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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Glenn chuckled. “I would think ye’d want other men ta know of yer prowess in the boudoir. Personally, I must admit to bein’ a wee jealous. I have never made a lass scream as Bell Heather did.”

  Tristin growled, only just holding himself back from launching himself at Glenn, who only laughed louder. Bell Heather turned to look, and Glenn caught her gaze, laughing all the louder.

  Tristin bit back another curse when Bell Heather dropped the flowers she’d been picking and made her way toward them.

  “Not a word,” Tristin ground out from around clenched teeth. Glenn smothered another laugh.

  “What are ye laughing about,” she asked as she reached them. Tristin couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t looked at him.

  Tristin pinned Glenn with narrowed eyes and silently dared him to speak a word of what he’d shared with Tristin. Glenn knew better than to test Tristin’s mood. Tristin might not be the commander of the Homme du Sang much longer, but he was still the best swordsman in the kingdom.

  Glenn cleared his throat. “Tis nothin’, lass. Just a bit of humor between old friends.”

  The furrowing of her brow and the thinning of her lips told him she didn’t believe a word of it, but she didn’t say anything more. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, as if waiting for the executioner.

  Before Tristin could say anything, Elric and Robert, followed closely by the others, appeared in the yard, mounted and ready to make their way to Cieldon, only three miles up the road.

  “Tristin…” Elric began. “Tis time to depart.” Tristin didn’t need the reminder. He’d been thinking about it since the sun’s rays first shone on Bell Heather’s flushed, naked skin. What he would have given to make love to her once more, but the knock on the door from the innkeeper’s wife had shattered that dream. Bell Heather jerked awake, hiding her nakedness from him with the counterpane. The blush on her cheeks told him she wasn’t unaffected by what they done, but her inability to look him in the eye stung. He wished he knew what she was thinking, if only to help her, to calm her. To remind her that he was there for her, no matter what happened in the Cardinal’s chambers.

  Once they reached Cieldon, they’d be escorted to the cardinal’s private office, where he could speak with the Cardinal in Bell Heather’s defense. If the Lord was with him, he and Bell Heather would be departing no later than tomorrow morning. After that, they’d travel to Bridgerdon to visit his family—he couldn’t wait for his mother to meet Bell Heather—and they’d plan their wedding.

  Wedding? Are you not putting the cart before the horse? He still hadn’t asked her to marry him. He’d only assumed she’d want to. He would have to remedy that as soon as he was able to speak with her alone.

  “Let us be off, then,” he said, loud enough for his men to hear. Tristin turned to Bell Heather, who was staring at him, her face pale, her eyes filled with sadness. His heart hitched. God, please, help me keep my promise to this woman.

  He helped her to mount Chevalier, then he mounted and sat behind her. As yesterday, she held herself stiffly, but he said nothing. He kept both hands on the reins and kicked Chevalier into a gallop. The sooner they reached Cieldon the sooner he could make Bell Heather his for always.

  Three miles passed in an awkwardly silent blur. As they approached the large gate, his memories flashed to the first day he’d crossed the drawbridge into Cieldon. It was the first day of his new life, the first day of a life he hadn’t expected to live. And as much as he dreaded the meeting with the cardinal that day, three years ago, he dreaded it far more today. Back then, it had been him, a whelp eager to please the father he’d disappointed. He had no one else to think about. Today, his thoughts were solely on Bell Heather, her well-being, her happiness, her safety.

  As they cantered under the portcullis and crossed the lower bailey, through the second gate and into the courtyard, he couldn’t help but notice that the cardinal’s men were watching with great interest, their bodies tense. A trickling of awareness shivered up his spine and he turned to look at Elric, who must have felt it as well, because his gaze was trained on the line of men along the top of the wall. In full armor, the Homme du Sang were an intimidating sight, but he had an inkling that these men weren’t simply awed by the knights entering their domain. They were alert.

  Bell Heather leaned back and turned her face up to murmur, “What is it?”

  “Nothing to worry over. The cardinal’s men are expecting us,” he answered, wondering if he were speaking falsehoods. Of all the times they’d come to Cieldon, this was the first time they’d garnered such focus. And Tristin couldn’t shake the dread.

