Chapter 52 - Massacre at Pembroke

"Ah, sweet Lord above," Martin grunted. Lyra could not help but agree. She was on all fours on the floor of his tent facing his cot as if in prayer. She lifted her arms up to the side of the cot, resting herself on the edge, her head resting on her arms as Benjamin, on his knees also, pounded her from behind.

She was completely devoid of thought, merely embracing the sensation of him stroking in and out her. His hands gripped her waist, and he pulled her back and forth to meet his hard, fast rhythm.

Bliss.

She would feel guilty for it afterward, but that was later - right now, there was nothing but pure sensation.

Benjamin, panting above her, snaked one hand beneath her, his fingers searching for her quim within her folds. It made her head swim, and she moaned, trying to bear down against his fingers and back against his cock all at the same time.

"Right there, Lyra?" a taunting whisper. She ignored him, he knew that 'right there' was perfect. "Harder?"

She ignored that too, for he already knew the answer. He picked up the pace behind her, his pelvis snapping back and forward, while his fingers circled her quim, torturing that small bud of sensation until she thought she would die. Such a state of bliss, of heaven, of oblivion, she did not even realise it when she whispered it aloud, "Oh, dear Lord, I feel I will die!"

Benjamin chuckled above her. He stopped taunting her and concentrated on his pleasure. The tingle before the surge, he could feel it building at the base of his cock, growing stronger as it moved up his length to the tip of him, and he bellowed and punched in and out of her as it exploded. He held still, as he always did, as he came but Lyra was not sated, not yet.

"Move damn you!" She hissed with frustration, furious that he had stopped when she was so close.

"Christ you forget yourself!" he muttered and began to move for her, several long, slow strokes, punching forward at the last moment of each thrust to hit the canopy within her - he knew she liked that. "Captive... You - are - a - captive."

Lyra ignored him, she had that down to a fine art now. She began to pant and writhe, reaching out to grip the far side of the cot, her fingers grasping for a handle hold to brace herself as she bucked against him. He urged her toward the edge, his fingers on her quim circling hard and fast, and she finally groaned - low and quiet, barely a sound, a whisper, but he could feel her twitch inside around him, she arched her back and bore down against his fingers and he knew fully well that she had climaxed. She collapsed, half against the cot, half on the floor, recovering.

He had pulled out of her and was buckling his breeches as she dragged herself up onto the cot and climbed beneath the blankets with a beatific and satisfied expression.

Beatific... Yes, she was beautiful. The Butcher did not deserve her.

"The Butcher does not deserve you, Lyra," he voiced his thoughts. "Why do you stay with him?"

"Thats none of your concern," she said loftily as she burrowed within the blankets.

Benjamin pulled up his breeches. He had planned on leaving the tent to speak to Danvers but he found himself too tired and reluctant - Lyra looked so comfortable and warm, he had an overpowering urge to join her and question her more about Tavington. He pulled off his breeches once more and climbed beneath the blankets.

"Shuffle over," he said and Lyra turned onto her side and moved to the far edge of the slim cot. He curled against her and she shot him a look of surprise, which deepened when he placed his arm across her body, over her waist.

"What?" He challenged. "It's cold."

They had shared the cot for several nights by now, but he had not tried to be intimate before. They had not even kissed, which suited Lyra just fine. She was not certain what she would do if he tried to kiss her, if she would refuse him regardless of the consequences. All she knew what that she had to draw the line somewhere and was grateful that he had not tried so far.

And this, what he was doing now, was a little too intimate for her comfort.

Oh, their bodies had touched when they lay side by side after coupling before. She was forced to sleep on the narrow cot with him and there had been no help for it. But he had never intentionally attempted to 'snuggle' her before.

His fingers began to trace slow circles across her stomach and Lyra panicked. Only a few days previous, before her capture, Tavington had finally been able to discern the swell of her stomach. Lyra was fearful now that Benjamin would feel that swell and realise she was pregnant.

"What are you doing, Benjamin?" She asked coldly and rolled onto her back, trying to make herself... flatter.

"Nothing," he murmured. He folded his arm beneath his head, his other hand still tracing her smooth skin. It was not an easy thing for him, having a lovely creature like Lyra in his bed. He was just discovering he was no rapist, and if it had not been for her instant co-operation be would not have had the stomach to hold her down and force her. He was fond of the girl, hell - he always had been.

Lyra however, obviously did not share his fond sentiments.

"We are not lovers!" She snapped and tried to pull away from him, though there was only so far she could go. He drew his hand from her stomach with a heavy sigh.

