“It has to the Schism,” Bear remarked, his gaze alight with recollection. “After all the warring between elected popes in Rome and Avignon, with England remaining faithful to the true See in Rome, Calleaux must have realized that no one attached to the current archbishopric would dare seek documentation from the Church in France. He knew that word of mouth regarding his reputation would be enough.”
“And he was right.” Elric wanted to roar into the tall ceilings of the study. How could things have gotten so complicated? Focus! You are the leader. You must decide what to do next. The men, and even by extent, Tristin, were counting on him. Minnette was counting on him.
Their lives were in his hands and his guts were twisting with the truth of it. They could die because of him, just as Elton had.
“How has no one suspected before now?” Bear asked, disbelief making his ruddy face pale.
Pierre grunted, drawing every eye to him. “Perhaps they have,” he said, pinning Elric with his disconcerting gaze, almost as if he were telling Elric to remember.
Then it struck him. The bishop in Calleaux’s study that morning Calleaux had given them their ill-fated mission.
“Bishop Norton,” he remarked. “I had wondered why he was there with Calleaux, but I did not wonder long. Perhaps I should have.” Bishop Norton was a man known for his lack of mercy toward those who break the laws of the Church. To most, he was Bishop Norton, right hand to Archbishop Checheley. But to some, he was the name they screamed in anger as they were dragged away for crimes against God. Thankfully, he wasn’t given to wild speculations about witchcraft and heresy among the parishioners. He cared more about the priests, men who called themselves God’s servants, and what they were doing.
He would be an ally in this war. And it was war.
“What are you thinking, Elric?” Tristin asked, his eyes searching Elric’s face.
“Calleaux wants Minnette dead because she knows the truth. He wanted to silence her and secure his position of power in the county,” Elric intoned, his body thrumming with the urge to do violence. Minnette did not deserve death simply because Calleaux was a lying, cheating bastard. “He must believe her dead, otherwise he would have sent Grieves and his rabble to find us.”
“But we did not go straight to Edinburgh as we told him we would,” Bear pointed out.
“Nay, but it will not have taken long to determine our true course, once word got out that we were in attendance of little Aubrey’s christening,” Elric replied.
“You are right,” Bear agreed, nodding curtly. “So, he knows we are here, probably thinks we are licking our wounds after losing our charge to a shocking murder.”
Even hearing the words from Bear’s mouth made a chill lance through Elric’s body.
She is not dead. She is alive, warm, beautiful, and waiting for you in her bed, where she belonged for the rest of their days.
He cut off those thoughts. As much as he wanted to return to the Heaven between her thighs and the bliss within her arms, he needed to save her life first. He needed to do all he could to ensure they even had a future to look to once she was safe from her uncle.
“We take her to Norton,” Elric announced. At the blank looks he received, he had been the last to think of that. Well, he had much more to lose in that eventuality. Minnette meant more to him than to them, and so the thought of leaving her anywhere but in his keeping was tearing him to shreds, piece by piece by piece. “She will tell him what she knows about Remi Calleaux. She will be safe there.”
Bishop Norton made his home in Furness, an abbey near the Irish Sea. It was forty miles southwest of Cieldon, which meant they could easily reach it within two days from Bridgerdon. But riding out of Bridgerdon would leave them vulnerable, giving Stringer another chance at taking Minnette’s head to Calleaux.
I will not let that happen!
“Glenn and I will escort Minnette to Furness. Bear, you and Pierre remain here. Protect Tristin and Bell Heather. If Calleaux knows we are here, he might take out his wrath on the innocents here.”
Bear and Pierre stood, offering a clipped salute in answer.
“Leon,” Elric motioned for the priest-knight to stand and come to him. Once there, Elric placed a hand on Leon’s shoulder, gently squeezing in a sign of respect and concern. “I want you to return to Aycliffe.”
Leon gasped, his weary eyes widening. “Nay! I cannot abandon you and the men.”
Elric squeezed Leon’s shoulder again. “Leon, my friend, I am not asking you to abandon us. I am asking you to go home, serve your people, and, perhaps, leave a candle burning in the window for any weary knights who might need sanctuary.”
As the light of understanding lit in Leon’s eyes, a slow, sad smile appeared on his face. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “I will do as you command, my son.” Leon gave the sign of the cross, a blessing to Elric, a silent prayer of protection over his earthly commander. Elric fought the urge to press a hand to his chest, just over the ache that burned there. He couldn’t fill his lungs with enough air to say his next words, so he waited, allowing himself to glance at each of the men gathered with him.
His brothers. Men he loved more than himself.
Finally, he took another shuddering breath before saying, “We leave on the morrow.” His next words were even more difficult to speak than he ever could have imagined. “Tonight might be our last night together, as brothers-in-arms, as men of blood and steel and honor.”
On each face was a somberness, a remorse that he shared with them. They had served the Church faithfully for twelve years. It shouldn’t have to end this way for them.
More than anything, he wished the other men—David, Aster, Ioan, Erich, and even the newest curs, James and Morgan—were with him. They were all in it together, their vows the same, carrying the same weight, the same promise.
