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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Blistering anger in her belly rose up to sear her chest, but she swallowed it down. She felt the cool hand of reason reach in and clasp her thoughts. She would succeed. She had to. Neither her uncle, Sir Glidden, nor Sir Elric would make her into a puppet.

  She could feel his gaze on her again, and she met it, without flinching, without giving anything away.

  “I will be ready,” Sir Elric said, pinning her to the spot with the molten gold of his gaze. There was an edge in his voice that Minnette had never heard before, an edge that could easily cleave her in two. Gone was the man who could get her to succumb to his kisses with the seduction of his voice, and in his place was a man who made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

  Lord, have mercy on my soul!

  Chapter Nine

  The Balliwich was loud, crowded, and just the perfect place to remain hidden in plain sight. Everyone was too busy drinking and carousing to notice a hooded man sitting at a small table in the back corner, watching them all with hatred boiling in his chest. These people…they were smiling, laughing, sharing stories, clapping one another on the shoulder, grabbing at passing barmaids. All of them without a care in their little world.

  Biting back a growl, Stringer slid his empty mug to the edge of the table. He was suddenly sickened by the stench of the place. The scent of sweaty bodies, old thresh on the floor, spilled ale, boiled pig fat, tallow candles…and blood.

  Aaaah, he took a deep breath, sniffing the air like a hound for a fox. It was faint, but it was there—the scent of dried blood. And decay. The tang of iron and the malodorous stench of rot wafted, held aloft on the slight breeze that floated into the common room when anyone opened the door. Someone in the room was wounded, a recent wound that had begun to fester. It had to be someone close. He held the scent in his nostrils, capturing his breath in his chest, and turned his head to his left. He remained hidden behind his hood, which was pulled down to hide his face, but he could see the man beside him clearly.

  The man was leaning over the top of the table, mewling into his mug of ale, whimpering like a puppy kicked too hard in the ribs. Lord, but he wanted to give the worm a real reason to whimper. Stringer’s gaze caught on the man’s side, where his dirty, ill-fitting tunic did little to hide the soiled bandage wrapped around his waist. Wounded, indeed. And it took everything within him to not grab the man by his neck, snatch the bandage from his side, and peer at what could only be a fetid mess.

  Man is far too fragile, too easy to break. He had lost his humanity long ago.

  He’d always enjoyed the sight of rot and decay, and nothing made him happier than to be the one to have caused it.

  As quickly as his pleasure rose, it died. A bar wench sidled by his table, bumping against it in her hurry to serve drinks to the table across from his, where a group of scowling men sat, grimacing into their trenchers of meat and crusty bread. The wench hadn’t meant to bump him, hadn’t even seen him sitting there…no one ever saw him. He was invisible, like the wretched things in your past you would rather forget.

  But he wouldn’t let them forget about him…not now that he’d been chosen for God’s work. He felt empowered, as though his works, the deeds he accomplished on this new quest, would be cause for celebration in the realms of Heaven.

  If he could, he would pull the whole tavern building down on their heads, light the wreckage ablaze, and listen to their screams as they tried to escape their prison of wood and fire. He would chide them for their foolishness, for fire and agony was meant for all, and they’d only tasted a sampling of it.

  Aye, flames and festering wounds for all…at the hands of Stringer Black.

  Pulling his focus back to his purpose in the Balliwich, he recalled the cardinal’s instructions: Your target will be traveling with a company of five, leaving from the manse two days hence. You can trail them from here, wait until she is alone, and dispatch her quickly. She will fight you, but you will have the element of surprise on your side. Make it look like an animal attack…

  His chest swelled, pride surging through him. There had been many kills where he’d staged the scene to look as though wild dogs had feasted on the victim’s flesh. It made killing more than one person in an area easier, because no one would link the kills if one or two were done by animals, and the third and fourth done by a blade. He’d had many years to perfect his trade…the trade of blood. A trade he’d inherited from his father, the very man who’d turned him from boy to man with the heat of a pyre and the jeers of villagers.

