Tristin chuckled. “My father wishes for me to return home.”
Surprised, Elric arched an eyebrow. “Will you be crawling home on your belly?” he asked, well aware of Tristin’s strained relationship with his pater, the man who’d forced him into the cardinal’s service in an ill-conceived effort to make Tristin “find his own way”.
Chuckling again, though this time the sound was sharp, Tristin replied, “No, I will be riding through the gates with my head held high, and my beautiful bride by my side.”
Elric raised the other eyebrow, waiting for the rest of that statement.
“And we’re to fill the castle with his grandchildren; one within the year, five within the next four years.”
Coughing to hide the strangled gasp of shock, Elric slapped his chest. “How is that even possible?”
Tristin’s mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. “Trust me, my friend, it will be no hardship.”
“With a lass as lovely as our Bell Heather, I can well believe that, my friend,” Glenn drawled, stepping up behind them. If Elric weren’t used to such stealthiness from the man, he would have plunged his dagger into Glenn’s stomach without hesitation.
“What have you been doing?” Elric asked, turning to take in the sight of his friend. He had a necklace of purple flowers around his neck, and the braids in his black beard were now adorned with dark blue beads. “What the Hell happened to you? You look like a bloody idiot.”
Beside him, Tristin roared in laughter, but his merriment was cut off at the look of absolute deadly intent shooting from Glenn’s piercing blue eyes.
“Who am I ta tell a wee lass that she canna have her way with me?” He shrugged.
Holding back a bark of his own laughter, Elric asked, “And this wee lass…was she wee in size or age?” Elric couldn’t picture the dark predator before him, kneeling before a babe and allowing her to braid his beard with baubles.
Glenn answered tonelessly. “It ye must ken, twas her mother I was interested in—she was a right buxom wench with plush lips and hungry eyes. She’d have gobbled me up, and I’d have let her.”
“And what stopped you from being gobbled?” Elric couldn’t stop himself now even if Glenn gutted him with his bare hands.
“My lord!” came a squeal, and they turned to see a little girl in a white frock running toward them. When Elric turned back to remark on it, Glenn was gone, disappearing to wherever it was a demon in human skin went to hide.
“Coward,” Elric grumbled as the child dashed between him and Tristin to stare at the spot where Glenn had been standing.
“Where has he gone?” the child asked, her voice heavy with disappointment. “I wanted to show him my new beads. They would look oh so darling in his beard.”
Unable to stop it, Elric’s chest exploded with laughter. Tears wet his eyes and his throat burned. By the time the laughter had died down, the child was gone and Tristin was staring at him curiously.
“What?” Elric asked, suddenly annoyed. “Have you never seen a man laugh at another man before?”
Tristin cocked his head and sighed. That was never a good sign.
“That is not what I was thinking on, my friend.”
“And why are ye thinking at all? Ye two look like ye ate Maude’s sour plum tarts,” came a familiar voice from behind Tristin. God, if they weren’t careful, they’d be set upon by enemies and not see them coming until they were within killing distance.
Tristin spun on his heel and beamed down at Bell Heather, who beamed up at him.
Warmth blasted Elric’s cheeks; this sort of affection was more than a little uncomfortable.
“Tis nothing, my love,” Tristin drawled, bending down to take Bell Heather’s mouth in a kiss.
Coughing, Elric moved to leave them to their moment, but Tristin’s hand shot out to stop him.
“Before you go, Elric, I wanted to say something.” Tristin’s gaze grew intent.
“What?”
Tristin reached out and gripped Elric’s shoulder, squeezing it.
“Thank you. If you had not been there for me, for us, through all of this…” Elric watched Tristin struggle to swallow, and he knew what his friend wanted to say.
“You know I would die for you, Brother,” Elric said, knowing it need not be said at all. It was how each member of the Homme du Sang felt for one another; theirs was a brotherhood. They would all willingly die for each other.
Nodding, Tristin squeezed Elric’s shoulder again.
“And I for you, Brother.”
