Out in front, just beside the fence, stood an old woman, a gray wimple covering her head, and a long brown cloak covering the rest of her. From his horse, Tristin could estimate her to be no more than five feet—a mere leaf on the wind to one such as he.
Glenn was right, she’d be easy to capture.
Pulling Chevalier to a halt, he peered down at the diminutive woman, who stared boldly back up at him, her eyes narrowed on either side of long, straight nose. He could see loose wisps of gray hair framing a face lined with wrinkles and years.
His men drew to a halt behind him, and Elric dismounted, throwing his reins to Pierre Roman, a man who’d come to the Homme du Sang through French noble houses. The second son of a baron, Pierre chose a life of service to the Church without having to give up his taste for violence and buggering.
In a loud, clear voice, Tristin announced, “Bell Heather Caire, on the order of his Eminence Cardinal Cristian Calleaux and the edicts of the Holy Church, you are hereby to be detained in our custody under the accusations of the criminal act of witchcraft.”
The woman blanched, visibly recoiling.
“Will you come willingly?”
As if directed by a force he couldn’t fight, his gaze moved from the terrified woman to the doorway of the cottage, where another woman stood.
The earth beneath him fell open, and his guts and sense dropped into it, the earth swallowing them whole.
It was her…the woman from the waterfall. It was daylight, so her features were aglow from the sunshine, and she was clothed in a drab brown tunic dress, but he would recognize those expressive eyes and those succulent lips anywhere.
He couldn’t find the words to speak, let alone the thoughts to form words in the first place. Elric must have sensed something amiss because he stepped up beside Chevalier’s head and gave Tristin a quick glance. Never had he been so glad for the visor over his face than now, if only to hide what must be a shocked expression.
Recovering, forcing his gaze away from the woman who’d haunted his dreams and ensorcelled his body, he repeated, “Will you come willingly?”
The other woman stepped forward, wiping her hands on her skirts, her face not as pale as the older woman’s, but her large eyes took in him, the men behind him, and Elric standing beside him. Her shrewd, cautious glare showed no signs of fear, only a healthy dose of wariness.
“What is this about?” she asked, her voice as melodic and sultry as it had been the night before…when she stood before him, deliciously bare, her generous chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She’d been shivering, but that did nothing to stop her from staring up at him with a burning curiosity in her eyes. It had been a true feat of strength, letting her go even when his body was crying out to taste hers, and it would be even more difficult now when he was forced to tie her mother…or grandmother?...to Pierre’s horse and steal her away from all she knew and loved.
It was an ugly business, but he wasn’t commanded to be gentle and compassionate, but rather ruthless and cunning.
Elric took a step toward the young woman, and Tristin immediately tensed.
“Your mother has been accused of witchcraft, and she must answer to an inquisition to prove her innocence,” Elric replied, a softness to his voice Tristin recognized. It was the same voice he used on the maids of Carnburg, just before he’d tupped them in a dark corner.
Biting back a bark of anger, Tristin watched as the woman’s face fell, her body thrumming with shock.
Tristin nearly chuckled when the little minx lifted her chin and pierced Elric with an incredulous glare. “Ye are mistaken. Maude is a widow, a village elder, no more than that. Ask anyone. Ye have the wrong woman.” Her voice was tight and her tone was level, she could lead an army into battle if she’d been born a man.
Through the fog of his thoughts, a name struck him—Maude?
Elric must’ve heard that woman’s name as well, because he turned to Tristin, his gold eyes barely visible through his visor were dark with uncertainty.
Needing to take the situation in hand, Tristin inquired, “And who are you?”
The older woman—Maude—turned to the beauty and shrieked, “They have come fer ye, Bell Heather! I knew the ill wind was bringing in ill tidings!”
For the second time in the span of moments, Tristin’s belly plummeted into a pit.
The woman from the waterfall was the witch he’d come to arrest.
