The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1)

by Rosamund Winchester

  “Nay.” The one word brought down a hail of thundering silence as Elric and Pierre stared at her, eyes wide. Aye, she’d said the wrong thing, but she was already at the mercy of these men. She wouldn’t be at the mercy of their steeds, as well.

  “You intend to walk, then?” the commander asked, a steel spike in his tone.

  She nodded, her voice stuck behind the ball of fear in her throat.

  “Barefooted?”

  She looked down at her feet, wiggling her toes. She only ever owned two pair of shoes; she’d outgrown the first ten summers ago, and she’d given away the second. The soles of her feet were used to the forest floor, the scrub and rockiness of the meadow, and the soft earth of her garden.

  But would they survive a march into Cumberland? What did it matter? It was either walk or put her life in Pierre’s hands. She flicked a glance to the brute on the brown stallion and decided.

  She lifted her head to gaze at the commander. “Aye.”

  Elric’s eyes danced, and Bell Heather knew for certain then that he was making light of her circumstances. She glared at him, suddenly more angry than fearful. And she was glad of it. For fear would wick away at her stamina, sinking its teeth into her throat and her will, but anger…it would grow hot, slowly simmer, keeping her blood boiling and her wariness high.

  Better to be alert than alarmed.

  “Very well then. Elric, bind her hands and tie her to Bellerophon.”

  Bell Heather stumbled back, indignation suffusing her limbs. She’d be yoked like an ox and pulled behind his beastly horse like a plow? Nay! But then she stopped, her thoughts sharpening. She was their prisoner, a witch. At least they weren’t tying her up and lashing her to a saddle like a criminal they thought her to be.

  Swallowing her bitter ire. She walked forward, arms extended, head high, and wordlessly allowed Elric to secure her arms with a length of rough rope. She hissed when the rope bit into her wrists, but she refused to cry out.

  Maude wailed behind her, and Bell Heather felt the tears begin to well in her eyes.

  Nay, she wouldn’t weep. These men may have taken her freedom for a moment, but they would never take her strength. It was all she had. And she’d hold onto it with everything left in her.

  Pulling on his reins, the commander turned away from her cottage. “We return to the camp. From there we will make our way to Cieldon.”

  Cieldon. Was that where the cardinal lived, the man of the Christian Church who had condemned her to this persecution? Again, anger twisted within her. How dare he force his beliefs on her? It wasn’t her God or her religion. She believed in what she could see and feel, not in spirits or deities that played with the lives of the people they supposedly created. What rubbish. She’d lived peacefully, blissfully ignored by travelling priests who sought to save the souls of the wicked poor. How many times had she seen the men in brown cassocks riding through town, their wagons laden with food and their mouths laden with hell and damnation? Villagers would come for the flour and the dried meats the men offered, but twas only a trap; the priests would only ever feed those who “repented” and “believed”.

  Bell Heather had no use for flour or dried meats, and she had no use for empty words and hideous threats of never-ending torment in a lake of fire. But it wasn’t her beliefs, or lack of them, that had landed her in this situation, it was her accuser, just as faceless as the man who commanded these knights.

  Before she could ask him who had condemned her as a witch, Elric mounted his horse, tied the rope to his pommel, and kicked his horse into a walk. The rope pulled taut, and she stumbled forward, her toe catching on a divot the horses had stamped into the clearing. She caught herself before she fell; lest Elric refuse to stop and only dragged her behind him. Bell Heather struggled to look over her shoulder, she had to see Maude, had to convey to her some fleeting comfort…and she had to gaze upon her cottage, for what felt like that last time. Maude had begun running toward the next cottage, where Bell Heather caught a glimpse of faces peeking out from the doorway. They had seen everything…and it would most likely be their last memory of her.

  Humiliated, Bell Heather turned to face the horse’s arse…in the saddle.

  May I find the strength to endure even when my heart fails and my hope dies.

  With three mounted men on either side of her, three in the front, and one stalking behind her, Bell Heather was hemmed in by danger…but none felt as dangerous as the man in the very front, a man she couldn’t stop wondering about. And she hated herself for it.

