Yes, she’d felt the intent and threat on the wind through the trees, just as Maude had, but what she hadn’t dared to tell the woman was that the threat was near, riding in with the storm. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. And it pulled the warmth right from her body.
Chapter THREE
Plucking the last weed from her row of pea plants, Bell Heather threw the leafy blight into the basket at her feet. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and heaved a sigh. Her body ached—the good kind of ache, the kind of ache that said she’d worked hard. Hard work was the only thing that brought about the life she wanted. Not unlike the other villagers, she reveled in the work of her hands, the goodness it brought, the simple joys of wholeness and healing that something as little as a sprig of thyme could bring. She planted, she grew, she dried, and she provided those in need of healing droughts the hope of good health. She wasn’t a miracle worker, she didn’t ascribe to the old ways of druid magic, she believed that everything created by whichever god, was meant for the good of all. And so, she used what she knew of plants to bring about wellness.
Looking over her garden, she smiled. Eight five-foot-long rows were framed by three-foot-tall fences her mother erected to keep the deer, sheep, and critters from nibbling on the vegetables. The lush and flourishing garden was to the left of her cottage, a small one room home, with an earthen floor, thatched roof, and clay and straw walls. It had been her home for as long as she could remember. It was the home her father built for her mother, the year after they wed.
He was dead, too. Not more than five years after Bell Heather was born. She couldn’t remember him, though she tried. She could think on what he would be like only because her mother had shared stories of the man. He’d been large, broad of shoulder, with a big smile and timber shaking laugh. He had hair as red as flame, and eyes the color of creek stones—at least, that’s what her mother had said. Bell Heather would often watch her mother as she worked, and there were some days when her mother’s gaze would drift from her task, seeming to fly a far off. In those moments, Bell Heather would wonder if her father were calling to her mother, filling her mind and heart with memories. They were foolish wonderings; the ridiculous ideas of a naïve child. But still…she wondered if that’s what love was; the linking of souls across life and death.
It was something she longed for herself. A woman of practical leanings and logic, Bell Heather hated to admit there was a part of her that wanted to know the love her mother felt for her father, and she wanted to experience the love of a man, committed to her alone. A man who adored her, holding her above all else. She could only assume her father had been such a man for her mother. But from the way her mother’s face would glow in those silent, lonely moments, Bell Heather knew her mother had been well and truly loved. And had suffered a terrible loss.
To never know the pain of such a loss…would I still wish for a love as deep as that?
Her answer came quick—aye! She would. If only there were more to her village than feeble-minded farmers and drunken blacksmiths.
Or handsome lords with evil sneers… Shaking herself, Bell Heather forced her mind away from thoughts of Willem Mason. He didn’t deserve a moment of her time—in life or in thought.
The wind began to pick up, throwing chilly drizzle against her face. Shielding her head, she turned toward the gate set into the end of the garden and made her way to it, but not before slipping on a patch of new mud and falling into the manure bucket. The bucket she meant to move the day before, but was distracted by Waldo, who came to ask for dried juniper.
“By Dagda’s belt!” she bellowed, immediately hit with the stench of pig shite. The thick muck clung to her hands and arms, like a dark, malodorous paste.
Suddenly thankful for the coming downpour, Bell Heather struggled to her feet, her tunic and under tunic sticking to her legs. She stared down at herself and grunted. “This will take hours to clean,” she muttered. Her brown woolen tunic and thin grey under tunic were both patched and re-hemmed many times, and she didn’t know if they would survive the cleaning they’d need to be worn again. She only had two more tunics, just as patched and worn, and one more under tunic. She’d been putting off making more clothing, but with the winter coming, she needed to buy thicker weave linen to make clothing hefty enough to keep the cold out of her blood.
Throwing her head back and groaning, she sighed as the rain began to pour down, as if the sky were torn in two. She stood there, arms spread, face to the heavens, and let the cleansing rain wash over her. It didn’t take long to clean the shite from her arms, but her clothes were a different matter.