***
Bell Heather had spent the night slumbering deeply, experiencing dreams so vivid, so wicked, she had woken with her bed clothes twisted around her legs and her womanhood sopping wet. Unlike most nights, when she couldn’t recall more than a sliver of her dreams, she could remember every sensuous detail of her heated, aching imaginings. Eyes so dark they were black, long hair so thick and soft it slid over her breasts like a tantalizing whisper. Lips so hot and hungry, they seemed to devour every inch of her trembling body, leaving wet trails along her flesh with an eager tongue. Hard muscles pressed against her softness, and something else, just as hard, pushing against the heat of her womanhood. She’d called out, thrashing, begging him to ease the ache, to satiate the ravenousness of her desire. She didn’t know what she was asking for, what she was so desperate for, she only knew that he was the only one who could give it to her.
And then…he pressed in, his hardness filling her, emptying her of thought, flooding her with sensations so breathtaking she’d cried out.
“Make the ache stop, take what is yours…”
And when he did…she’d awoken, her breaths heaving, her heart pounding, her mind reeling. It had taken all that was in her to dress without sliding her fingers between her legs as she’d done the night before…when the dark stranger watched her explore her sinful nature.
She shuddered, cursing the old gods and the Christian God, and tried to focus on not burning the morning repast. But before she could scrape the burned pottage from the pot, the thundering of hoof beats and the sounds of muffled commands brought her to the door.
Maude was out there, facing down armored giants on hellish steeds.
Rushing out to stand beside her dear friend, Bell Heather finally realized the depth of the trouble she was in. There were eleven men, their faces hidden behind visors, a white and crimson banner flying over their heads, a strangely pointed cross emblazoned on the flapping standard. They were terrifying, formidable, and no doubt heralding something bad.
She hadn’t heard what they said to Maude, but from the looks of the old woman’s curled frame and trembling, Bell Heather knew something was amiss.
“What is this about?” she asked, working to keep her voice even. Her gaze landed on the silent, hulking knight in the front, the black steed beneath him making him look as tall as a fortress tower—and just as foreboding.
Another man, one she hadn’t noticed before, spoke up, “Your mother has been accused of witchcraft…” Shocked, the sound of the blood pounding through her veins muffled all else. Pushing strength into her feet, she stayed upright. Ye must stay strong for Maude!
Sucking in a breath, Bell Heather lifted her chin defiantly. “Ye are mistaken. Maude is a widow, a village elder, no more than that. Ask anyone. Ye have the wrong woman,” she challenged, her voice steady despite the throbbing in her chest.
Before the other man could respond, the larger, imposing knight asked, “And who are you?” Startled, Bell Heather’s voice stuck in her throat. That voice…it was familiar somehow. But she couldn’t have met him before. She would have remembered a man his size, and a horse that immense…
She blinked, looking at the man again. She couldn’t see anything through the full-face visor he wore. Her gaze flicked down to the breastplate. She couldn’t remember much about the armor that man had been wearing. She’d been too focused on his face, his terrible, beautiful face, and those black eyes, and that beautiful, wicked mouth.
It cannot be him.
Maude spun to her, her eyes wild. “They have come fer ye, Bell
Heather! I knew the ill wind was bringing in ill tidings!”
The world around her lost all color as she stood there, before the group of armed men, staring at could only be her doom.
They were mistaken. She wasn’t a witch. She’d only ever grown herbs and made pastes and powders. She always refused to do more than provide the people what they needed to make themselves well. She’d done so to prevent such an outcome; angry men at her door, shouting accusations of bedevilment.
“And who made such an accusation? I shall have their name, and they should face me, as is only right.” And then she’d spit in their eyes, she thought, as she swallowed a ball of bile. The anger was welcome, it numbed the building fear.
The knight who’d first spoken stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt.
“Bell Heather Caire, will you come willingly?” His voice was deep, almost lyrical, as if he could draw anyone into a trance…and then slit their throats.
Never taking her gaze from him, she commanded, “Let me see the face of the man come to capture me.”
The man on the horse looked at the man before her, the visor gleaming menacingly in the early morning sun.
