The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1)
Page 33
But he’d been Willem Mason’s friend. His close friend. And Tristin now knew, most painfully, the kind of man Willem Mason was. The kind of man who stole innocent women to torture them with his perversions. If the cardinal could call such a man his friend…what kind of man did that make the man sitting on the “throne” of Cumberland?
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, in the dark, contemplating the wheels of God’s justice, but the clang of a sword against the door made him start.
“Yer lucky, commander. The cardinal has decided ye are worth his time,” a new voice called out. Tristin rose from the floor where he’d been sitting, knees to his chest. They’d stripped him of his armor—and most likely sold it—so he only had his tunic and his hose to protect him against the rats.
The scraping of the lock made him cringe, the sound a shrill echoing in the dark. As the door opened, a man stepped in, a torch held aloft in his hand. “Come along, then. The cardinal does not like to be kept waiting.”
Tristin nearly snorted at the irony.
As the man and another guard escorted him from the darkness below into the gleaming sunlight above, Tristin grimaced, shading his eyes. Blinking, he allowed his eyes to adjust just in time to stumble forward at the point of a sword in his back. He growled, glaring at the bastard from over his shoulder.
“You would do well to sheath your sword. Even without one, I can best you handily.”
The man laughed, as did his companion. “He thinks he’s still the commander…” More laughter. “Ye are a fool, LaDeux. Ye sealed yer own fate the moment ye let that witch cast her spell over ye.”
Stunned, Tristin missed seeing the man raise the pommel of his sword over his head, bringing it down just behind Tristin’s ear. Stumbling, his head spinning, warmth spilling down his neck, Tristin groaned. It took all his strength to stay on his feet as they lead him up another set of stairs, which he recognized as leading to the cardinal’s private study.
So, whatever he was planning to do he was hoping to keep it secret. Usually, the cardinal would see to church matters in the chapel at the back of Cieldon. It was a newer chapel, but it had all the hallmarks of Church pomposity; stained glass, depicting scenes of the Crucifixion and the Last Supper, a gilded altar and dais, and elaborately carved stone angels. It was a lovely chapel…for such an empty place.
Reaching the door to the cardinal’s study, Martin appeared, his face pale. Martin, while serving the needs of the cardinal, was still loyal to the Homme du Sang—one in particular. Leon and Martin had been having an illicit affair for years, and Tristin cared not. As long as they remained unmarried—to guard against infidelity committed with one another—and kept their love a secret from Church officials, he would never be forced to arrest one of his best men.
The look of anguish on Martin’s face told him he didn’t like this situation any more than Tristin did. But he was the cardinal’s man, and he had to do what he was told. Knocking on the door, Martin entered when called, quickly closing the door behind him. Moments later, the door opened again, wide, and the guard pushed Tristin through it.
God, how he wanted to disarm the lout and cut off his every limb.
“Tristin LaDeux, Your Eminence,” Martin announced before casting a poorly hidden glare at his master and quitting the room.
“Ah, Tristin, come in,” the cardinal said, indicating Tristin should come stand before where he was reclining on a blue silk chaise. “You may leave us. Tristin would not dare raise a hand against me…” Calleaux remarked, his dark brown eyes flashing with arrogance. The man knew he had Tristin by the heart—Bell Heather was still in the dungeon somewhere, a captive of Calleaux’s whims.
Tristin held his breath, waiting for the guards, who bowed, to quit the room, as well.
Letting his breath out, Tristin moved to stand where the cardinal had pointed.
“I must say, you look terrible,” Calleaux smirked.
Tristin grit his teeth, knowing full well everything he said would be held against Bell Heather. “I have been held captive for two days.”
“Captivity you volunteered for, so I am told,” Calleaux challenged, sliding his feet to the floor and digging his stockinged toes in the pile of a hand-woven rug. Such opulence for a man of God should have been surprising…but nothing surprised him about Calleaux anymore.
“I did, but I had hoped you would deign to give me audience sooner than two days.” He couldn’t bite back the sharp tone of his words.
Calleaux shrugged. “And why…” he began, pinning Tristin with eyes far too cold to know the warmth of God’s Holy Spirit. “Would I grant an audience to a man who allowed himself to fall victim to the wiles of a witch?”
Rage consumed him, filling his veins with hot blood. “She is no more a witch than you are. She was wrongly accused, and you would know that, if you had let me speak on her behalf before your men took her.”
Calleaux shot to his feet, his five-foot-five frame a mere nothing to Tristin’s six-foot-two frame, but the man could swing his arrogance like a morningstar. Tristin stood his ground, staring down at the man who could, very well, spell Bell Heather’s doom.
“You will remember your place, Tristin, or I will remind you of it with a few more days locked away in the dark.”
Tristin slammed his mouth closed. The more time he spent in the dungeon, the more time Bell Heather spent in the dungeon, as well.
“I apologize, Your Eminence,” Tristin uttered, kneeling, He bowed his head, the rage still burning within him, and waited for the cardinal to present his ring for Tristin to kiss.
When he did, Tristin kissed the thing, then swallowed the bile that had risen into his throat.
“That is better,” Calleaux purred, no doubt wallowing in his power over Tristin.
