The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2)

by Rosamund Winchester

  “You probably do not remember me, but I remember you,” he began. “You were the greatest thing to ever happen to your father, my brother.”

  She lifted her chin, grasping her own hands ever tighter. “I do remember you, though without much detail, which was why Maman’s decision to send me here was such a shock.” She’d try honesty. Perhaps, he’d find a morsel of compassion in his heart and he’d leave her be. Maybe he’d send her home to France. No! She couldn’t go home. Her new stepfather did not want her there.

  She had no home to go home to.

  “I can understand your surprise but, please, do not blame your dear maman. She was a widow in need of a man to care for her, and she did what she had to do to secure a future for herself and for you.”

  She thought only of herself, only of what she needed. She cared not for what I wanted or needed! The words rang through her head like a bell tolling a death.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Uncle Remi—”

  His eyes snapped and his faux smile disappeared completely. “I am His Eminence, Cardinal Cristian Calleaux,” he uttered each word like a brand on his flesh. “I was Remi a lifetime ago, long before I earned my position within God’s Church. I expect you to address me publically as Your Eminence. In private, you may address me Uncle Cristian.”

  A sick prickling began in her stomach. “But Cristian was my father—”

  “Your father is dead, my dear. I pray you remember that, without me, you are very much alone, without anyone to guard you against the dangers outside these walls.”

  Stunned by the sharpness of his tone and the not so subtle threat, Minnette bit her tongue to keep from blurting something she would regret. She curtseyed, bowing her head to hide the sneer she couldn’t stop from forming. Her father, a man of grace, generosity, and kindness, did not deserve to have his name used by another, especially his own brother. What would her papa think? She could remember her father easily; handsome, charming, thoughtful, and dedicated to the Church. It was that dedication that had made him bequeath most of his fortune and estate to the Church in France, leaving her and her mother to molder on what was left—their house, which was entailed to a distant relation who cared not for maintaining it, a small allowance each month, and the memory of the man he had been. Certainly, she could be bitter about her father’s last wishes, as her maman was, but she understood why her papa had done it. He wanted the Church to use the fortune to better the lives of those less fortunate. She could not fault him for that; it was noble. That was the sort of man her father was.

  Unlike the man standing before her. She could remember little about her uncle, but from what she could see now, there was a slyness about him, a slimy, scheming repugnance she couldn’t stomach. She swallowed down the rising bile and prayed the interview was coming to a close.

  Seemingly appeased by her show of penitence, as false as it was, her uncle walked forward and patted Minnette on the cheek.

  “You look so much like my dear brother. You have his regal bearing, his strong chin, and his head of riotous hair.”

  She nearly snapped at him, then. Her hair wasn’t riotous! Certainly, it had taken over an hour for her and Elspeth to tame it into the braid but, once it was done, she looked pretty enough.

  “And you have your mother’s stunning eyes and fine bones.”

  If she was a naïve child, she would have found his compliments endearing. But she knew them for what they were; a listing of her marriageable traits. He was ticking off a list of all the things that would make her more appealing to a prospective husband. The question was: who did her uncle have in mind?

  “Thank you,” was all she could force out through her quickly closing throat. Stiffly, she took a step back, putting some space between the man she hardly knew and herself. He was a man of God, surely, he didn’t have his own designs on her. It would be reprehensible. Disgusting. Sinful. She nearly shuddered with the vile bitterness rising to her tongue.

  His gaze never leaving her face, her uncle announced, “I have found a husband for you.”

  She thought she’d be prepared for a day such as this, but to actually hear those words from a man who knew nothing about her and would care little about her own wants and needs was shocking. Numbing. She could only blink at him, her voice lost, her mind dancing in jerky, chaotic movements.

  “I see I have surprised you, my dear,” her uncle drawled, not in the least bit apologetic. His hard expression and sharp eyes told her his words were as much import to him as reading the larder list.

