The Beast of Blades: Pirates of Britannia Connected World (The Ravishing Rees Book 3)
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The Beast of Blades
The Ravishing Rees Book #3
A Pirates of Britannia World Novel
Rosamund Winchester
Copyright © 2019 Rosamund Winchester
Kindle Edition
This work was made possible by a special license through the Pirates of Britannia Connected
World publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by DragonMedia Publishing, Inc. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Pirates of Britannia connected series by Kathryn Le Veque and Eliza Knight remain exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque and/or Eliza Knight, or their affiliates or licensors. All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Published by DragonMedia, Inc.
The Pirates of Britannia World
God of the Seas
by Alex Aston
Lord Corsair
by Sydney Jane Baily
Stolen by Starlight
by Avril Borthiry
The Righteous Side of Wicked
by Jennifer Bray-Weber
The de Wolfe of Wharf Street
by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
The Pirate’s Jewel
by Ruth A. Casie
The Blood Reaver
by Barbara Devlin
The Pirate’s Temptation
by Tara Kingston
Savage of the Sea
The Sea Devil
by Eliza Knight
Leader of Titans
Sea Wolfe
by Kathryn Le Veque
The Marauder
by Anna Markland
The Sea Lyon
The Sea Lord: Devils of the Deep
by Hildie McQueen
Pearls of Fire
by Meara Platt
Plunder by Knight
by Mia Pride
The Seafaring Rogue
The Sea Hellion
by Sky Purington
Laird of the Deep
by B.J. Scott
The Ravishing Rees
The Savage Sabre
The Beast of Blades
by Rosamund Winchester
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Pirates of Britannia World
Dedication
The Legend of the Pirates of Britannia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Also by Rosamund Winchester
Dedication
To Nix Alexstrasza, the best Author Cat an author could ask for.
The Legend of the Pirates of Britannia
In the Year of our Lord 854, a wee lad by the name of Arthur MacAlpin set out on an adventure that would turn the tides of his fortune, for what could be more exciting than being feared and showered with gold?
Arthur wanted to be king. A sovereign as great as King Arthur, who came hundreds of years before him. The legendary knight who was able to pull a magical sword from stone, met ladies in lakes and vanquished evil, who had a vast following that worshipped him. But while that King Arthur brought to mind dreamlike images of a roundtable surrounded by chivalrous knights and the ladies they romanced, MacAlpin wanted to summon night terrors from every babe, woman, and man.
Aye, MacAlpin, King of the Pirates of Britannia, would be a name most feared. A name that crossed children’s lips when the candles were blown out at night. When a shadow passed over a wall, was it the Pirate King? When a ship sailed into port in the dark hours of night, was it him?
As the fourth son of the conquering Pictish King, Cináed, Arthur wanted to prove himself to his father. He wanted to make his father proud, and show him that he, too, could be a conqueror. King Cináed was praised widely for having run off the Vikings, for saving his people, for amassing a vast and strong army. No one would dare encroach on his conquered lands when they would have to face the end of his blade.
Arthur wanted that, too. He wanted to be feared. Awed. To hold his sword up and have devils come flying from the tip.
So, it was on a fateful summer night in 854 that, at the age of ten and nine, Arthur amassed a crew of young and roguish Picts and stealthily commandeered one of his father’s ships. They blackened the sails to hide them from those on watch and began an adventure that would last a lifetime and beyond.
The lads trolled the seas, boarding ships and sacking small coastal villages. In fact, they even sailed so far north as to raid a Viking village in the name of his father. By the time they returned to Oban, and the seat of King Cináed, all of Scotland was raging about Arthur’s atrocities. Confused, he tried to explain, but his father would not listen and would not allow him back into the castle.
King Cináed banished his youngest son from the land, condemned his acts as evil, and told him he never wanted to see him again.
Enraged and experiencing an underlying layer of mortification, Arthur took to the seas, gathering men as he went, and building a family he could trust that would not shun him. They ravaged the sea as well as the land—using his clan’s name as a lasting insult to his father for turning him out.
The legendary Pirate King was rumored to be merciless, the type of vengeful pirate who would drown a babe in his mother’s own milk if she didn’t give him the pearls at her neck. As with most rumors, they were mostly steeped in falsehoods meant to intimidate. In fact, there may have been a wee boy or two he saved from an untimely fate. Whenever they came across a lad or lass in need, as Arthur himself had once been, he and his crew took them into the fold.
One ship became two. And then three, four, five, until a score of ships with blackened sails roamed the seas.
These were his warriors. A legion of men who adored him, respected him, followed him, and, together, they wreaked havoc on the blood ties that had sent him away. And generation upon generation, country upon country, they would spread far and wide until people feared them from horizon to horizon. Every Pirate King to follow would be named MacAlpin, so his father’s banishment would never be forgotten.