She made her way to the cottage and stepped inside, thankful for the fire she’d thought to feed before leaving for the cellar that morning. Maude would come by soon for supper, as she usually did, and so Bell Heather quickly removed her filthy clothes, re-dressed in a clean tunic—in brown, tying the shapeless thing to her waist with a simple girdle, and began preparing the stew. Lamb, herbs, carrots from her garden, and potatoes she’d received in trade for dried fish.
With the stew finally bubbling away at the hearth, Bell Heather took a long look at the clothes she’d removed. “There has to be a way to save these. I do not have the money nor the goods to trade for new materials.” All of the salve, ointments, and other medicaments she had in her cottage and the root cellar were needed for the coming winter, not more than a few months away. She’d already used up most of the herbs she’d picked and dried over the spring and early summer, and now she had little else to use to make into all the things the villagers needed.
Lord, how she wished she could do more. But she was just one woman.
A lonely woman.
An ache in her chest slowly spread outward, encompassing her throat, arms, and belly. For a long time, it had been just her and her mother. At first, they’d been happy, despite the hard work, the demands of their profession, and the threat of bandits roaming the area. But three years ago, the bandits became bolder, striking in the heart of the village, stealing horses, and goods from honest, desperate families. She and her mother did what they could to help the families, but there was only so much two women could do.
But now, it was just one. One lonely apothecary, tending her garden, foraging for herbs, and destined to die a spinster. It wasn’t that men of the village hadn’t pursued her, they most certainly did—even men who weren’t villagers came to ask for her hand. She couldn’t understand it; she had nothing to offer them save her virginity. She knew her mother was a beautiful woman, and since Bell Heather Caire looked like Heather Caire, she understood how men would be drawn to her. But something was missing. Not all the men were handsome, but the ones that were only left a chill in her bones and a sickness in her belly.
Especially Lord Willem Mason, the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and also the most disgusting. Beneath his sharp features and strong chin was the face of a demon, its glimmering black eyes burning into her, hungry for her body and her soul. She couldn’t stand to be in the same room as the man, but the moment she’d met him at her mother’s wake, he continued to come visiting. He plied her with gifts of livestock and seeds, and even offered to pleasure her with his mouth. The very thought of that man’s mouth anywhere on her had made her retch. He hadn’t liked that. And yet he persisted.
Finally, two weeks ago, Lord Mason arrived at her cottage astride a large black horse—looking as though he’d only just emerged from the pits of hell. His black hair curled around his head, brushing against his shoulders, his sumptuous black furs were secured around his neck with a ruby clasp. His black tunic and crimson supertunic only added to his image of demonic lord, and his black boots shown as if he’d never set foot on the ground.
It wasn’t his appearance at her home that startled her, it was the look of absolute greedy possession on his face. His sneer, his narrowed eyes, his presence…every inch of him reeked of evil. In that moment, she knew that if she didn’t do something quickly, she
was as good as his—no matter how hard she fought. He’d easily overpower her, and who in the village would go against him?
So, she’d done the only thing she could think of, she blurted, “Lord Mason, my husband will be home shortly. I suggest ye move on, ye are no longer welcome here.”
It was a risk, lying to him, but she’d been desperate. A flash of pure rage colored his features, and the very air around him seemed to vibrate. He’d left then, but not before growling, “Do not think you are safe from me just because you have invented a protector. I will have you.”
His words robbed her of breath, and she swore the earth beneath his feet roiled in its disgust of him as he galloped away. And now, Bell Heather wondered if the sense of danger she and Maude had encountered had something to do with Lord Mason and his threat.
Cursing, she threw the soiled clothes into a heap by the fire and rubbed at her temples. The sudden need to scour her own flesh made her groan. She felt dirty, filthy—a filth worse than pig shite. If thoughts of Lord Mason could make her feel thus, she couldn’t image what actually having his hands on her would do.
