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

  The Blood &

  the Bloom

  Men of Blood

  Book One

  By Rosamund Winchester

  Dedication

  To Kathryn and Scott, who believed in me in when I needed it most. And to Avril, whose insight into Cumbria (ye olde name, Westmorland and Cumberland) helped me create a more accurate tale for you to enjoy.

  Prologue

  Cieldon Manse

  Home of His Eminence, Cardinal Cristian Calleaux

  Cumberland, England

  1407

  The thud of the horse’s hooves matched the thud of the heart as he crossed the twenty-foot-long drawbridge and entered the immense castle through the towering gate. The viciously sharp spikes of the portcullis hung over his head, as if ready to descend upon him, piercing his body, at a moment’s notice. Not unlike an enemy waiting to strike.

  Like entering the maw of a ravenous dragon…

  “Dragons…” Sir Tristin LaDeux hissed to into the air, frustrated at the ridiculousness of his thoughts. He rolled his broad shoulders, hating that he’d allowed himself to drink so much wine the night before. As a man of dedication to his duties, growing responsibilities over his men and his people, and inflexibility, he rarely found time or the desire to drink of the vine or press his flesh into a warm, willing wench. But…for the first time in nearly three years, he’d finally joined his men for a night of wine, women, and morning after woes. It was the wine and the women that had led to his woe, when his father had come upon him, lying in a washerwoman’s bed, his head pounding from the ten cups of wine he’d drank. Lord, but he should have been a little more moderate in his intake, because he was, even now, enduring his father’s displeasure. Enduring his own displeasure…and shame. Shame at his own weakness, and guilt that his father had seen him so vulnerable.

  “You are my son, my blood, one of the few left to carry the LaDeux name. Have some pride,” his father, Harrington LaDeux, Earl of Kentwithe, had ground out through a jaw clamped tight in frustration. His face was red, redder than Tristin had ever seen, and he seemed all the angrier because of the sweat gleaming on his brow. “Because you are my second son, you have a noble calling your brother cannot carry—you are a knight of the realm, Tristin, and that comes with duties, responsibilities—things that bring honor to your family.”

  Duties, responsibilities…both things he’d taken seriously since he’d taken a knee before the king, swearing his life and fealty to the kingdom. But, as with everything else he’d done in his life, it wasn’t enough to be the perfect knight for nine years…it was the one moment he wasn’t that his father had taken notice of him. Tristin had heard the “have some pride” speech before—mostly when he was a lad, but never before had his father’s voice seemed so resolute. For all the times his father had brought him to task for his behavior, this time, Tristin knew his father meant every word.

  Swearing under his breath, he knew then he would never allow levity and his weak human flesh to dictate his actions—nothing would keep him from fulfilling his duties to the family. To his father.

  Duties not unlike the very one he was fulfilling now.

  “Deliver this missive to Cardinal Calleaux in Cumberland. He is installed at Cieldon Manse, near Keswick.”

  That seemed easy enough. Bridgerdon Castle, the family estate, was a little over thirty miles from Cieldon Manse, which had been in holding for the Church for decades. Apparently, it had new inhabitants.

  “Do whatever the Cardinal directs. Remember, Tristin, you are the voice and hand of the family. Do not give us reason for shame.” His father’s voice still echoed in his head, which was why his skull still ached hours later.

