Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

I t was cold at dawn.

For the first time in over a month, Athdara had slept on an actual bed and not simply a pallet upon the cold and rocky ground. She'd had a roof over her head and there had been a fire in a pit in the middle of the room, with the smoke curling up to the ceiling and escaping through specially designed holes in the walls.

It had been like heaven to her.

Although the bed had not exactly been comfortable, it was certainly better than what she'd had. She also had two blankets and not one, so she wasn't freezing. The fire had kept the dormitory warm, and all of it would have indeed been heavenly as a whole had she not been in a room full of men.

That was the rub.

Sleeping outside, as she had with the dregs for those long weeks, she and Marina had been given the opportunity to sleep by themselves and away from the group. There had been a little more privacy for them, as the only women in the group, and she didn't realize how much that measure of privacy had meant to her until Cutty showed her where she would sleep in the dormitory.

With a man on either side of her.

Since Athdara had worked hard to get in that slot, she didn't want to create a problem from the onset, but she did politely ask if she could move her bed away from the others, and Cutty had agreed. Unfortunately, she couldn't go too far, so she ended up behind a pillar, which afforded her a little bit of privacy but also blocked some of the heat from the firepit. It was either freeze or lose her privacy.

She chose to freeze.

Athdara slept dreamlessly that first night, not even dreaming of the dark-eyed stranger she'd spent the evening with, until someone came into the dormitory before dawn and used a spoon to bang on something metal.

The message was clear—it was time to rise.

So she did. Men were farting and snorting as they pulled themselves up and proceeded to dress. There were great buckets of icy water brought in by the servants of Blackchurch, but bringing those was about all they did. They didn't clean after the recruits, or feed them, or anything of the sort. All they did was bring up the water.

Athdara had a bowl with her, one of her personal and precious possessions, and she had to push and shove her way to the buckets of clean water to get some. Once she had her bowl about half-full, she rushed back to her little corner behind the pillar and unwrapped a prized sliver of soap. It came from a bigger white bar of Castile soap she'd purchased months ago, and this was the last of it, but she washed her hands and face with it in that freezing water.

It was heavenly.

Using a rag, she washed every other part of her skin that was exposed because cleanliness was one thing she wouldn't give up. She was willing to give up food and privacy and quite possibly even her sanity, but she insisted on bathing as best she could every morning. She didn't feel normal otherwise. When Athdara was a child, her mother had been a great advocate of bathing, and it was simply a habit that Athdara had gotten into.

With hands and forearms, face, neck, belly, and feet washed, she quickly dressed.

She'd slept in her linen hose and tunic, and those went underneath her leather breeches and heavier tunic that she'd paid dearly for back in Paris. When she fled with Nikolai, with coins that Alen gave her before he died, she'd been able to purchase things she and her little brother needed, clothing included. The breeches and tunic were part of a very small collection of clothing she had, and she took good care of them. At least, as good as she could have, but given the rough and tumble of her first few weeks at Blackchurch, the clothing was starting to show wear. She could only imagine the wear it was facing now that she had been accepted as a recruit.

The servants came back, banging on the metal bell, and she quickly ran a comb through her hair and braided it tightly. Boots went on her feet, boots she'd stolen off a dead man in Paris two years ago. They were a little small, but they'd served her well. Finished with dressing, she tucked her possessions under her bed and rushed out of the dormitory with the rest of the men.

The sun was just starting to come up over the eastern horizon as the recruits stumbled out of the old cloisters of Blackchurch and headed south, toward the recruit field. As they walked, servants stood in a line, handing out bread to those who passed by. Athdara grabbed two hunks, shoving them in her mouth and chewing as fast as she could. They passed through the old gardens of the cloister, now nothing more than dead vines and weeds and grass, and through a gap in the old stone wall to the field beyond.

More sunlight beamed as the sun broke free of the horizon, casting golden rays upon the green grass of Devon. It had been a damp night, so there was dew on the grass. Everything smelled wet. Athdara was walking behind a couple of men who were talking about the exercise from the previous day. One man had an enormous bruise on his face and one eye swollen shut. He mentioned something about the beating he took, and Athdara interrupted the pair before she could stop herself.

