Prologue
England, near the border of Scotland, 1432
Nicholas Clarkton, the captain in his Majesties’ royal guard, stepped back from where the hilt of his sword was plunged into the throat of the youth laying before him. The child war no helm, nor held a shield to deflect Nicholas’s blows as they had reigned upon him again and again until he was a crumpled beaten figure sprawled across the blood soaked earth. He stood no chance, this lad of fifteen years, no chance at all. He watched in smug amusement as the Scottish scum’s blood gushed a red crimson across his slim hands. His sword was a mockery of the situation; for while it was fashioned by the king’s finest blacksmiths, and decorated with rubies that ran across the hilt, it looked cheerful compared to the ragged broken skin that surrounded it. The figure before him began to tremble uncontrollably, as his life’s blood oozed out of the gaping wound in his throat. Although his windpipe was crushed, judging by the gurgling noise the insolent pup was making, he was surprised that the Ass had enough courage to speak at all.
“Please, sir, let me die in piece, I beg of ye!”
Nicholas considered the boy a long moment, and then pulled back his booted foot, and kicked the irritating whelp in the ribs. He heard the crunch of bone, and watched with no compassion on his face as his back bowed with pain. A scream escaped the lad’s lips, before he sank back in the dirt and blood that was to be his grave and moaned pitilessly. Nicholas had no mercy for him…
“Shut up boy, before I kick ye in the ass. If ye tell me where your brother is, I will be more than happy to leave ye alone. And tis Lord by which you shall address me as, not sir. I am way above the ranks of mere knight hood.”
“Yes…Lord…” he groaned, coughing up spittle and blood.
“Well?” snapped Nicholas impatiently. He was never known as a man who held a lot of patients, for almost killing the bastard he was dealing with were a way to obtain all he needed to know. However, this insolent brat was not complying with his wishes.
“Well,” he demanded again, louder this time. “Where is he.”
“Go…To…Hell,” the boy spat weekly, and turned his face away expecting the worst.
Nicholas growled, and leaned over the cowering figure.