  Shame? Hearing that one word drip from his father’s lips had been like a morningstar to his chest. As the youngest of three children, he’d been the coddled one, the one always toddling after his brother and father, doing whatever he could to earn even the slightest twitch of a smile from the men he admired most. It was rare to even see his father, and it was even rarer for his father to gift his youngest son with a pat on his head, or a “well done, Tristin.” But, by God, he’d tried. And was still trying. His brother, Fredrick, was the heir, the favored son. His sister, Odette, had been groomed, since birth, to marry his father’s closest friend, Baron Gryffon Cherrot. And he, the youngest, had found enough favor with King Henry to be knighted. It was no surprise, really. For the last eleven years, he’d trained, morning and night, to be the best swordsman his family ever produced. And for the last nine years, he’d done all the king had commanded; putting down uprisings along the border, escorting important noblemen and emissaries through areas rife with bandits and rievers, and training men who were commissioned to protect the king. It was neither prideful nor arrogant for him to say he was the best; it was the truth. Of all the missions he’d been given, he’d triumphed each time—his victories catalogued in archives, his name known throughout England, Scotland, and France. Some feared him, some stood in awe of him, and some wished to fight him, determined to have their names echoing in history as the one who bested “LaDeux the Fierce.”

  Tristin had dedicated his life to the art of battle, to learning sword craft, to training up men who were as deadly as they were loyal…but that wasn’t enough for his father. And so it wasn’t enough for him. He would always seek the next mission, the next challenge, the next challenger. It had become the purpose of his existence—to do as commanded. But that wasn’t what his father saw when he found him drunk and naked that morning. For all Tristin had done to earn his name and reputation, it was that moment his father chose to seek him out.

  Humiliation scorched his face, the sourness of his guilt mixing with the bile of his anger to create a boiling, noxious poison in his gut. He’d found favor with King Henry, why couldn’t he find favor with his own father, a man he admired more than any other?

  His father’s faithfulness to the king, during the tumultuous “turnover” from Richard II, was one of the reasons his family still lived on their lands. The name LaDeux, with its Gaul ancestry, wasn’t a favorite among the English, and so his father had an uphill slog to show King Richard II he was trustworthy, and an even more difficult task to show Richard’s successor that the LeDeux’s were worthy of retaining their title.

  Tristin watched, for years, as his father laid the cares of the kingdom on his shoulders. It weighed on the old man like a wagon of chainmail. While Tristin wasn’t the heir to the earldom, he still understood what his father was working toward—a legacy that would last for centuries. And he was prouder of the man than he could say. So, being a LaDeux knight was an honor, one he didn’t take as lightly as his father assumed. Though he was a knight without lands, he was still a man of high obligation; to his family and to the Crown.

  And so, he’d do as was required of him, and he’d do it to the fullest extent of his ability.

  Entering the outer bailey, Tristin was welcome by a throng of people, busily running from here and there, plying their trades or doing as the castellan commanded. Only a handful of the people stopped to look at him, which surprised him. Usually, most were awed by the gleaming metal, the massive warhorse, and the large man upon it. As a knight, he was dressed in full armor, head to toe in polished steel, beaten into shape with the hammer and skill. He knew how truly fearsome he could look in his armor, he relished it, in fact. One didn’t survive was many battles as he had without armor fit for the work.

  But what did it matter that these peasants didn’t stare? What did they matter to him?

  As he rode by, he observed several workshops, a granary, ani
mal stalls, and a bake house. The air beside the bake house smelled of yeast, a strangely appetizing scent.

  Some of the crowd, presumably the castle servants, were dressed in dour gray cassocks. His own castle at Bridgerdon boasted more than fifty household servants; chambermaids, scullery maids, tradesmen, laymen, cooks, washerwomen, and the like. It was fairly bursting with men and woman, eager to please the noble family. Their cassocks were dyed a deep red, as befitting a family with a dragon on their coat of arms.

  At Cieldon, where there weren’t stalls or people in the outer bailey, there were piles of what looked like broken bricks, splintered timbers, and tattered fabrics. Tristin could only assume that, as the new castle inhabitant, the Cardinal had ordered renovations and redecorating. Three of the refuse piles were on fire. The black smoke rose into the air, filling the bailey with an acrid stench. Almost transfixed, Tristin watched as the smoke seemed to slink up the walls, leaving streaks of ash and burning embers in its wake. As it ascended into the sky, it brushed against the coming dusk, framing the world in a haze not unlike what hell might look like.

