Chapter Eight
“Where in the hell have you been? Lord Exmoor has been looking for you since last night.”
It was dawn. Tay had just returned to Blackchurch, quite alone, because Athdara had been gone when he awoke.
In the predawn morning, he’d thundered his way back to Blackchurch only to run into Bowen, who seemed surprised to see him.
They met up on the street of the trainer village, just to the east of the burned-out remains of the old church and near the cloister.
Tay, who had slept heavily at the old lodge, had a bit of a headache and was in no mood for criticism or concern.
“I was not aware I could not leave when my training was finished and return before it began,” he said, frowning. “If you must know, I went in search of the woman who ran yesterday after clubbing me in the heir-maker.”
“Why?” Bowen said. “She returned this morning.”
Tay’s eyebrows lifted. “She did?”
Bowen nodded. “She was with the group this morning,” he said. “She is out on the field right now.”
Tay struggled not to look too relieved or surprised.
He tried to remain perfectly neutral. When he’d awoken to find her gone, he had to admit that he felt foolish, as if he’d been lied to and duped.
He thought that she had planned to run off all along, but instead, she’d come back to Blackchurch just as she said she would and was waiting for him to continue her training.
Perhaps that meant she was truly serious about all of this, and when he realized that, he didn’t feel so angry or duped.
But he had to admit that he had been disappointed not to travel back with her.
Damn him… he’d been looking forward to the trip, just the two of them.
More conversation, more balm to heal what he’d thought was his broken heart.
For two years, he thought it had been broken.
But with the arrival of Athdara, maybe it hadn’t been broken so much as slightly bruised.
That kind of thought had never happened before.
Something very concerning was happening to him.
And perhaps even slightly wonderful.
“Very well,” he said. “Today, they’ll run.
Have them run around the lake at least five times.
These days are about endurance, so let them endure.
Tomorrow, we’ll have them do more activity to strengthen their upper bodies, and then we’ll have them run again.
You know how these things are done, Bowen.
Get them moving. I am off to see Lord Exmoor. ”
Bowen nodded smartly and was off, heading to the field where the recruits who had survived yesterday were now waiting for their instructions.
Tay rushed toward his cottage, one of many that had been confiscated those years ago.
Literally, the entire village of Eastmoor had been absorbed by Blackchurch, so it looked like any other village anywhere in England.
Except elite trainers and other Blackchurch-related personnel lived there.
Tay’s cottage was one of the larger ones.
It was attached to the cottages on either side of it, as all of the cottages were, a line of Medieval architecture along Eastmoor’s main street.
It was a mix of wattle and daub as well as brick, some whitewashed, some not.
Tay’s cottage was three-storied, with a kitchen and common room and a small annex on the ground floor, and then a narrow flight of stairs built into the wall that led to three chambers upstairs.
There was also a second, even smaller flight of stairs that led to another room on the third floor.
The door to Tay’s cottage was unlocked. It was always unlocked, as were all of the cottages along the road, because only a madman would try to enter one of them, much less attempt to rob a trainer.
Tay rushed into the cottage with its old eating area and hearth, one he’d never used, and a table with chairs that he had hardly used except to throw things upon it, like shoes or tunics or swords.
Upstairs were his bed and his wardrobe as well as a basin with cold water, always available, where he quickly washed his face and hands.
Stripping off his tunic, he used a cake of hard white soap and washed his neck and, very quickly, his hair.
After dunking his head in the water, he rinsed off the soap and used a stale towel that smelled a little of mold, one he’d used many times, to dry off.
Grabbing a fresh tunic, he pulled it over his head as he rushed out of his cottage.
The sun was steadily rising over the green Devon landscape as he made his way toward Exford Castle.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t washed for St. Denis, but rather because he would be seeing Athdara later on, and he didn’t want to look like an animal.
Or smell like one, either. He had to laugh at himself, feeling rather ridiculous for caring what she thought, but he’d had two solid conversations with the woman, and that had been enough to cement his interest in her.
Regardless of her situation, or his, there was attraction there that could not be denied.
