Goodbye, Tristin…
She closed her eyes against the glaring light beaming in through the high windows and immediately succumbed to a new darkness.
***
Tristin stood, back to the wall, and let the ache in his shoulders focus his mind. The pain would keep him sharp, and he needed to be sharp. He couldn’t let Calleaux get away with his schemes.
The man meant to keep him prisoner; but what could be gain from accusing his own commander of heresy? Certainly, that would call the entire order into question. Certainly, his men would be disbanded and a new, loyal-to-him, Homme du Sang would be created.
Calleaux is beyond reason, he thought, remembering the maniacal gleam in the cardinal’s eye. Nothing he was doing was reasonable, and Bell Heather would feel the brunt of the man’s diabolical plans.
Bell Heather… Was she still alive? She was smaller than him, frailer, she could have succumbed to the lack of food or water much sooner than him. Nay! She couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t believe that a God he’d served faithfully for three years would rob him one of the thing he’d ever wanted for himself.
And he refused to think on it further; she was alive, she was weak and failing, but she was alive. And he would rescue her, and she would agree to be his wife, and they would live together in the cottage her father had built, and they would build their lives together. It was a beautiful future, one of love and light and blessings…but it was empty without Bell Heather.
The incessant murmuring of the guard’s voices down the corridor grew louder, and they were soon standing outside his cell door. The same clanging of the sword, then the same voice shrilled into the cell, “Time for yer sentencin’,” he said, and Tristin lost his breath.
Sentencing? Calleaux, that bastard, thought he could sentence Tristin for following orders? It was laughable, ridiculous…but it was also the chance he needed.
Get his sword, find Bell Heather. Yes, rescuing her and running for their lives meant they might not live his dream, but at least they would live. Perhaps they would flee to France, take on new names…as long as her name was “wife”.
Tristin pushed away from the wall and stood in the middle of the cell, his hands on his sides, his fingers flexing. The door squealed on its hinges, and he readied to strike out—
“Yer pretty little witch is waitin’ for ye,” the man said, snickering, and Tristin halted mid-thought. If Bell Heather was already out there with Calleaux…
“Aye, but she ain’t so pretty no more,” the other guard mocked, then laughed.
The anger that had been prickling through him over the last several days became a double-edged sword. “What have you done to Bell Heather?” he demanded, his voice raspy. The sword point at his throat was the only thing that kept him from advancing on the man and shaking the answer from him.
“I think ye need to remember yer new place, Commander Tristin…” The blackguard raised his sword to club Tristin with it again, but before he could complete the downswing and new voice was heard.
“Oy! Ye leave him be. The cardinal cannot sentence them if they are both unconscious.”
Bell Heather was unconscious? God, what horrors had she known? Swallowing back the rage and the blind hatred and desperation, he allowed the guards to escort him upward. Once in the main corridor, Tristin was surprised when, instead of leading him to the courtyard door, they lead him through the garden door, toward the inner courtyard. And there, instead of a garden resplendent with rows of flowers and herbs, he found a hastily built gallows, soaring over the heads of milling groups of peasants. They murmured, and stared, and gawked, and sneered…they were there to see a hanging.
Before his mind could settle on what that meant, the men led him passed the crowds to the path leading toward the fortress chapel.
The cardinal, dressed in a cassock usually reserved for church ceremony, stood at the chapel door, his arms outstretched, like a disgusting effigy of Christ’s crucifixion.
“Tristin, my boy, it is time to face your judgement,” the man said, his dark eyes glittering with something inhuman.
“My judgement for what, pray tell?” Tristin said, as loud as he could manage with this tight, dry throat. The guard at his back pressed his sword point to the muscle between Tristin’s shoulder blades. “You can call off your dogs, Calleaux, I am not going anywhere.” He refused to leave without Bell Heather.
Calleaux grinned, his smile one of menace. “Of course, you won’t, my boy. God will find you, no matter where you run. Now, come…your witch is waiting for you.” Calleaux backed through the chapel door and disappeared inside, and Tristin nearly tripped, taking the steps to the chapel two at a time.