  His father, Cyril Black, was a hangman, a killer for hire, a man who took pleasure in watching necks stretch, bones pop, eyes bulge. He loved his profession, one he’d done with disgusting glee. He’d loved it so much that he’d named his only child Stringer. His mother, Jane, had often lamented his naming, claiming that she would have preferred the name James. A good, honest name. But Stringer was a name with a true meaning; his calling. A man who was meant to take lives, as his father had.

  String ’em up, Cyril. Watch their necks snap, Cyril. Make them pay, Cyril.

  His father had been the right hand of their feudal lord, a bastard of low morals who saw enemies everywhere. He’d kept Cyril busy for decades, so busy that he had hardly noticed when his own son had begun stringing up small animals, hanging them from trees, reading their fabricated pronouncements of guilt with an air of arrogance he did not truly feel. He simply wanted to understand what made his father so happy to pull the lever. And after the first dog he’d killed, it had become clear. Killing numbed the pain of living. They died so he could live.

  And so, he had killed larger and larger prey, until he had become prey himself.

  Shuddering, he tamped down the elation and then the horror that rose whenever he thought of it. Now was not the time to think on the glories and atrocities of his past. Now was the time to think on the glories of his future, a future where the men of God favored him with their important work.

  He leaned back on his stool, resting his back against the wall. It had been four hours since he’d arrived at the tavern. Sundown was imminent, which meant the tavern would become even more crowded as farmers and tradesmen shuffled in to drink away their sorrows from the day.

  Stringer knew it was only a matter of time before his target appeared, and once she did, there would be nowhere the creature could hide from her death.

  “Have we sunk to a new low?” Bear asked as he eyed Elric from across the table in the barracks’ dining hall. “Out of all the things the cardinal has ordered us to do, never has he made us drag a woman to her wedding—to Glidden, of all the men alive. Heaven help her. She will be passed aside for a houseboy before she can pull her veil from her hair.”

  “Bear is right, as much as I hate ta admit it,” Glenn interjected as he slid onto the bench beside Pierre who was staring into the fire in the hearth with a blank look in his striking gray eyes. “While I ken ye have as much interest in gettin’ wed as I do—I’d rather be strung up by me bollocks than married—it seems unfair ta the lass ta be married ta a man like Glidden. Though, she’d be safer in the bedroom than the battlefield, since his lance only stands straight when he’s near a horse.”

  The room erupted in guffaws, but Elric didn’t join in the merriment of his men. His mind was heavy with the weight of his thoughts—filled to the brim with the truth about the very woman he’d been hungering for over the last several nights. She was the cardinal’s niece. She was betrothed to marry another. She was off limits to him, no matter what his manhood demanded. No matter what he’d decided the split second after seeing her again. No, she wasn’t married yet, but it would be the height of immorality to take another man’s betrothed to bed. No matter how desperately he wanted to, no matter how hungrily she looked at him with those flashing blue eyes.

  The Elric Gadot of last week wasn’t the same one of today, and it was startling. The fact he had even noticed the difference was telling.

  What has become of me?

  Forcing an indifference he di
dn’t feel, Elric shrugged. “Someone has to marry the girl, and it might as well be Glidden.” His gaze landed on each of the four men seated around him. “We have been commanded to get her to him safely. We will protect her with our lives, as is our duty.” God, he’d never hated the word “duty” as much as he did in that moment. He didn’t want Minnette to be his duty, he wanted her to be his…what? Lover seemed too tawdry a word for what he wanted from her. It wasn’t just her desire he wanted to stoke, but also the searing fire in her eyes. The same fire that had set him ablaze the moment he set eyes on her. She’d been petting kittens, but she might as well have been petting him, because he’d felt it—felt her—like a soft caress over his body, under his skin.

  She’d so quickly become a need, one he couldn’t fulfill. And it was killing him not to go to her, to speak with her, to beg her to go with him, wherever she wanted to go. Hell! Where had that come from? What did he care if she married another? To him, she was nothing more than a pawn her uncle had placed on the game board, a piece of chattel that would flutter off into the wind to never be touched by him again. At least that’s what she should be to him.

  Goddamn you, Calleaux! And goddamn his weakness for a pretty face, for there could be no other explanation for the hellfire whipping through his guts.

