The wretch.
His man knew of his past, of his decision to vow against woman and wine. The last thing he needed was the murmur of his loss of control—whether it was true or not. He pictured her, the moonlit woman, as she was standing on the river shore, naked, shivering, her arm covering the globes of her breasts. It had taken sheer will to keep him from pulling the woman’s arm away to see what loveliness lie beneath. He knew she’d be mouth-wateringly beautiful all over…and it nearly pushed him to the brink. The sight of the dark curls crowning her womanhood was just as potent as any wine he’d ever imbibed. He could easily get drunk just at the memory of her.
Careful…
Taking a slow breath, Tristin let it out. “She was bathing.”
Elric groaned, his eyelids growing heavy. “And was she…lush?”
A red haze flew over Tristin’s gaze and a sickening anger rushed up to claw at him. “What does it matter to you, Sir Elric Gadot?” Tristin snapped, immediately aware of just what he’d done; he’d allowed a sliver of jealousy to sour him toward his right hand. Pulling his hand away, Tristin slapped his thigh, grateful for the pain that shot up his arm at the contact with his cuisses.
“Her beauty matters not, what matters is that she was not casting spells. She was seeking a moment of privacy, and I interrupted her.” Much to my pleasure…and damnation.
Elric tipped his head in that damnable irreverent manner, his lips twitching. “And…did you…help her with her bath?”
If he could strangle the man, he would, but then he’d be one man short. It couldn’t be borne, not when he had a mind to toss Gaubin out on his ear, his curses trailing after him.
“No, I did not. She had it well in hand.” Though I did want to lend her my own hand…at least for a moment. His thoughts taking on their own mind, twisted his gut. Growling, he turned away from Elric, refusing to believe he was hiding his face from the man he trusted more than his own blood.
“I see,” Elric said from just behind him. “Well then, I do not suppose she will still be there…” Tristin knew what the man was doing, baiting the hook, hoping his captain will bite. He dare not let Elric have even that much fun at his expense.
“No. As I said before, she ran away. I warned her there were dangers in the woods, in the dark.”
Elric snickered. “Oh, aye, I can say there are,” he muttered, his gaze pointedly taking in Tristin’s now ill-fitting cod piece.
“Enough of this talk, it only serves to irritate me—and I do not need more irritation. I have enough with the mud and the cold,” Tristin said, allowing only a bit of his frustration slip into his tone. Above all, he was always in control.
Elric nodded. “Nights like this make me wish I were back in Carnburg, wrapped in furs, lying naked next to a heavy-bosomed wench, a cask of wine beside me…” At Tristin’s incredulous look, Elric chuckled. “I only speak of the comforts of home, my friend. Whilst you live your life as a monk, I choose to live the only life I have been given.”
“You call that living? The drunkenness, the diseased women, the utter lack of companionship?” While Tristin had enjoyed wine and women, once upon a time, he’d never been given over to the heights of lasciviousness Elric was so proud of. “If I did not know you were the deadliest sword in the kingdom, I would think you a reprobate.”
Again, Elric chuckled. “You do anyway, my friend.”
A rarity occurred then, a smile forced its way onto Tristin’s lips. “Aye.”
As if in shock, Elric stared at Tristin as long moments passed. Tristin, not unused to the glares of men and women alike, was still unsettled by Elric’s piercing, inquisitive gaze.
“What is it?” he asked, tired of the banter and the beleaguering.
Elric shifted his gaze to the woods beside them, all around them, encroaching on them, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a long-fingered hand.
“What do you think of this witch business? Do you think Sir Willem Mason saw what he said he saw? Is it possible that the woman we are apprehending can actually conjure evil spirits?”
Unsurprised by Elric’s question, Tristin leaned against the boulder again, crossing his legs at the ankles, and his arms over his chest.
Did he believe in magic and sorcery and evil spirits and curses? As a child of God and a hand of the Church, he knew that such beliefs were heresy. He knew that magic and demons were fragments of ancient religions that couldn’t comprehend their creation, and so they cobbled together bits and pieces of whatever made the most sense to them. As a thinking man, a man of knowledge and understanding, he knew sorcery and curses were as real as sprites and goblins.