  As they drew to halt before the stone steps, Tristin swallowed back his instinct to retreat, and dismounted. He reached up for Bell Heather, clutching her to him a moment longer than necessary, to feel her against him. The others dismounted and, because they too felt the tension thrumming through the air, they formed a circle around Bell Heather, their hands on their swords.

  “I canna like this feelin’,” Glenn murmured, coming up alongside Tristin.

  Bell Heather’s eyes grew wide. “What do ye mean?” she asked, her voice breathy. He could see the fear cover her gaze and he could throttle Glenn for speaking his suspicions aloud.

  “Do not worry, Bell Heather.” He only wished he didn’t have reason to worry. The delicate lines of her face deepened, and he watched the color drain from her features. She was terrified. And there was nothing he could do about it. Damn!

  Before he could step foot on the steps, armored men appeared, clattering into the courtyard to form a line in front of the door.

  The man in front, a guard named Grieves, stepped forward.

  “We are to take the prisoner in hand,” he announced, signaling to men at the flanks. Instinctively, Tristin drew his sword, ready to do battle to protect Bell Heather, but Elric’s hand on his shoulder kept him from striking out.

  “Captain, I think it best to let the men take her. You can speak to the cardinal and settle everything. I am sure Grieves will take good care of her.”

  Grieves sneered, his black eyes glinting with menace, and Tristin narrowed his eyes.

  “Oh, aye, I will take good care of her,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to his men, who all smirked.

  “I cannot trust that,” Tristin sneered back.

  “But you must trust, at least until you speak to the cardinal,” Elric insistent, his tone tight.

  He turned to face Bell Heather. She was staring, her eyes wide and bright, her chest heaving with her breaths. Her hands were at her sides, in white-knuckled fists. She was doing everything she could to not flee, and he admired her strength. All along, she’d remained true to her vow to come willingly, but now that he was faced with such uncertainty, he wondered if he should have aided in her escape.

  Nay. She would be a fugitive, on the run, and you’d still be tasked with bringing her back. Worse, the cardinal might send mercenaries to do the job. Tristin swore under his breath, and drew Bell Heather into his side. She flicked her gaze up to his, and he saw a world of anguish there.

  “Trust that I will get you out as soon as I can,” he whispered. Her gaze bore into his, seeking the truth, and he opened himself up, pouring all he felt into a single glance. Slowly, she nodded then pulled her shoulders back in a move that was pure Bell Heather. She was determined to face this moment with bravery and fire.

  God, he loved her.

  Grieves cleared his throat and Tristin hesitated before stepping back, everything in him clamoring to take her and run.

  As he watched, heart in his throat, two men laid their hands on Bell Heather’s arms. She didn’t fight them as they led her up the stairs. She was out of his sight in moments, and his mind tumbled with worry over her. He knew Grieves as a faithful toady to the cardinal, but he was also a man who enjoyed torturing the cardinal’s enemies. And right now, that was Bell Heather.

  “Easy,” Elric murmured, “I do not like it, either. But we mu
st allow them to take her. If we do not, you cannot say you have completed your mission.”

  He knew Elric was correct. The cardinal would see his refusal to hand over Bell Heather as an act of defiance. It would not bode well for his meeting with the man.

  “I will hold you to your promise, Grieves,” Tristin called out, making sure all the men in the courtyard could hear. It was an unspoken challenge; hurt her and deal with me.

  “And me, as well,” Elric interjected.

  “And ye know I will slice the lot o’ ye ta pieces if I have the want,” Glenn said flatly, picking his nails with his most wicked looking dagger.

  The men around them stiffened at the taunts, but Grieves only scowled, hatred turning his face a hideous red.

  “I wish to speak with His Eminence,” Tristin said, striding toward the steps leading to the large door. Grieves stepped in front of him, and his men hesitantly stepped up beside him, their eyes darting from Tristin to Elric to Glenn, and resting on Glenn, who was now sharpening his blade on a strip of leather at his waist.

  “I’m afraid His Eminence is indisposed,” Grieves intoned.