Forever lords of the sea. A daring brotherhood, where honor among thieves reigns supreme, and crushing their enemies is a thrilling pastime.
These are the Pirates of Britannia, and here are their stories…
Chapter One
The le Coq du Quai Inn
Calais, France
1444 A.D.
“La Revanche…” All week, that name had been plaguing him at every turn, taunting him with his lack of knowledge and connections in France. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Port Eynon Bay with his brethren and away from the stink of France.
And what sort of man names himself “revenge”? He’d firs
t heard the name the day the Torriwr docked at the port, the large three-mast sloop still decidedly smaller than the galleons and French merchant ships weighing anchor off the coast. And when he’d finally heard the name La Revanche enough times to ask about it, the only thing anyone would tell him was that it meant “the revenge”. He’d chuckled at that then lost himself in a flask of wine, but that wasn’t the last time he’d heard the name.
And now he’d been fairly haunted with it all week—that and the reports regarding the Spanish ships that had been seized near La Rochelle and sailed up the coast to Calais. Even now, those ships were bobbing on the water in the distance, a bold and brazen show of arrogance.
Those ships were one of the reasons he was in France at all. The other…
Pushing the door open, Brendan Rees paused at the threshold. From behind him, the sounds of an overcrowded public house grated on his ears. It had been a long night—hell, it had been a long year, sailing from port to port, sleeping in ramshackle inns or in warehouses, hiding and sneaking and living like a goddamn spy. He wasn’t meant to sneak like a spy, ducking his head and hoping no one noticed him. He was a smuggler, sailing the seas, buying and selling illicit goods, and proud of it.
And he was more than ready to see the end of this mission. His wariness heightened, he gripped the strap of his satchel all the tighter.
Lifting his foot to step out of the building, his highly-honed senses told him someone was much too close. He braced himself. An unwelcomed hand snaked out, taking hold of his elbow. He fought the urge to shake it off, instead, turning to peer down at the woman attached to the hand.
“Matilda,” he intoned, his nerves pulled taut. Now was not the time for her poor attempts at getting him into her bed. He’d fallen for her charms once, but he’d tired of her quickly enough—as he so often did with women. None ever held his attention longer than the time it took to get his pleasure.
She huffed, pressing her ample and barely covered bosom into his arm. “Come back, soon, mon amie. I miss you when you are gone,” the woman drawled as she ran a hand over the thick muscles of his bicep.
He sighed, tugging his arm out of her grip. He raised his hands to halt her seeking, greedy attentions. “Sorry, bird. Only staying tonight, then we’re off in the morn,” he replied, turning away from the bawd to step into the nearly deserted street.
“I could keep you company tonight, mon amie,” she purred, her breath heavy with whatever she’d been drinking.
Pulling back to take a deep breath, Brendan stared down at her, his expression like Saracen stone. “Nay.”
Matilda, clearly dismissing his rejection, followed him out onto the brick-paved street. She reached for him and he leaned away, bumping into someone as they passed. He didn’t bother turning to apologize, because he didn’t care.
“I have business this evening, Matilda. Go back and entertain someone else,” he said, his deep voice tight.
The woman pouted. “I could change your mind,” she purred, puckering in a way that, he assumed, was meant to look seductive. It didn’t work on him. He had too much on his mind to let his manhood do the thinking for him.
“Short of sprouting wings and flying, there is nothing you can do that would interest me.”
Matilda’s heavily-painted eyes widened. She hissed, her pout disappearing into a thin line. She screeched something in French. For the first time since landing in France last week, he was glad he didn’t speak a word of the language.
Reaching up to readjust the satchel strap over his shoulder, his hand skidded along his shirt instead. It took a moment for him to realize something was amiss, and once he did, he peered down at his side to check that his possessions were secure.
Brendan Rees swore loud enough to wake the dead, both his anger and his blood pounding through him.
The satchel was gone. His gaze flicked up to scan the area and caught on a figure, dressed in dark colors, hurrying away.
A pickpocket.
He roared, his immense body vibrating with the sound of his displeasure.
That little rat had stolen his satchel, the one containing his money and the letter he, himself, had stolen not even an hour before. It wasn’t the money he cared about—he could get more easily enough, it was the missive, a letter written by a nobleman to a group of well-known and fearlessly cruel pirates—Les Porteurs d’eau, the French faction, ruled over by the Van Rompay brothers. If it weren’t for that damned letter, he wouldn’t even be in France, he’d be at home in Wales, wenching and drinking as he deserved after acting the errand boy for the buggering Spaniards.
