“Yes and no,” Randolph replied, giving the leather strap a final tug. He tenderly caressed the woman’s long hair. “Pretty little Wilma-Sue said she had escaped from slavers down south and passed a construction site somewhere near the old limestone caves. The workers were talking about attacking Front Royal. They tried to capture her, rape her more likely, but she chilled one and escaped.”
“Falling right into our hands.” Henderson beamed happily.
“Lucky us,” William agreed, brushing away a cloud of flies from the prisoner. “So they’re either BullRun coldhearts preparing to attack Baron Cawdor’s castle, or outlanders planning on raiding the ville for goods or mebbe hit a passing convoy. If she spoke the truth.”
“Of course she did, my lord.” Randolph bowed, removing his gloves and passing them to an assistant. “My friend told me the truth, as far as she knows it.” The woman on the table started singing a wordless song, nodding her head in time to a secret time nobody else alive would ever hear.
“However, the question remains, are we next to be attacked?” mused the soldier, searching for a chair fit to sit in. There were no clean ones, so he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Grandfather, have you sent spies?”
“Yes,” the old man hissed in annoyance. “None have returned.”
“Send more.”
“I will, led by you,” Henderson stated, leveling a finger. “And failure isn’t a word we accept!”
Standing stiffly at attention, William clicked his heels and smartly saluted. “I will not fail, my lord!”
“Which brings up another matter,” the baron said, glancing from the doctor back to his grandson. “Randolph has failed me. Twice.”
William arched a puzzled eyebrow until understanding came. Drawing his 9 mm Luger, William shot the doctor between the legs. The man shrieked and fell to the floor trying to staunch the awful flow of blood from the wound with both hands.
“Again,” the baron ordered, his face bright with eagerness. “Shoot him in the belly. No, a knee. Yes, cripple him!”
Raising the barrel, William fired once more, and a black hole appeared in Randolph’s forehead. Exhaling softly, the man crumpled into a heap, the blood seeping from under his pink-stained clothes.
“Too soon,” the baron panted, raking his own cheeks with broken fingernails, leaving bloody furrows. “He died too fast, boy!”
William bolstered the weapon. “You said he failed us twice, so he was shot twice.”
“You disobeyed me. Never do that again.”
“Or?” the young man prompted boldly.
“Or else you will go on the table!” Henderson snarled.
A minute passed in silence with the two men staring hatefully at each other. The tension in the room was palpable, and the sec men moved between them to forestall any possible actions.
A civil war was the last thing the ville needed, especially with a possible army of enemies only thirty miles away.
“Please, my lords, a question,” a corporal asked.
“Ask,” the old man grunted.
“What should we do with Randolph and the woman?”
Lost in the moment, Henderson blinked a few times while shifting mental gears. “Do? Dispose of Randolph immediately. Save his shoes, burn the clothes and toss the rest to the dogs.”
“At once, sir.”
“As for the spy, slit her throat and boil her down for soap.” He then repeated the word and laughed, displaying his awful yellow teeth. “Soap. Ha! Soap.”
“Better yet, Grandfather, why don’t we let the other prisoners in the dungeon have her?” William suggested, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. He could feel the aged bones beneath the expensive cloth. Death was close by, and with it, absolute power. But the whitehair was still a dangerous foe. “Most haven’t seen a woman in months, and will gladly use her for relief.”
“Excellent! Let it be done.” Baron Henderson smiled, weakly applauding the notion.
The corporal saluted. “Yes, sir!”
“And on the morrow, William, you will lead troops northward to recce the deep woods. We must know if there is a new baron at Front Royal, and what his plans are.”
“And if I encounter Cawdor’s troops?”
“Kill them.”
“That could lead to war,” William stated carefully, trying not to incur the terrible wrath of his patriarch. “Front Royal is strong. It would be a difficult fight.”