  Grunting, annoyed at the trail of his thoughts, Tristin directed Chevalier, his large black horse, under the arch of the inner gate. Made from large blocks of white stones, it was an impressive edifice, bringing to mind what the gates of heaven might look like. Hell…Heaven…two of the most loved and feared places, found in a manse housing one of God’s chosen? He sneered at that; heaven wasn’t building gates using stones hewn from English quarries, it was built using the backbones of martyrs, its grand walls held together with mortar wetted with the blood of the pious. His blasphemous thoughts carried with him through the opening into the inner bailey which abutted the courtyard.

  The courtyard of Cieldon Manse was a wide-open space, verdant, manicured, surrounded on all sides by walls crowned with battlements. There were more people here, some still dressed in dour cassocks and knee-length. The ones not averting their gazes were staring openly, whispering behind their hands to one another as they went about their tasks. The sounds of clattering movement drew his attention to the battlements, where a line of armored men stood watching him from their perch. Their spears were erect, their helmets hiding their faces from his scrutiny.

  The show of force didn’t bother him, he was used to such things. When his father had given him the mysterious missive and directed him the manse, he explained that Tristin was to go alone, leaving behind his trusted and battle eager men—some of whom begged to come, despite the warning from his father. Undeterred by their pleading, Tristin had set off alone, determined to complete this mission with the utmost care and efficiency. Get there, deliver the missive, do whatever the cardinal asked of him, get home. He would do nothing for which his father would find fault—he would make sure of it.

  The massive keep towered over him, the heights of the large pentagonal building reached into the sky. It was impressive, to be sure. The ten-foot high, heavy oak door, reinforced with elaborately forged wrought iron, was set in the forward-facing wall. Twelve long, wide steps rose from the muddy ground to the flagstone landing where the door sat waiting for him, like a great eye, watching him. As he approached, wondering if anyone would deign to see to his arrival, the door swung open nearly soundlessly.

  Coming to a halt just at the bottom of the stone steps, Tristin dismounted, handing his reins to one of the young boys he’d spotted tending to the other horses. Nodding at the wide-eyed lad, he turned to see a lone man emerge from the keep. He was blonde man of middling height, thin, and his face was set in a bored yet arrogant expression that made his dark eyes all the more penetrating. Unlike the others wearing gray cassocks, this man wore a cassock in black, with black buttons from neck to hem, and a crimson sash pulled tight around his waist, emphasizing the man’s slender frame.

  From what he remembered of the church hierarchy, this man was the personal attendant to the cardinal, more than likely an acolyte, which meant he was a layman with self-important airs. Tristin met the man’s gaze and pulled his helmet from his head, allowing the man to see the full of his face.

  A man used to navigating the royal court, negotiating the release of prisoners, ending standoffs and sieges, and winning arguments with his mother and sister, Tristin was as skilled at manipulating his expressions as he was at pleasuring washerwomen—he was a master at both.

  Hiding his snide and rather wary sneer behind an elaborate bow, Tristin announced, “Sir Tristin LaDeux, son of Harrington LaDeux, third Earl of Kentwithe, knight of his Majesty’s court, here to see his Eminence, Cardinal Calleaux.” His deep voice carried outward, his words dissipating into the now smoky air between him and the acolyte.

  The man did nothing to hide his sneer as he stared down at Tristin. Standing stiffly, his hands clasped in front of him, the man looked about as welcoming as a blood-stained sword—which Tristin would much rather deal with than the man, even now, glaring down his nose at him.

  The man sighed heavily. “What business do you have with his Eminence?” The man’s voice was clear, cultured, and suffused with authority and annoyance, as if Tristin couldn’t have chosen a worse time to appear at his doorstep.

  “I have a missive from my father. I have been ordered to give it to Cardinal Calleaux.” Tristin pulled the blood-red wax sealed envelope from behind his breastplate and showed it to the man.