That was the truth of it.
He wasn’t sure what “more” he wanted from her.
He couldn’t articulate that particular thought.
But he was a determined man that morning, determined to speak with St. Denis and explain the situation with Athdara de Ghent and his solution to it.
But he also wanted to discuss what her true intention was and the barriers she would be facing.
He wasn’t sure how much St. Denis knew, but Tay was in a tricky position—he was well known to be very hard on any women recruits. Now, he was going to advocate for one.
He didn’t want to come across like a fool.
Exford Castle gleamed in the early-morning sun, the eastern side of the stark gray walls lit up by the rays.
The curtain wall and the keep itself were set deep in the red earth of Devon, making a sharp contrast in color as Tay passed through the gatehouse guarded by a few of the de Bottreaux soldiers.
St. Denis didn’t keep a big army, but there were soldiers, about five hundred of them, who manned the perimeter walls of Blackchurch as well as the castle and keep itself.
They had their own encampment near the stables, which were close to the north gate.
The keep of Exford loomed in front of him, for the castle didn’t have a very large bailey.
It was quite small compared to some. The keep took up most of the space, a large, square building that had five floors, including the belowground vault.
Tay took the wooden stairs to the entry on the first floor, admitted by a soldier who stood at the door simply to make sure no one uninvited entered the keep.
The keep itself was dark and cool, the entry lit by light from windows in one of the two chambers on the floor, including an enormous solar used by St. Denis. Tay hadn’t taken two steps into the entry when he was met by St. Sebastian.
The tall, red-haired de Bottreaux brother grinned at him. “S-so you are alive,” he said, reaching out to clap Tay on the arm. “W-we’ve been looking for you.”
Tay smiled at the man he genuinely liked. “So I heard,” he said. “Where is your father?”
St. Sebastian gestured toward the solar. “I-in there,” he said, lowering his voice. “H-he wants to t-talk to you about the de Ghent lass.”
Tay nodded, already knowing the subject, already prepared for what was to come. “I am prepared, Sebo,” he said quietly. “Is his mood good?”
“G-good enough.”
“Is he alone?”
“M-Ming Tang and Aamir are with him now.”
Tay thanked St. Sebastian and continued on into the solar.
The chamber that St. Denis claimed as his solar was the same room that generations of his family had used as well, meaning it was packed with possessions that his ancestors had claimed over the decades.
Great pieces of carved furniture lined the walls, from tables to cabinets, and the dusty floor was covered with fine hides.
Tapestries hung from the ceiling, pushed aside to admit light and air into the chamber, and a hearth that could fit three men easily burned brightly.
Everything smelled like leather and smoke.
This was the heart of the de Bottreaux empire, and Tay had been here many times.
The moment he entered the solar, he could see the players in the room.
He could see St. Denis standing next to an enormous table that had been brought all the way from Rome in a merchant caravan.
It was made of some exotic wood that could not be found in England, and some ancestor purchased it as a prize to show off to envious visitors.
Over the years, the surface of it had become worn and scratched and pitted from all of the business that had been conducted upon its surface, but the table was legendary.
Sometimes Tay wondered if that table wasn’t where the Lords of Exmoor gained their power.
It was part of the family as much as St. Denis or his sons.
Over near one of the lancet windows that faced west stood Ming Tang.
He’d been speaking to St. Denis when Tay entered, and farther down the wall, near another lancet window, sat Aamir.
Tall and handsome, with flowing black locks, a dark beard, and equally dark eyes, Aamir ibn Rashad was a warm and compassionate individual.
Considering his father was a great warlord, that was saying something.
Aamir was born to battle, bred in battle, and steeped in battle, yet one would never know from his behavior.
Sometimes the man came across like a father confessor or a priest, wise and gentle in ways that men usually weren’t.
But he could cut a man’s heart out and never break a sweat.
“Ah,” St. Denis said when he saw Tay enter the chamber. “We have been speaking of you, Tay. I realize you have a group to train this morning, but I was hoping for a few words with you regarding Athdara de Ghent. Were you told?”