"Was there fighting going on yesterday, then?" she asked, watching the two men turn to her in surprise. She gestured at their battered faces. "It looks like there was fighting. Were the men pitted against one another?"

One man snorted, looking her up and down. "So you're the new dreg?"

"I'm not a dreg anymore," Athdara said. "But I am new."

The man shook his head. "How can you handle yourself in a fight, love?"

His companion chuckled as Athdara tried not to become incensed. "I don't have any black eyes, do I?" she said. "Better than you, I think."

"Is that so?"

"It is," she said. "I heard you talking about fighting. Is that what the lesson will be today?"

The man with the black eye couldn't seem to muster the will to snap at her to clap back at her for insulting him and his injured face. He yawned. "Probably," he said. "I've seen people like you come and go here, even in the short time I've been here. We all have. Do you know what your problem is?"

"I am certain you are going to tell me."

"You're arrogant," he said. "You think you can last in a fight. That is the kind of attitude that will get you thrown out of here. Remember, love—if they carry you off the field, you'll not come back."

Athdara nodded. "I know," she said. "I've been educated in all the rules. But you didn't answer my question—will we be fighting today?"

The man frowned. "Don't you know what session you're in?"

"What session?"

The man came to a halt, his companion along with him. "Listen to me, lass," he said, lowering his voice. "The first class for all recruits is a physical training class with the meanest, fiercest trainer that Blackchurch has to offer. The Lords of Exmoor figure that if you can survive him, you can survive anything, so put away your pride and be prepared to learn. Otherwise, the Leviathan will make sure you are carried from the field. You'll be lucky to get up again if that's the case."

Athdara was listening with some trepidation. "The Leviathan?"

The man with the black eye nodded. "The creator of doom and chaos," he said. "If Munro's chaos doesn't get you, his doom will. Be on your guard."

That didn't help her sense of apprehension, but she nodded. "Munro," she repeated. "Is that his name?"

"Aye."

"Then I thank you for the warning," she said. "My name is Athdara. You have been kind to tell me this."

The man looked her up and down before snorting again, perhaps baffled by this tall, elegant woman in the midst of raw, brutal recruits. "You couldn't find a husband to keep you out of a place like this?" he asked. "You shouldn't be a Shadow Knight, love."

"And yet here I am," she said, pushing past them politely. "Thank you again. I appreciate your advice."

Leaving the pair standing there watching her go, Athdara rushed after the group as they entered a big, sloping field next to the lake. Dregs and recruits had different fields to work in, and this one was much nicer than the one she'd just come from. More advanced warriors had their own fields, too, at the top of the slopes, so they were much drier and on level ground. Every level of trainee was segregated, and every group of trainees spent at least six months to a year with any given trainer at Blackchurch, and there were several. One would teach tactics, one would teach archery, one would teach combat techniques, one would teach interrogation methods, and so on. Everyone had a purpose.

What is your purpose?

Tay had asked Athdara last night, and she told him that although she didn't know, she was going to find out. She never mentioned that her purpose was in regaining her father's dukedom, and that was why she found herself at Blackchurch. She wanted to learn how to outfight her uncle. She wanted to make connections with warriors, and she wanted to know how to raise an army. She needed to know how to fight, how to be a commander, before she could regain what had been stolen from Nikolai. Everything—all of this—was for her little brother, the rightful duke.

But she had to get through Blackchurch training first.

God help her, she couldn't fail.

She was at the rear of the group when someone started shouting and men started shuffling around. They were forming a line of sorts, so she pushed forward and ended up shoved to the edge of the line. They were turning so that they were facing the sunrise, and the light was very bright. The cloudless sky only made it brighter. Athdara found herself squinting, lifting a hand to shield her eyes, as a few men began to enter from the south side of the field. She knew that the trainers' village was in that direction, so she assumed the trainer and his subordinates were arriving.

She could see a couple of men carrying what looked like a barrel between them, and the barrel was full of clubs. Other men came in behind them and yelled at the recruits to sit down on the grass, so everyone did. Athdara lowered her hand and her gaze from the brightness of the sun, but only for a few seconds, because she heard the men whispering.

Munro.