By the blood of The Cross, by the hand of God’s chosen, we will defend the Holy Church…
Except now, the vows had taken on new meaning. It wasn’t the Holy Church that needed defending, it was those that Calleaux, under the mantle of cardinal, had targeted. And with that realization, something within Elric rose up to spit bile in his face.
“How many of those we captured on Calleaux’s orders were like Minnette, pawns in Calleaux’s mad game?” Elric asked aloud, his voice harsh. “How many of those he ordered us to kill were innocent of the crime he condemned them with?”
Elric could tell by the stunned silence that he had hit on something they had all been reluctant to broach.
“He made us into murderers,” Leon murmured, his face ashen. He pressed his hand to his thin lips as if to hold back his revulsion. “God, forgive me.” The wretchedness in his whisper nearly undid Elric.
“God forgive us all.”
Several hours later, shouts from outside brought Elric and Tristin to the turrets. There were riders on the horizon. Six of them, all wearing white surcoats with crimson crosses.
Elric gave a shout of excitement. “It looks like we have our own rabble coming to invade your home, Tristin.”
Tristin chuckled, a genuine smile on his weary-worn face. “It will be good to see them all again,” he replied.
They hurried downstairs to welcome the men in the great hall. Elric’s joy grew with each embrace, back slap, and sighting of each beloved face.
Once they were settled in, laughing and muttering to one another as they drank wine, Elric cleared his throat and raised a hand, calling for silence.
“Damn, it is good to see you all again,” he said, his heart light for the first time in weeks. “And I will welcome reports of your missions once you have rested. But first, there is much that has happened since you left Cieldon.”
Murmurings met his words before Aster spoke out. “Balliwich had a missive from you, telling us to not return to Cieldon. That Calleaux was not to be trusted.”
Elric’s heart grew heavy. Damn but he hated what had become of them. “Aye, I sent the missive, and I meant every word of i
t. Calleaux cannot be trusted.”
For the next two hours, he informed them of all that had occurred since they’d been sent out on missions from Cieldon. He told them about Minnette, how she was Calleaux’s niece and how she held information that was dangerous to the cardinal. While the men stared, dumbfounded by what they were hearing, Elric continued, telling them about the attempt on Minnette’s life, and their realization that Calleaux had meant to kill her to silence her. After that, the outrage came, and the questions flowed, and by the time supper was served, they had all lost their appetites.
“Stringer?” James Black, son of Lord Ruben Milton and half-brother to Morgan MacEwan, drawled, his starkly rugged face pinched in thought. “I have heard of him.”
Shock and then eagerness blasted through Elric. “What do you know of him?”
“Stringer Black makes the name Black stink of blood,” James remarked, sneering. “Heard tell he was the son of a hangman who was loyal to his lord. So loyal that when his lord demanded he execute his own son, he did it.”
Disgust bubbled in his guts. “He obviously failed to kill him, but what would drive a man to demand the death of another like that?”
James furrowed his brow, his green eyes darkening. “They said that, as a boy, Stringer was given to hurting animals. His own father found him gutting a pig while it was still alive. And his mother, well, she fared as well as the pig. The father denied that his son would do such a thing, since the boy had said he discovered her body, blaming her butchering on bandits, but the people in the village had witnessed enough evil from the boy to make their lord aware of him. They thought him possessed of the devil.”
“I can well believe that,” Elric remarked, his thoughts churning with memories of that night the demon had Minnette in his grasp.
Tristin swore. “What did the lord order the father to do? Hang him?”
James’ eyes lost focus, as if he were picturing the horror as he gave voice to it. “His father tied him to a stake, doused him in tar, and lit him on fire.”
“My God!” Leon cried. “How did he survive?”
“He withstood the flames long enough for them to burn through the ropes at his ankles and wrists. He pulled himself from the pyre and stumbled into the forest. No one dared follow after him. They thought him a spawn of Hell who had just shown his true form and power.”
“Superstitious fools,” Glenn grumbled. “They should have finished him off when they had the chance.”
His ears were burning, as were his guts, but he ignored the sensation as he ducked his head, instinctively trying to hide his face from a washerwoman as she hauled a cart of clean linens across the narrow walkway behind the castle kitchens. It was busy here, many people coming and going, too busy sharing gossip and tending to their duties to notice one guard moving silently amongst them.
Getting through the gates was trickier than he had anticipated. One of the gate guards asked him why he had returned without his companion, and he’d had to think on his feet, telling him that his companion had eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him. He was with one of the crofters, lying abed in their cottage, but would return within two days. The gate guard had eyed him warily but eventually allowed him to pass.
Now, inside the kitchens, Stringer ignored the curious glances, glad of the visor he had thought to pull down over his face. It covered everything but his eyes. Past the kitchens was a corridor that led in two directions. He assumed the corridor heading toward the front of the castle would open into the great hall. So, he took the other corridor.
