Poseidon’s Legion

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The first thing Samarra noticed was that Tyringham failed to tell her just how big his son was; the knight, wearing armor, was positively enormous. She caught sight of the hilt of, more than likely, an equally massive broadsword but it was sheathed on the left side of the horse so she couldn’t see the entire weapon. She did, however, see various weapons strapped to the saddle and it was clear the man was prepared for battle.

  Although Tyringham had warned her that his son was a seasoned knight, Samarra didn’t realize how seasoned until he rode by. His level of preparedness concerned her. Although her men were rough and seasoned at fighting, going up against a highly-trained knight with a very large sword might be a bit of a challenge, even for them. Samarra was coming to understand why Tyringham had not been hesitate to double her payment when she had demanded it. Clearly, he was well aware of his son’s battle capabilities.

  It was a moment of realization that could have made her less than eager to complete the job, but she wouldn’t go back on her word nor would she show fear. No knight, no matter how fearsome, would intimidate her. As the knight passed by, she glanced over at Howler, nodded confidently, and the man let out a piercing whistle that sounded more like bird chirps.

  The anticipation of an ambush was afoot.

  But that anticipation came to a screeching halt when the knight, as he hit the edge of the town, suddenly veered towards a tavern that was wedged between a livery and what looked like some kind of brewery. The smell of fermenting grain was strong in the air. When Samarra saw what the knight had done, she leaned forward in her tree, trying to gain a better look.

  “He’s gone into the tavern!” Another man named Whitty was in a tree several feet away. He was hissing in a panic. “He’s stopping!”

  Samarra could see that clearly. A little confused, as it seemed rather early for a fleeing man to stop and seek shelter at this hour, she climbed down out of the tree. Her men followed. Howler, Whitty, and a third man they called Crocked came running towards her, clustering around her and seeking her direction for a deviation from their plans.

  “I wonder why he stopped at the tavern so early?” Samarra asked a question no one could answer. “Was the horse lame? Did anyone notice?”

  The men shook their heads. “Mayhap he’s simply worn for the night,” Whitty said.

  Samarra pondered that a moment before shaking her head. “It is not as if he has been traveling for days and days,” she said. “Tyringham is not far from here. I doubt it is fatigue. But if not that, then… what? Did he hear Howler’s whistle and become spooked?”

  That was, perhaps, the best reason so far, but no one could be certain. Her men were looking at each other as if someone would soon come up with an answer that made sense, but no one had anything much to say. Frustrated, Samarra shoved Whitty by the shoulder, turning him northward.

  “Go and tell the others that plans have changed,” she commanded. “Tell them to come into this cluster of trees and remain out of sight. You can see the tavern from here; watch the door. I’m going in.”

  Her men looked confused. Concerned, even. “What are ye going to do?” Howler asked.

  Samarra lifted her eyebrows in a resigned gesture. “I am going to find out why Tyringham’s son stopped off in the tavern,” she said. “Come and stand on either side of the door so that if he exits, he will not see you and you can come up behind him in stealth. If he comes out before I do, then you will capture the man any way you can.”

  “Any way?’ Howler asked.

  Samarra glanced at him. “Anything but kill him. We promised not to harm him. Knock him on the head if you have to in order to bring him down, but you are not to put a blade in him. Do you understand?”

  Her men nodded, but it was clear that her order was a confusing one. Samarra never gave orders not to harm someone; in fact, quite the opposite. Therefore, there was puzzlement as she came out of the trees and headed for the tavern. If anything, she would drag the man out by his hair and, in that case, they would have to be ready.

  As Samarra entered the tavern, her men rushed to do her bidding, following her to the tavern and then slinking back into the shadows to stay out of sight. At any moment, the victim, and their lady, would emerge and they had to be prepared.

  Woe betide the man who moved too slowly for the Lady of the Moon.

  Clad in her long, leather hose, boots, and layers of tunics that bespoke of the alluring figure beneath, Samarra entered the tavern with a bird’s nest carved over the door. The Nest, this place was called, and she had been here on more than one occasion. It was a small establishment, usually full of people, and it was well fortified come nightfall. The owner, a man with one eye and big, meaty fists would bolt the door near midnight and not open it again until morning. That meant that anyone inside was trapped until he decided to unbolt it, and Samarra didn’t want to be trapped in the tavern overnight. Therefore, she had to act fast in order to purge both her and her victim from the tavern before that iron bolt was lowered.

  She could honestly think of only one way to do it.

  Entering the common room, Samarra was smacked in the nose by the smell – unwashed bodies, smoke, and roasting meat, a rather unsavory combination. The tavern was fairly full at this hour, with people finding shelter for the night, and she quickly spied her knight over in the shadows off to her left.

  She glanced at him but didn’t stare. That would be too obvious. But one glance was all she needed to get a general picture; he was at a table, removing some of the more cumbersome articles on his body and setting them on the table next to his saddlebags. It was clear that he was settling in for the night. Samarra caught sight of his broadsword, a piece of equipment that had to be almost five feet in length. She had been right; it was enormous.