He did not want to be intimate with Tavington's whore anyway, he reasoned. She was there for him to roger, until he got a child on her. He imagined returning Lyra to Tavington, her belly swelling with Benjamin's bastard, imagined the look on the Butcher's face.

Unfortunately, his revenge did not bring him the satisfaction it had before.

He felt no mercy for Tavington - hell, the more pain he could cause the Butcher, the better! But he did feel mercy for Lyra. Would the English Colonel send her away from him? End his engagement? All to the good, if it bought Tavington pain. But it would undoubtedly bring Lyra pain, and shame as well. Benjamin found the thought a heavy one.

He fell asleep easily, a soldier can always doze no matter the circumstances and though his thoughts weighed heavily, he was exhausted and sated after coupling with Lyra. He was just drifting into a deeper sleep when a sound, and a movement beside him dragged him to full wakefulness again.

The noise and the movement, he discovered, was Lyra - she lay weeping on the cot beside him. Feeling pity for the girl, he took her into his arms to comfort her.

That is, he tried to take her into his arms to comfort her.

"Don't touch me!" She gasped and twisted free of him. "It's all your fault! You took me from him and I shame myself every time we... We..." She gulped on her words and began to weep in earnest.

"Every time we couple and I bring you to climax?" He finished for her. "I will fight him with whatever weapons I can Lyra. He was foolish enough to lose you, you're mine now, for as long as I want you to be," he said firmly, stifling his pity. Lyra, still sobbing, sat up and huddled in on herself, desolate. "You won't accept comfort from me?" He asked her, though he already knew what her answer would be.

"Can't you sleep elsewhere?" She cried. "Is it not enough, the coupling?"

"This is my cot, Lyra," he said, though he rose and began to dress. "I have to see Danvers anyway -"

"Yes, go see the rabid dog," she spat angrily. Danvers was getting worse by the day and Lyra feared it was only a matter of time before he attacked her. "Sleep in his tent -"

"The Hell I will! Sleep while you can Lyra, I'll be waking you to please me when I return," he said darkly, his tone filled with threat, then he ducked out of the tent, leaving her to curl onto her side and cry herself to sleep.

::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Colonel Tavington wishes to address the village," Wilkins called repeatedly as the other Green Dragoons herded the good denizens of Pembroke toward their little church.

The passersby cast fearful glances at the hard faced Colonel sitting astride his mount, gazing down at them coldly from the high vantage of his saddle. Some of them shivered - those of them who knew the Colonel's fiancé had been abducted by Benjamin Martin. One such man clutched his wife hand, fearful that they had become the target of the Colonel's retaliation.

Apparently at his ease, Tavington watched them all impassively. His eyes were as cold and hard as the rest of him, the blind rage which held him in its grip as he killed Michael Middleton, was now tempered down to implacable determination.

He was a cocked pistol, focused on a single target now. Finding Lyra and the Ghost. Finding one, he would find the other. These rebels whom he gazed down upon with cool detachment, knew the location of the militia's camp.

And they would tell him.

Ordinary citizens - husbands, wives, children and the elderly - none of them soldiers. None of them would be able to stand up to the rigorous torture he had inflicted on the four traitors. At least one of these would break under the strain of fear, of terror.

In the next ten minutes, he would finally have his answer and he would finally be able to act.

And still the denizens continued into the church, some leading children by the hand. Tavington did not care, did not give the fate of the children a second thought. These people were all traitors, they had failed in their duty to the Crown. They had harbored rebels, kept knowledge of their location safe.

Captain Wilkins approached him.

"I believe that is all of them, Sir."

"Have you checked the houses, the stores? Is anyone hiding?" Tavington's voice was soft and steady. Most people would find the task he was about to perform abhorrent. Not Tavington - he had been pushed too far by these rebels and he had no mercy for them whatsoever.

"None that I know of, Sir. And yes, we have checked."

"Very good," the Colonel nodded curtly and spurred his horse forward toward the church. Without bothering to dismount, he guided the horse up the steps into the church itself.

He stopped abruptly amidst the shocked assemblage. The denizens of Pembroke gasped and cowered with fear as his large brown charger stomped and stamped before them. The Colonel gazed coolly down at them and when his eyes feel on Miss Anne Howard, he gave her a ghost of a smile. She recoiled, pressing close to her mother, who wrapped the girl in her arms.

Ignoring her for the moment, he turned his gaze to the Assemblage and they fell silent, waiting for him to speak. He removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm, then finally addressed them.