The Lord was on his side. The corridor held several doors and two sets of staircases. He did not know which one would lead him to Minnette, but he needed to take a chance. He closed his eyes, picturing Minnette as she was when she appeared to him the first time, her beautiful face stark with need, her supple flesh begging him to press his dagger’s edge into it. Suddenly, the desire to go to the north staircase drove him forward, and he took the staircase, avoiding the maids as they moved along in their duties. None of them questioned his presence there, and for that he was thankful. He didn’t want to leave bodies in his wake. Yet.
Eventually, he would have to ask someone where he could find Minnette, but he would silence them swiftly after their answer.
At the first landing, he headed south. He knew he needed to find a place to hole up until night fell and the house grew quiet, so he searched for a storage room or unused bedchamber. Again, the Lord shone his blessings down on him. He found a small bedchamber, the furnishings covered in white sheets, the drapes closed to keep out the light. It was perfect.
Closing the door behind him, Stringer settled into the darkness to wait for his chance to strike.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Minnette nibbled on her bottom lip, the wariness in her bones wearing on her nerves. Elric had left her bed that morning, her body still singing from the pleasure he’d given her, but she hadn’t heard from him since. She knew that the other men of the Homme du Sang had arrived, but that was hours ago. The sun was setting and the household was quieting down. A maid, Mina, had brought a tray laden with food, but Minnette couldn’t stomach eating anything.
There was something going on, something no one was telling her. She could feel it. There was an oppressive sense of anticipation in the air, as though the world were bracing for a coming cataclysm.
Bell Heather, the charmant, had come, shortly after supper, to visit with her again. She didn’t stay long. She wanted to spend time with her babes before they were put to bed, but she had offered Minnette comfort and friendship that helped her calm some of her fears. But now, with the sensation of impending doom hanging over her head, she wanted Elric.
She wanted the comfort she found in his arms. She wanted the pleasure of his kiss and his love making to help her forget, even for one night. She wanted him. Just him. Like a need that filled her blood, burning through her with every beat of her heart. Every breath she took was in anticipation of his return, of his mouth on hers, of his gaze devouring her and making her feel safe.
Thrumming with nervousness, she paced to the window then back to the bed, then back to the window where she stopped and peered out into the gathering dusk. Her bedchamber casement looked out over the outer bailey where several people were milling about, shuttering their windows for the night. A woman hurried across the muddy ground, an empty basket under one arm and a small child under the other. A cart pulled by a single horse rambled by, the man at the whip hunched and leaning as though he were barely holding himself upright.
The world, under the guise of life and liberty, was really frail, desolate, and cumbersome. Even now, she could feel the weight upon her shoulders, pressing on her, making it all the more difficult to drag air into her lungs.
A knock at the door brought her about, her hand on her chest. Her heartbeat pounded beneath her palm, like the tattoo of battle drums in the distance.
Clearing her throat, she called, “Come.”
There was a short hesitation before the latch clicked and the door swung open. Relief swamped her as Elric’s face appeared.
A smile broke over her face and she couldn’t stop her feet from moving across the floor toward him.
But something was wrong. He did not return her smile. He did not look her in the eye and he seemed to move as if his feet were made of iron.
“Elric, what is it?” she asked, suddenly scared to form more words.
Dressed in a long tunic and leather breeches, he could look like any other man in the castle, but he didn’t. He looked delicious with his broad shoulders, tapered waist, thick legs and muscled arms. But those shoulders were held stiffly, if a little slumped.
She had never seen him thus. The proud, strong knight was breaking.
The urge to go to him, wrap her arms around him, melt into him was strong but she held herself apart, clasping her hands together before her to keep from reaching out to him. In silence, she waited for him to speak or even look up at her.
> Elric took another step toward her and, finally, as if expecting to be struck, he met her gaze with his. His usually beautiful, molten golden eyes were like gold ore; heavy.
“The men and I have discussed our next move,” he said, his tone weighty, as those words were forced from his lips. He lifted his arms as if to reach for her, but he dropped them, sighing.
She curled an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He took a step closer, and she could almost feel the tension flowing from him. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself to fend off what she knew was coming.
“Will you tell me what is to become of me?” She hated how weak she sounded, but too much had happened over the last fortnight, and she still hadn’t had the chance to just sit and think about it. About how her life was forfeit, and how her heart was no longer hers.
“We leave for Furness on the morrow,” he announced, as if that were answer enough. It was the voice of a man barely holding the pieces of himself together, not the intimate tones of her lover. She went rigid, the warmth that had filled her at his appearing was gone in an instant.
What had changed? The Elric she had given herself to was still there. But there was something in the way he looked at her, a sadness, that made her wonder.
She tipped up her chin and met his gaze. He didn’t blink, didn’t change his expression, and it appeared as though he weren’t even breathing.
This is not the Elric I gave myself to. She should have known better than to think their love making would mean anything to a man who tupped wenches in every alcove.
The tears of humiliation pricked at the backs of her eyes.
“I see. And what shall we do there?” She hated that she couldn’t go to him, lean into him, and ask the questions while pressed against his heart. But if he wanted to act as though what they’d done in that room earlier meant nothing to him, then she could, too.
The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2) Page 28