Power I gave him.
“Now, my son,” he murmured as he returned to reclining on the chaise, “Tell me why I should believe your tale about Willem Mason?”
Taking a deep breath, Tristin gave his report, leaving out the bits about him and Bell Heather making love, but explaining, in great detail, about Mason’s hidden room. By the time he was done speaking, Calleaux was sitting on the edge of the chaise, his face a mask of mottled reds and purples.
“So…he is dead, then,” Calleaux rasped, the fists in his lap shaking.
“Aye, Your Eminence,” Tristin replied, unsure if Calleaux’s anger was directed at Willem Mason for his acts of debauchery, or at Tristin for allowing Glenn to kill his friend.
“And Gaubin, what happened to him?”
Tristin straighten slightly, the bile rising again. “I do not know. The last I saw of him I was trying to rescue Bell Heather from the river he had dropped her in.”
There was a long moment of silence as Calleaux stared at the silver chalice on the low table in front of him. “I see…” Was all he said.
The muscles in his back screamed and his belly ached for lack of food, and he was getting all the more worried for Bell Heather. What was she enduring down in the dungeons?
“You Eminence, I must ask that you hear my plea on Bell Heather’s behalf.”
Calleaux stood again, this time, though, he walked toward a small escritoire in the middle of the room. He picked up a piece of parchment and scanned it quickly before holding it out to Tristin. Surprised and wary, Tristin took it.
Captain LaDeaux was seen embracing the accused who was unbound. He drew his sword when confronted and refused to let the accused out of his possession. The clear signs of bewitchment were difficult to miss.
His rage finally boiled over. “What is this?” he demanded, shaking the letter.
Calleaux narrowed his eyes at Tristin. “That is the initial report from Grieves.”
“He lies.” Tristin spat, tossing the report onto the floor.
Calleaux followed the parchment with his gaze, this it snapped up to meet Tristin’s glare.
“Upon entering the gates of Cieldon, was the accused not tucked most lovingly into your embr
ace?”
“Nay, she was secured in my arms for the ride to Cieldon.”
“Was she bound and gagged as is the policy with dealing with suspected witches?”
Tristin sneered. “She came of her own free will. Upon being confronted with the false accusations, she agreed to come with us without cause for violence. Not once during our journey did she try to escape. I saw no need to bind her.”
Calleaux laughed, throwing his head back. His thick neck looked like a stuffed pork roast on a spit. “And you did not see fit to gag her, to prevent her from casting her spells on you?”
Taken aback by the venom in Calleaux’s words, it took longer than he’d hoped to rebuke the cardinal.
“See, even now her spell is working on you. You defend her even though you do not know why you should. You are a puppet, which means you can no longer be trusted.”
Calleaux walked to the bell pull, summoning the guards. They threw open the doors and rushed Tristin, who kicked out, foolishly allowing his anger and desperation to rule him. Finally, with a sword to his throat, Tristin blinked the sweat and tears from his eyes, and tried to catch his breath. The room around him had been damaged in the fight; the table with the silver chalice lay in splinters, and a vase lay in opalescent shards.
“You are a liar and a heretic, Calleaux, and I will see you excommunicated for this!” Tristin bellowed as the men dragged him from the room.
Down in the dungeon, locked behind the cell door, Tristin finally let the hopelessness gut him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cristian Calleaux paced beside his bed, the comfort of his silken sheets and down mattress did little to welcome him. He couldn’t sleep, anyway; every time he closed his eyes he could hear the voice of Archbishop Arundel shouting in his ears.
“You lied to me!”
“You are as much at fault for Sir Willem Mason’s depravities as he is!”
“How dare you call yourself a prince of the Holy Church? You are a worm, because you keep the company of worms!”
Over and over again, like a grotesque liturgical prayer, the words echoed in his mind. He knew exactly what the archbishop would say, he knew how his wrinkled face would fold into a scowl. He knew the man would cackled gleeful—behind closed doors—about Cardinal Cristian Calleaux’s fall from God’s grace…and that’s why Tristin LaDeux needed to disappear.
The boy he’d met those three years ago had transformed into a man any cardinal would be proud to have lead the men of his order. Tristin had shown himself noble, virtuous, and faithful—no matter the task set before him. He’d even delivered a woman up for trial whom he knew to be innocent. If the man could perform miracles, he’d be on his way to being canonized as a saint. Personally, Cristian saw no weakness in Tristin, he truly was a man of God’s favor…which was the problem. As honorable and virtuous as Tristin was, he would never follow through with any command that would require him to act falsely. Which meant that if Cristian ordered Tristin to keep the events with Willem Mason a closely guarded secret, and to lie about Willem’s involvement in Bell Heather Caire’s capture and imprisonment, Tristin would balk.
He was far too honorable to lie. And so, he had to die.
“Damn that letter!” he shouted into the room that was just filling with the light of the morning sun. If he hadn’t written that letter to Canterbury, if he had but waited another day to receive word of Willem’s death, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament.
The letter he’d written had been a desperate attempt to keep Willem Mason out of trouble, which would help keep their connection hidden—the more fool he for thinking it would work. He’d sung Willem’s praises, preemptively accusing heretics and local pagans for the lies about a man who had only ever served the King’s interests, a man who was a friend to the Church.
