A grin split his face as he ran his gaze over the deer he’d only just finished skinning. It would make for good meat, most of which he’d smoke for preservation, which meant he wouldn’t have to spend time in Keswick, bartering with farmers and butchers for the leavings no one else wanted. He hated Keswick; the people, the sounds, the gasps of horror whenever he walked by. And he refused to hide behind a cloak like some specter wandering among them, half-human and all despised.
With the deer meat, he could give Keswick a wide berth.
He leaned down and tied the hooves together on each end, creating a gruesome sack with a hollow in the middle where the guts once were. But he kept the heart. His mouth fairly watered at the thought of roasted deer heart; the strength and wild instinct of the animal was housed in the heart, a fortress of sinew and blood.
He draped the kill over the back of his horse, Digger, a mare he’d rescued from a farmer who didn’t deserve such a lovely, spirited horse. The blackguard had tied her to a post to starve, because the fool didn’t know how to handle the animal. It had been pure happenstance that he’d come along just as the farmer raised his crop to slash a wound in Digger’s withers. He’d divested the farmer of his crop, then used it on him, beating him, slashing him, bloodying him until he stopped screaming. Stopped moving. Then, he’d untied Digger, taking the horse into his care.
And they’d been inseparable since. That was three years ago, and the mare was his only friend, not that he needed one. Not that the soulless creature cared a whit about friendship, but he still appreciated Digger’s strong back, stamina, and companionship on those nights when the demons in his head battered him. The demons he gladly unleashed on those who’d wronged him.
Mounting Digger, he turned her toward the northwest, toward the manse to where he’d been summoned. The hope of retribution and a hefty purse was more than enough to get his attention…to purchase his services.
For he was Stringer Black, the bastard son of a vicious hangman, and he hungered for the deliverance only punishment could bring.
The journey to the manse was as uneventful as one could hope, though he did take the opportunity to stop amongst the brush and watch two young girls swimming in a pond. The afternoon sun shone down on the tow-headed creatures, glinting off the water and their hair. A golden halo seemed to form around them, bright and lovely and pure and innocent. No one was innocent. Everyone was born with evil nestled within them, like a babe within its mother’s womb, slowly forming into a dark, desperate thing.
He continued watching them, unable to look away from their façade of purity and light. Like a moth to a candle flame. Like a wolf to the scent of blood. The girls looked to be no older than twelve, and they swam in their tunics, splashing and shrieking in excitement. It was shrill to his ears, making him grimace at the happy sounds the two little brats were making. It wouldn’t take much to silence them forever, to turn their shrieks of joy into their mother’s shrieks of horror. But he didn’t have time for that. He’d been personally invited to meet with a most auspicious person, a man who could have chosen any assassin, but he’d chosen him. A nothing. A dirty, filthy sinner. A man who cared nothing for taking the life of a child in passing.
Tearing himself away, he continued on, over a gathering of low hills, until he reached a stretch of farmland that no doubt supplied goods to the manse. He averted his eyes, ignoring the looks and gasps from the workers as he passed by, refusing to make Digger gallop rather than canter. Let them look, let them see what they’ve done. Let them wonder at what their lives could become.
Reaching the fence dividing the farmstead from the ring of trees surrounding the manse moat, Stringer dismounted. He would remain alert, his hackles raised, prepared for any show of aggression from the patrolling guards in their white and crimson surcoats.
Tying Digger to the branch of a squat oak tree, he pulled the missive from his saddlebag and reread it. Each line of the succinct letter already emblazoned onto his mind, the carefully written words curling with black ink.
Come to Cieldon within the fortnight. Enter through the outer bailey gate and speak with Grieves. Your discretion is of the utmost importance.
—C.C.
The missive had been hand delivered by a sour-faced man in a black cassock, his short blonde hair and brown eyes about as plain as his face. Though it must have been difficult tracking him down where he’d made camp outside of Keswick, the man, whoever he was, only asked his name in his high-pitched voice, then handed him the sealed letter once Stringer had admitted that he was the one the man was looking for. At first, Stringer had wanted to deny who he was, if only to be left in peace, but something about the man’s hard gaze and bored expression made Stringer wonder what horrors this man had seen. If he weren’t disgusted by the ruin of Stringer’s face, he must’ve witnessed something far worse. And that had piqued Stringer’s interest.
Whoever C.C. was, Stringer was inexplicably drawn to Cieldon to meet him, if only to assuage the curiosity. And now he was there, staring up at the thirty-foot-high white stone walls.
Cieldon was a fortress on a hill, surrounded by a twenty-foot-wide moat. There was a wide drawbridge at the front, the only way in and out, and he would need to cross it to get to the outer bailey gate. But first, he’d need to secure the deer carcass from thieves and opportunistic predators and, so, using rope he’d stolen from the last man he’d killed, he pulled the carcass into the canopy of a nearby tree and tied it off at a lower branch. For any passerby to see it, they would have to look up into the tree, but the chances of anyone coming exactly this way were slim.
Removing his blade from the saddle pack, he tied the sheath to his belt at his left side, to make drawing it easy if need be. There was no telling if the guards would give him trouble, though, they often did, so it was better to be armed and potentially dangerous than unarmed and vulnerable.