  How dare he? She wanted to yell, to stomp her foot and argue. But why else was she in Cieldon? Her maman had warned her that her uncle would find her a husband, and she should have taken that information and absconded days ago. Now, it was too late.

  No! It is never too late. You cannot do this. You cannot let him steal your life and give it to someone else! Certainly, she wanted to wed one day, to a man of her own choosing, a man she could love or did love. But, if her uncle did the choosing, she would, no doubt, be the pawn of some Church or kingdom intrigue that would drag her through their games, an unwilling piece to be passed from one victor to another.

  Damn!

  “I assure you,” her uncle continued, unaware of the battle being waged within her, “you need not worry for your future. Your betrothed is a fine man of upstanding character and honor, a man who has been loyal to the Church and to the king. He has many lands in the north, bordering the sea, where you will live out your days in quiet comfort and obedience.”

  There it was. She had spent enough time in her maman’s dinner parties to know the subtle under-meaning of his words. She was a gift, nothing more than a bauble in a box to be set aside “in the north” and left to rot until her husband came to beget a child, only to leave again. It sounded lonely. Boring. Terrible.

  “And who is this man?” she asked, refusing to call him her betrothed.

  “Sir Merton Glidden.”

  Of course, she’d never heard of him before. She knew next to nothing about English nobility. Curiosity got the best of her. “And when will I meet him?”

  Seeming to think she had acquiesced to this travesty, her uncle offered her a smile, one that she couldn’t call soft or warm, but rather, well-practiced.

  “Your intended is currently on patrol with his men in Aberdeenshire, in the north, across the border. There are many dangers between here and there, and it will take some time for him to arrive here to wed you. Unfortunately, there is no time for him to travel south. He is embroiled in a war against the reivers who ravage the borderlands and the pirates who scavenge the eastern coasts.”

  It could take him months, years even, to come for her. Her fledgling hope for time to think of a way out shattered with his next words.

  “You will be escorted north to marry him on his estate.”

  “What?” Everything within her turned to ice. “What of the dangers you spoke of?”

  Her uncle waved his hand dismissively. “The Homme du Sang will escort you north to meet your betrothed at his home in Lorne.” He spoke so matter-of-factly. About her future.

  Her hands thawed enough for her to pull them into fists at her sides.

  “And if I refuse?” she asked, her voice sharp.

  His smile died only to be reborn as a hideous sneer.

  “You refuse and I will send you to a convent even further north than Lorne, where the weather is so cold and the land so barren, you would die for the fierceness of it. And think…all those days in silence. On your knees. With nothing to occupy your time except prayer, fasting, and scrubbing hard stone floors.”

  Silence? Scrubbing floors? In a barren, cold land? It sounded like Hell on earth—but to give up her freedom to another, to give her life over to a man who couldn’t even be bothered to come and collect her himself? She was lodged firmly between two spear points, and she didn’t know which one to throw herself upon.

  “I can see by the look on your face that you are still undecided,” her
uncle drawled, turning away to return to his seat behind his escritoire. “I will give you two days to think on it. If you have not chosen by then, I will choose for you.”

  He dismissed Minnette with another wave of his beringed hand, and she could do naught but turn and leave the room.

  Once in her chambers, Minnette walked to the window overlooking the inner bailey. People were busy—solemn but busy—and the few guards she saw never once looked up.

  A plan began to form in her mind. She could escape, she could make her own future. Her life wasn’t a token of gratitude from one man to another, and neither was her virtue. She would choose—and she chose to run south.

  Her maman had several sisters, some of whom married nobility and beget heirs for legacies, as was expected of them. But one of her mother’s sisters, Nanette, refused to marry. Instead of wedding the man of her father’s choosing, she fled France and settled in the village, Chatteris. Minnette never would have learned about her estranged aunt if she hadn’t overheard her maman discussing the woman’s “primitive” choices. She chose to live in a cottage instead of a castle, and plant vegetables instead of rumors. Oh, how Minnette wished she could have known her aunt.