She shuddered. A knock at the door made alarm scream through her body. Had thoughts of the Devil brought him to her threshold? She couldn’t see a damned thing through the casement just beside the door—the world outside her cottage was black from the storm overhead. The light from her tallow candles and the fire of her hearth didn’t reach into the blackness, halting at the window as if held back by the darkness’s will.
The door opened and Maude stepped in, her cloak over her head and a basket of tarts in her hands. Relief flooded her and she took a deep breath, forcing blood back into her limbs.
Bell Heather rushed to help the woman remove her sodden cloak, then she returned her attention to the stew, removing it from the embers to simmer on the hearthstones.
“Smells good, and stew will do good to warm these bones,” Maude said, her cheeks and nose red from the cold rain. Meeting Bell Heather’s gaze, Maude stopped short, her basket held midair over the table. “What is the matter, girl? Ye look like a ghost has ye by the nethers.”
Sighing, Bell Heather slumped onto the bench beside the table. “Not a ghost, Maude. I just feel…unwashed.”
Maude sniffed the air, her nose crinkling. “And ye smell it, too. What’dya do? Fall into pig shite?”
Bell Heather couldn’t help the laugh that burst from her chest. “I did, and now I need a proper bath.”
Maude pulled her lip back to reveal crooked teeth and two gaps where teeth were missing. “I say ye do—but first, the stew.”
Laughing again, Bell Heather served the stew, and they ate heartily. As they filled their bellies, they talked, speaking of the village, the storms, and Maude’s creaking knees. They seemed to talk of everything—except what they’d felt in the woods. And Bell Heather didn’t mind. She’d rather forget.
“Tis going to be a terrible, cold winter,” Maude said, her eyes staring over Bell Heather’s shoulder, out into the dark beyond the cottage. Bell Heather did not have time to ask the woman how she knew such things before Maude continued, her voice haunted. “But that means nothing to ye, girl. Whatever is coming for ye…it will not wait for the first snows to fall.” A shudder raced up Bell Heather’s spine, but she laughed, trying to shake it off.
“Have yer gods given ye a sight, Maude, that ye can see things that have not happened…that will not happen?” The smile on her face cracked beneath the woman’s sudden glare. Bell Heather leaned back on the bench, taking a slow, deep breath.
“It does not take a gift of sight to know the winds are ill and laden with troubles,” Maude said, her tone matter-of-fact. And Bell Heather could not think of anything to say to turn the conversation from such dark tidings.
The rain had ceased and the full moon appeared as the storm clouds rolled on. After another half hour of pained silence, Maude departed, leaving the fresh yet damp tarts for Bell Heather; a gift the woman claimed to have made herself.
Standing at the cottage door, Bell Heather lifted her face and peered at the silvery visage of the moon. It cast more than enough light to make out the sheep on the hillsides opposite her home, and it certainly provided enough light for Maude to find her way to her own cottage just up the lane.
Now alone, Bell Heather couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness slithering over her. She needed a bath, she needed to feel clean and fresh and whole again.
Only one place could do that for her.
In a flash, she found the one thing she needed, a bar of soap—she’d made it herself from heather, lye, and fat—and dashed from the cottage. She glanced up; a new storm was coming, this one larger and fiercer than the last, but she had just enough time, just enough moonlight to get to the waterfall. Though the air was chilled from the storm, she couldn’t make herself care. Maybe the cold would wrench the ill-tidings from her body.
Alive. I want to feel alive.
A thrill pulsed through her, and she ran, the night around her welcoming her into its embrace.
Chapter FOUR
Sir Tristin LaDeux dismounted, his iron clad feet thudding against the ground with a clank. He pulled the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and shook the rain from it, though, it was soaked through. It would need hours in front of the fire to be of any use again. Sighing, he gripped the reins in his hands, holding his wary horse still. Tristin ran a free hand over his horse’s nose, rubbing to lend his own strength.