Never vulnerable. The vulnerable were picked off and slaughtered by men like him.
Spitting out the bile that had collected in the pocket of his right cheek, he slid his tongue through the ragged hole that was once his left cheek.
Let them stare. Let them recoil. He was used to it; Stringer Black, the demon with the face of Hell itself. Let them see what they had made him.
Straightening his shoulders, Stringer began his trek to where the drawbridge was located, a walk that took him no more than thirty minutes. At the lip of the bridge, he stopped and turned back to look the way he’d come. From here, he couldn’t see Digger or where he’d hidden his kill, but he could see the glinting metal and glaring white of the guards standing, staring at him from the outer wall.
With a smirk in place and both eyes scanning for trouble, Stringer crossed the bridge and entered the fortress. As he expected, many eyes followed him as he made his way, slowly, through the people moving to and fro, working, peddling, scurrying, and openly staring. He stopped just the other side of the outer bailey gate and peered up at the men on the wall, peering down at him. He smiled, knowing full well how it transformed his face from ghastly grimace to horrific sneer. The men turned to talk to one another and, just then, from a door set into the side of the gate, a man emerged. Shorter than Stringer, and wider, the man was bulky and wore his armor as a fat child would his father’s clothes. His long black beard touched the collar of his tunic, which just covered his chest plate.
“Who are you and what do you want here?” the man asked, his hatred clear in the clipped sharpness of his words.
Stringer dipped his head in a mocking show of intimidation, leaving his smile in place, and said, “I am looking for Grieves.” Pulling the missive from the small satchel at his right side, he raised it so the man could see. The man’s eyes widened then narrowed before he turned and shouted at a man who’d come through the door behind him.
“Oy! Keep watch.”
The other man nodded without taking his gaze off Stringer, and the man who was obviously the commander came closer.
“I am Grieves. The c
ardinal has been waiting for you. Come along.” He turned and began making his way toward the northwest wall. Stringer followed after him, now more curious than ever about the situation in which he’d brought himself.
So, C.C. was a cardinal. A slithering, slippery sensation coiled in his gut, and he let out a slow breath that teased the edges of his left cheek hole. Whoever this man was, this cardinal, he’d summoned Stringer for one purpose only.
A demon doing the work of God…
His mind swirling with such thoughts, he didn’t pay much attention to where Grieves was leading him, only catching glimpses of somber servants as they shuffled along, their faces downcast to avoid looking at him or Grieves, he did not know. Up a spiral staircase to a second-floor landing, Stringer remained silent, listening to the greater silence within the manse walls. What sort of fortress functioned without voices or noise of any kind? And why did it feel so heavy? Was it because of what he was? Was the cardinal’s God squeezing him within His fist, or was it just the heaviness one should expect from a holy place?
He didn’t know, didn’t want to know. Why did it matter, anyway?
Grieves stopped just outside a wide yet short door at the very end of a corridor lined with a crimson runner of what looked like velvet. Who walked on velvet? Another thing he didn’t understand or care to.
A single knock summoned a familiar face.
“Grieves,” the sour-faced man from three days before snapped, then flicked his mouse-colored gaze to Stringer. “I see you have brought our…friend.” The word was wrong. He was friend to no one. No one was friend to him. “I will let His Eminence know you have arrived,” the man said to Stringer before disappearing back behind the door he’d shut with surprising quietness.
Stringer turned to gaze at Grieves, whose lips were pulled back into a familiar expression: disgust.
“You are an ugly thing. What manner of man shows his face when his face is as twisted as yours?” Grieves asked, his voice nearly a hiss. “My God, I’d have killed you if not for that letter.”
And I’d have found pleasure in your attempt and then in your slow, agonizing death.
“Thank you,” was all he said as he turned back toward the opening door.
“Come,” the sour-pussed man snapped, lifting a single finger to indicate to Stringer to enter.
With a grunt, Grieves spun on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.
Stringer had no doubts that he would see that man again. He’d kill him with his dagger. No! First, he’d pierce him with an arrow from five yards, then, while he was crying into the dust like a bawling babe, he’d slice the man’s tongue from his mouth. Then he’d cut his flesh from his belly and then his fingers and toes. A trembling began in his hands, sending waves of anticipation into his limbs. He could almost taste the sweat that would cascade from his face and into his cheek hole as he worked, killing the man piece by piece by piece.
An impatient noise jerked Stringer from his delicious thoughts and reminded him where he was and why. Nodding, he walked through the low door, ducking his head, and entered a large, gaudy, stuffy room.
The man who’d allowed him entrance bowed slightly as a sneer turned up his lips—but he wasn’t sneering at Stringer. In a blink, the man disappeared back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, leaving him alone in a room in which he was out of place. Where the room was elaborate with crème walls and dark wood furnishings, Stringer was a wretch with stained hands and soul. Out of place yet strangely comfortable.
Before he could take stock of what the room was, a sound came from his right, by a high window. A man, dressed in a crimson cassock, stood at the window, looking out over something that seemed to draw much of his attention. So, this was the cardinal, the man who’d summoned him.