He rushed into the interior and stopped. Bell Heather was lying face down, her arms and legs bound. She wasn’t moving.
Roaring, Tristin leapt over the pew between them and knelt beside her, taking her head into his hands. She was beyond pale, nearly ghost white. Her hair was matted. There were smudges of slime and refuse on her face and arms. And she smelled of dungeon. She looked near to death, and if he didn’t help her soon, she would die—by hanging or by starvation.
“What did you do to her?” Tristin demanded, looking up to pin Calleaux with his wrathful glare. “She was an innocent! She did not deserve any of this.”
Calleaux clicked his tongue, as if admonishing a pet, and turned to stand on the dais in the middle of the chapel. “No one is innocent in this…” the man said so softly that Tristin barely heard. “Let us begin!” He called, signaling his men to take Tristin in hand. He fought as best he could, but days without food or water had taken their toll. He stared at Bell Heather, willing her to move, to show signs that she was still fighting her own battle. And no matter how much he struggled, the four guards holding him won out.
“Bell Heather Caire,” Calleaux intoned, “you have been found guilty of witchcraft, heresy, infidelity, and conspiring against the Holy Church. For your deeds, you are sentenced to death by hanging.”
Infidelity? Conspiracy? “Now, hold on Calleaux. She is unable to defend herself against the accusations, and they are false besides. She never committed infidelity. Willem Mason never had the chance to touch her, and even if he did, it would have been forced. Besides that, she never conspired with him against the Church—”
“No,” Calleaux interrupted, his grin still in place. “She conspired with you.”
Stunned, Tristin’s heart fell into his feet. “I have never conspired against the Church! These are lies!”
Calleaux shrugged. “And who will believe you? The people outside?” He chuckled. “They are so eager to see someone hang that they do not care if the prisoners are actually guilty of any crime.”
Sickening realization snaked through his belly; Calleaux was right. Tristin had seen the ravenous looks on the people’s faces; they’d been hungry for violence. And he and Bell Heather were their meal.
Continuing as if he were conducting a true trial, Calleaux exclaimed, “And you, Tristin LaDeux, for the acts of heresy, aiding a witch, and conspiring against the Holy Church, you are sentenced to death. By hanging.”
The guards holding him laughed, and Tristin ignored them. He didn’t care what Calleaux would do to him, as long as he could save Bell Heather from the same fate.
“Calleaux, please. Hang me, I care not. But you cannot harm her. She will not speak of what transpired. She will return to her village and live the rest of her life serving her people. That is all she ever wanted. She is a kind, thoughtful, giving woman, who dedicated her life to providing people with the medicaments they needed to heal. She is a treasure, a gift of God to those who know her. To kill her would be to rob the world of the blessing God meant to bestow…” Tears threatened, burning his throat, and he choked on them.
Long, silent moments whispered by, as Tristin watched Calleaux’s face. He had to see reason. He had to let Bell Heather go.
“Despite your rather…poetic words, Tristin, I must make an example of her. No one
will dare defy me again.”
“Defy you? She came willingly!” Tristin snapped.
“And all the while she seduced you, getting you to turn your back on me,” Calleaux said, spittle escaping his mouth with his words. The man was mad. Utterly deranged. Tristin realized then that, no matter what he said, Calleaux wouldn’t be swayed.
Tristin turned to look at Bell Heather, motionless and still beautiful despite the shadows under her eyes and the shite on her clothes. This was all his fault… Bell Heather…I am so sorry.
“Have you any last words before you are marched to your death?” Calleaux asked, triumph in his voice.
Numb and yet anguished, Tristin closed his eyes, trying to picture Bell Heather as she had been when he first met her; the most beautiful waterfall enchantress, standing beneath the light of an adoring moon.
