Age Gap Romance (KLN Medieval Romance Boxed Set Collections)

Prologue

CAVE PERCUTIENS VIPERAE

(BEWARE THE STRIKE OF THE VIPER)

The Pox Tavern, London

“The next one is going to take him down. He cannot take another one.”

“How much do you wish to wager?”

“Whatever you wish. I know I am right.”

“You are wrong. This man is holding his own against Cai, who can drink a man into the ground. He’ll go at least one more round.”

“A pound says you’re wrong.”

The pair shook hands. In the noisy, crowded common room of a smelly tavern filled with the vomit of humanity, it was one wager in a night that had literally seen hundreds of them.

Sir Bric MacRohan, a massive Irish knight and Sir Kevin de Lara, a powerful English knight, had just made the bet regarding one of their comrades.

Their faith in their brother-in-arms’ alcoholic abilities had them placing wagers against the man’s opponent.

Sir Caius d’Avignon was that man.

A mountain of male flesh with a vast and mysterious propensity towards holding his drink better than most, perhaps because of a hollow leg that everyone spoke of.

Or perhaps it was just his great size that quickly dispersed whatever drink he managed to consume.

Whatever the case, Caius was able to better hold his drink than most men in England, so if there was a wager to be made regarding such a thing, Caius was the man to bet on.

Which is exactly what Bric and Kevin had done.

Caius sat at a table with a warrior from the House of de Wrenville, with Bric and Kevin on one side of him and three more comrades on the other.

Bric passed knowing glances across the table with Dashiell du Reims, heir to the Earldom of East Anglia, and Peter de Lohr, son of the Earl of Hereford and Worcester.

They were cousins, each a powerful knight in his own right, but they, much like Bric and Kevin, were supervising not only the drinking game, but the two knights who were supplying the drink.

They were newer knights to the spy ring of William Marshal.

But their newer status did not diminish their skills in any way.

Even the newer knights held an elite status that separated them from the rest of the rabble.

They all served the House of Marshal – William Marshal to be precise.

Caius, Bric, Kevin, Peter, Dashiell, and newcomers Morgan de Wolfe and Gareth de Llion were part of the stable of specialized knights, warriors, assassins, and spies for England’s greatest warrior and statesman, as were a few of the men standing on the other side of the table.

Morgan was the one who had started this whole thing.

He was a de Wolfe, from one of the finest fighting families in England, and held the de Wolfe air of battle about him.

He was nothing to be trifled with. I’ll wager your man cannot outdrink Caius, he’d said, and the next they realized, there was a drinking game between Caius and the de Wrenville knight.

But it wasn’t any knight. There were whispers that it was the de Wrenville heir himself.

But it was of little matter. The man could drink and that was all anyone cared about.

Since The Pox catered to the many nationalities of men coming in from the sea, they had a better selection than most of cheap to fine ales and wine from far and exotic places.

The drinking game had started because de Wolfe had purchased a bottle of Portuguese wine that had such a punch to it that within two cups of the stuff, he was fairly drunk.

It was delicious wine, warm and strong, and everyone else who’d had it was also well on their way to being sotted except for Caius.

He’d laughed at his fellow knights and their inability to hold their wine and de Wrenville men from a few tables away heard him.

One thing led to another and the contest was on.

Four bottles of that powerful wine sat on the table between Caius and the de Wrenville heir and three of them were empty. They were starting on the fourth, but the de Wrenville heir was so drunk that he had to hold on to the table to keep from falling over while his men held the cup up to his lips.

Money was flying fast and furious that the next drink would topple him.

“You shall not win,” de Wrenville said, spittle dripping from his lips because in his inebriation, he forgot to swallow. “Have my men not told you that I can outdrink anyone? No man can defeat me.”

My men. That told Caius and the rest of them that the whispers of the man being the de Wrenville heir were more than likely true. He was young and strong, with pale eyes and pale hair, and he had a Nordic look about him.

He also had an entitled and arrogant manner.

Caius sensed that was nothing pleasant there.

“Is that so?” he said after a moment. “These are your men, are they?”

“They are.”

“Then introduce yourself.”

