Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  There were consumers inside, purchasing beef and pork and whatever else the women were selling. There was a big hearth that had several pots cooking over it, sending steam into the air. As Cort walked up to one of the red-faced women, she barked at him.

  “What’s wanting?” she said.

  “Garbage,” he replied.

  The woman nodded. She was in mid-transaction with someone who had purchased a big piece of meat, so she sent them off before she turned to one of the massive copper pots that was boiling over the fire.

  “All pieces, please,” Cort told the woman.

  The woman produced a trencher, but this one was a stale, carved-out round loaf of bread. It wasn’t flat. She ladled soup into it from the steaming pot, at least what Dera thought was soup, and stuck a big, metal spoon in it that she expected returned. Cort handed her a pence and she handed him the bowl. Taking Dera’s hand, he led her out of the stall.

  Because there were several stalls that sold food on this small stretch of avenue, there were benches and upturned logs to sit on in a small area across the street. A yew tree grew up there, the branches hanging over the avenue, as Cort led her to a small stone bench. He politely set her down first before sitting next to her.

  Dera eyed both him and the bread bowl.

  “You told that woman you wanted garbage,” she said. “I’m afraid to ask what it is.”

  He grinned. “You said you had courage.”

  “I do. What is it?”

  He looked down at the bowl and started stirring it. “Just what it sounds like,” he said. “It’s soup made from the parts of the animals that no one wants. Heads, feet, tails, tongues, and so forth. The butcher boils them all together and makes a very good broth that has cinnamon and vinegar and pepper in it. Usually, people just ask for the hot broth, but if you ask for the pieces, they’ll give you those, too.”

  Dera’s eyes widened as he stirred up the soup and lifted the spoon. The first thing he came away with was a cock’s comb and a chicken foot. He picked up the foot, sucked off the skin and cartilage, and threw away the nails and bones. Then, he slurped the cock’s comb right down.

  Dera swallowed hard.

  “Are you… enjoying that?” she asked, aghast.

  Cort was trying very hard not to laugh. “Why not? It is exceptionally spiced and tasty.”

  She watched him for a moment, trying not to show how horrified she was, before taking the bowl from him and stirring it up. Pieces of undetermined organ came up, along with more than one chicken’s foot. There was the head that was missing the cock’s comb he’d just eaten, with a white eye staring back at her. There were pieces of things she didn’t recognize but she knew they weren’t something she wanted to eat.

  However, she’d told him she was brave. She couldn’t back out now.

  Without hesitation, she spooned a hearty spoonful of mixed organ pieces into her mouth, swallowing it down and keeping a brave face. Just for good measure, she took a second spoonful to show him just how courageous she was, and the cock’s head came up again. It wasn’t very big, so she picked it off the spoon, broke it open, and sucked the brain out. Tossing it aside, she handed him back the bowl.

  “Now it’s your turn,” she said.

  Cort was doing all he could to hold back the laughter. The woman was turning shades of green and trying desperately to pretend she wasn’t. As far as he was concerned, she’d proven her bravery and he was impressed. He wouldn’t torture her.

  He set the bowl aside.

  “You are indeed as brave as I am, my lady,” he said. “I bow to your courage.”

  Dera smiled wanly. “Is that all? We will not continue with the challenge?”

  He shook his head. “I have had enough of cock’s combs,” he said, backing down like a gentleman because he had a feeling she would go until she vomited. “You are victorious in this instance.”

  Her smile turned genuine as he stood up, reaching down to take her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He led her back onto the avenue, heading back towards the Street of the Bakers and wondering how far he was going to get before she vomited.

  “Tell me something,” he said as they headed towards a large bake stall that was full of fruit pies. “How did a lady like you become so courageous?”

  “I have older brothers who have challenged me on more than one occasion,” she said. “I’ve learned to stand up for myself. They aren’t nearly as chivalrous as you are.”

  “I just made you eat a chicken brain.”

  “But you are making it up to me by treating me to a fruit pie.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “Right again, my lady. Your powers of deductive reasoning are astounding.”

  “As is my taste in companionship.”

  He dipped his head, appreciating the compliment. “Thank you,” he said. His gaze lingered on her a moment. “I do apologize for the chicken brain. I honestly didn’t think you would eat it.”

  She eyed him. “Never challenge me if you don’t expect me to follow through.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” he said. “In fact, I am glad we’ve had this time together. I’ve known your brother for years, so I already feel as if I am part of the family.”

  She pulled her hand from his elbow. “If that is the case, then I’d better stop flirting with you. I don’t make it a habit of flirting with family members.”

  A sly smile crept over his lips. Reaching out, he took her hand again, gently, and put it back on his arm. “Honorary member,” he clarified softly. “Now, what kind of pie would you like?”

  They were standing in front of the racks that were set out on tables. The pies, or coffins, were lined up – blackberry, quince, and apple. The aroma was heavenly. Dera looked up at him, her eyes warm and glimmering.

