#gascon

Clayton spat at his feet. “That’s what I think of your ‘hospitality’. You’ve taken everything of worth here already, and you won’t torture anymore treasure from my lips, so kill me cleanly and be done with it - if you’ve any notion of honour at all.”

“Torture! Why, perish th’ very thought.” Gascon slapped the dust off the man’s sleeve. “You’re our ticket out of here, a very valuable bargaining chip indeed, and we don’t want anyone getting th’ wrong idea about how you’ve been treated. Her Majesty’s hot on our tail, you see - a little too close for comfort, if you know what I mean, but I’m hopin’ that returning one o’ her faithful vassals might convince her to look t’other way as we pass by…”

The man merely snorted. “No surprise to me that the likes of you is unacquainted with Her Majesty’s ways, but believe you me - she will not abandon her quarry so easily. My life isn’t worth two groats to her, not compared to the chance to snare your little band of cutthroats.”

Gascon had rather thought that might be the case. The hope of ransoming their way out was a slim one at best, but it was a gamble he was prepared to take. The force marching with the queen was sizeable, and while his band were all in fit fighting form, he didn’t like their odds against the Lyrian army. These folk had stood by him, followed him through thick and thin as he led them on to greater and more daring prizes; he’d be damned if he didn’t play every card he had before leaving them to the tender mercy of the hangman’s noose. “Even if it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, my friend, I’ll take it. And I wouldn’t have thought you’d hold your own life so cheaply that you wouldn’t say the same.”

He turned and left, intent on finding out from his look-outs just how long they had before the queen and her men were upon them. But he’d barely taken a dozen steps before Clayton called out: “Brossard!”

Reflexively, Gascon turned back. He saw the flash of triumph in the man’s eyes, and cursed himself, realising his mistake. It had been years since he’d so much as thought the name, and yet…well. There were some things you couldn’t quite forget, no matter how far behind you’d left them. 

“I knew it,” Clayton breathed. “I bloody knew it. His spitting image, you are.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” answered Gascon automatically, slowly walking back towards him. 

“Oh, too late to deny it now. I knew them all, back in the day, and I never forget a face. The question remains, though…who are you? Some bastard of his, I suppose…though I didn’t think the late Duke had any by-blows…”

Gascon weighed his options. It seemed a brazen denial would get him nowhere, now. There was no real way he could have known, of course - their faces were all long faded in his mind now, the memories too long buried, and it wasn’t as though he had any portrait or miniature to compare to the reflection he saw in the mirror - but it seemed that the family resemblance was now quite pronounced, for this fellow had known him at a glance. 

No real choice, then. He stepped closer again and shrugged, deliberately casual. “Oh, he didn’t. I’m given to understand his sins were many, but I s’pose his late lady wife must’ve been glad infidelity weren’t one of them, at least.”

Clayton paled, his mouth working silently, now staring at Gascon as though he was a ghost. “No one,” he finally managed. “No one left that house alive. I saw -”

“Saw it, did you?” he murmured, soft as silk, now close enough to smell the rank odour of the man’s sweat. “Saw Reginald’s lackeys’ handiwork for yourself? Or d’you mean to say you were one o’ them? Either way, it’s not a sight any man would forget in a hurry… believe you me.”

The other man made no reply; his ability to speak perhaps impaired by the way Gascon’s hand was now knotted in his collar, yanking it tightly up his neck.

“Either way, it’s a damn shame for you that they weren’t as careful as they might’ve been…all that bloodshed, all that enthusiastic slaughter…far, far too easy to lose track o’ one little boy.”

Clayton tried to back away, but he was pressed up hard against the lip of the well. He stood on tiptoe, releasing the pressure on his throat enough to speak, at least. “His grandson. I’ll be damned.” He began, improbably, to laugh. “Well, say farewell to any hope you might’ve cherished of leaving this estate alive. When she learns who you are, Meve won’t hesitate to finish what Reginald started. She’ll -”

Perhaps Lord Clayton had underestimated him; perhaps he’d thought the shorter man lacked the strength or courage to dispatch him at close range. Perhaps he did not realise that Gascon’s arm, well accustomed to shooting a bow with a draw-weight near that of a grown man, was more than equal to the task - or perhaps he had realised that this was now his only hope of a quick, clean death. 

Gascon didn’t bother to wait to find out. In one quick, decisive movement, he sent Clayton up and over the stone edge of the well. He turned and strode away, the man’s single shriek giving him some small sense of satisfaction.

“Hey. Hey! What th’ ‘ell was that?” His second-in-command raced up beside him. “I thought he was our way out!”

“Accident,” he said tightly.

“A fucking accident!”

“Change o’ plan, then. Oh, come on, he was a liability. No real chance he would’ve let us pull off a ransom.”

“But now we’ve no choice but to stand and fight!”

Gascon sighed. It had been inevitable, really; it was almost as though destiny had been leading him to this point, the last ten years all building to this final, inescapable conclusion.