But Saban, the leader of their small smuggling family, would be livid if his second-in-command returned to Port Eynon without the very thing he’d been trusted with retrieving. He was to intercept the missive, carry it to Santiago Fernandez off the coast of Spain, and then return to Wales with the signed agreement from Fernandez stating that their debt to him had been paid in full. And then they could cut ties with the Demonios de Mar and go back to being adversaries—as was tradition.
“What’s happened?” Callet, the bowsman, asked, coming up beside Brendan.
Brendan didn’t have time to explain; the rat was getting away. Without missing a second, Brendan gave chase, using his speed and agility to move quickly.
The rat looked over his shoulder, saw him coming, and picked up his pace, dashing into an alley and disappearing.
Damn! Brendan couldn’t let him get away.
At the mouth of the alley, Brendan’s nose hairs curled at the stench of refuse, human waste, and no doubt a dead drunkard—or two—that slammed into his face. Behind him, Callet gasped then coughed. Aye, Callet was a capable man, but he never had what one would consider a strong stomach.
“Hell, that’ll kill a man,” Callet rasped before coughing again, the sound of his dry retching filling the air.
“Aye,” Brendan replied before entering the alley. It was narrow, barely enough room for his shoulders to pass without getting slime on his shirt. And because of the narrowness, Brendan was well aware that it would be nigh impossible to draw his blade.
But only a fool would assume his blade was his only weapon.
Several feet in, there was a branching of directions. He stopped and looked both ways before choosing the one with the most debris; stacked crates, refuse barrels, and blocked sewer grates. A pickpocket rat would want to go where it was easiest to hide.
Slowly, his boots making little noise along the slime-slicked bricks, he moved further down the cramped corridor. The stench was stronger now, singeing his nose hairs and making his eyes burn. How the little gutter rat could breathe amongst the smell, he did not know, and he refused to be impressed by it.
Just then, from the corner of his eye, something moved—something larger than an actual rat. From behind him, Callet grunted, making Brendan turn. Callet had a small boy by the scruff of his coat collar, holding him fast. The boy was kicking and swinging his grimy little fists, but Callet had dealt with creatures far larger and far more dangerous than a little scrapper like that.
But this boy was not the one who’d taken his satchel. Turning back to the alley, he spotted something else moving from behind a stack of empty crates.
The boy in Callet’s clutches began screaming in French, filling the air with curses Brendan didn’t need to interpret to understand.
A sound like a growl penetrated his thoughts and he sucked in a breath just in time for something wet and sticky to hit him square in the chest. Looking down, he saw a clump of mud clinging to his once pristine white shirt. While his focus was on his shirt, something darted past him on the right. His reflexes acted without his thought, his arm nearly catching the darkly dressed larger boy but missing by mere inches.
The boy sped past, headed straight for Callet and the smaller boy, Brendan’s satchel hanging from the larger boy’s shoulder.
“Rio!” the smaller boy wailed, kicking Callet in the shin. Callet, shocked by the rascal’s daring, loosed his
hold on the smaller boy just enough for him to shake himself loose.
“No!” Brendan roared, making both boys flinch, their heads snapping around to stare at him as he advanced on them.
Callet, seizing the opportunity afford him by the boys’ fear, tried grabbing the satchel from the larger boy’s shoulder, but the boy twisted out of the way. Scrambling backward, the larger boy called to the younger boy in French before turning to slither in between two buildings, where the gap was no wider than a man’s head.
Just as Brendan reached the fray, the smaller boy took off at a sprint, headed in the opposite direction of the boy with the satchel.
Approaching the small opening, Brendan peered inside.
The little rat bastard was squeezed in there like a greased peg in a wheel, moving quickly, further and further out of reach.
With one last desperate attempt to get the satchel back, Brendan thrust his arm into the opening, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric of the lad’s coat. But then the lad was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the inhumanly small space.
“Goddammit!” Brendan ground out, his shoulders shaking from the tension of holding his anger in check. It would do no good to rage in the garbage, not when he needed to get back to the inn.
Without a word to Callet, who looked decidedly put out from having been bested by two scamps, Brendan made his way back to the mouth of the first alley they’d gone down. Back out in the open, he allowed his thoughts to focus on a single detail.
Rio. It was what the smaller boy called the larger boy, the boy who seemed to be the leader of their band of pickpockets. If anyone knew who this Rio was and where he could be found hiding, it was Marguerite, the eyes and ears of the docks. As the owner of the busiest whorehouse in Calais, she heard and saw everything. It was probably why her smile never seemed to reach her eyes, and her eyes themselves were empty. It was also why she knew more about the underbelly of the city than anyone else. She would know about the band of pickpockets frequenting the area just outside the Coq.