Magic was lies and idiocy, told to scare the feeble-minded and turn one neighbor against another. He knew that, could recite the words without thought…but now, they didn’t ring true.
Vivid, vibrant images, flashes of color and sound, flooded through his mind. The woman, standing beneath the water, splashing down over a body made of pure desire. She moaned, her hand sliding down her flat belly and disappearing between two lushly curved thighs, thighs he wanted wrapped around him as he thrust into her, experiencing the deepest pleasure, the highest ecstasy…and breaking his vow.
Cursing, Tristin pulled his cloak from the bolder; it was still sopping wet, but he’d need it to keep off the worst of the chill. The night was growing ever darker, and the cold was growing ever sharper, and soon, the fire would do little more than keep the bugs at bay.
“You rest, I’ll keep the first watch. I will wake you when I have need of my own rest,” he ground out, exhausted but unwilling to continue their conversation.
“I was to keep the first watch,” Elric argued. It was true, he’d given Elric the first watch, but that was before…
“I changed my mind,” Tristin responded simply.
Hardening his features, Elric faced Tristin squarely. “What brought this about? What happened out there, Tristin?”
An ache poured through him, tightening every muscle in his body. He wouldn’t allow his weakness by the waterfall to ruin him, especially not with Elric. Tristin had spent years training, honing himself into a human weapon of God’s wrath and holiness. He’d fought tooth, nail, morningstar, and claymore for the respect of his men, the trust of the Cardinal, and the awe and trembling of the people. He was a living sword, made of flesh and bone instead of steel and leather. No man could conquer him.
She is no man…
“Twas nothing for you to concern yourself over, Elric. If it makes you feel better, I promise I will not fall asleep and let any forest spirits abduct you,” Tristin said, trying to infuse his words with levity.
Unaffected by Tristin’s poor attempt, Elric narrowed his eyes. “I doubt one could abduct me even if it tried. You have to believe to be powerless against such foolishness. And speaking of fools…should not Gaubin have returned from his…pissing?”
Shocked that he’d allowed his thoughts of the woman to cloud his duty to his men, Tristin cursed for the second time that evening.
“Aye. Before bedding down, go find him, and make sure he has not fallen asleep in a pool of his own water.”
Elric chuckled. “I will do as my captain commands, if only see such a sight for myself.”
With that, Tristin’s second in command sauntered into the ever-darkening forest, and Tristin leaned back against the boulder, tipping his face into the sky.
He had a long night ahead of him, a long, sleepless night. Because he couldn’t sleep, not then, and probably not when Elric took his turn at watch.
His mind reeled with visions of supple flesh, a pert, round ass, long hair he could wrap around his fist, and the wide, seductive eyes of his witch…a woman whose magic had truly ensnared him.
God, save me from my own desires…
Chapter Seven
First light came in like a roar, the horizon seeming to blister as the sun kissed it with its dawning. Tristin finished saddling Chevalier then sat down for a quick meal of cold roast grouse—it was any
wonder how Gaubin hadn’t eaten it all the night before—and cold water. His men were somber and tense, he could feel the heaviness around them like a blanket of anxiety and purpose. They were to apprehend a suspected witch, and though Tristin knew it to be foolishness, his men were still tremulous. They’d faced greater odds, more fearful enemies, but the thought of one woman, who had reportedly cast spells and curses, was a sight more terrifying to men who wore plate armor and carried swords.
If Tristin were the mirthful type, he would have laughed at the picture of slumped, ill-at-ease men, all huddled around a dying fire, silent other than the sounds of preparation.
“Gaubin,” Tristin called to the man who was sitting, head cradled in his hands, on the log Elric had sat on the night before. “You will stay with the camp. Make sure all is in readiness for departure to Cieldon on our return.”
Gaubin didn’t even have the decency to look up before raising his hand in some sort of crude acknowledgement.