  Glenn snickered, snapping Elric from his spinning thoughts. “Aye, but who will protect her from ye? If she is as comely as the others say, she will be bedded long before she is wedded.” Glenn had the audacity to wiggle his black eyebrows suggestively, which only made the other men laugh harder.

  Refusing to rise to Glenn’s bait, he rose from the bench where he’d been sitting and stretched, his muscles sore from sparring with Pierre that morning.

  “Get some rest, men,” he ordered, ignoring the muffled snickers from Bear and Leon. “We only have two days to prepare all we need for the journey north.”

  It must’ve been the mention of going north that made the tension descend upon the room. They all knew what was north; border skirmishes, reivers, rapidly changing weather, and possible death for the delectable Minnette. They all knew how serious this task would be. Elric looked about at the faces of the men he’d fight and kill for, the men he would die for, and he was thankful that they would be at his back.

  Bowing his head in dismissal, he watched as the men rose from their own seats and began filtering out of the dining hall and to their bunks in the room opposite. Elric had his own room, a sparse space with only a bed, a few pegs on which to hang his clothes, and a chest where he kept his weapons. He needed little else.

  Letting out the sigh he’d been holding, he sat on his bed to remove his boots, taking care to remove the dagger and its hilt as well. He placed the dagger beneath his pillow and laid back, resting his head where it would be easiest and quickest to get to the dagger if he needed it. Aye, he was amongst the deadliest men in the kingdom, but one needed to always be prepared to kill or be killed.

  His face tilted toward the ceiling, he watched the shadows dance as the night breeze slipped in through the gaps around the windowpane, and buffeted the fire in the lantern hanging from a hook by the door. The shadows moved, waving, fluttering as if taunting him.

  Like his visions of Minnette had; drawing him in, making him hard and needy, and then dousing him in cold reality. She was the cardinal’s niece! What cruel reality was that? To offer him a taste of Heaven and then cut out his tongue? Nay, he could neither say nor do anything about his desire for the delectable woman.

  That’s not what the Elric of last week would say. He huffed, hating the direction and frequency of these thoughts.

  “Tis a good night fer woolgatherin’,” Glenn muttered as he sauntered into the room and immediately sat, cross-legged, with his back against the wall, facing Elric. “Pierre has the same look about his face as ye do…a man with troublin’ thoughts. If I didna ken better, I’d think ye both lost yer best horse—truly troublin’ that.” He crossed his arms and pinned Elric with clear blue eyes.

  Not bothering to sit up, Elric simply turned his head toward Glenn. Glenn was without his customary dagger belt, but Elric would be a fool to think that Glenn didn’t have at least half a dozen other daggers hidden about his person. He was a walking blade.

  “Pierre has been looking troubled as of late, but getting him to admit it would be a Herculean task. I am surprised the man opens his mouth to eat.”

  Glenn curled his lip. “Och, aye. Tis a wonder why he doesna die o’ hunger, with as closed-lipped as he is. The man is a mystery I dinna think will ever be solved.”

  The jest would have been funny if Elric hadn’t realized how true it was. Of all of the men, Pierre was the most intense. He spoke little, trained harder than any of them, and always seemed as cold and hard as the steel he carried at his hip. Pierre Roman had joined the Homme du Sang shortly before Elric had, and so they trained together, broke bread together, and were often paired together for smaller missions. Through all their time together, Pierre had never once spoken about his life before the Homme du Sang. And if anyone asked, he simply stared at them, his mouth in a thin line, refusing to even acknowledge the person had spoken.

  Since, they’d given Pierre a wide berth, allowing him to keep his past to himself. Every single one of the men under his command had a part of their lives they kept close to the chest. Even him.

  He refused to allow thoughts of Elton to slither in. He buried them, just as he couldn’t bury his brother’s bloated corpse, and sat up, letting his feet slide against the hard stone floor. The cold of the stone hit him, and he welcomed the relentless chill that sharpened his mind.

  “Enough of Pierre, what information have you regarding our path north?” Glenn was a Scotsman who hailed from the area around where Glidden was “patrolling”. If anyone knew about the safest routes into the territory, it was Glenn Fraser.