  “You choose,” she said.

  His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned to the baker and ordered two blackberry coffins. The baker handed them over, Cort paid him, and he and Dera walked away with their sweets.

  But the morning was about to take on a slightly different path than chicken brains and blackberry pies.

  Dera was about to take the offensive.

  Sweet Mary, this day hadn’t gone as she’d planned.

  Since departing Ender’s stall, Dera had a chance to flirt with Cort, to charm him, and instead she’d eaten garbage just to impress him. It still wasn’t sitting well and she was hoping the blackberry pie would lay on top of the chicken brains and keep them from coming up. The last thing she wanted was to throw up her innards in front of Cort de Russe.

  It was shame she would never live down.

  In fact, this entire trip into Lynn had been a grand opportunity for her to probe the man, but she hadn’t taken that chance yet. Maybe meeting his challenge had been a mistake; she suspected that men like Cort tended to like the frail, helpless females, which Dera was not. She was quite self-sufficient in most things. She’d never been frail in her life. As she took bites out of her pie and tried not to smear blackberries on her face, she thought to take a softer approach with him, hoping he’d think she was a little more ladylike than she’d proven thus far.

  That he wasn’t charming a rebel in disguise.

  It was time to take action.

  “As an honorary member of my family, I feel as if I have the right to ask you anything,” she said. “You said yourself that you are one of the family, did you not?”

  He was almost finished with his pie already. “Ask what you will,” he said. “My life is an open book.”

  “Very well,” she said. “How old are you?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “How old are you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  He laughed softly. It seemed that Cort always had a ready smile or ready laughter on his lips.

  “I have seen thirty-three summers,” he said.

  She looked at him curiously. “And you’ve not married
?”

  He shook his head. “I will tell you what I’ve told my mother – I’ve not yet found the right woman.”

  “Surely you must have your pick,” she said.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “And they are the cream of the crop. But no one has yet captured my sincere interest. What about you? Why aren’t young men beating down de Winter’s door to get at you?”

  She looked away coyly. “What makes you think they aren’t?”

  He appeared thoughtful before he suddenly nodded. “So that’s who I passed on the road before I got to Narborough,” he said. “All of those young men, weeping and crushed because you had turned them away.”

  Dera started laughing. “Aye, that was them,” she said. “They come in gangs, as if someone opened the gates of a prison somewhere and they all rushed in my direction.”

  It was Cort’s turn to laugh. “You attract convicts? Bloody Christ, woman, what must you do in order to invite the dregs of society?”

  “Apparently very little. In England, that seems to be most of the population.”

  That comment changed everything.

  Unbeknownst to Dera, Cort was chuckling on the outside, but inside, he knew his country had just been slandered. It hadn’t been deliberate, however. It had come naturally to her; she didn’t have to think about it at all before it just slipped out.

  That told Cort the rebel inside of her was alive and well.

  “Mayhap,” he said without missing a beat. “It has been my experience that the Irish don’t necessarily come out smelling like a rose, either, unless your name happens to be MacRohan.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose no country is perfect.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “This is a dangerous topic, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Possibly. You’re loyal to your country and I am loyal to mine. But that does not mean we cannot be friends.”

  “I hope so.”

  He leaned into her, a flirtatious gesture. “Remember, I’m an honorary MacRohan.”

  She giggled, finishing the rest of her pie and licking the blackberry off her fingers. “Indeed, you are,” she said. “Given that you are, you should know something about our country.”

  “I would like to.”

  Her smile faded as she looked at him, an expression of sincerity taking hold. “Truly? Would you?”

  He nodded, swallowing the last of his pie and wiping the crumbs from his mouth. He could see that she was taking his response seriously. When one is hunting a rebel, it is important to use the right bait.

  With Dera, it could very well be interest in Ireland’s people, something she knew very well.

  He was about to find out.

  “Will you tell me?” he asked.

  She nodded, but she was looking at him in a way that seemed dubious. As if she didn’t believe his sincerity but wanted to.

  “I will,” she said. “What would you like to know?”

  His smile never left his lips. “Whatever you would like to tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you…”

  He suddenly trailed off, catching sight of something over the top of her head. Sensing an immediate change in his mood, Dera turned around to see four big knights coming down the Street of the Bakers. They were on horseback on a street where most people were walking, shoving people out of the way, generally creating a nuisance. Dressed in heavy weaponry, pieces of plate armor, and bearing black tunics with a white fleur de lis on the front, they were seasoned and intimidating men.

  “Do you know them?” Dera asked.

  Gone was Cort’s smile, the warmth in his eyes. In fact, his entire face had changed. It was now hard and focused.

  Deadly.

  “Aye,” he said after a moment. “Knights from the House of de Corlet, of Northbeck Castle in Lincolnshire.”

  “Allies?”

  “Most definitely not,” he said. “I would like to know what they are doing in Lynn.”