“Gaubin,” Tristin repeated, unwilling to allow such disrespect to continue, even if the poor excuse for a warrior was his father’s friend’s son. He cared less if the man were the son of the king, he would respect his captain or else be cut from the Homme du Sang like a diseased limb.
Swearing under his breath and groaning, Gaubin lifted his head and glared at Tristin.
“Aye, Captain,” he ground out, his eyes narrowing at the clamoring of his own voice. That should teach him not to imbibe so freely…but it never did.
Only slightly satisfied, Tristin stoppered his leather water bottle and tucked it into his saddle bag. Retrieving his helmet and gauntlets, he called for Elric, who had gone into the woods to relieve himself after a long second watch.
Glenn appeared instead, striding toward him as if he’d just manifested from the shadows and into the morning light. Still dressed all in black, Glenn was an intimidating figure, even with his vicious dagger sheathed at his hip.
“Tis a fine mornin’ fer witch huntin’,” Glenn drawled, his brogue heavier than usual. Tristin was convinced that man did that to vex him. And Tristin let him do it, for there was no other man on earth who could do what Glenn did for the Homme du Sang.
Tristin ignored Glenn’s lopsided smile and glimmering sapphire blue eyes, and seated his sword just so on his hip, a motion he’d done more than a thousand times, and so it took no thought. His sword was as much a part of him as Glenn’s dagger was a part of him, an extension of his arm, a hand with a wicked edge capable of flaying flesh from bone.
He’d seen it done.
“Report,” Tristin commanded, eager to get on with the day, if only to be moving toward Cieldon and home. Witch “hunting” was nasty business, and something he’d rather have left to lesser orders, perhaps even the magistrate who’d first accused the woman.
Glenn sidled to Chevalier’s withers, rubbing the large black horse as if he were a puppy. Sired by a renowned warhorse, fearless when charging into battle, Chevalier was well-trained, terrifying, and large. But when Glenn was there, Tristin’s well-trained battle horse was a giant foal, eager for Glenn’s attention, and the treats he kept in his pouch.
Tristin watched as Glenn produced a piece of dried date from a pouch at his waist. Chevalier turned his massive body to take the treat, nudging Glenn with his muzzle for more.
Chuckling, Glenn leaned in and whispered in Chevalier’s ear, in Gaelic.
“Why are you conspiring with my horse?” Tristin asked, somewhat chagrined at the actions of man deadly enough to kill with a single flick of his wrist.
Glenn pulled away, patting Chevalier on his cheek. “Me an’ the pup are nay more than friends, Captain. Nay need ta worry none.” Tristin wouldn’t have disagreed except that Glenn flashed another lopsided smile.
Refusing to fall into another of his men’s teasings—Elric was tiresome enough—Tristin took Chevalier’s reins.
“Report, Glenn. What of the woman?” His voice was level, edged, the voice of a commander.
Moving to stand nearest the woods, Glenn pointed southwest. “She’s there. Her cottage is the verra last at the verra edge o’ town. There’s a wee garden and a swine pin. Doesna look like arrestin’ her will be much trouble.”
Nodding, Tristin turned toward the other men who were now standing beside their horses, watching him. They were a good lot, ready to do whatever he commanded, and he was glad to see they’d shed their fear of the forest.
“Ready yourselves, men.”
All except Gaubin, who was still sitting, head hanging, beside the now dead fire, easily mounted their steeds. Before Tristin could follow suit, Glenn reached out and touched his arm, stilling him.
“There were murmurin’s; the villagers speak o’ her…” Glenn said, his eyes cast toward the forest again.
“What do they say?” A sudden curiosity bit at him; he’d never seen Glenn so…absorbed in a mission before. Once dispatched, Glenn performed his duties with precision and swiftness, never so much as batting an eye at orders to kill or capture. But this time…there was a tension to him that Tristin couldn’t like.
“Tis word she is a miracle worker, and that she can grow most anythin’.”
“Grow what?” His interest, more and more piqued, flavored his words.
