To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(78)

“You can’t think in battle,” he said, his tone almost musing. “Instinct and emotion take over. Horror at seeing Johnny Smith shot with an arrow. Rage at the Indians screaming and running at your men. Killing your men. Fear when your horse is shot from beneath you. The surge of panic when you know you must jump clear or be trapped underneath the beast, helpless to a war axe.”

He sipped at his drink while Melisande tried to understand his words. They made her heart beat faster, as if she felt the same urgent panic he had experienced so long ago.

“We fought well, I think,” Vale said. “At least others have told me so. I can’t evaluate the battle. There’s only the men around you, the little piece of soil that you defend. Lieutenant Clemmons fell and Lieutenant Knight, but it wasn’t until I saw Darby, our commander, dragged from his horse that it occurred to me that we were losing. That we would all be killed.”

He chuckled, but the sound was dry and brittle, not at all like his usual laugh. “That was when I should’ve felt fear, but oddly I didn’t. I stood in a sea of fallen bodies and swung my sword. And I killed a few of those savage warriors; yes, I did, but not enough. Not enough.”

Melisande felt tears prick her eyes at the sad weariness of his voice.

“In the end, my last man fell and they overwhelmed me. I went down with a blow to the head. Fell on top of Tommy Pace’s body, in fact.” He turned from the window and crossed to a table where the decanter of whiskey stood. He filled his glass and drank. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. They should’ve; they’d killed nearly everyone else. But when my wits returned to me, I was roped by the neck to Matthew Horn and Nate Growe. I looked around and saw that Reynaud was part of their booty as well. You won’t believe how relieved I was. Reynaud at least had lived.”

“What happened?” Melisande whispered.

He looked at her, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was in the room. “They marched us through the woods for days. Days and days with little water and no food, and some of us were wounded. Matthew Horn had taken a ball to the fleshy part of his upper arm during the battle. When John Cooper could no longer walk because of his wounds, they led him into the woods and killed him. After that, whenever Matthew stumbled, I leaned my shoulder into his back, urging him on. I couldn’t afford to lose another soldier. Couldn’t afford to lose another man.”

She gasped at the horror. “Were you wounded?”

“No.” He wore a horrible half-smile on his face. “Save for that bump on the head, I was perfectly fine. We marched until we reached an Indian village in French-held territory.”

He drank more of his whiskey, nearly emptying the glass, and closed his eyes.

Melisande knew, though, that this wasn’t the end of the tale. Something had caused the horrific scars on Sir Alistair’s face. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and said, “What happened at the camp?”<ƒ atf t/font>

“They have a thing called a gauntlet, a pretty way to welcome captives of war to the camp. The Indians line up, men and women, in two long lines. They run the prisoners, one by one, between the lines. As the prisoners run, the Indians hit them with heavy sticks and kick them too. If the man falls, he is sometimes beaten to death. But none of us fell.”

“Thank God,” she breathed.

“We did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

He shrugged and drank more whiskey. He sat slumped into a chair, his words slurring a bit now.

“Jasper?” Perhaps it would be best to go no further. Melisande was afraid of what would come next. He’d already endured so much, and it was late and he was tired. “Jasper?”

But he didn’t seem to hear her. He stared into his whiskey glass, as if bemused. “And then came their real fun. They took away Reynaud, and they tied Munroe and Horn to stakes. They took burning sticks and they . . . they . . .”

He was breathing hard. He closed his eyes and swallowed, and still he couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“Don’t, oh, don’t,” Melisande whispered. “You don’t have to tell me, you don’t.”

He looked at her, puzzled and sad and tragic. “They tortured them. Burned them. The sticks were red-hot, and the women wielded them—the women! And then Munroe’s eye. God! That was the worst. I screamed at them to stop, and they spit at me and cut off the men’s fingers. I knew then to be silent, no matter what they did, because crying out, showing any emotion, only made it worse. And I tried, Melisande, I tried, but the screams and the blood . . .”

“Oh, my dear, oh, my dear.” Melisande had moved to him. She bent and held him in her arms, his face against her breast. And she couldn’t hold back her tears now. She sobbed for him.

“The second day, they brought us to the other side of the camp,” Vale whispered against her breast. “They were burning Reynaud there. He was crucified and on fire. I think he was dead already, because he didn’t move, and I thanked God again. I thanked God that my dearest friend was dead and could no longer feel the pain.”

“Shh,” Melisande whispered. “Shh.”

But he didn’t stop. “And when the fire had died out, they took us back to the other side of camp and went on with it. Munroe’s face and Horn’s chest. On and on and on.”