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

by Rosamund Winchester

  He swallowed the bile that rose into his throat, and commanded, “Let the cardinal know I am here to meet with him.” This time, the man’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Tristin couldn’t read what was behind them. He shrugged. So be it. He needn’t worry about a worm acolyte. He would deliver the missive and complete this mission. He still had thirty miles to traverse before he was back in his own bed. His time at Cieldon could not be finished quick enough.

  “As you wish, Sir Tristin,” the acolyte nearly hissed, before bowing and gliding back through the front door. “If you will follow me,” he called over his shoulder. Grunting at the man’s lack of warning before disappearing into the shadowed interior, Tristin hastened up the stairs and through the doorway. He stopped just inside. He’d expected that the keep would open into a great hall, as was typical, but this one opened into a series of narrow corridors. There was one to the left, one to the right, and one that led upstairs. Listening, he discovered the acolyte had taken the stairway; the sounds of his angry shuffling were difficult to miss.

  Tucking his helmet under his arm, he followed the shuffling upward, the weight of his armor a strange comfort to him in this new, decidedly strange place. After the third landing, Tristin came to a halt before the acolyte who was standing there, peering down at him impatiently, as if he’d taken an hour rather than a few moments to reach him.

  Biting back a growl, instead, he nodded to the man and watched as he turned right and continued down a corridor, treading almost reverently over the crimson runner that seemed to be leading them to their final destination. At the end of the corridor was a door, barely tall enough to admit Tristin, but certainly wide enough to admit the most rotund of visitors. The acolyte knocked once.

  A muffled shout came from within, and the acolyte turned to Tristin. “Wait here. I will see if he is willing to meet with you,” he said, his voice clipped. He opened the door, just enough for him to slip through—a benefit of being no heartier than a reed—and closed the door behind him. Tristin leaned back on his boot heels, the ache of the long ride pressing down on the balls of his feet, the muscles in his shoulders and back, and the base of his skull. Usually, he could ride for days without complaint, but usually, he hadn’t spent the night before in his cups. He knew he shouldn’t have given in to his men’s badgering. They were a good lot, loyal to his family and the glory of battle, but they were also just as happy to be carousing and bedding whichever lass came closest to them in their moment of immediate need. For nine years, they’d asked, and he denied. They’d ask, and he’d deny. But last night, he’d said yes. It was as though someone else had spoken for him, but it was his voice that had called out, “Damn it all, yes!”

  It didn’t take long for Herman, his second in command, to hand him wine, and it didn’t take much longer after that for the more comely women in the castle to find their way into the melee of men, cups, and grunting, moaning, and naked arses.

  God, would last night continue to be a bane of his existence? It was bad enough his father would never forget, would always hold that moment of weakness over his head like an axe blade. Cursing under his breath, he redoubled his determination to never allow drink to weaken him, make him vulnerable. To make him into a man who would tup a washerwoman.

  He sucked in a breath as the humiliation of his memories ran through his mind. Women and drink had felled him almost as completely as an opponent hungry for his blood. Thank God, he hadn’t had to go into battle, he’d be well and truly buggered.

  In a moment of weariness, he ran a hand over his face, licking his lips for want of water to rinse the sick from his mouth.

  The sound of the door opening made him tense, and he watched as the acolyte exited and stood before the door with his hands clasped in front of him like a damned pious servant boy. The glimmering frustration in his expression dispelled that image in Tristin’s mind, just as the acolyte drawled, “His Eminence will see you, Sir Tristin. Please, make it short. He is a busy man.”

  With that, he stepped aside and pushed the door wider. Straightening his shoulders, Tristin walked forward, ducked under the door arch, and entered a chamber that looked much too elegant and luxurious to belong to a man of the cloth. The walls were papered in gold and crème stripes, the furniture was polished dark oak—bookcases laden with brown and black books, rose into the ceiling, lining nearly every wall. The only wall without a bookcase held a large window. Remembering the shape of the keep and the position of the door and the corridors, Tristin supposed the window overlooked an inner courtyard, probably complete with walking paths, benches, and whatever else a cardinal needed for his meditations.

  In the middle of the immense room was a small escritoire, and sitting behind it was a man. Dressed in a cassock of black, with scarlet buttons, scarlet sash, and a scarlet zucchetto atop his head, the man was undoubtedly the new cardinal, Cristian Calleaux. Stepping further into the room, Tristin knelt, bowing his head in respect to this Prince of the Church. The sound of scraping met Tristin’s ears, and he watched as two small, slippered feet came toward him.

  A hand appeared before his eyes; chubby, blunt-tipped fingers, one of which held a gold ring, a brilliant sapphire encircled by an inscription. Tristin leaned forward and kissed the ring.

  The cardinal’s other hand came to rest on Tristin’s shoulder, and Tristin couldn’t shake the uneasiness that touch borne. A man of the Church, he knew what an honor it was to be in the cardinal’s presence. But as a man of blood and steel, he knew to trust his instincts, which were clamoring for his attention. Something was amiss.

  “Martin, you may go. Sir Tristin and I can do well enough on our own,” the cardinal commanded in soft yet clear tones.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” the acolyte named Martin replied. The door shut moments later.

  “Well now, my son. Stand, there is no need for such formalities here. Not when there is so much to be discussed.”