As if hearing Stringer’s thoughts, the man, still facing the window, announced, “I have someone I want you to kill.”
It didn’t take long for the holy man to give Stringer the information he needed to catch his quarry. It would be a challenge, but Stringer loved a challenge especially since so few offered it.
“Do you want it quick or slow?” he asked, hoping a slow death was on the table.
The cardinal narrowed his eyes at Stringer, a look of contempt sliding over his features.
“You are a demon,” he accused. “Do you seek redemption with this act?”
“Nay, I seek retribution.” Against all those who sneered or belittled or threw stones. Every kill, he envisioned their faces crumbling beneath the pain of his knife in their chest.
“Then you and I are kindred spirits, my son.”
Son? Nay. He was no man’s son. His own father had cast him aside, throwing kindling on the fire the villagers had already set at his feet.
Stringer Black was a bastard. A bastard with a holy commission.
Chapter Five
Both cross at her uncle for refusing to see her even after he’d summoned her like a servant, and also relieved to not have to see him while still smelling a bit like horse leavings, Minnette threw the woolen shawl over her head and shoulders and closed the kitchens’ door behind her. The sun had set, which meant few would be out and about, and she wasn’t all that worried that anyone would recognize her anyway. Since her arrival, she’d spent most of her time in her chambers or in the kitchens with Enid, who told the best stories. Even if she still looked at Minnette as though she were just a spoiled noble, playing nice with the help.
The night was dark but the lanterns scattered about on posts helped to illuminate her way from the courtyard, through the inner bailey gate, and into the outer bailey. The stable wasn’t too far from there, and she could duck inside and visit with the kittens. She had promised the little ones some cream, but she wasn’t sure if they’d even still be there, not after that stable master had discovered her in there.
Would he kill the kittens? Would he feed them to the guard’s pack of wolfhounds? Shuddering at the thought, she hurried along, breathing a silent prayer that the fluffy little loves would still be there, and that their mother had returned to feed them. How long could a kitten go without nursing? Would they die without their mother’s immediate care? A heavy yet sharp pain hit her chest. She hated the thought of such helpless creatures being left to die.
I’ll go back for the cream once I check on them.
Determined that these small, defenseless creatures wouldn’t die on her watch, she lifted her head and marched faster, her feet carrying her over the last few yards to the stable doors. No doubt, the stable boys would be settled in for the night, their quarters just on the other side of the stable. But what of the stable master? That tall, handsome, wicked, and utterly inappropriate man? Would he, too, be settled in for the night? When he’d accosted her in the stall, he’d been naked from the waist up, brandishing too much of his taut, muscular, tanned flesh. Would he now be fully bare, sleeping in the nude as she preferred to do?
Ashamed at the direction of her thoughts, she gasped, stopping mid-stride to gather her wits. What was happening to her—and at the thought of one man? He wasn’t the first handsome man she’d ever met, and he wouldn’t be the last, except…he was different. There was something about him that had grabbed hold of her and held her captive all day. She’d washed the muck from her feet while thinking about how the man’s boots snuggly fit his thick calves. She dressed in her fresh tunic and kirtle while thinking on how her nipples had pressed against the fabric of the tunic she’d worn in the stable, and how that man seemed to grow ever more wicked when he’d noticed.
She could only hope to not run into him again. Her palm still stung from the strike she’d landed against his cheek, and she had no desire to do it again. He’d said some very improper things, things no man had ever said to her before. And she’d hated that those words had echoed through her mind throughout the day. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, how he’d grinned down at her, how he’d crowded her, touched her hair, made her feel.
It didn’t matter what the
lout made her feel. He was a servant, and she was not. And besides that, she had no desire to be any man’s momentary gratification. Even if the thought of him actually touching her body instead of just her hair made her belly clench. It could not be borne!
Indignation had taken its time filling her, but once it had, she tried to push thoughts of the stable master from her mind so she could focus on her own life and what she was to do with it.
Approaching the stable, Minnette listened deeply, wondering who she’d encounter. The large doors were closed, but the small door set into the bottom right of the tall doors, just big enough for a short person, was cracked open. Almost like a silent invitation to enter.
A weight pushed down on her, forcing her heart deeper into her chest. She let out a pent-up breath, hoping to dispel the feeling of dread that had suddenly overcome her. What was there to dread in the stable? And was it dread she felt? Somehow, this sensation wasn’t conjuring the fear it should, but rather it stoked something hot and pulsing, like wary anticipation.
Pushing the smaller door open, she peeked inside. Each of the stalls was occupied, the horses dipping their heads to eat hay or drink from their troughs. The lanterns on the wall opposite the stalls were all lit except for the one directly across from where the kittens had been that morning.
Pure coincidence, she thought, though that hot sensation seemed to unfurl, like a rose made of fire opening within her.
Shaking off her ridiculous inklings, she stepped into the stable, stopping to listen. Horses munching, mice skittering. Meow. They were still there, her little darlings! A smile split her face and she threw off her hood and ran to the farthest stall, pulling open the stall door to find the litter right where she’d left them. There was a small saucer of cream beside them.
The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2) Page 5