The rest of the day crept by, the merriment beating against him like the waves against the rocks. He wanted to be happy, to know contentment in the moment as Tristin and Bell Heather did, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Happiness wasn’t his fate. And it never would be.
Chapter Two
Cieldon Manse
Cumberland, England
One month later
Elric Gadot tossed Bellerophon’s reins to the stable boy, removing his helmet to let the warmth of the sun hit his face. It had been a dreary month, cold and dark, and it seemed the whole of the earth mourned the passing of the summer and the coming of the autumn. Even as a chill, crisp breeze slid over his cheeks, he couldn’t help but wonder if he were heading into the pits of Hell.
Taking the steps to the large oak and iron door, Elric didn’t wait for Martin, the cardinal’s acolyte, to greet him. He already knew why he’d been summoned. It wasn’t a secret that the commander of the Homme du Sang, a man Elric called “friend”, had renounced his place in the order to marry the woman he loved, or that he’d been stripped of his position because of false charges of heresy. And so, Elric, as the second in command, was the next in line for the position. A position he wanted just as much as a case of the pox.
The massive door swung open with a low creak, and Elric entered the manse keep with confident steps. He was the new commander of the most feared and respected chivalric order in the kingdom, he was the best swordsman—second to the man who previously held the title of commander—and he was the handsomest man in the county. He had every reason to be confident. Except, he hadn’t wanted to be commander. The very idea of carrying that much responsibility over the lives of ten other men set his teeth on edge. All his adult life, he’d only ever worried over his physical prowess, in the bedroom and on the battlefield, and his supply of wine. Now, he had to worry over every detail of every mission. And he couldn’t stomach it.
God dammit, Tristin! Why did you have to settle this shite on my shoulders?
Sucking in a deep breath, Elric turned down the corridor leading to the staircase that would take him to the second floor, where the cardinal’s study was located.
Cieldon Manse, the home of Cardinal Cristian Calleaux, was a great hulk made of white masonry and the tears of virgins—at least, that’s what it felt like. Like to tread within its walls was to give over to a life of meaningless celibacy and temperance. It made him want to turn on his heel and get out of there with all haste.
But he couldn’t; the cardinal had summoned him, and it was time for Elric to take up the mantle he’d been asked to carry.
The keep’s corridors echoed with his footsteps. The clank and clunk of his armor as he walked pounded against his nerves like a mallet on a lute. Discordant. Out of place in the silence that pressed down on him, slowing him. By the time he reached the door to the cardinal’s study, his heart was galloping against his ribs.
What has come over you? Tis only the rest of your life staring back at you as you sink further into the muck. Panic struck him square in the gut as images of his men dying, falling on their enemy’s swords, screaming at him for leading them into an ambush filled his mind, striking at him as if he were there, in that moment, feeling the horror all over again.
Before he could steel himself against what was to come, the door before him opened. The cardinal stood there, his brows furrowed.
“Are you going to stand out there all day, or are you going to
come in?” the cardinal snapped. His usually serene expression was now one of frustration.
Holding in his abrasive retort, Elric walked past the man and into the study, careful not to let Calleaux sense his loathing. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, and large windows overlooked the inner courtyard where the chapel was located. He’d only ever been invited into the cardinal’s study once, when he’d been offered a place in the Homme du Sang. But Tristin had been there, a welcoming face and steady presence in a moment when Elric was at his most self-conscious.
But, he was on his own now; Tristin off begetting moppets in Bridgerdon.
A bitterness rose to nip at him. He didn’t begrudge his friend his much-deserved happiness, but Elric refused to ever bow to such vulnerability. A wife was a weakness, not to mention a lady of the castle—not that he even had a castle anymore—would drastically reduce the number of women who shared his bed.
No. A wife was about as necessary as a kick to the bollocks.
The cardinal closed the door behind them and shuffled toward his escritoire which was set in the middle of the room. Dressed as he was, in a black cassock, the cardinal looked more like a shadow moving across the room than a Prince of the Church gliding on clouds made up of prayers and offerings and postulance.