  “Is that so?” Tristin asked, panic rising in his chest. If he couldn’t speak with the cardinal, Bell Heather would remain in the custody of the cardinal’s men far longer than he’d planned.

  “Aye. He said to return to Carnburg until he sends for you again.”

  Tremors began in his hands and spread into his belly. Nay! This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped.

  “I must insist on speaking with Cardinal Calleaux,” Tristin challenged.

  His men at his back, he made to step through the wall of men, but Grieves jumped back, drawing his sword.

  “And I must insist that you leave. Now. Before you become the newest guest in the dungeons.” Grieves’s sword was much shorter than Tristin’s, and Tristin knew he could take the man in a fair fight. But from the look of the men in the battlements, he knew that, even if they were the Homme du Sang, they couldn’t hold out long against so many.

  “Then I insist on accepting your offer,” Tristin said, raising his hands in front of him.

  Elric gasped, grapping Tristin’s elbow. “You are mad,” he sputtered. “What good will you do her in there?”

  As if a ray of heaven’s light shone down on him, a peace settled over him. “I cannot leave her in there alone, Elric. I cannot.” He didn’t know how to convey the depth of his need to be with Bell Heather. The thought of her staying in the dark, dank dungeon, with the possibility of torture, beatings, or rape…he couldn’t stomach it.

  “As you wish, Commander,” Grieves sneered, signaling to two more men who came forward in halting movements, obviously unsure.

  Tristin unfastened the sword belt from his hip and handed the sword and scabbard to Elric. “I trust you to keep this safe.”

  “No safer than you when you lost it in the river,” Elric sulked, and Tristin offered a parting nod.

  As the guards brought him inside, his arms tied behind his back with rough ropes, down the dim corridor that ended at the stairway leading to the dark castle bowels, Tristin prayed harder than he’d ever prayed before.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The darkness was total. Not a single sliver of light could be seen. The room was dank, smelled of piss and shite, and couldn’t be much bigger than the size of her own bed back in her cottage.

  Is this Hell?

  After being snatched from Tristin’s protection, those men had jostled her harshly. And though she didn’t fight them, they dragged her, wrenching her arms, down a long corridor to a set of stairs leading down—into the pits, it looked it. Dark, the sounds of dripping water. It was so unlike her beloved root cellar that she nearly lost her nerve. Down the stairs they went, then past cell after cell, the torches flickering as they passed. Finally, they opened a cell door and dragged her inside. She didn’t have much time to inspect it before they’d chained her to the wall and slammed the door shut. The scratch and scrape of the key in the lock was nearly deafening. They took the torch from the closest wall, chuckling to themselves about leaving her alone in the dark.

  Bell Heather rubbed at her wrist, which was clasped in an iron manacle that was fastened to the wall. Thankfully, there was a narrow bench to sit upon, otherwise she had no way of knowing what she’d be forced to sit in. She’d tucked her legs up under her, cringing at the ache in her muscles from sitting like that for too long. But, she refused to touch the ground with any part of her body. It was bad enough she was forced to breathe the fetid, rank air.

  She closed her eyes, tucking her chin into her chest, and tried to breathe through her mouth. She gagged on the taste of hot death that coated her tongue.

  “By Dagda, this is wretched,” she muttered, gagging again. If she were a Christian woman, she would pray to God. If she were fully pagan, she would pray to whichever deity represented mercy on prisoners. But she was neither, and she couldn’t help but wonder if some god, whether pagan or Christian, was punishing her for her faithlessness.

  Tristin…he’d been so dedicated to his vow to the Church that he’d been willing to give up his place in the Homme du Sang, an order he had built, one man at a time. Perhaps if she’d shown that much dedication to the church in Traegar, near Clarendon, she wouldn’t be in her current predicament.

  Nay. It wasn’t her lack of faith that had brought her to her imprisonment; it was the selfishness of one man—a dead man—that had ruined everything she’d had before. She opened her eyes again, but couldn’t really tell that she had. It was utter blackness, either way. Bell Heather couldn’t help but wonder if it was a sign of what was to come. Perhaps she was already dead, buried, and awaiting judgement.