  And she didn’t want to provoke a potential clash with it, so she began to wander about the room, looking at the patrons at each table, and generally appearing as if she was either looking for someone or simply deciding whether or not to stay. The tavern keeper was standing back in a doorway that led to the kitchens beyond, watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge the man. She didn’t want to engage in any kind of conversation that might have him drawing attention to her. She simply kept walking along, peering at the patrons, grinning when one man looked at her too long and the woman seated with him slapped him on the side of the head.

  A mercenary though she may be, Samarra was nonetheless a beautiful woman in a world where such beauty was rare. Passing by the hearth, she was drawing close to the knight’s table and trying to be casual about it. She didn’t want him to think she had her eye on him. Passing by another table, one of the men reached out to grab her and she balled a fist, punching the man in the head so hard that he fell over and broke his chair. As his comrades laughed uproariously, Samarra finally made her way to her prey’s table.

  “You do not look as if you belong here,” she said to him.

  The knight was still in the shadows, mostly, but Samarra could see now that his helm had been removed that he had shoulder-length blonde hair and a square-jawed appearance. He didn’t even look at her as he fumbled with the belt at his waist.

  “If I speak to you, are you going to belt me in the face like you did that man?” he asked.

  Samarra glanced over her shoulder at the fool who was just starting to pick himself up off the ground. “Nay,” she said, returning her attention to the knight. “He is the same as the rest of the filthy rabble here, but you are different. This is no place for you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it is like finding an emerald in the midst of horse shite.”

  He looked at her, then. After a moment, he sat forward, his features coming into the light as he gazed at her. “The same could be said for you.”

  Now that Samarra could see his features, she could see that the man was quite handsome. She cocked an eyebrow at his comment. “Consider me a jewel hunter, then,” she said with a hint of humor. “Why on earth would you stay in a
place like this?”

  The knight’s lips flickered with a grin as he studied her. “Why not? It is a roof over my head. ’Tis better than traveling through the Red Forest at night.”

  Samarra shrugged, trying to keep the conversation very casual. “The Red Forest is not so bad,” she said, leaning on the second chair at his table in a subliminal suggestion for him to ask her to sit. “You simply have to know how to navigate it.”

  “And you do?”

  “I have been known to.”

  The knight’s smile grew. “Is that so?” he said. “Then sit down and tell me how you do such a thing. As long as you do not slug me, I will allow you to keep me company on this dreary night.”

  It was the invitation Samarra had been hoping for. Pulling out the chair, she swung one of her long legs over the seat, sitting in a rather manly fashion, but all the while she had a rather seductive look on her face. She had an idea how to remove the knight from this place so she had to start early with her act.

  The act of a woman seeking companionship for the night. If she could only get him out of the door, her men could do the rest. It was, therefore, imperative she convince the knight to leave with her.

  “But why keep company in here?” she asked, trying to be alluring. But it was difficult for her. She hadn’t much practice where her feminine wiles were concerned. “I do not live far from here. My food and my bed are much better than this place.”

  The knight’s blue eyes glimmered. “You are a bold wench,” he said, chuckling. “Already you are offering me your bed.”

  She shrugged. “I have learned to come to the point of the matter in all things,” she said. “A lone knight, an uninviting tavern, and I have a more tempting offer.”

  The knight nodded. “Indeed, you do,” he said, looking her over in a manner that suggested he liked what he saw. “But I have a meal coming. Will you join me? We can further discuss your offer as we eat.”

  Samarra didn’t see much harm in that, as long as it didn’t take too much time. She didn’t want the knight to receive the impression she was rushing him out of the tavern. He might become suspicious.

  “I would be most happy to discuss it,” she said. Her gaze drifted over him, too, in a manner that she, too, liked what she saw, but in this case, she wasn’t acting. She really did like the look of him. “You are not from around here. Where did you come from?”

  The knight finished tucking a couple of smaller daggers away in his saddlebags before removing them from the table. “Everywhere,” he said. “I come from everywhere but I come from nowhere.”

  Samarra cocked her head. “I do not understand.”

  He threw a thumb in a general southerly direction. “I was born to the south,” he said. “but I have not lived in Cornwall in over ten years.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He shrugged. “As I said, I come from everywhere,” he said. “Sometimes I am in London, sometimes I am in Bristol or Bath. Sometimes I am even in France.”

  Samarra considered that. “Then you have no liege?”

  He nodded. “I do, indeed. The Earl of Bristol, Bastian de Russe. But he is an active man in today’s politics, so where he goes, I go. And we go everywhere.”

  She understood, somewhat, as she considered her next move. It was time to move the conversation to a more personal level. “I am called Missy,” she said. “May I know your name, wandering knight?”

  He ignored her question for the moment as he sat back in his chair, smiling faintly at her. “Missy?” he repeated. “Is that your real name?”

  “It will suffice for now.”

  His grin spread. “Fair enough,” he said. “You may call me Rhodes.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  He laughed softly. “It is, in fact,” he said. “Tell me, Missy, have you lived in this area your entire life?”

  She shook her head. “Not entirely.”