“I saw only vegetables, carrots and beets and the like. But there were also rows of herbs…something like the old apothecary in Memsie had in her wee garden.”
“Apothecary?” Tristin asked, as a strange sensation skittered over his skin.
“Aye. There are those who think her a cailleach bhéarach, but she grew herbs, made pastes and teas, and would roast the most delicious mutton in the county. She was nay more a witch than I was a priest.” Glenn finally turned away from the forest and faced Tristin, his black beard glinting in the morning sunlight. “What if the woman isna witch? What if she is just as she appears to be?”
Tristin had asked the same questions, wondering if the accusations against her weren’t born of jealousy or spite.
“Sir Willem Mason is one of the cardinal’s oldest friends, he is to be trusted implicitly.” His rebuke sounded flimsy, even to his own ears. Why would a magistrate want to malign an old woman in a poor village? It made little sense…but neither did the idea of magic and spells.
“Oh, aye, trusted… The witch isna the only one the villagers speak about.”
Tristin bit his tongue, unwilling to fall into the trap of gossip. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that Sir Willem Mason was untrustworthy; Tristin’s own father spoke of the man with disdain. But, he wouldn’t disregard his orders for any man.
“Let us go. I we will discuss this no longer. I am eager to be back at Carnburg, and the sooner we capture the woman, the sooner we can quit this forest.” His gaze caught on the path in the forest that he’d taken the night before…the path that led to the waterfall.
To the woman. His body already tense with anticipation of action, the hum of something deep and hot moved through his muscles. Just the thought of the woman could turn away his focus. He couldn’t afford such weakness.
Without another word, he mounted his horse. Suddenly desperate to quit the forest, a forest still dark, even in the light of the day, he didn’t wait for Glenn to mount. He had complete faith that Glenn would retrieve Sluagh from wherever he’d hidden him the night before. The great black horse was nearly as big as Chevalier, but twice as fast. Glenn would catch up.
A swift kick to Chevalier got the beast moving, and his men fell in line behind him. Elric rode up beside him, his armor flashing, his face grim. “What did Glenn tell you?” he asked, his gaze flicking to the area just above his horse’s head, his eyebrows forming a deep V over his golden eyes.
Unnerved by his unwelcome thoughts, his unfounded suspicions, and the weight of a sleepless night, Tristin took a long moment to form the words in his mind before uttering, “Taking her will be easy.” Little else needed to be said. Elric knew to follow Tristin, to watch for signals, and to stay alert for danger—f
rom all sides. Ignoring the contemplative look from Elric, Tristin continued on, the path they’d used to enter the forest opened up to a small, grassy clearing. Mist hovered over the verdant landscape, casting an eerie yet beautiful timelessness. Remembering Glenn’s direction, Tristin lead the men through the clearing—the mist clinging to the horses’ fetlocks—and southwest toward a large meadow. Clusters of purple and yellow blooms sprouted here and there, and moss clung to rocks protruding from the earth. A thin stream slithered through, no doubt feeding the river that was also fed by the waterfall he’d discovered the night before…and the woman who’d stood naked beneath it.
Forcing his mind to divert from such unnecessary recollections, he watched as the roofs of thatched cottages rose over the undulating hillocks surrounding the meadow. As he approached the perimeter of the village, he spotted children halting their play to peer at the fully armored men as they advanced upon them. Tristin knew what a sight they made, riding into view with gleaming metal from toe to head, their faces covered by a visor that completely obscured the nose and mouth, leaving only oblong slits for their eyes. It provided protection, but it also instilled terror in the hearts of those who saw them. They were faceless avenging angels, committed to doing God’s work no matter how wet their swords became with blood.
Moving passed the children, who were now running away from them and into the village, Tristin skirted the other cottages, heading straight for the very last cottage on the very edge of Clarendon, just as Glenn had reported.
The closer they rode toward the cottage, the more detail he could make out. Gray smoke rose from a short chimney, ivy and moss grew over the roof, a short fence closed off a small garden, and beyond that were three pigs, foraging through the muck of their pen with their snouts.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 7
