The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1)

by Rosamund Winchester

  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 damn 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 in 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 irritable. 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—King’s business, of course.”

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

  “Since then, I have been following your exploits in England, France, 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 hit 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, and 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 twelve 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 passed 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?

  Damn 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, rest. You will need your strength for what’s head.”

  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.

  CHAPTER One

  Cieldon Manse

  Cumberland, England

  1410


  Willem Mason fastened the belt of his breeches, at once frustrated and angry. Again, he’d been denied what he needed…wanted most: blessed release. True release. The pleasure that came with the culmination of his desires—for the warmth of woman’s body sheathing his erect length, the subtle give of her flesh beneath his fists, the sound of her whimpers ringing in his ears like the sweetest music, the smell of her fear filling him, thickening his manhood…the taste of her blood coating his tongue…

  He shuddered, again frustrated. Would he ever find the release his body and mind demanded?

  “You failed to please me, my dear…” he sneered, licking his lips, staring down in disgust at the woman in his bed. She was weeping, her knees pulled into her naked chest, her hair in disarray… She was attempting to hide from his gaze, but he’d already seen it all, already marked it all, already grown tired of her and her sad attempts to placate his appetites.

  She wasn’t who he really wanted. He glared at her; her long, auburn hair was matted with sweat, blood, and dried tears, but it wasn’t the hair of the woman he wanted. Her large, frightened blue eyes, were red from crying, but they weren’t the eyes of the woman he wanted. Her lips were once pink but were now pale, cracked, split, and coated with his dried seed. Her body was fleshy, not lithe, her breasts were small, not the handful his fingers wanted to squeeze, her hips were narrow, not shapely, not the hips of a woman he wanted to hold down and press himself into. The woman in his bed was an utterly inexcusable replacement for the woman he truly wanted in his bed…tied to the posts…screaming his name in agony…and pleasure.

  His manhood shot to life, filling with blood, and pulsing with need. Thoughts of her, beautiful, fiery, defiant, turned his body to fire. She was one of a kind, a prize among the dregs of the kingdom, a treasure beyond price…a woman he would claim, a woman he would break…and he would finally know what true delight felt like.

  But she refused him, throwing his gifts and attentions back in his face. Turning her nose up at all he could offer her—the money, the gratification. Bile rose into his throat, shooting up from his roiling gut. The bitch! She had no idea who she was dealing with, but she would soon see that he was all she would ever want, need, or know. He would be her world, and she would be his heaven. Sweet, glorious, delirious heaven.

  He should have known that the woman bleeding and whining in his bed wouldn’t satisfy him. Only one would.

  Rage flowed through him, pouring from him, and the woman in the bed widened her eyes further, drawing her knees closer, trying to get away from him, but the ropes at her wrists kept her in place.

  Foolish woman. He chuckled. No one got away from him. And soon…she would be his.

  Replacing his “tools” in his leather satchel, he turned to the useless woman, still huddled, now trembling. “Speak nothing of this, or I will have you dismissed from the cardinal’s household service and left to rot in the streets like the whore you are,” he articulated slowly, so the woman would understand the delicacy of her situation. Honestly, he didn’t care about her, or if she told anyone of what she’d experienced in his bed. It was the terror in her eyes he craved, the hopelessness that oozed from her in thick, fragrant waves. He could almost feel his manhood rise…but once again, this woman failed to give him what he truly needed for fulfillment.

  Reaching to the bedside table, he pulled a blade from the sheath he usually carried at his waist. Her eyes doubled in size, their cornflower irises lost to the shocked circles of her pupils. He raised the knife, twisting it in the candle light, letting her see, letting the horror build in her chest. But she didn’t scream, didn’t cry out. Good. He would hate to slice her throat rather than her binds. He would hate for the cardinal to hear about the mess the chambermaid left. He so loathed making things difficult for his dear friend.

  Tiring of the game, he leaned forward and cut the binds, immediately turning away from her, dismissing her. “Go,” he commanded.

  The wench said not a word as she limped to gather her things and quit his chamber. He listened to the door shut, and he sighed. What a waste of time and energy. He only had himself to blame. He’d arrived at the manse, wound up and frustrated by her refusal and the long ride from Clarendon. And then he saw her, the chambermaid, who, in the moment, looked so like the woman he’d just been denied. Thankfully, the cardinal was a magnanimous and hospitable host, and Willem knew he could take and use whomever he wanted. He had before.

  Unfortunately, the wench was inadequate. Her body was stiff beneath his, tense, not giving and lush as he needed. She didn’t even smell right. She didn’t smell like her—of mint and heather… His belly tightened, his desire for the one he couldn’t have driving a pulsing hunger through his body.