  “Then what makes you live in the Red Forest? It is a terrible place, you know.”

  She nodded. “I know. But a woman like me… it is not fitting for me to live near respectable people. Living here, I am with my own kind.”

  She was being truthful in that aspect. A woman mercenary didn’t fit in with normal society. But for this conversation, she was intimating that a woman of ill-repute didn’t fit in, either. But Rhodes shook his head.

  “I do not believe that,” he said. “A woman of your beauty? You could command the finest husband in the land. What of your family?”

  Samarra shook her head. “I have no family,” she said. “I have had to make my way the only way I can. But what of you? You look as if you come from a very fine family.”

  Rhodes thought back to the father he’d just run from and an advantageous marriage he wanted no part of. The lady’s simple question had his mood sinking. “I have no family,” he said, thinking that his father would surely disown him now and realizing it bothered him more than it should have. “I am returning to London.”

  “To a wife?”

  He snorted. “I have no wife.”

  “You say that as if you never want one.”

  He laughed, saved from answering that question as the tavern keeper brought the food he’d ordered – boiled beef, boiled carrots, and copious amounts of bread and butter. Rhodes made sure the lady had food, too, sending the tavern keeper to bring her a wooden trencher. When the man hurriedly brought the requested item, Rhodes spooned beef onto her trencher politely before he served himself. But all the while he was hoping to change the subject away from no wife and never wanting one. It was definitely a subject he wanted no part of.

  “Have you ever been to London, Missy?” he asked her, making conversation. “You look like a woman who belongs there.”

  Samarra didn’t realize she was hungry until he put food in front of her. Picking up the beef with her fingers, she began shoving it into her mouth.

  “I have never been,” she said, chewing with her mouth open.

  Rhodes watched her eat for a moment, thinking it rather amusing that this sultry, beautiful woman had absolutely no manners. “Have you never wanted to go?”

  She shook her head, shoving carrots into her mouth. “Nay.”

  He shrugged as he stabbed at a piece of meat with his knife. “A pity,” he said. “Should you ever want to go, I would be happy to show you around.”

  She stopped chewing, meat hanging out of her mouth, and stared at him. “Show me what?”

  He was trying not to laugh at her deplorable table manners. “Many things,” he said. “There is the White Tower and the Street of the Merchants. There are also theatres where people take part in entertainment.”

  Samarra was thoroughly confused. “What kind of entertainment?”

  He took a bite of beef. “I have seen classical tragedies performed,” he said. When that didn’t seem to clear up her confusion, he clarified. “Plays. Actors perform them for entertainment.”

  She understood, a little. In truth, it sounded rather fascinating. “I have never seen such a thing.”

  “Come to London and it would be my pleasure to show you.”

  She looked at him strangely. “Why would you do that?”

  A smile flickered on his lips. “Because it would be my pleasure to show you the finer things in life,” he said. “Who knows? You may even like London more than the Red Forest and the murdering urchins who populate it. For, surely, you do not belong here as much as I do not. A woman like you deserves better.”

  Samarra swallowed the bite in her mouth, all the while eyeing the man and wondering why he was so free with the offer of his time should she ever visit London. It sounded quite kind. Most men she knew, save her brother, had never been particularly kind to her.

  But Rhodes was.

  “I am not sure why you would say that when you do not even know me,” she said. “It would not do for you to be seen with a woman like me.”

  Rhodes leaned sideways so he could get a good look at what she was wearing. “With
you in a fine gown with jewels around your neck, you would look like a queen,” he said, “and I would be most envied. You think too little of yourself, Missy. You underestimate your worth.”

  The conversation was taking an odd turn as far as Samarra was concerned. She’d never had a man be so nice to her, at least a man she found attractive, and she was coming to find Rhodes de Leybourne extremely attractive. His handsome face notwithstanding, she liked the way he spoke to her, as if she wasn’t a fool or a fallen woman. He spoke to her as if she had some intelligence. She could hardly believe this was the same spoilt and stubborn son that Tyringham had paid her to abduct and take to St. Agnes.

  St. Agnes….

  This was the man who refused to marry and, in truth, she was coming to feel a bit sorry for him. He seemed like such a nice man and now she was going to be party to forcing him into something he did not want to do. But that was also when she realized that something was very, very wrong – in just the few short minutes she’d known the man, she was coming to feel some empathy for him, or perhaps even more than that – some attraction for him – and in her profession, that was the worst possible thing to happen. She knew better than to become attached to any aspect of a job she’d been paid for, including any sympathy towards her victims.

  But with the attraction she felt came confusion; she’d come into the tavern to coerce the man into leaving with her but now, he was coming to concern her. Terrify her, even. He was kind and handsome, and he made her feel something very odd down in the pit of her belly. A strange quivering sensation that she didn’t like in the least. It made her uncomfortable, as if she would do anything he told her to do. One look from those big blue eyes and she would fall to her knees in worship.

  She had to get away from him.

  Swallowing the bite in her mouth, she abruptly stood up. “I… I have no time for this,” she said, feeling uncertain and embarrassed. “I must go.”