  The man continued to sneer down at him, unmoved by Tristin’s response. Then, the man stuck out his thin-fingered hand limply. “If you please, I will be sure to deliver it to his Eminence.” The corner of the man’s mouth lifted, and Tristin knew what the man truly meant; he’d give it to the Cardinal when he damn well felt like it.

  It was not to be borne.

  Tristin planted a hand on his sword pommel, showing the weasel that he wasn’t above beheading a layman for stepping out of line. “I think not. My father ordered I deliver the missive to the Cardinal myself, and so I must insist on seeing him.” His voice carried, the timbre one he’d used during negotiations with bloodthirsty reivers—negotiations which typically ended with the reivers dead and his men celebrating victory.

  Pulling his shoulders back, the man on the landing continued to stare down at Tristin, but there was something in his eyes, something slithering and devious, and Tristin immediately tightened the grip on his sword. He despised men who thought only to scheme and manipulate; he’d dealt with that ilk far too much to find it palatable.

  He swallowed the bile that rose into his throat, and commanded, “Let the Cardinal know I am here to meet with him.” This time, the man’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Tristin couldn’t read what was behind them. He shrugged. So be it. He needn’t worry about a worm acolyte. He would deliver the missive and complete this mission. He still had thirty miles to traverse before he was back in his own bed. His time at Cieldon could not be finished quick enough.

  “As you wish, Sir Tristin,” the acolyte nearly hissed, before bowing and gliding back through the front door. “If you will follow me,” he called over his shoulder. Grunting at the man’s lack of warning before disappearing into the shadowed interior, Tristin hastened up the stairs and through the doorway. He stopped just inside. He’d expected that the keep would open into a great hall, as was typical, but this one opened into a series of narrow corridors. There was one to the left, one to the right, and one that lead upstairs. Listening, he discovered the acolyte had taken the stairway; the sounds of his angry shuffling were difficult to miss.

  Tucking his helmet under his arm, he followed the shuffling upward, the weight of his armor a strange comfort to him in this new, decidedly strange place. After the third landing, Tristin came to a halt before the acolyte who was standing there, peering down at him impatiently, as if he’d taken an hour rather than a few moments to reach him.

  Biting back a growl, instead, he nodded to the man and watched as he turned right and continued down a corridor, treading almost reverently over the crimson runner that seemed to be leading them to their final dest
ination. At the end of the corridor was a door, barely tall enough to admit Tristin, but certainly wide enough to admit the most rotund of visitors. The acolyte knocked once.

  A muffled shout came from within, and the acolyte turned to Tristin. “Wait here. I will see if he is willing to meet with you,” he said, his voice clipped. He opened the door, just enough for him to slip through—a benefit of being no heartier than a reed—and closed the door behind him. Tristin leaned back on his boot heels, the ache of the long ride pressing down on the balls of his feet, the muscles in his shoulders and back, and the base of his skull. Usually, he could ride for days without complaint, but usually, he hadn’t spent the night before in his cups. He knew he shouldn’t have given in to his men’s badgering. They were a good lot, loyal to his family and the glory of battle, but they were also just as happy to the carousing and bedding whichever lass came closest to him in his moment of immediate need. For nine years, they’d asked, and he denied. They’d ask, and he’d deny. But…last night…he’d said yes. It was as though someone else had spoken for him, but it was his voice that had called out, “Damn it all, yes!”

  It didn’t take long for Herman, his second in command, to hand him wine, and it didn’t take much longer after that for the more comely women in the castle to find their way into the melee of men, cups, and grunting, moaning, and naked arses.

  God, would last night continue to be a bane of his existence? It was bad enough his father would never forget, would always hold that moment of weakness over his head like an axe blade. Cursing under his breath, he redoubled his determination to never allow drink to weaken him, make him vulnerable. To make him into a man who would tup a washerwoman.

  He sucked in a breath as the humiliation of his memories ran through his mind. Women and drink and felled him almost as completely as an opponent hungry for his blood. Thank God, he hadn’t had to go into battle, he’d be well and truly buggered.