Hiding his sneer as he ducked his head to give the proper prostration, Elric kneeled.
The cardinal gave an impatient huff. “There is no time for that, Sir Elric, and I know you would rather cut off my finger than kiss my ring,” the cardinal said, coolly.
Shocked by the man’s plain speaking, Elric rose to his feet and stared down at the man who held his future in his thin-fingered hands.
“I assume you know why I have summoned you here,” the cardinal intoned, gazing at Elric from beneath thick brown eyebrows, his dark brown eyes flickered with an unspoken distaste that Elric shared. He couldn’t like the man, not after what he’d tried to do to Tristin, to Tristin’s wife, Bell Heather, and to the Homme du Sang. The conniving bastard tried to kill Tristin, Bell Heather, and anyone daring to stand in the way of his grasp for power. No one in Cumberland doubted the cardinal’s hunger for the archbishopric, and the Homme du Sang had been helping him in his quest for the seat since the very beginning, though…they hadn’t known it then, that their supposed missions for God were actually missions for the godless.
And now that Elric knew the true purpose behind all the supposed “work of God” they’d done over the last three years, he was loath to do anything the cardinal commanded. Except that now that the devious snake had been taken in hand by the Church, he had less venom. Less bite. But still the same amount of hissing.
“Yes,” Elric answered simply, his voice flat.
Cardinal Calleaux’s eyes narrowed. “And do you understand that weight of this appointment, that you are taking on the mantle of captain, commander, leader? That you are answerable to me, to the Holy Church, and to God?”
Each word spoken was like a nail in his coffin, and the lack of air choked him from the inside.
Was he ready to take on such responsibility, to lead the fearsome and faithful Homme du Sang, the Men of Blood, sworn to uphold the edicts and laws of God and king? And could he do what he must when—and “when” would come—Calleaux showed his true intentions?
Tristin trusted you enough to walk away, to hand you the reins.
Sir Tristin LaDeux, Commander, Captain, friend. The strongest, most loyal, and most dedicated man Elric knew. They’d fought side by side for three years, trusting one another like brothers, battling ambushes, striking at reivers, spilling blood, and saving souls. At least, that’s what the cardinal would have them believe.
If Tristin could trust him with the weight of such a calling, did he dare take it?
He answered, refusing to let another moment of doubt taint his thoughts.
“Yes.” As the word left his mouth, a strange warmth filled him, like a lightning strike in his blood. Purpose…it was purpose filling him. It was heady, compelling, drawing from him every fear he’d had when he’d arrived. “I am ready to take command,” he announced, his voice heavy with intent. Despite Calleaux’s abuse of the order, Elric was confident that some good had come out of all the bloodletting and warring he’d championed in the past. And he was determined with every breath in his body to do what was right.
Now you sound like Elton. Thoughts of his brother did what they always did, shake him to his core. Steeling himself, he straightened his shoulders, refusing to give Calleaux any reason to change his mind.
Calleaux arched both brown eyebrows and pinned Elric with a glare. He was no fool. Elric knew where he stood with the cardinal. As a loyal friend to the man who’d humiliated and nearly ruined him, Elric was treading on painted glass. Rumors spread quickly amongst the order and among the manse guards; Calleaux meant to replace each member of the order within the year. Though the task would be nigh impossible without approval from the archbishop, Calleaux was no stranger to using underhanded means to get what he wanted. Elric not only had to keep alert for danger on missions, he needed to keep his back to the wall, even when home at Carnburg.
Certainly, his time as the commander of the Homme du Sang might not last as long as the next sennight, but he’d make each day count for something.
After long, aching moments of silence, Calleaux tipped his head.
“Very well,” he said, resigned. He raised his beringed hand and gave the sign of the cross. “We will forego the ceremony, as I cannot find the motivation to show such favor.”
Elric didn’t care for ceremony. He only cared for his men, their honor, and the fullest flagon of wine.
