Chapter 3

Basati

The salty brine of the ocean breeze and the squawk of seagulls roused Cardin de Landuc from a groggy, drunken sleep. He groaned as he tried to lift his throbbing head off the pillow. One of his eyes was swollen shut, so he could only peer at his surroundings from the corner of the other. He recognized the wooden table and two chairs against the stone wall. The empty bed near the exit door belonged to his older brother Gaultier. He was in his own bedroom in le Chateau de Montmarin.

Gaultier must have dragged him home from the tavern last night.

Again.

Like he’d done nearly every night since they’d come to Aquitaine six years ago.

A burning wound on his face reminded him of last night’s drunken fight. He’d been gambling on dice, as usual, and had won several rounds of passe-dix when his opponent—an ornery shipping merchant named Andoni Zilar—had accused him of cheating and swung his fist into Cardin’s jaw.

A few pirates and fishermen had joined in the fray, knocking down chairs and breaking glasses, when Zilar drew his jagged knife.

And—as an inebriated Cardin fought ineffectively to defend himself—carved a wicked gash in his left cheek.

Cardin couldn’t remember anything after that. I must have passed out on the table. Or been hit hard by one of Zilar’s thugs.

Cardin moaned as he rolled onto his back, his aching body battered and bruised. Dried blood adhered the pillow covering to the garish knife wound on his maimed face. His mouth was parched, and he desperately needed water.

And the chamber pot on the castle floor.

“ Egun on , mon frère. It’s about time you woke up.” Gaultier spoke a mélange of the Basque dialect and their native French as he greeted his suffering, scarred brother. “I have a healer coming to treat your wounds. Here, drink this.” He poured a large mug of watered ale from a pitcher and handed it to Cardin, who gulped it down greedily.

“I need to piss.” A naked Cardin rose unsteadily to his feet and relieved himself in the chamber pot. When he’d finished, he scanned the room with his one good eye. “Where are my clothes?”

“They were covered in vomit, piss, and blood. I wanted to burn them, but the chambermaid insisted on washing them in the river. For now, you can wear these.” Gaultier indicated a clean tunic and breeches lying on the adjacent bed. “ After the healer treats you.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. At the entrance stood an older man with long grey hair and scraggly beard, holding a satchel of herbs. “ Egun on . I’m Lasko, the healer you summoned.”

With a wave of his hand, Gaultier beckoned the man to enter. He indicated Cardin, sitting on the edge of the bed. “My brother was in a fight last night. At the Drunken Crow. A group of pirates attacked him, and one of them slashed his face. Can you stitch him up?”

Lasko grasped Cardin’s jaw and tilted his patient’s head toward the light coming in from the two windows overlooking the ocean. “Nasty wound. Good thing I’ve got herbs to prevent it from festering. Bai, I can stitch him up. But this will leave a jagged scar. Shame to ruin such a pretty face.” The healer snickered gruffly, then flashed a wicked grin. “But some ladies do prefer a rugged look. Might be to your advantage after all.”

Cardin scoffed as the healer applied a foul-smelling ointment to the burning slash on his left cheek. He didn’t want to attract any ladies. He’d been actively avoiding them for the past six years.

Half an hour later, after Lasko had finished stitching up Cardin’s wound, the healer gathered his salves and ointments, gratefully accepting the coin Gaultier offered him as payment. “ Eskerrak . Thank you, Sir Gaultier.” The old man addressed his bedridden patient while heading toward the exit door. “Take my advice. Stay away from Andoni Zilar and his henchmen. And avoid the Drunken Crow.” A wary gleam in his wise eyes and a stern warning in his raspy voice, Lasko nodded farewell to the two brothers and retreated from the castle chamber.

“I’m off to the lists to train with the knights. You stay in bed and rest today. I’ll bring food when I come back later.” Gaultier donned his chain mail armor and coif headpiece, then strapped on his gleaming Spanish sword. His resolute expression and commanding tone brooked no argument. “Don’t even think about going out tonight. I want an undisturbed evening with the beautiful Dolssa. You owe me that, little brother.”