  Confused at the cardinal’s words, Tristin stood and met the man’s gaze. His dark brown eyes were penetrating, sharp, hooded—secrets and truths were hidden there. And Tristin didn’t know what to make of it.

  Tristin lifted the sealed missive. “Your Eminence, I have brought a missive from my father, Harrington LaDeux—”

  Calleaux waved Tristin’s words away. “I know who your father is. And I know what that missive says,” he remarked, returning to backless seat behind the escritoire. “Who do you think wanted your father to send you here in the first place?” Calleaux chuckled. Tristin arched a brow, suddenly quite irritated. Long night, long day, and now a game of words? Tristin didn’t know which was worse.

  “I do not know anything other than my father commanded I make the journey. Alone.”

  Calleaux nodded, a slow, knowing smile splitting his face. Olive-skinned with thick eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, and thin nose and lips, Calleaux wasn’t an attractive man, but he didn’t need to be to minister to God’s people.

  Tristin fought the urge to snort derisively.

  “I have known your father since before the Schism that attempted to tear away the foundations of the Church. It was then that he first spoke of you. We met in Florence, where I was visiting with family friends, the Comraro family. Your father was there to see about an investment in ships. The king’s business, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tristin parroted, trying to remember a time when his father wasn’t traveling on the king’s business.

  “Since then, I have been following your exploits in England, France, and the borderlands. You are a first among men, my son—an upright man, a fierce swordsman, a decisive and effective leader, who earns the loyalty of his men, even unto death. That is the man I need.”

  Upright man? Again, guilt weighed heavily on him. If the cardinal knew the truth, he would remove him from his manse. But Tristin said nothing. He couldn’t. He refused to let one moment of weakness define him. He was a better man than that moment had made him. And he would forever strive to make up for letting his father down. It h
it him then, that his father had spoken of him to the cardinal. He must have said something of Tristin’s skills. Otherwise, why would Calleaux find anything of interest in him? A warmth began in his chest, spreading into his limbs, a warmth that felt suspiciously like…happiness. He was happy that his father had thought of him, had spoken of him. Whatever the cardinal had in mind for him, his father must have had a hand in that as well.

  “What is it you need from me, Your Eminence?” he asked, his voice low and reverent—well, as reverent as he could make it when his mind was spinning.

  Calleaux’s lip twitched and his eyes shone with a glow Tristin couldn’t place.

  “I have been tasked by the Church in Rome, the only true and holy Church, to commission and oversee a chivalric order—an order that will carry out the will of the Church to the godless lands of Westmorland, Cumberland, Northumberland, Durham, Lancashire, and Yorkshire.”

  As the cardinal’s words settled like stones in his mind, Tristin straightened, his curiosity piqued. “How can I be of help to you?”

  “This order will consist of eleven men—highly trained, skilled, and dedicated to the will of the Church. One of those men is you, Sir Tristin.”

  The breath lodged in his throat, but he pushed past it to utter, “Me?” He sounded like a lackwit, but he couldn’t help the lodestone of uncertainty that appeared around his neck.

  “Yes,” the cardinal continued. “I want you to lead these men, these men appointed by God. And I want you to follow every order, every edict, every commission given to you. This is a greater mission than any you could ever hope to be given by any king of men. You are to be God’s knight, Sir Tristin.” Cardinal Calleaux’s face took on a red hue, and his eyes brightened as if in the heights of worship. “What say you? Will you be the leader I need?”

  This…was this what his father had been grooming him for? Was this his chance to show his father he was worthy of the LaDeux name?

  Damned if it wasn’t!

  Readjusting his helmet under his arms, he knelt again, making the sign of the cross over the hard plate of his armor and the hot flesh of his forehead. “It would be my honor, Your Eminence.”

  Calleaux clapped, rising from his chair and coming to place a hand on Tristin’s head.

  “Then rise, Sir Tristin, first captain and commander of the Order of the Homme du Sang.”

  The Men of Blood? He didn’t have time to wonder about it before the cardinal moved to the door, knocked once, and Martin entered, his eyes darting about. The snake had probably hoped the cardinal chewed him to pieces and spat him out.

  He narrowed his eyes at the now simpering acolyte.

  “Your Eminence?” the man murmured.

  “Martin, show Sir Tristin to his room. He is our guest this evening.” He turned to Tristin. “There is much to discuss on the morrow but, for tonight, eat and rest. You will need your strength for what’s ahead.”

  Tristin couldn’t remember acknowledging the cardinal or following Martin from the cardinal’s study to his own appointed room.

  Staring down at his bed—a cot really—Tristin rans his fingers over the missive his father had sent. Without hesitation, he broke the seal, nearly ripping the parchment in his rush to read it. Startled at what he didn’t find, Tristin read and re-read the single line, written in his father’s hand.

  God protect you, my son.

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  About the Author

  Rosamund Winchester is a determined and overwhelmed mother of four children. If she didn’t have writing to focus on, she’d spend all day staring into space and pondering the mysteries of the universe.

  Rosamund writes emotional, thrilling, heart-pounding historical romance that draws the reader into the adventure, the passion, and the happily ever after. Rosamund also writes sweet historical romance as Lynn Winchester, so she offers books for all romance lovers.

  When Rosamund isn’t writing sexy historical romance, or sweet historical romance as Lynn Winchester, she is reading whatever she is in the mood for, or watching crime shows on Discovery ID.

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  Also by the Author

  The Blood & the Bloom

  The Defender and the Dove