  ***

  The urge to turn and see her nearly devoured him whole.

  How was it possible that the woman from the waterfall was the same woman he’d been sent to capture? It had to have been some kind of mistake. She wasn’t a witch. He knew that with every confidence. Yes, the woman had enchanted him at first sight, but then…she’d become vulnerable, her body racked with chills, her eyes wide with fear, and her words—not of seduction or sorcery, but of fiery yet subdued determination. She wasn’t at the waterfall to catch him in some sort of trap, she’d been bathing—if the fragrant soap in his saddle bags was any indication. Despite wanting to forget his encounter with the woman, he’d circled back during his patrol. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find; perhaps the woman would return to finish what he’d interrupted. What he hadn’t expected to find was a small bar of soap. He’d bent to pick it up, and without thought, he lifted the bar to his nose, taking a deep, long breath. It smelled of heather…and woman. He’d grown hard, his body responding to the memory of the woman standing in the water, her hands sliding over soap-slick flesh…

  A yell broke him from his thoughts, and he sucked in a sharp breath, angry at how easily he’d, once again, allowed himself to lose his focus. The woman wasn’t a witch, but she was certainly a distraction he couldn’t afford, especially in front of his men.

  Tristin followed the direction of the shout and saw Glenn perched atop his stallion, Sluagh, leaning nonchalantly over his pommel. How did he always look so lax? To anyone looking, Glenn was an indifferent and oblivious scoundrel, someone who cared little about anything. Some would even think him harmless…and those were the people who died first. Tristin knew better. He knew that beneath the mien of careless rogue there was a sharp-edge weapon of deadly intent. His ability to fool everyone was one of Glenn’s greatest weapons, second only to his blades.

  Glenn kicked Sluagh into motion, and the great black horse surged into a gallop. From behind Glenn, a slouched and rumpled-looking Gaubin followed, his horse, Conqueror, cantering awkwardly. Tristin didn’t blame the horse.

  Biting back his anger, Tristin watched Glenn approach. He raised a hand and stopped, his men following suit. Again, the urge to turn and see the woman—Bell Heather Caire—nearly toppled him from his steed.

  She is your prisoner. You cannot care for her comfort. Get her to Cieldon, then you can wash your hands of her.

  An invisible needle pierced his belly, the prick of pain making him wince behind his visor. Once he presented her to Cardinal Calleaux, what would become of her? As with other women accused of witchcraft, he knew she would endure an official inquisition. She’d stand before a committee of men; the cardinal, the magistrate, and two laymen. Those four men would question her, perhaps torture her, then they would judge her according to their findings. As a man, he couldn’t agree with the committee’s treatment of those accused, but as a knight of the Homme du Sang, he was honor bound to march the prisoners into the dungeon, and turn his back on them. Effectively washing his hands of the guilt. It had never been a problem before, how easily he’d turn away from the screaming, pleading accused. It was his duty, his calling. He couldn’t disappoint or dishonor his family—never again.

  But this time… As a burning ache began to spread through his chest, he hardened his resolve. She was just a woman, a beautiful, sensual woman, a woman any flesh and blood man would hunger for. But he wasn’t just a flesh and blood man, he was the captain of the
Men of Blood, sworn to live and die for the Church. He wouldn’t allow his lust to rule his head, or his carnal attraction to her to ruin all that he’d gained in the last three years.

  A new tension settled into his shoulders, and he pushed out his chest to help alleviate the ache it brought. It was for naught.

  Glenn and Sluagh came to halt before him, the other man’s sharp blue eyes catching on something behind Tristin. Tristin knew, without looking, what had caught Glenn’s attention; that woman.

  The impulse to growl made him sink his teeth into his lip to keep the sound at bay. When the impulse passed, he waited for Gaubin to reach them before asking, “Is all in readiness for departure?”