Honor? Now you sound like Tristin. Elric nearly snorted at the mental offense, but the cardinal’s raking look brought him up short.
“Also, I have little time to allow you to hang on your new laurels…I have your first order,” Calleaux said, moving to sit behind his escritoire, and Elric followed, coming to stand before it.
“What have you for us?” Elric asked, strangely excited about the prospect of action. His body fairly thrummed with unspent vitality. Oh, to swing a sword again.
Without looking up from whatever he was now writing, Calleaux commanded, “You are to vacate Carnburg immediately.” Carnburg, the seat of the Homme du Sang, had been his home for the last three years.
Shocked dumb, Elric blinked down at the man who’d pulled the rug out from beneath him—and made him homeless in the same breath.
“What do you mean?” he asked, praying he’d misheard.
Calleaux curled his lip into a sneer.
“I mean that you and the rest of the men will reside here, at the keep. I can better keep an eye on you. Lord knows what sorts of debauched acts occur where I cannot see.” The cardinal’s imperious tone made Elric’s whole body tighten.
How dare he? Everything within Elric roared for him to revolt, to grab the man by the neck and refuse. But what good would that do? Surely, inflicting bodily harm on the man who had torn his carefully crafted life asunder would feel good in the moment, but it would only bring him more pain than pleasure. Calleaux held all the power, and after what he’d done to Tristin, there was no telling what he would do if crossed again. Knowing that the livelihood, reputation, and fate of his men rested in this moment, in his actions, on his shoulders, Elric did the only thing he could do.
“As you command, Your Eminence,” he ground out, his jaw aching from grinding his teeth together.
Expelling a heavy sigh, Calleaux replaced the quill in the inkwell and leaned back on the stool where he sat. His unremarkable face was set in a harsh expression, one that told Elric his trials were far from over.
“Also, it behooves me to have to tell you that Bishop Norton in Furness has required that I welcome two new knights to the order.”
Though he knew Bishop Norton through his own father, he held little hope that his choices in men would benefit anyone other than himself. It was the way of the Church, as he was beginni
ng to learn. Biting back a curse, Elric used every ounce of his willpower to remain still, when what he really wanted to do was cleave the cardinal’s escritoire in twain.
“Who?” he asked, the skin on the back of his neck prickling with unease. No doubt the cardinal had chosen men who were no more than armored lackeys, men loyal only to Calleaux. Which left Elric in the position of protecting his men from Calleaux’s minions. He swore silently. The commander of the Homme du Sang shouldn’t have to play intermediary with his own men. There were more important things to worry about than keeping Calleaux’s toadies from getting murdered—most likely by the order’s assassin, Glenn Fraser, who was more likely to slice their throats than share a meal with them.
Calleaux let out another heavy breath, as if he were annoyed by his own presence. “I can see by the look on your face that you would not trust any man I chose.”
That and more…
“But you will be pleased to know that these men were chosen by Norton, personally,” Calleaux said, acidly. So, the two men would be loyal to the archbishop and not Calleaux. Suddenly, the thread of anxiety weaving a tapestry in his chest loosened a little, allowing for him to draw a deep breath.
“Are they from Canterbury or Furness?” he asked, wondering if the men were local knights, up from the abbey in Furness, or from the more internationally trod Canterbury. Either way, the men would be a nuisance to train in the ways of the Homme du Sang. For the fiftieth time that month, he realized what a bother it had been for Tristin as the commander.
Poor bastard—Tristin, and now himself.
“They are from Lancastershire, from Lord Milton’s own army,” Calleaux answered, his voice as thin as his mouth.
Lord Ruben Milton was a feudal lord who loved to fight as much as he loved to fuck. He had more bastards than all the kings of England, combined. It was well known that he stocked the ranks of his army with his own sons. So, more than likely, the two knights Norton was sending were Miltons by way of the chambermaid. Or two.
“Sir James Black and Sir Morgan McEwan. I am sure you have heard of them.”
The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2) Page 2