  They both stood, Elric leading Glenn from the bedchamber to the table in the corner by the fire. The table was covered in maps.

  Unrolling the most recent map of the northern counties, Elric murmured, “Glidden’s men are stationed here.” He pointed to an area outside of Lorne, to the east, in between Aberdeenshire and the lands of Lorne. “If we can get Lady Calleaux to Glidden’s men, we will have succeeded at the most dangerous part of the journey.”

  Glenn hmmmed thoughtfully, his deft hand stroking his black beard. “What o’ deliverin’ her ta her intended like a fattened goose?”

  Elric ignored Glenn’s not so subtle remark about offering Minnette up to be devoured. “We will wait in Lorne. If Glidden is not there, we will wait until he returns, place the mademoiselle’s hand in Glidden’s, then wash our hands of her.” God, he wanted to cut off Glidden’s hands just then. The very thought of Glidden’s fat fingers and sweaty palms touching Minnette’s soft, supple skin made his guts twist until he felt like he’d vomit. Drawing in an unsteady breath, he continued, “Our journey home will be easier without the woman to worry about.”

  Piercing blue eyes snapped to his, dissecting Elric as Glenn’s blades would. “Would that be easy, then?”

  “Of course,” Elric answered. “Without her to coddle, we will make better time.”

  Hmmm-ing again, Glenn pulled a dagger from somewhere and planted it, blade point down, into the map and the table beneath it. “If we’re ta get ta Lorne before Michaelmas, we’ll want ta take the most direct route, that also avoids the most obstacles.”

  Elric bent over the map to see where Glenn had so obviously indicated with this dagger.

  “We ride east, ta the Marches, then head north, ta Edinburgh. We take a ship from there ta Aberdeen, then ride west ta Lorne. There are many ships docked there that’ll gladly take our gold fer passage.”

  Elric knew that, in order to avoid the threat of ambush by the reivers along the border, a sea voyage was the best way. The horses wouldn’t like it overmuch, but there was nothing to do for it.

  “That is the way, then,” Elric agreed, indicating the dagger. Glenn gr
inned then easily pulled the dagger from the table and slid it into his boot.

  The barracks door swung open, slamming against the wall behind it. Both Elric and Glenn tensed, their hands flying to their waists where their weapons usually sat.

  Damn. His dagger was still beneath his pillow in his chamber.

  A man, fully armored, strode through the door. As Elric and Glenn watched, alert, the man removed his helmet and secured it under his arm. The man’s face was flushed, his eyes hazy with exhaustion, and his lips dry.

  “And who might you be, intruding on our quiet night?” Elric drawled. Out of the corner of his eye, Elric could see Glenn inching closer to the knight, no doubt a dagger already in his hand.

  “Reeds of Bridgerdon Castle, guard for Lord Harrington LaDeux, Earl of Kentwithe. My lord sent me with a missive for Sir Elric Gadot,” the man, Reeds, answered, pulling a sealed letter from the pack at his side.

  Recognizing the name of the knight’s lord, Elric didn’t hesitate to take the letter, break the seal, and read the letter. Letting out a chuckle, Elric glanced up to find Glenn had somehow maneuvered in behind Reeds and was staring at the back of the man’s head. Elric knew Glenn had put himself in position to dispatch Reeds, if need be, but Elric gave Glenn a slight head shake, silently ordering him to stand down.

  Rereading the letter, Elric took note of the date indicated. It was eight days hence.

  “What does his lordship say?” Glenn asked, now standing beside Elric. Elric grunted, startled. Glenn was made of shadows and silence, which put most men on edge. But Elric appreciated the man’s ability to hide in plain sight and move with unearthly stealth.

  “Do you think we have time to make a stop in Bridgerdon in the southeast?” Elric asked, ticking off the hours in the saddle in his head.

  Glenn stroked his beard, pondering. “Aye. If we dinna stay too long afterward. Our journey north would be even shorter if we seek passage ta Aberdeen on a ship from Hartlepool, just a bit east o’ Bridgerdon.”