“Damn you, Willem! I hope you are burning in an especially hot place in Hell!”
He had come too far, had sacrificed too much to let someone as evil as Willem and someone as good as Tristin ruin all that he had accomplished. He had built a reputation within the church of being the godliest of all the layman cardinals ever honored with the position. And he would be damned if he lost it now.
The anger boiling beneath the surface began to spill over into his movements, until he was stomping his feet with each step. Damn. Damn. Damn. Why had everything gone so wrong? And what of the Homme du Sang? Even now, the men were camped out in the courtyard, demanding the release of their commander. He knew that the men of the order were formidable, and that crossing them could spell disaster, but he had to take his chances. What could they do with his guards watching their every move? Let them bluster, let them threaten. Their threats were empty, there was nothing they could do to force Calleaux’s hand.
But what will happen to them once Tristin is dead… It was a question he’d been avoiding for four days. Certainly, he would appoint a new commander, a man of his choosing who was brutal and yet utterly loyal to him. A man who wouldn’t blink when commanded to lie. And the other members of the order would follow their commander’s lead, because they were no better than sheep in armor.
Smiling, the anger ebbed until a new sensation erupted within him. Joy.
He would succeed in his plan to save his own ass, but first, he had to finish what he started with Tristin LaDeux and that woman.
It was time to announce their sentencing—and he would do it in grand fashion. Let the county see what kind of cardinal he was; a man of justice and holy wrath. He would execute his will on the treasonous knight, Tristin, and the heretical Bell Heather Caire right where everyone could see it. He must show the people that he would not tolerate any ungodliness, lest they face the same fate. He knew it was overdone, that he could have easily let them die a slow death from starvation in the dungeon, but he needed to strike out against any murmuring about his friendship with a man of Willem’s ilk.
Smiling, he rushed to the bell pull to summon Martin, who entered the cardinal’s private chambers with a bored yet wary look on his face.
“Your Eminence.” he murmured, bowing.
“Martin! There is much work to do today,” Cristian began, walking to the wardrobe to choose his most elaborate cassock, with crimson buttons ringed in gold, and a velvet sash, also in crimson, embroidered with gold. He must look his best.
“Today, Your Eminence?” Martin’s eyebrows drew down in confusion.
“Today, Martin, we are having a hanging; God’s justice will be served.”
***
Bell Heather tried to sit up, but her strength had abandoned her days ago. At least…it had felt like days. The darkness had become her constant companion, hissing ugly words in her ears.
“Ye will die in here…”
“Tristin has abandoned ye…”
“Ye meant nothing to him…”
She groaned, the pit of her empty stomach had stopped hurting, but the ache in her muscles continued. Chained to the wall, she didn’t have the freedom to walk, to stretch, and so she sat on that damnable bench, in the damnable dark, and waited for death to come for her.
She could cry, banging her chest in sorrow, but her tears had dried up, and she’d had no water to replace them. Starving, thirsty, she could only count the minutes, then the hours… Each hour, she wondered what had become of Tristin. Had he gone home, his mission complete, to find release in the arms of another woman? Had he and his men been given another mission and were, even now, capturing another innocent, accused of heretical crimes?
She snorted, the sound much weaker than she expected. She wouldn’t doubt that the Homme du Sang were the sword to a man who cared little for the accused save that their capture and death would serve his purpose; to put the fear of his god into the hearts and minds of the people of Cumberland, Yorkshire, and Westmorland. Fools, the lot of them.
A sound met her ear, a sound she hadn’t heard in too long, the sound of feet moving along the corridor outside her cell. Then, the clang of a sword against the door.
Sentencing… I get no trial? Her head ached from the power it took to comprehend. So, she’d been right all along; they never meant to give her a fair chance to prove the accusations false. She’d been marked for death or imprisonment from the moment the Homme du Sang invaded her peaceful cottage on the edge of a peaceful village. She’d been doomed the moment Tristin LaDeux had set eyes on her.
When the door opened, allowing in the light from the single torch, she cringed, her eyes burning. The dark had blinded her for days, and now the light had done the same.
“Come along then,” he said, as another man entered to unlock her manacle. The first man grabbed her elbow, trying to haul her to her feet, but she stumbled and fell, her legs unwilling to work. “Stand up, ye bitch, or I will drag ye before the cardinal,” he sneered.
“I cannot stand,” she croaked, her throat and lips parched.
The second man came to her other side to take hold of her other elbow, and the both of them pulled her from the cell. She hung between them, like a rag doll, and her feet dragged behind her. The tops of her feet slid easily of the slimy, wet stones, at least until they reached the stairs. With each step ascended, the flesh of her foot scraped over the near razor sharp lip of each stone step. She hissed, groaning, but the sound did nothing to slow her captors. They continued dragging her upward, until the entered the corridor that lead to the door to the courtyard.
Too exhausted to fight, she found her slowly fading thoughts circling one single image; Tristin’s face. The face of her betrayer. The face of her lover. A sharp ache tore at her chest, and one final sob escaped her throat.