  And now, she’d have the chance. She would flee Cieldon and, somehow, make her way to her aunt’s home.

  She just had to think.

  Elric cursed and sucked the blood from the cut on his finger. He really should have been paying attention to his blade as he was sharpening it, but he couldn’t. His mind was elsewhere.

  It had been two days since he’d seen hide or hair of the delicious princess who’d enchanted him so easily. Two days of finding excuses to come to the stable only to find it empty of sensual maids. Two nights of deeply erotic dreams that left him sweating and hard every morning. Two days of wondering how the Hell one woman could have twisted him up like that.

  Where had she gone?

  He’d assumed that because she’d brought the basket of tarts that she worked in the kitchens, but every time he’d visit with Enid, his kitten was never there. And he could ask Enid about her but…he didn’t want to risk bringing any punishment down on his sharp-clawed kitten. No, he’d find her himself. He just needed to ask about “Uncle Remi”. Whoever that man was, he was the key to the mystery of the woman Elric couldn’t stop thinking about.

  “Pierre,” Elric called to the man just entering the barracks, his large frame covered in sheets of sweat and pieces of wood. His sword hand was bloody, and his eyes were lit with a fire Elric had only seen one other time.

  He must’ve gone into the forest, again, Elric thought, waiting for Pierre to come closer so they could speak without anyone overhearing. Pierre was large, imposing, and some would say terrifying. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was succinct. No one knew much about him other than he was French nobility, some baron’s son who’d been chosen to cross the Channel and swear allegiance to the Homme du Sang. From the constant icy look in his gray eyes, Elric could surmise that there was something in Pierre’s past that had transformed him into the man who swung a sword at trees as if they were the specter of his enemies. He’d witnessed it once, coming upon Pierre bellowing into the sky as he thrashed the oak, his sword swinging and chopping away at the tree bark, his body vibrating with rage. It had taken Elric’s breath away. And he’d never spoken about it. And he never would. Pierre could keep his secrets, just as Elric would keep his own.

  Once Pierre was settled on the bench beside him, Elric met the man’s gaze.

  “Do you still spend time with the lads from the smithy?” The smithy was a busy place, where household staff, guards, and visitors alike came for finely-made metal goods. The lads who worked there with the blacksmith were quiet but observant. Elric couldn’t count the number of times Pierre had received critical information from those two boys. And because, somehow, they weren’t intimidated by Pierre, the silent mountain of a man enjoyed spending time with them, listening to them chatter about all they’d heard and see that day.

  “Oui,” was Pierre’s response. Succinct.

  “Have you heard of anyone speaking about a Remi?” He knew it was risky asking about the man, but he knew Pierre would remain a bulwark for any words that passed Elric’s lips. It was one of the reasons Elric trusted him above all the others—except for Glenn, who’d earned Elric’s trust by continuing to save his hide.

  Pierre furrowed his brow, his thick, dark eyebrows forming a V of deep thought.

  “Non, I cannot say that I have.”

  Elric nodded once then returned to trying to sharpen his blade without slicing off a finger.

  “Do you want me to ask?”

  Shocked that Pierre would bother with something outside his immediate duties, Elric laughed. “No, no, my friend. I will do my own digging.” But who could he ask that wouldn’t blabber about it?

  Pierre grunted as he stood once again, walking to where a pot of stew was hanging over a fire. That stew had been there for three days, heated and re-heated at least once every day. It was probably the consistency of pitch and probably tasted like it, too.

  “I would not eat that, if I were you,” Elric warned just as Pierre bent over to sniff at it. When the man recoiled, Elric fought the urge to chuckle. “As I said, it is much too old and many times burned.” A thought occurred to him, then. “I will fetch us some more provisions from the kitchens. Enid is bound to have some meat and potatoes we can fashion into a fresh pot of stew. And, besides, I could use the walk.” He’d been sitting and brooding over the mystery woman for too long. It was time to put her from his mind and get back to doing what it was he did best: tupping a willing maid. How difficult would it be to slip into the lower corridors and find a lovely maid to slake his building lust? He wondered if Eliza or Merida, or one of the other chambermaids, would welcome his invitation. He hadn’t been to see either of them in weeks, not since he’d been home last.

