
“Well?” Christopher said. “What is the report?”
Curtis handed his helm off to the nearest soldier and proceeded to remove his gloves. “Brython is ours,” he said, handing the gloves over to the man who held his helm. “The Welsh are subdued and currently being gathered. Congratulations on the victory, Papa.”
Christopher smiled faintly. “Victory is yours, Curt,” he said. “You commanded the battle. I was simply an observer.”
Curtis grinned modestly. “I did nothing without your direction and approval,” he said. “I would say that makes the victory yours.”
Christopher put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then well done, us,” he said, jesting softly as he patted Curtis affectionately. “As usual, we performed flawlessly, but my report to the king will be that you commanded the victory. He will be pleased.”
“Good,” Curtis said. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
Christopher shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I have something else, something serious that I did not wish to discuss with you whilst we were in the midst of battle. But now that it is over, a more important situation must be addressed.”
“What is that?”
Christopher cleared his throat softly, wanting to approach this conversation carefully. Curtis wasn’t a fool, but he was stubborn and obstinate when the mood struck him, and that could happen quickly. Christopher needed the man’s compliance.
“Primarily this,” he said. “The king has told me to garrison Brython, and I shall. The castle is yours, Curt. The tributes, the lands, and the taxes all belong to you. Anything Brython possesses has now become yours. Congratulations, lad.”
