Chapter 1

Le Chateau de Montmarin

The clamorous din from inside the bawdy tavern shredded the calm of the salty night air as Gaultier went into the Drunken Crow to drag his brother home. As usual, Cardin was passed out on a table in the back of the inn, a mug of ale next to his bloodied fist.

Amongst the strands of long brown hair stuck to the side of Cardin’s unconscious head, Gaultier noted the swollen eye, bruises, and dried blood smeared across the bearded face. With a broken table, chair, and shattered glass all over the nearby floor, it appeared that, once again, Cardin had been in a boisterous brawl.

Which meant that Gaultier would have to pay for the damages.

And pick up the pieces of his battered, broken brother.

As he stood at the entrance of the tavern quickly assessing the situation, female servers with platters of savory seafood and pitchers of ale scurried about, weaving between tables where sailors, knights, and fishermen celebrated in raucous revelry. Floating notes of flutes, lutes, and lyres accompanied a troubadour’s melodic voice near a crackling fire in the enormous stone hearth along a wooden side wall. The innkeeper—a stout, balding man with a soiled white apron and a scowl upon his florid face—indicated with an impatient jut of his chin the destruction that Cardin had caused.

For which the disgruntled owner expected prompt, generous compensation.

Gaultier strode over to the mahogany bar, handed the portly man a bag of silver, and headed toward the rear of the tavern to rouse his inebriated sibling.

He shook Cardin’s shoulder and grabbed hold of his arm, peeling his plastered torso from the wooden tabletop. “C’mon, let’s go home. Get you in bed to sleep it off.”

Grumbling incoherently, Cardin staggered to unsteady feet, wavy locks adhered by drool, blood, and vomit to the side of his bristled, crumpled cheek. Supported by Gaultier’s steadfast grip, he leaned against his older, taller brother’s sturdy shoulder, stumbled across the floor, and practically fell out the exit door.

“I’m sick of dragging you out of every tavern in town. I’d rather be at the Sultry Siren, bedding a beautiful wench. Like Dolssa, who’s probably waiting for me right now. By the Goddess, Cardin, you have to stop this insanity. Or your gambling, drinking, and bloody temper will get you killed!”

Moonlight reflected off the turbulent ocean as Gaultier half dragged, half carried his younger brother along the narrow cobblestone street from the center of the town of Biarritz, up the steep incline to the stone fortress of le Chateau de Montmarin, perched atop the peninsular promontory overlooking the savage sea.

He missed la Bretagne —Brittany—and the northern coast of France. The Celtic traditions of his Breton heritage. The craggy cliffs and delicious crêpes . The family and friends he’d left behind.

For the past six years, he and Cardin—along with a regiment of four dozen royal knights from le Chateau de Beaufort in the northern Breton kingdom of Finistère — had defended the Atlantic coast of Aquitaine for King Philippe le Bel of France.

Sent by their own King Guillemin, a vassal of the French King Philippe, the Breton knights simultaneously squelched uprisings by English rebels anxious to claim the coveted duchy, while maintaining political alliances with the Spanish regions of Navarra and Aragón.

Far from their beloved Celtic home.

And for Cardin, far from horrific memories much too painful to confront.

The guards at the watchtower gate of le Chateau de Montmarin recognized the two brothers as fellow knights and allowed them entry through the outer curtain wall of the white limestone castle. Gaultier hauled Cardin across the inner bailey, through the enormous wooden entrance doors, and up the winding stone staircase to the third floor of the oceanfront fortress.

Along the length of the smooth stone walls, fragrant beeswax candles in metal sconces illuminated the dimly lit corridor. At the end of the long hall, Gaultier opened the heavy oak door which led into the modest quarters that the Breton brothers shared.

Inside their bedroom, two windows on the western wall opposite the entrance door offered a moonlit view of the tumultuous sea. On the left, embers banked in the stone fireplace emitted a gentle warmth against the damp evening chill. And along the right wall stood two beds, separated by a small table with an unlit candle and a pair of walnut chairs.

Gaultier seated a semiconscious Cardin on the edge of the bed to remove his brother’s blood-soaked clothing and ale-drenched leather boots. The repulsive, familiar stench of vomit and urine assailed his seasoned nostrils.

Mumbling incoherently in protest at being stripped of his filthy attire, a naked Cardin fell asleep almost instantly as soon as his injured head hit the straw-filled pillow.

Gaultier, eyeing the bruises, dried blood, and gruesome gash which a healer would need to treat tomorrow, tucked the woolen blankets over his sleeping brother’s shoulder with an exasperated sigh of resignation. The gambling and drunken brawls were becoming increasingly frequent, extremely expensive, and exceedingly dangerous. Cardin was not only drowning his sorrow to escape his heart-wrenching past, but he was also acquiring far too many enemies, anxious for revenge.

This year, Gaultier vowed as he removed his own apparel and prepared for bed, he would bring Cardin home.

Even if he had to drag him—drunken, grumbling and unwilling—the entire length of France.