Cardin eased his bandaged, battered body down onto the bed, wincing in pain. “Agreed,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “No taverns, gambling, or fighting. I give you my word.” Cardin downed another mug of watered ale and set the empty container on the table between the two beds. “I’m in no condition to go anywhere.” He gazed up at the dark-haired older brother who’d been like a guardian for the past six insufferable, desolate years. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“Someone has to, Basati. You don’t care if you live or die. But I do .” Gaultier grasped Cardin’s shoulder and gave it an affectionate, fraternal squeeze. “Get some sleep. See you later.”

As the heavy wooden door closed quietly behind Gaultier’s retreating bulk, Cardin glanced at his sheathed dagger lying upon the bedside table.

An intricately carved head of a massive wolf adorned the elaborate hilt. The eye of the savage beast—a dark green faceted emerald—glinted in the morning light. Cardin reflected upon the weapon which had inspired his unique nickname. Basati. A Basque word for wolf, it also meant vicious brute. Barbarian.

Apt words to describe me.

Cardin placed a bent arm across his pounding forehead and sighed in exasperation, shame, and pain. He’d not always been a drunken rogue, gambling and dicing in local taverns and inns. He never used to brawl with pirates and marauders, sustaining grievous injuries and accruing powerful, vengeful enemies. He never used to drink himself senseless every night, seeking oblivion from the grief and guilt which gnawed mercilessly at his gut like the sharp, pointed fangs of a ravenous rodent.

Charlotte’s ethereal face hovered above him.

Not since you were taken from me, my love.

Images of her were tantalizing. Taunting. Tormenting.

The long cascade of soft, golden curls. Brilliant eyes as blue as the Breton sea. Supple skin, soft as silk.

While his traitorous body throbbed with agonizing need, his broken heart clenched in shame.

Lust had caused his wife’s death.

He, Cardin, had planted his seed deep in her fertile womb. And in doing so, had lost the woman who had meant more to him than life itself.

He could still hear her heart-wrenching screams. Three torturous days of unbearable agony as she struggled to give birth. And finally, on the Winter Solstice—the darkest day of the year when night overwhelms the light—his beloved wife sacrificed her life to bring forth his heir.

The infant Cardin had rejected since birth.

The son he had never even seen.

Lukaz.

When the midwife—her arms still dripping with Charlotte’s lifeblood—had offered the squalling babe for Cardin to hold, he’d refused. Instead, he’d gathered his beloved wife in shaking arms, bellowed like a wounded beast, and retreated, numb with shock, to his isolated private chamber.

His sister-in-law Gabrielle had assured Cardin the wet nurse would feed and care for the motherless, hungry babe. An indifferent Cardin made no effort to see his newborn son.

After the funeral, Cardin returned Charlotte’s dowry—including the demesne and manor house in Saint-Renan where they had lived and she had died—to her grateful, grieving parents.

His older brother Bastien had insisted that Cardin and his infant son Lukaz come live with his wife Gabrielle and him at le Chateau de Beaufort , where Cardin and his two older siblings had trained and now served as royal knights to Gabrielle’s father, King Guillemin of Finistère.

And Cardin, a ghostlike guest in the castle for three endless, empty months, kept to his solitary room.

And refused to see his infant son.

Servants brought him food, which he left largely untouched.

Bastien and Gaultier tried to coax him back to the lists to train with the Breton knights of Beaufort.

But it was Gabrielle’s royal father, King Guillemin of Finistère—loyal vassal to King Philippe le Bel of France—who had offered the solution to Cardin’s intolerable suffering.

The chance to flee from debilitating pain.

The opportunity to escape the constant reminders of the joyous life he had lost.

By venturing to distant Aquitaine, the vast province along the Atlantic coastline of southwestern France near the border with Spain.

Accompanied by his older brother Gaultier and four dozen Breton knights from Finistère, Cardin would reside in Biarritz, the heart of the Basque country, in the clifftop castle of le Chateau de Montmarin. To defend King Philippe’s precarious hold on the valuable duchy of Aquitaine against the English rebels who claimed it as theirs.

And so, for the past six interminable years, Cardin—nicknamed Basati for the wolf-head knife that he wielded and the vicious brute he’d become—had defended the French King Philippe of Paris.

Obeyed his sovereign lord, King Guillemin of Finistère.

And tried, unsuccessfully, to drown his guilt and grief in causing his wife’s death and abandoning his infant son.

In every raucous, riotous tavern in town.