  Dera could see that he was tensed up about their arrival. In fact, he rose to his feet and took her hand, leading her away from their little bench and into an alley off of the road where he could watch them and not be seen.

  Just as he moved her off the road, however, he could see Brend and Dillon, with Arabella between them, entering the avenue behind the de Corlet knights. Now, unfriendly knights were between Cord and Dera, and Brend and Dillon.

  Unfortunately, one of the de Corlet knights saw Dillon.

  As Cort and Dera watched, the four knights turned to Brend and Dillon. From Cort’s vantage point, he could see that they were addressing his friends but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it wasn’t very good because he saw when Dillon muttered something to Arabella and she quickly ducked into one of the baker’s stalls.

  That left Dillon and Brend against four knights.

  People on the avenue, sensing something bad was about to happen, began to clear out. When that started happening, Cort knew he had to take action.

  “I want you to remain here,” he told Dera calmly. “Whatever happens, get to Arabella and the two of you stay together. Get back to the horses and remain in the stable. One of us will come for you.”

  Dera opened her mouth to reply but he was already out in the street, already heading towards the knights who were moving closer to Dillon and Brend. Cort was fully armed, however. In an effort to get the attention of the de Corlet knights, he bent over and picked up a rock, hurling it at the butt of one of the big warhorses. The animal would have bolted had it not been for the quick reflexes of his owner, and the four knights struggled with the panicking horses, noting that another knight was coming up behind them on foot.

  But not just any knight.

  Cort was wearing the de Russe big-tusk boar on his tunic, the symbol of the Duke of Warminster.

  “De Russe knight,” one of the men finally hissed. “You’re far from Warminster.”

  Cort smiled without humor. “And you are far from Northbeck,” he said. “You are in de Winter territory. Did you not realize that?”

  The knights were becoming aware that they were being boxed in by three powerful knights. When it had only been two, they had the advantage, but now…

  “We realized it,” the knight said. “We’re simply passing through to London. We’re not causing any trouble.”

  Cort’s smile broadened. “Not yet, anyway,” he said. “But you were about to. I will tell you that I am not the only de Russe in this city, but I am the one you should fear most. Go back the way you came and take another route into London. You do not belong here.”

  “Says who?” the knight said. “You? You are not de Winter. You cannot command us to leave.”

  “I can,” Dillon said. “I am the heir to Narborough Castle. This is my father’s demesne, so I can and will order you to leave. Get out of the city and I will not see you here again.”

  The four knights were looking at Dillon now. It was a tense moment. Would they go? Would they defend their right to remain?

  Their answer was long in coming.

  “I choose my own way,” the knight in the lead finally said. “We’re not causing any trouble and you have no right to make us leave. We’ll pass through and leave this filthy town behind.”

  Cort didn’t move. They would have to go through him in order to continue their journey and he wasn’t moving.

  “That was not what you were told to do,” he said. “Turn around and go back the way you came. If you think to run me over, think long and hard about that decision. It would bring Warminster and her allies down upon Northbeck, which could not survive such an attack, and my father in particular would be targeting you. You would not survive him, in any case.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Gaston de Russe, Duke of Warminster. Who did you think it was?”

  That brought pause from the four knights. A de Russe knight serving Warminster was one thing, but the duke’s son was entirely another. Still, pride was involve
d and that made it a difficult situation.

  “No matter,” the knight said. “We’ll continue through town and be on our way.”

  “You’ll go back the way you came and get out.”

  The knights on horseback unsheathed their broadswords and Cort, Dillon, and Brend unsheathed theirs a split-second later. Cort didn’t wait for the advance; he walked right up to the knight nearest him, slapped the horse in the face, and watched it rear up and panic. The knight was dumped to the ground.

  The fight was on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sound of metal against metal was terrifying.

  Dera watched as three men on horseback attacked Cort and Dillon and her brother, as one of the enemy knights wallowed on the dirty avenue. He’d fallen heavily and had the wind knocked out of him, but Cort took advantage of it and gored the man through his left thigh. Rather than kill him, Cort disabled him so he couldn’t rise and fight. The odds would be even against the de Corlet knights now.

  But it was a nasty, bloody battle from the start.

  Truthfully, Dera was shocked. She wasn’t frightened; she didn’t run for cover. She didn’t panic like everyone else was. She was shocked that she was actually witnessing a fight with six heavily-armed knights, including her brother, which was something she’d never seen before. She’d spent the past few years entrenched with the rebellion in her homeland, and most of that fighting had been with spears and short swords and little else.

  But this… this was a fight.

  It was also something she was unable to refrain from entering. English were fighting against her brother and even if she and Brend didn’t see eye to eye on things, he was still her brother. She wasn’t going to stand by and watch him take a beating from the very countrymen she wanted out of Ireland. There was an innate hatred there of the brash, conquering bastards and that’s all she could see at the moment.

  The English trying to kill her brother.