  A sob broke free of her crumbling will, and she bit it back. Ye cannot cry. Ye cannot let them see ye breaking. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, and she didn’t know how much longer they would hold her. All she knew was that Tristin had promised to get her out. All along, he’d sworn he would speak to the cardinal on her behalf. But, when those men had insisted on taking her, she saw the panic on his face. He had probably thought to escort her into the cardinal, presenting her formally. Then, he would inform the cardinal of Willem’s deeds, the cardinal was show righteous anger, then he would pardon Bell Heather. Then Tristin would renounce his vow to the order and… Then what? She was a no one, he was an earl’s son. They were like oil and water, forced into the same vessel. And no matter what she wanted his plans to be, they would never include her.

  And anyway—she groaned at the sharp ache in her legs—things weren’t going according to his plan…and it terrified her that she didn’t know what to expect. Have faith in Tristin…he will come for you. He will do as he promised.

  That means nothing, another voice rasped. And it was right. Tristin could vouch for her until he was purple, but that wouldn’t matter if the cardinal refused to listen.

  She very well might have seen Tristin for the last time.

  That thought struck her in the chest, and her breath caught. Nay!

  Tristin’s face appeared in her mind; his rugged beauty, his deep, dark eyes, his lips. She pictured his smile, his throat working as he laughed. She imagined him, holding her against his chest, lulling her with the steady beat of his heart.

  Nay, her life had not been ruined by one man…it had been changed by another. If she’d never met Tristin, never known his touch, his kiss, his heart…she would have forever been lost in her little cottage, always alone. For the rest of her days.

  That chill she’d felt in her bones that night in the forest with Maude, it hadn’t been a portend of danger to come, but a heralding of something more. Tristin.

  And that night at the waterfall, it had been him she’d felt, his presence, that had filled her with such longing, such yearning for pleasure. It was his hand that she’d felt between her legs, on her breasts…she just hadn’t met him yet. But, now that she had, she couldn’t imagine her life without him.

  But
ye must…

  Aye, she must. Her life had been shortened to however long the cardinal took to weigh her sins. She was out of hope. No matter what Tristin said, it was too late. But she couldn’t be sad about it. Last night had been the best night of her life. She’d experienced true pleasure and happiness in Tristin’s arms. And she was thankful.

  For the first time in days, Bell Heather allowed the sobs to overtake her.

  ***

  Two damn days. It had been two damn days since he’d been tossed into the cell no bigger than a garderobe. And the only reason he knew two days had passed was because the voices of the guards changed every few hours, indicating a change in watch. Their voices carried from the down the corridors and into his cell. And he hated them for their joviality.

  “I am still waiting to speak with the cardinal!” he shouted, praying that, wherever they’d taken Bell Heather, she could hear him.

  The two days he’s spent in this cell, were two days she’d spent in hers. But he wasn’t worried about himself…he would manage the smell and the lack of food or water, but her…she didn’t deserve such treatment.

  Damn you, Willem Mason! If you were not dead, I would slit your throat!

  “Keep yer gob shut!” a man with more bullocks than bravery said from the other side of the door. “The cardinal will call for ye when he is good and ready.” And that was the rub. What was the cardinal thinking, keeping Tristin there? What did he gain from keeping Tristin prisoner? When he’d first agreed to be taken, he’d assumed the cardinal would hear of his voluntary imprisonment and release him with haste. But he hadn’t. And it did not bode well.

  Had something happened that had turned the cardinal against the Homme du Sang? Tristin bowed his head, turning the memories of the last week over in his thoughts. Aside from Willem Mason’s death and Gaubin’s betrayal, there hadn’t been anything of note that occurred. Perhaps Cardinal Calleaux was making a statement, flexing his religious muscles. Perhaps he was using Tristin as a stepping stone… He didn’t doubt it was possible; Cardinal Calleaux—while appearing pious and serene on the outside—had the glimmering eyes of a man hungry for power. Tristin had seen it, had chosen to ignore it, burying himself in his missions, telling himself that he was mistaken. That the cardinal was a man of God, a man of righteousness and morality.