"This town has given aid to Benjamin Martin and his rebels," his soft voice was chill, his face stone. "I wish to know his whereabouts. So. Anyone who comes forward, may be forgiven their treason."

His eyes searched the throng calmly, giving them time to approach him.

None did.

"Very well," he said crisply. Twisting his mount to leave he continued, "you had your chance."

"Wait!"

Tavington turned back calmly as a Colonial man rushed forward.

"This man gives Benjamin Martin and his men supplies," his voice was shaky with panic, and his hand pointed to Mr. Howard, the father of the woman Bordon had raped.

"Quiet!" Howard growled.

"He brings them to Black Swamp!" The Colonial man continued.

"He's a liar!" Miss Anne Howard shouted.

"They are in the marsh!" he continued, despite the Howard's trying to shush him.

Tavington smiled with coldly.

So. The wily old bastard returned to Black Swamp... I should have known. It was a bitter thought, he could have had Lyra safely away days ago!

"This man here?" Tavington nodded rigidly toward Peter Howard.

"Yes, Sir! His daughter, she just married Gabriel Martin."

"Did she now?" He drawled, his gaze shifting to Mrs. Anne Howard Martin. "Congratulations," he taunted and smirked suggestively, his eyes lingered on her swelling stomach. The baby within could not possibly be Bordon's but his insolent look had the desired effect, Anne's eyes glittered with indignation, though she was still too fearful to unleash her sharp tongue. He considered her for some moments, an idea forming in his mind...

No. He dismissed it at once. She had already been raped and he needed to be away immediately if he was to make it to Black Swamp in time to rescue Lyra before nightfall. As it was, he would need to confer with his Captains regarding a battle plan. The Infantry of the British Legion would need to begin their march at once, to be in place near to the Swamp before nightfall.

He would not waste another moment on Mrs. Martin. Pregnant or not, her fate would be the same as the rest of the assemblage.

All of this flashed through his mind in a heartbeat and he returned his gaze to the Colonial informant.

"Black Swamp, you say?" The Colonel drawled.

"Yes, Sir!"

"By the Old Spanish Mission," his voice dropped to a threatening whisper. His eyes met Anne Howard's, hers were filled with horror. "Thank you very much."

He replaced his helmet and gave the assemblage one last look of disgust.

"Shut the doors," he commanded quietly, then he turned his horse and led the charger back outside.

"But, you said... We'd be forgiven our treason!" The Colonial man darted forward, anxiously.

"And indeed you may!" Tavington called out, turning to face him. He continued in a deadly tone. "But that's between you and God."

The doors slammed shut before him and he guided the horse back down the steps.

"Black Swamp, by the Old Spanish Mission," he said as he drew alongside Bordon.

"Christ, you must be joking!" The Captain blurted. "No, it can't be true."

"I believe it is," Tavington countered. "The Howard's have been supplying them, according to a rebel inside the church. And as his store is right here in Pembroke, it stands to reason that Martin is indeed close by, in Black Swamp. We will be in position and ready to raid their camp by this evening!"

"And Martin? Will you capture him or -"

"No," Tavington growled. "It is time to end this - he will not survive the night."

"Sir," Wilkins called as he drew closer and Tavington pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. "The town is ready to be fired on your order."

"The town?" Tavington asked, startled. Then he scoffed softly and though he wore a hint of a smile, his eyes were ice, "burn the church."

:::

Bordon watched dumbfounded, as Captain Wilkins struggled with his orders. Tavington had not divulged this part of his plan!

"There is no honor in this," Wilkins argued, still shocked to his core.

Tavington tensed. He eased his horse closer and focused his gaze on Wilkins with deadly intent.

"Didn't you say, that all those who stood against England deserved to die a traitors death?" He asked in his quiet drawl. Wilkins hesitated and the Colonel's tone became dangerous, his very expression held threat. "Burn - the church - Captain." He held Wilkins gaze intently for another moment, before turning his horse.

Bordon adopted an impassive expression, as soon as Tavington turned toward him and as he rode past. Wilkins hesitated, still struggling. He cast one last glance at Tavington, who had turned back. The Colonel tilted his head, silently prompting the other man to continue.

As Captain Bordon watched, Wilkins threw a lit firebrand to the roof of the church, and other Green Dragoons followed suit. It was not long before the screams of panic could be heard from within.

Wilkins approached the Colonel, horrified. Stricken. Broken.

"The honor is found in the end, not in the means," Tavington sniffed, his abrupt tone meant to be reassuring. "This will be forgotten. Bordon?"

Captain Bordon, his face a mask despite the massacre playing out before his eyes, turned his horse to follow.