  Gaubin winced, his face pale and tinged with green. That’s what the lout deserved for imbibing so heavily, but Tristin hated how the man’s weakness left them vulnerable to attack. The Homme du Sang were renowned for their skill in battle, their fierceness, and their ability to move as if parts of one body. When one of the knights was vulnerable, they were all vulnerable. Tristin had known of Gaubin More’s thirst for wine, and he’d vehemently refused to allow the drunkard and malefactor the honor of being a knight of the Homme du Sang. The Men of Blood were men of honor and noble yet fierce reputation. Gaubin was none of those things.

  It wasn’t until his father had admitted he’d sworn to his friend, Albert More, that his son would have a place in Tristin’s ranks, that Tristin knew he was well and truly burdened with the louse. But he wouldn’t allow Gaubin’s failings to ruin the reputation or the standing of the Men of Blood, and that meant lancing the boil before it infected the rest of the body.

  “Aye, Captain,” Gaubin muttered, then pulled down his visor, more than likely to cover the sneer he was even now leveling at Tristin.

  “Good,” Tristin intoned, his patience thin. Raising his hand to signal his men, he commanded, “Gaubin, ride alongside Aster.” Tristin didn’t need to look to know that Sir Aster Hallston, second son of an earl, probably stiffened in his saddle. Not one of his men liked Gaubin, he was an illness of which they all wished to rid themselves. And they would, as soon as they reached Cieldon. He planned to request a private audience with the Cardinal. He’d beg if he had to, but he couldn’t stomach leaving on another mission dragging Gaubin along behind them like a millstone.

  “Glenn,” Tristin began, not missing how the man’s eyes were still trained on the woman. With slow deliberation, Glenn met Tristin’s eyes, a dark smirk on his face.

  “Aye?”

  “You ride ahead.” Even in the bright light of day, Glenn had the uncanny ability to blend into the shadows cast by the trees…he could scout the road before them without anyone ever seeing him. It served as an early warning system to ambushes, raids, and unplanned obstacles. “If you reach Wharram Percy before midday, send word to Middlemarch that we are enroute.”

  Glenn nodded smartly, a glimmer of mirth in his eyes, then he turned Sluagh and galloped away, chunks of mud flying up as the sped toward the northwest along a road few seemed to tread. Clarendon was a small village on the outskirts of the county, so it wasn’t a surprise that it didn’t get many visitors or passing travelers. It bade the question, though, why was Willem Mason in Clarendon when he spied the woman entering the woods? What business did he have in such a small village that would bring him this far from Hickston Close? Tristin knew enough about Mason to know he was a man of lavish comforts. Having married into money, he appreciated the finest clothes, the richest foods, and the sweetest wines. What was a man of Willem Mason’s…tastes doing following Bell Heather into the woods?

  Something, like a slithering suspicion, slid along the base of his neck. He fought a full body shiver. It wasn’t the time to think about the how or why. He only had time to think on the what: get the witch to Cieldon.

  He signaled to the men and kicked Chevalier into motion, setting a plodding pace so that the woman could keep up.

  Foolish woman. She’d chosen to walk barefooted, tied to Elric’s horse rather than ride on the horse with Pierre. Either she was a lack wit or a stubborn heel. The makings of an unwilling grin lifted the corner of his mouth. Yes, she was stubborn, but rather than rail and hiss, she’d been quiet about her rebellion. She’d clamped those ripe lips of hers shut, and glared at Elric with an unholy fire. Tristin nearly fell over when the woman stepped forward, arms raised, silent yet obvious in her defiance. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, especially Elric, but he’d admired her. Grudgingly. And when her feet began to bleed, cut by the jagged stones in the road, and she fell behind, she’d rethink having her own way then.

  And he’d be ready to take her into his arms…and haul her onto Chevalier, where she’d sit stiffly, her curves fitted against him just right. She’d argue, she’d fight, she’d probably try to ignore him…and he couldn’t wait. His manhood thickened against the press of his body into the hard leather of the saddle, but the pain did little to dull the throb of desire. He prayed to God no one heard the groan that escaped his throat.

  Lord, save me from stubborn women…but not just yet.