The woods where they would make camp were dense, dark, and a heavy scent of a coming storm filled the air.
“Good friend, Chevalier,” he murmured calmly to his loyal destrier. Moving to the other side to remove his pack, he stepped into a puddle. The thick mud reached to his ankles, sucking on him hungrily. Grunting, he stepped back and looked down. “Damn.”
Similar oaths rose from the ten other men who’re also dismounting into the muck. His men, the honorable, gallant, and fierce Homme du Sang, the Men of Blood, were also clad in armor, which only made them sink faster. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to make camp in less than ideal conditions, but that didn’t mean they liked it—they were human, after all, despite their reputation of being fearsome, heavenly warriors. They were just men. Flesh and blood men.
Men called to do as God commands—as Cardinal Calleaux commands.
One such command was why he and his men had ridden for three days to get to this muck-hole of a village. He hated the travelling; long hours in the saddle, wrapped in iron and mail. He hated the torrential rains, the blistering heat, the beating wind. But he’d do it gladly—ride wherever the Lord sent him, because that was his duty.
His men were as travel weary as he was, but they laughed and talked amongst each other good naturedly as they unpacked and set up camp. He didn’t know how long they’d be here, hidden within the trees of a thick and ancient wood. He only knew he had his orders, and he would follow them, no matter what he had to do to fulfill them.
By the blood of The Cross, by the hand of God’s chosen, we will defend the Holy Church. It was a pledge he knew well; it was one he fought for, bled for, killed for.
In less than an hour, the men had the fires built, wine flowing, and grouse roasting over the flames—setting up camp was quick when there were ten men eager for rest, comfort, and libations.
He’d have two of those things, once he finished walking the perimeter of the camp, securing the area. He didn’t think they were in any danger, at least not from the threat of common villagers—common folk with soil under their fingers and blisters on their hands from tilling. The duty of the captain of the Homme du Sang was to carry out orders, protect his men, and make sure not a single soul was lost.
“Elric, you have the first watch,” Tristin commanded, his gaze watching as his second in command peeked up at him from his seat by the fire, a leather bottle of wine perched at his lips. He’d been just about to take his first sip, a luxury most of his men enjoyed once they made camp. He couldn’t see the purpos
e. No amount of wine could ever numb him. He’d have to find fresh water for him and his horse.
Swearing, Elric stoppered his leather bottle, tucked it under his breastplate, and stood, pinning his captain with a glower. “As you command, Sir Tristin,” he snapped, snatching his sword belt from the ground where he’d put it.
Tristin raised a single brow, setting his face in a disapproving expression, but that only made Elric smirk. The lout.
“Do not worry, Captain, I would never leave my sword behind,” he drawled, a glimmering of wicked mirth in his eyes.
“I did not think you would, Elric. But I expect you to be ready for anything,” he replied, turning his head to peer into the darkness of the woods around them.
“Ready for what?” Gaubin mocked, wiping goose grease from his pallid face. “There’s only the one village. Not a soul there can put up much of a fight.” He sneered at Tristin, something Tristin had seen more of as of late. Gaubin More, son of one of his father’s men, was large, bearded, with dark hair and eyes, and believed his station as his father’s eldest son and heir made him indispensable. He assumed that since Tristin was his captain, and Tristin respected his father, Albert More, that Gaubin could do or say whatever he wanted without recourse.
He was wrong. And he’d learn that soon enough.
“Anyone who can hold a spade can best you, Gaubin,” Elric snickered, and the other nine men around the fire broke into loud guffaws.
While he didn’t laugh much himself, he allowed his men a moment of levity. They needed it.
“Glenn,” he called and waited. His patience was rewarded when a shadow peeled itself from the trunk of a tree and walked toward him around the flickering light of the fire.
The shadow bowed—with a little more flare than necessary—and then leaned against the boulder beside where they were standing. “Captain,” Glenn said simply, meeting Tristin’s gaze with a bored expression.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 4