  He let loose a roar, pounding his fists into the stone wall beside the bed; beating and beating until the skin of his knuckle broke open, marking the wall with his blood. Sucking in a deep breath, he willed his heart to calm, promising himself he would have her, he would taste her, he would break her…he only needed to set his plan in motion.

  Feeling a mite better, he pulled on leather gloves to cover the scrapes on his hands and finished getting dressed. He’d dismissed his valet, Butler, earlier, knowing he’d need privacy for the evening he’d hoped to have with the chambermaid. It was a good thing, too; Willem was thankful no one was witness to his loss of composure.

  ***

  Entering the cardinal’s personal chambers, Willem waited until the man rose from his couch where he’d been reclining, reading something that had put a scowl on his face. Striding toward his most influential, and therefore most beloved, friend with a grin on his face, Willem stopped short. “Your Eminence,” he intoned, kneeling, kissing the presented ring.

  Cardinal Calleaux smiled down at his guest, clapping him on the shoulder and making the sign of the cross with his other hand. “Rise, my child. You are welcome in this humble house.” The cardinal’s voice was intentionally loud, so that servants standing just outside the door could hear. What he said next was for Willem’s ears only. “I hear you have committed acts of fornication and adultery in my home,” he revealed, his sharp features pinched, and his dark brown eyes filled with disappointment…and cold calculation. “Have you come to offer confession?” Calleaux raised his eyebrows, staring down at the kneeling Willem with an air any other prince of the Church would find pompous.

  It didn’t surprise Willem that Calleaux knew of his…play. And it didn’t surprise him that the man openly disapproved, while quietly caring less.

  “I humbly beg your forgiveness, Your Eminence,” Willem uttered, knowing full well his heart overflowed, black, with unforgiven, and unforgiveable, sins. Blasphemy, carnality, perversions…he reveled in marks against him. He was bound for Purgatory, and he’d find ever more pleasures there. He’d make it so.

  Calleaux shuffled his feet, seeming to kick the back of his cassock in annoyance. What did Calleaux have to be annoyed about? The man was born into money, lived a lavish lifestyle, until he decided to take on a wholly unexpected role—that of Cardinal. Cristian Calleaux hadn’t spent a moment of his life in seminary, studying to be a priest. He was part of a special group of men, chosen from among the nobles, to take on the responsibility without the experience. It wasn’t unheard of, the Holy Father had pulled laymen from the congregation and given them such favors before, but, typically, those men were stewards, men who had dedicated their lives to ministering to God’s people, even without the frock of priesthood. Willem knew Calleaux was not such a man, but he didn’t care how the cardinal became the cardinal. He cared only for what the man could offer him.

  Power. Reach. The object of his desires.

  “Your Eminence,” Willem asked, daring to peer up through his lashes as the man standing before him, his eyes a far off, his lips twisted. What had caused Calleaux such displeasure?

  Blinking, as if coming back into his body, Calleaux glanced down at Willem, who was still kneeling—feeling like a witless worm—before him. “Wil
lem, stand up. No need for such insincere humility. You forget…I know who you really are,” the Cardinal drawled, his dark eyes flickering. Willem stood, his smile slinking to the sides of his face. Of course, Calleaux knew more about Willem that Willem had ever allowed himself to share. The man had the ability to see into the hearts and minds of men—twas a black gift.

  Moving to stand just beside the large fireplace, Willem leaned an arm against the great stone mantel. “Does that mean I am not forgiven for my fornication?” Willem asked, his gaze following Calleaux as he walked back to his couch and reclined on it again. For any other man, seeing the Cardinal, a man of power and holy standing, reclining, it would be odd indeed. But Willem and Cristian Calleaux knew the truth of one another, truths they would each carry close to the chest, lest the other prove untrustworthy. It was a game between them, one Willem was growing weary of playing. But he couldn’t tire just yet. Not when he had favors to ask…

  “Calleaux,” Willem dropped the pretenses, hoping to get to the true reason he’d made the journey to Cumberland. “I have come with news you will find most disturbing.”

  Calleaux arched a brow. “Oh?”

  Willem nodded, moving away from the heat of the fireplace to sit in the high-backed settee beside the couch. Crossing his legs, ankle over knee, he steepled his fingers and met Calleaux’s gaze. “Four women from a neighboring village have come to me, telling me of a woman there who has been…acting in a manner unbecoming a daughter of the Church.” He knew he was plying the cardinal with lies, but he didn’t care. He would do and say whatever was necessary to get what he wanted. Her. In his bed. Beneath him. Screaming.

  Calleaux sat up, his expression rapt. “Stop skirting around the issue, Willem. Tell me what you have heard,” he snapped, and Willem hid a smile behind his hand. For a man of God, the cardinal appeared restless, easily frustrated…almost as if he were panting after something.