“Marius de Wrenville, son of Covington de Wrenville,” he said. “Baron Darliston. Surely you have heard of him.”

“I have not.”

It was a blow to the man’s ego. “Then you must not know very much about the important men in England,” he said, trying to shame him.

But Caius grinned. It was a genuine gesture at the audacity of the young warrior. It amused him. But unlike de Wrenville, Caius knew when to keep his mouth shut.

He didn’t have the time or the inclination to engage with an idiot.

“Come along, my prideful lad,” he said. “We are here to drink, not speak on England’s nobility. I believe it is my turn to go first this time and we shall see who is left upright after this round.”

“Do not rush me,” Marius said, waving him off. “I am here to celebrate, you know. I have been recalled home. I have been drinking all day and, still, I am drinking. With all of that, do you not think that I can match you?”

“I think that you are about to collapse.”

True as it was, that only seemed to infuriate de Wrenville. That lazy, conceited expression vanished.

“Fool,” he hissed. “Do you not know when you have met your match?”

“I do, actually. And you are not it.”

De Wrenville’s face turned red. Caius gazed at him with an unwavering stare, silently daring him to snap back.

In a show of surprising restraint, the young heir made no sound even though his mouth was working, and de Wolfe uncorked the fourth bottle to the cheer of those standing around the table.

He poured at least two swallows into the cup in front of Caius and also into the cup in front of the de Wrenville heir.

The wine wasn’t red, but more amber-colored, and once the drink was poured, men began cheering on their particular drinker.

“Are you ready?” Caius asked, lifting his cup. “Time to prove your worth, young pup.”

De Wrenville stiffened, baring his teeth, but Caius was already in motion. He was the first to lift the cup to his lips, taking a deep breath before throwing back the drink, holding it in his mouth for a moment, and then ingesting it all in one big swallow.

He remained upright.

The table roared.

The pressure was on de Wrenville, who’s angry expression had faded when he realized Caius wasn’t going down. His men were muttering words of encouragement, slapping him on the shoulder, trying to bolster his courage to take yet one more drink of the powerful wine.

One more drink!

The moment of truth had arrived.

De Wrenville finally nodded and one of his friends held the cup to his lips. He opened his mouth, the contents were poured in, and he tried to swallow. He made a valiant effort at it. But half of it came spraying out as he coughed, choked, and ended up falling over backwards.

He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The table exploded in cheers and laughter, some men winning, some men losing, and all the while, de Wolfe was extolling the drinking skill of Caius d’Avignon.

Some of the tavern workers, who had been watching the drinking match, rushed off for buckets of cold water, one of which they dumped on de Wrenville to revive him and the other one tossed right into Caius’ face as he sat at the table.

Water splashed everywhere as men continued to laugh and exchange money.

De Wrenville, still unconscious, was dragged away by his men.

One of the servants who worked at The Pox approached Caius with a bar towel made from linen, handing it to him so that he could wipe his face.

It wasn’t very absorbent, but he took it anyway.

“Well?” Bric said in his heavy Irish accent. “How do you feel?”

Caius was dripping wet from the shoulders up. He was still blowing water out of his mouth, even after he had wiped his face with the towel.

“That depends,” he said. “How much money did we make?”

The knights began counting their coinage.

“Six pounds,” Bric said.

“Four pounds,” Kevin said.

Morgan, Peter, Dashiell, and Gareth were all counting their money.

Between the four of them, they’d made almost fifteen pounds, and Caius wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t add that all up in his head.

Truth be told, his head was swimming and he was reluctant to move for fear of falling on his face, but almost twenty-five pounds made it all worthwhile.

“I get half of that for defeating that arrogant halfwit,” he said, pounding the table in front of him with a big fist. “Give me my winnings, you bloody vultures. How dare you force me to drink simply so you can make money.”

They were grinning, but dutifully handed over half of what they made.

It ended up in a big pile in front of Caius, who was pleased at the results.

He pulled out his coin purse in a clumsy gesture, stuffing it full of the silver coins he’d been given.

But he was starting to see double, which was never a good sign, so he tucked his coin purse away and grabbed Bric by the arm.

“Food,” he said. “Bring me food and boiled fruit juice so I can walk from this place at some point tonight.”