Bell Heather held her breath and watched as the man in front of her removed his helmet.
She gasped.
Long auburn hair, deep gold-colored eyes, and a face made for sin—he was handsome. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying such aloud. By Dagda’s belt she’d become a loose woman—and at the very worst time.
For years, she’d endured the leering men and the fumbling boys, turning them away with words of her duty to the village. She’d refused, time and again, the betroth of villagers, peddlers, and Willem Mason. And it wasn’t that she was averse to marrying, it was that…well, she could feel nothing more than passing kindness for the boys, and prickling unease from the men.
Especially Willem Mason. At the thought of that man and his black sneer, something began ticking in her mind, but she had little time to think on what it could mean.
Drawing on her courage, she took a step forward, startling slightly when Maude grabbed her arm. “And where will ye be taking me?” she asked, placing a trembling hand over Maude’s, and trying to distract herself from the sudden heaviness emanating from the other man, the man who had yet to speak more than four words. She knew he was their leader, it was in his bearing, and in the way the other men seemed to surround him, watching him.
“Cieldon Manse in Cumberland.”
Cumberland? She’d never ventured farther than the forest, never one to travel too far from what she knew. And this would take her into the unknown; a new place, with strange men, and the fear of possible death.
Ye’re no witch, and they will see that. Ye only have to prove it.
But how? She couldn’t cast spells, but what was to keep them from saying she was just playing the part of an innocent? What was to stop them from hanging her from the gallows just to see if she’d fly to safety? Or tying stones around her waist and throwing her into a lake so see if she’d float despite the weight? She’d die. And her innocence would be pointless.
It was all preposterous, ridiculous, and absolutely dangerous.
What choice did she have, save trying to run into the woods to hide? They were on horseback, they’d have her in two strides. No, she couldn’t run, and anyway, what would they do to Maude if she ran?
Dread snaked its arms around her heart, squeezing the breath from her chest.
“I will go willingly.”
Chapter Eight
Maude gasped, pulling on her arm. “Nay, nay! They will torture ye, they will kill ye!”
Bell Heather’s heart jumped wildly, the terror on Maude’s face and the truth to her words seeming to turn her blood to mud.
“They will have to prove me guilty first,” she said, hope clinging on with its fingertips. She hoped they’d be fair, that they’d give her the chance to prove her innocence, and that she’d be home before the leaves began to fall. But hope was a fickle creature, and Bell Heather had little faith it would remain.
Nay! Do not give into the fear. Ye are as innocent as a babe, they cannot prove otherwise.
Gripping tight to her shoulders, Bell Heather gave Maude a gentle squeeze, pulling the old woman in for an embrace—and she was determined it not be the last. Maude began sobbing, her frail frame shaking as it the earth were trembling with her.
“Och, child. What will yer mother think if I let ye die like this?” Maude said, tears in her voice.
Bell Heather dropped her arms, taking a step back from the woman who had been her only companion since her mother’s death. Maude’s brown eyes were hemmed with worry and overflowing with fear.
Leaning in, Bell Heather intoned, “I will be back before the first frost. I promise ye that. While I am gone, have Waldo mind my garden and animals.” While the lad wasn’t her first choice, she knew she could trust him to do as asked. And Maude couldn’t haul the laden baskets of harvested vegetables to the root cellar.
A sensation of heavy tension erupting behind her made Bell Heather look over her shoulder. The men watched her through the slits in their visors, silent, ominous.
Was this truly goodbye? She turned her gaze back to the small cottage she’d called home for three and twenty years. It was the home her father had built, it was where she was born, and where her mother had drawn her last breath. Her whole world fit into one tiny building…and she’d be damned if she never saw it again.
“May I gather some of my belongings?” she asked, again peering over her shoulder.
The handsome one turned to his commander. The eerily quiet, faceless leader gave a simple nod, then commanded, “Pierre, escort the woman inside. Make sure she takes nothing…unnecessary.”