“Aye, I do…”
“Do not tell me I have missed the wedding!” A familiar voice rang out, and Tristin’s heart skidded to a halt before galloping again. Tristin turned toward the door to find his father standing there.
“Father!” Tristin shouted, relief pouring through him to weaken his knees. “You came,” he murmured, his strength depleted.
His father, Lord Harrington LaDeux, Earl of Kentwithe, strode forward, his gaze landing on Calleaux, then Tristin surrounded by guards, and then on Bell Heather.
“This is the most god-awful wedding I have ever seen! It tis a good thing I arrived when I did.” He waved his hand and a single row of men marched into the building. They were his father’s personal guard, men who had fought beside Tristin for years before he’d accepted the commission from Calleaux. They were men he was more than happy to see again.
Chapter Thirty
“Lord Kentwithe,” Cristian intoned. “What an unexpected pleasure…” he drawled, biting back the scream of frustration that tore at his chest.
“Why would I not be expected. It tis my son’s wedding, after all?” the pompous arse bellowed, no doubt so the people outside could hear.
“You are mistaken, Lord Kentwithe,” Cristian began, and Harrington arched a silver eyebrow. “This is not a wedding, but a sentencing—”
He scoffed. “A sentencing for what? You cannot stand there and tell me my son has committed a crime bad enough that The Church is sanctioning his death.”
Cristian straightened his back—he was the one in control here! “Heresy, conspiracy—”
“Horse shit!” Harrington spat, striding down the middle aisle, stopping just short of where Calleaux’s guards were holding Tristin. “My son has only ever acted honorably, and you know it. This is a disgrace, a mockery of Church law. If anyone should be trying and sentencing him, it should be the magistrate.” Harrington turned to look about the chapel. “And where is Sir Willem?”
That name! How dare that man speak that name in his presence? “Your son murdered him.”
“I did not,” Tristin growled. “Willem Mason abducted Bell Heather, held her prisoner in his castle, and when we went to rescue her, he attacked us. He died as a result.”
Cristian sneered. “So, you do not deny it.”
“I did not kill Willem Mason,” Tristin said, his voice clear and resolute.
“There you have it, Calleaux.” Harrington snapped his fingers and two of his men stepped forward, slowing pulling their swords from their scabbards. “Now that we know the truth, why do we not reschedule this wedding. The bride should be awake to speak her vows.”
Rage erupted, spilling from his mouth. “This is not a wedding, you bastard! And I will have you hung right beside your son if you do not leave at once. I will not have the edicts of the Church questioned by the likes of you.”
“The Church has no bearing on these proceedings, you know that as well as I do. But…the King might have something to say about it,” Harrington said, lifting one shoulder in a nonchalant fashion.
“King Henry? What would he care about this?” he asked, an ill tiding wound its coils through his chest.
“When my son wrote to me about his having chosen a bride, I knew it was something to celebrate. So, I sent word to the king, to invite him to the wedding. Luckily, the king was in residence at his spring hunting cottage—the one only I know about, so his reply came quickly.” Harrington’s words began to sink their fangs in Cristian’s plans. “He was delighted to accept.”
Tristin’s eyes widened at his father’s announcement, and Cristian’s heart thudded angrily.
No…if the king believes he is attending Tristin’s wedding…
“I can see by the look on your face that you have realized the truth… If you murder my son, the king will be displeased, and who do you think will bear the brunt of that displeasure?” the man drawled, and Cristian’s stomach rioted.
No! He cannot mean to ruin my plan! Not again! But what could be done? He could risk Tristin speaking out about the cardinal’s connection to Willem, or, he could silence Tristin forever, and have the king’s wrath dangling over his head. His position within the church was already precarious, one word from the king and Cristian knew Archbishop Arundel would ask the Holy Father to defrock him with vehemence.
He had no choice.
“Inform the king I would be happy to welcome him for the wedding of your son to…” Who had the bastard said he would marry?
“Bell Heather Caire,” Tristin announced, tearing his arms from the men holding him and hurrying to where the woman was lying. “And we will be getting married in Clarendon.”