  Chapter Nine

  Willem threw the counterpane from the bed and swung his legs over the edge, sliding his feet into his slippers. The floor was abominably chilly, and he hated being chilly. Even on the hottest of days, the castle was a drafty hulk, but there was little he could do about it. He’d married Lillian for her dowry, which included Hickston Close. Having been born as a bastard in a crofter’s cottage on his father’s property in Dorset, Willem was used to chills that could steal your breath…but now that he could afford the comforts of a blazing hearth, sumptuous rugs, and fur lined dressing gowns, he could expect to never feel a chill again. Groaning when the morning light hit his face through the slender window, he knew he’d make the seamstress fashion a set of heavy curtains. He stood, stretching, his body tense and aching from another night of fevered dreams…dreams he’d much rather live than conjure in his slumber. Dreams of lush breasts straining against leather bindings, succulent lips, parted around a wooden wedge, held in place by another leather strap around her head. Oh…what a dream it was.

  His manhood shot to attention, hitting just below his navel, and he hissed as he rubbed his palm against it.

  The sound of shifting made him turn back toward the bed, where a naked woman lay, her body exposed, bruised, and her face pointed upward. Her eyes were unfocused, her skin pale, and her expression blank. She was an empty shell, a broken thing, a useless creature.

  He curled his lip in disgust. She’d never satisfied him, she never could. She was as soft as a stone and as shapely as a pole. Taking her was more a chore than anything else, wetting his rod in her body brought about as much pleasure as putting one’s head in a beehive. He’d much rather do that latter…but when the need struck, he was wroth to ignore it. And so, he took what was available and made use of it. Taking what he needed.

  Moving to the bell pull near the door, he rang for his valet. Within five minutes Butler was knocking at his chamber door.

  “Come!” he called and walked to the bureau where a basin of tepid water waited for his morning washing.

  “Sir,” Butler murmured from behind him. “May I escort Mistress Lillian to her chambers?”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “No need. She can find her own way. You may help me dress.”

  A muffled groan sounded from the bed, and Willem knew Lillian was slinking to the corner where she’d dropped her dress and hose upon his command the night before. She was a biddable woman, a spineless worm, it took little more than a glare to get her to fold, and it was boring. She bored him.

  Butler came up behind Willem, taking the washing cloth from his hands to minister to his master’s needs. Spreading his legs wider, he bent his head and watched as his ever-loyal valet knelt in front of him, thoroughly yet gently wiping the dried seed from his body. Willem would never tire of seeing Butler on his knees before him, a slave to his master’s will, his wants and needs. Willem smiled, an unholy mirth wa
rming his insides.

  Quick and efficient, Butler completed his task, and Willem felt a twinge of disappointment when the man rose to his feet and moved to the armoire to retrieve his clothes.

  “The dressing gown, Butler.” It was nearing midday, but Willem wasn’t quite ready. There were things he needed to…attend to before allowing Butler to layer him in silks and furs. He needed to be naked, just a bit longer.

  Rushing to do his master’s bidding, Butler nearly collided with Lillian as she slunk by, her clothes thrown on carelessly. Her long, blonde hair was coming loose from her braid, and the marks on her neck stood out in stark contrast to the white of her skin. To some, she could be considered beautiful, but to him, she was a means to an end, to a fortune. A stepping stone in his campaign to become a man of power—a man capable of swaying the kingdom with a single whispered suggestion. And he was so close, he could smell the scent of victory in the air, and it frustrated him that he couldn’t take hold of his desires as soon as he wanted. Cardinal Calleaux was a thorn in his side, a man who should have been easy to manipulate into his bidding. But the pompous hypocrite had taken the reins from Willem’s hands, effectively stealing Bell Heather Caire from him.

  But he wouldn’t have Willem’s prize for long. A slow smile spread his lips, and he slid his tongue over his teeth, marveling at the straightness…the sharpness. To sink his teeth into the flesh of Bell Heather’s breasts would be a revelation, and the coppery, sweet taste of her blood would make his body sing. He licked his lips, ravenous for what Cardinal Calleaux had tried to deny him. The bastard.