Struck by his words, Bell Heather penned him with a glare. His voice… Something scratched at her memory, something with long claws and dark eyes. Like a wolf, chuffing for her attention. Who was he?
Pierre dismounted from his large brown horse and walked toward her. Maude began mewling beside her, distress in the sound. Bell Heather ground her teeth together, the urge to comfort her dear friend nigh on unbearable. But what could she say or do that would truly bring relief?
Sucking in a deep breath, she moved toward the cottage door. Why did it feel as if she were marching toward her own destruction? She’d pack a change of clothes, a satchel of dried herbs, and a new bar of soap—her other soap having been left behind at the waterfall the night before. Refusing to let her thoughts wonder to the night and the man who’d turned it into a scalding fantasy, Bell Heather made to step into the cottage, but not before a large, heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She gasped as the tall, broad man appeared beside her, staring down at her, his face revealed. With his visor raised, Bell Heather could see pale, jagged scars, crisscrossing his face. Steely gray eyes gazed down at her, empty, cold. He would be handsome, if he didn’t look as though he could snap her in twain without provocation.
He thinks ye a witch, as do they all.
Best to ready herself for a journey and not worry about what the men thought. It would only lead to belly aches.
Pulling from the man’s grip, she moved toward where she’d hung the linen bag she often used to carry items to families in town. Maude had sown a strap into it to allow Bell Heather to carry it over her shoulder. She tossed the bag on the table where her nearly cold pot of pottage still sat. If Maude didn’t think to clean it, it would be a moldy mess by the time Bell Heather returned.
If ye return.
Bell Heather shuddered, a chill unlike the kind carried on a spring breeze, skittered along her spine. She would return. She had to. There was more to her life, there had to be. As her mother before her, she’d dedicated her life to helping others—never once caring if she benefited from her service. It was her honor, her duty to care for the people of Clarendon. It was a point of pride, something she could carry with her no matter how far away she went. Or how much she endured.
Pier
re was a hulking shadow, moving around the cottage with her as she gathered her clothes, and her brush and soap. She could feel him peering over her shoulder as she reached up over the hearth to untie the satchel she’d hung there. Inside were small bundles of dried thyme, rosemary, and sage, and a scraping of willow bark.
She turned to place the satchel in her bag but Pierre snatched the satchel from her hands, pulling it open and peering inside.
“What is this?” he asked, a strange accent making Bell Heather pause. Pierre wasn’t from Britain, and so how did he come to be a knight of the kingdom? Twas a question she’d never ask. He seemed the kind to kill for such impertinence.
Bell Heather reached to snatch the satchel back, but Pierre’s hand on his sword hilt stopped her cold. She swallowed. “Simple herbs.”
He threw the satchel onto the table. “Unnecessary,” he sneered, her expression a narrow-eyed scowl.
“Necessary. I use them for ailments—pain, wounds, fever—”
“And will you use your magic to sicken us?” he asked, his gaze watching her face. Angry that he would ask such a thing, she crossed her arms over her chest, lest she poke him in the breastplate.
“Nay. I am not now, nor have I ever been a witch. And I would like to know who would call me thus.” Whoever her accuser was, they had to have had some contact with her. Who would make such damning accusations without ever meeting her? Then again, who could meet her and think such a thing about her?
Without a word in response, Pierre grabbed her bag and stomped out of the cottage. Tettering on the edge of frustrated rage, Bell Heather followed him out, her hands clenched at her sides. She watched as the oaf tied her bag to his saddle horn and mounted.
The commander turned his head to Elric who seemed to be holding back a smile.
Blasted wretch! What was so humorous about her situation? Would be grin openly as they fitted her for a noose?
“You will ride with Pierre,” the commander declared, and Bell Heather’s gaze landed on the giant beast Pierre barely held in check. Well taller than her, the horse looked capable of breaking her with a single kick. Roiling ill filled her belly. Not once in her life had she ridden a horse; she had no need of one. She walked wherever she needed to go. The great animals were strong and fast, and she preferred to admire their deadly beauty from afar.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 8