As Cristian watched, his life crumbling to pieces before his very eyes, Tristin carried his woman from the chapel, followed by Lord Kentwithe and his heavily armed knights.
Growling, Cristian turned, grabbing the golden chalice holding the wine for the Eucharist, and throwing it through the stained-glass window bearing the damnable sigil of the Homme du Sang.
***
It had been two days since their escape from Cieldon. Two days of watching over Bell Heather, of wondering when she would finally wake up. The healer in Keswick had said that Bell Heather was near to death and in desperate need of water and sustenance. So, he had been ministering to her; holding her head as he poured water and beef broth down her throat. Each moment of each day, he prayed that God would bring her back to him, that he wouldn’t lose her now that they were free to be together. Since he’d been accused of conspiracy, he’d been stripped of his command. It hadn’t been how he wanted to leave the order, but at least now, he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d broken his vows. His secret would remain between him and Bell Heather.
Having been forced to take a break from watching over her—Glenn, that bastard, telling him he’d slit his throat in his sleep—Tristin was standing outside the inn, staring up into the gloaming sky.
“She will waken,” his father said, coming up beside him. Lord Kentwithe had deigned to stay in the inn with him, saying he was a buffer between Calleaux and Tristin. Neither of them trusted the cardinal to not retaliate, and so Tristin let his father stand as a bulwark before him. And, Tristin had to admit, it felt good to have his father’s regard.
“Why did you come?” Tristin blurted, finally finding the wherewithal to ask what he’d been wanting to ask for days. He had spent three years, doing all he could to remain the stalwart hand of God, to bring honor to the LaDeux name. Had his father even noticed? Did he even care? Did Tristin even care?
His father shrugged, his now narrow shoulders looking far less capable than they used to. “You sent for me, what else what I do but come?”
Tristin signed, running his fingers through his hair. His own shoulders felt heavy, as though he’d been carrying a great weight a long distance. “You did not have to come. I know I am not the son you wanted me to be.”
His father let out a bark of laughter. “No son is ever what his father wants. Perfection is impossible. But…as your father, I am proud of what you have accomplished. I knew that all you needed to reach your highest potential was a little push. That’s why I agreed to s
end you to Calleaux. I knew that the Homme du Sang would be the kick in the arse you needed to stop hiding behind your duty at Bridgerdon.”
Taken aback, Tristin sputtered, “You are the one who trained me, made me think my place was commanding the castle guard.”
His father nodded slowly, his brows furrowed. “At first, that is what I thought I wanted. I wanted you close to home, to be there for your brother when I died. But… Then, I realized how selfish that was. From the moment you picked up a sword, I knew God had bigger plans for you, I just was not ready to let you go.”
Breathless, Tristin forced out his next words. “And so…you sent me to Calleaux to…what? Make me into a weapon for honorless men?” Tristin knew he was being unfair, but his anger had nowhere else to go.
His father held up thin, long-fingered hands. Brown spots dotted the tops. “When I sent you to Calleaux, I had no way of knowing what kind of man he would become, just as I had no way of knowing what kind of man you would become. I could only pray that God would watch over you, and that, one day, you would find your purpose.”
As his father’s words sank into him, a warmth filled him, spilling into the recesses that had ached for so long, recesses that were already to overflowing with Bell Heather. Unable to speak, Tristin leaned back against the wall, listening to the sounds of raucous laughter from inside the inn. His men had waited for him in the courtyard at Cieldon, each day demanding his release. It wasn’t until his father had arrived that the men retreated to Balliwich’s, where they could regroup and prepare for whatever Calleaux had planned for them.
And, with news of Gaubin More’s murder—someone having found his body in the river—the cardinal was calling for a special council to see what would be done with the order. Hopefully, Calleaux wouldn’t take his wrath out on the rest of the Homme du Sang. Hopefully, he would allow Elric to take his rightful place as the new captain.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 34