Page 3 of The Tempest
He was speaking of a vicious war in Southern France that had been going on for years. “It will come tae no good end,” Payne said, shaking his head. “That is a feud fought by the church. No one wants tae be involved in a holy war, Amir.”
“You would not go if someone offered you a good deal of money?” Aamir asked.
Payn continued to shake his head. “I wouldnot,” he said. “No one wins in a holy war. It goes on and on until there are no more men left tae fight it. Look at King Richard’s crusade thirty years ago. Who won? It was not the English, lads.”
“The Christian armies won several battles,” Aamir reminded him.
“But they failed tae capture Jerusalem,” Payne pointed out. “That is why the Christian armies went in the first place, tae take Jerusalem from Saladin. Aye, I remember my history, Aamir. I know that Richard and the Christians shouldna have gone. They should have left the Levant tae the people who live in the land. There was too much death and destruction and too many fine Christian men lost.”
“You speak as though it was personal, Payne,” Tay spoke up, a faint smile on his lips. “War should never be taken personally.”
Payne looked at him. “My da fought with Richard’s army,” he said. “My mother said that when he returned, he wasna the same man. It did something tae him. So, nay, I wouldna fight in a holy war, no matter how much money I was offered.”
“But you would fight if Henry wanted to fight the Welsh?” Tay said.
Payne nodded firmly. “I dunna like the Welsh,” he said, listening to the snorts of laughter from his friends. He looked down the table, finding one of the newer trainers. “And I dunna like the Irish, either, de Bermingham. If ye have something tae say tae me about that, do it now. Fight me if ye must.”
Bowen de Bermingham knew Payne well enough to know that the man didn’t mean it. Not much, anyway. Payne was vocal about disliking everyone from nearly every country and even some Scotsmen, but that was part of his brash personality. He never meant it until someone threw a punch, and then he’d grin, back down, and buy the man he insulted more drink. He was a loveable scoundrel, as Tay’s wife, Athdara, so kindly put it.
A loveable scoundrel with fists of iron.
And Bowen knew it.
“I will not fight you,” he said, waving his hands in surrender. “My father’s father was from Ireland, but my father was born here. So was my mother. And if you must know, I find my Irish relations intolerable, too.”
Payne burst out laughing. A serving wench passed him with a full pitcher and he gently grasped the girl, pulling the pitcher from her hand and pouring himself a full cup before giving it back to her so she could take it down the table. After a hard night, everyone was relaxed and jovial, and more conversations, accusations, good-natured insults, and even boasts were passedaround the table. It was a regular night after a regular day of training. Everyone was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
Until St. Sebastian de Bottreaux appeared.
The heir to the Blackchurch empire was well liked by those who served him and his father. He was highly trained, just like the Blackchurch trainers were, but he tended to think more with his heart than his head. His older brother, St. Gerard, had been accidentally killed a few years earlier, so the man had stepped into an unexpected position he hadn’t necessarily been trained for.
His appearance at the tavern was an unusual one. Payne saw him first and he elbowed Tay, who elbowed Fox, seated next to him. The three of them stood up to catch St. Sebastian’s attention, and when they did, the entire table caught sight of what had their focus and they, too, stood up. When St. Sebastian saw them, he quickly moved through the smoky common room of the tavern and into the semiprivate alcove.
“I am very sorry to disrupt your evening of celebration,” he said, looking mostly at Payne and Tay and the men around them. “Unfortunately, we’ve received some concerning news and my father wants all of you returned to Blackchurch. We will be sealing up the gatehouses.”
Tay still had his cup of wine in his hand. “God’s Bones,” he muttered, puzzled. “What is so concerning that we are sealing the gatehouses?”
St. Sebastian reached onto the table and picked up Creston’s cup of wine, draining it before speaking because he’d run all the way from Blackchurch. “We have just received word from Abelard,” he said, referring to his father’s cousin, St. Abelard de Bottreaux, the man who was in command of the more violent and scandalous arm of the de Bottreaux empire. “One of his men just arrived on a sweaty horse, having ridden all the way from Minehead.”
“At night?” Tay said incredulously.
St. Sebastian nodded. “At night,” he confirmed. “As you know, Abelard and his band of pirates control the coast from Minehead to Ilfracombe,” he said. “Triton’s Hellions are all over Bristol Channel and the southern coast of Wales.”
The trainers were nodding. “We know,” Tay said. “And Santiago de Fernandez and the Demons of the Sea are on the west coast of Cornwall, among other places.”
St. Sebastian lifted his hand to beg patience. “They are,” he said. “I am telling you what you already know, but there is a reason for that. It seems that a faction of Scottish pirates entered the Bristol Channel several days ago and tried to dock at Minehead. Abelard chased them away but he’s fairly certain they simply dodged him and came ashore near Highbridge. He heard rumor that they were moving inland, down the River Parrett. Abelard got the impression that they were trying to reach Blackchurch because when they tried to come ashore at Minehead, they kept asking how to reach the Lords of Exmoor.”
That brought bewilderment to the men at the table, who looked at each other in confusion.
“Are you telling us that a band of pirates is coming to attack Blackchurch?” Aamir finally said. “Whoare they?”
St. Sebastian shook his head. “All I know is that Abelard’s messenger told us,” he said. “He has said they are Scottish pirates and the only Scottish pirates we know are those we do not speak of. They have terrorized the entire west coast of Scotland, England, and Wales for years, but they’ve never come this far south.”
“But now they are,” Tay said grimly.
St. Sebastian nodded, apprehension in his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “It seems so.”
“Medusa’s Disciples.”