  No doubt they will both welcome me with open arms and wide-open thighs.

  With that thought in mind, Elric didn’t wait for Pierre to respond. He sheathed the sword and stood. Was that a flash of curiosity in Pierre’s eyes? It was gone much too quickly to determine.

  With a wave of his hand, Elric stepped from the barracks and into the waning afternoon sun.

  Yes, a quick and easy tupping was just what he needed to get his mind back on his duties. The Homme du Sang had already been back a Cieldon for too long. The men were getting anxious, at least the four of them who weren’t out on smaller missions. He, Pierre, Leon, and Bear were waiting word of the mission Calleaux had hinted at during their evening meal two nights before. Soon enough, Calleaux would send them out on another mission. Then, he’d have something even more pressing to occupy his thoughts and his time.

  Until then, though, he’d have to make do. And he’d ignore the twinge in his belly that told him he was a fool. He refused to let the image of striking blue eyes alight with passion drive him to do something even more foolish, like searching the whole of the manse for her.

  Chapter Seven

  It had been two days since she’d been given the ultimatum, and she’d just sent Elspeth with her answer. Initially, the maid was terrified of approaching the great and powerful Cardinal Calleaux, but Minnette reminded her that she was delivering a message that would only endear the messenger to the cardinal. Elspeth seemed pleased by the prospect of special thanks from the man of God.

  A wolf in sheep’s clothing, more like, she grumbled in her thoughts.

  Against her better judgement, she’d agreed to marry Sir Merton Glidden. She’d not stay betrothed to him, however. She only needed the time it took to plan their departure. If she had a week or two to get everything into place, she could make her escape before she truly became her uncle’s pawn.

  Tall, broad shoulders, tempting mouth, strong arms, tanned chest, rigid muscles—an image of the wickedly smirking stable master slid into her mind. And it wasn’t the first time. She’d spent every morning since meeting him was
hing away the shame with cold water and silent prayers. The things that man could do with his hands and his mouth. Well, she’d rather not find out if he were capable of doing more to turn her own body against her. She was made of sterner stuff than that; letting a stranger arouse her against her will, and then giving thoughts of him precious space in her mind. Grunting in frustration, she forced herself to think on other things, like her coming escape.

  I will never think of him again.

  Liar.

  Shaking off that traitorous inner voice, she checked her reflection in the glass over her vanity. She’d borrowed another of Elspeth’s dresses, which was worn and fraying at the sleeves. Despite how droll it looked, it was comfortable enough, even more comfortable since she’d refused to wear her corset beneath it. That dratted thing could squeeze the life from a grown man, let alone a woman of her fine bone structure and soft skin.

  She’d unbraided her hair, loosing it from the tight coronet Elspeth had forced upon her that morning. Her raven wing black hair flowed free down her back to her waist, and curled around her breasts in the front. She should have thought to wear a wimple to hide her hair, but she couldn’t care. She was only dressing like this to make passing through the corridors easier. So what if one of her uncle’s men caught her? It wasn’t as though any of them knew what she looked like. She’d spent nearly all of her time in her chambers, only leaving to see her uncle in his chambers or to attend mass. But, even then, she’d covered her face with a veil, as was expected of a pious woman. And the men who’d escorted her from her ship on the coast to the manse were hired men from local villages, so they wouldn’t be around in the corridors to point at her and give her away.

  No. No one in England knew a single thing about her, and that would only work to her benefit.

  Not even the stable master, her obviously delusional inner voice chimed.

  Huffing out an exasperated breath, Minnette grabbed the candle from her bedside table and left her chambers, making her way down the quiet corridors. There weren’t many guests in the manse, and so this wing of the house was often desolate. She reached the staircase that led to the back of the kitchens.