Quickly, she lifted her head to see this great and terrible trainer called the Leviathan. The creator of chaos.

The tallest man she had ever seen was coming through the gap in the wall and into the training field. She was perhaps the farthest recruit away from him because of the line of men, so she couldn't see him well in the sun's glare, but he headed over to where the clubs in the barrel were. She could only see his back. He bent over and picked up a club that was probably the length of her entire body. Then he turned around, headed in their direction, and came into focus.

The mighty Levithan was revealed.

Tay!

Shock rolled through her. For a moment, Athdara stared at Tay in astonishment, but that faded quickly in lieu of panic. She had to resist the urge to run. She didn't know why she wanted to run, only that she did, mostly because she didn't want him to see her. Her breathing came in quickened rasps and her heart was racing in her chest.

She felt like the biggest fool in the world.

Their conversation from the previous night began to come back to her. Athdara could have kicked herself when she relived how she'd spoken of mystery between them being a good thing. How they could create a world of dreams without revealing their true selves. God, it sounded stupid even as she rolled it over in her brain now. She'd never asked him where he taught, but perhaps she should have given the proximity of Blackchurch. It simply had never crossed her mind.

She wondered if that was going to cost her.

Therefore, she kept her head down.

Tay began to talk to the recruits in a booming, authoritative voice that sounded nothing like that deep purr he used on her last night. The mouth that was speaking words of disdain to a field full of recruits was the same one that had spoken so sweetly to her. The one that had kissed her hand.

God, she was in trouble.

The minutes passed achingly slowly. He spoke of the drill they would have today, which would be two opponents facing one another and each man striking the other in turn. This was a drill of endurance. The longer the men could stand against one another, the better. One man would strike first, then the other would strike, and so on. The last man standing would be able to sit out the rest of the training session.

Then the nightmare grew worse.

"We have new recruits with us today!" Tay was bellowing above the heads of the group. "Two new recruits from the gaggle of recent dregs. One of those recruits is a woman, I'm told. I thought to demonstrate today's drill on her. Where is she?"

Athdara found herself praying the earth would swallow her up, but no great cavern formed beneath her. God wasn't merciful. The men began snorting rudely as everyone turned in her direction, and she knew she had no choice but to reveal herself. With genuine regret and remorse, she lifted her head, stood up, and stepped forward to face Tay.

The look on his face was something she would remember for the rest of her life.

*

"We have new recruits with us today!" Tay shouted, taking pleasure in the look of fear washing over the recruits at his feet. He loved this part of his duties best—instilling utter terror into those he trained. "Two new recruits from the gaggle of recent dregs. One of those recruits is a woman, I'm told. I'd thought to demonstrate today's drill on her. Where is she?"

Those words hung in the air. He was facing about forty recruits on this day, with the rising sun blasting into their vision so they could only look up and see his form silhouetted with the light behind him. It was a glorious day after a glorious night, an evening he'd thought about before he went to sleep and also when he woke up. Visions of the beautiful Athdara filled his thoughts, and he was in a good mood. At least, good for him. Probably not so good for his recruits, because he felt fortified and ready to work. But first, he would go to work on the new woman recruit and make sure she didn't come back.

That was, at least, until he saw her.

At first, he couldn't believe it. He thought he was seeing things. Perhaps that beautiful woman had infiltrated his brain more than he realized and now all women looked like her. But she started walking toward him, and Tay realized he wasn't dreaming.

Athdara was the new female recruit.

He felt as if he'd been hit in the gut.

From the way she was looking at him, he suspected she felt the same way. She looked rather sick. He'd been lifting the club in his hand, raised and threatening as he spoke to the recruits, but the closer she came to him, the more he lowered it until it was on the ground and he was staring at her and trying not to be obvious in his reaction. He mainly felt shock. Disappointment was another feeling. Perhaps even some horror, because he'd built this moment up and now had to prove himself on a woman who had lit him up as he'd never been lit up in his life.

He was going to have to hurt her.

Focus riveted to that exquisite face, he closed the gap between them.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he muttered.

Athdara looked as if she were about to cry. "Why didn't you tell me ?"

He didn't have an answer for her, not really. But the fact that the situation between them had come to this enraged him. Suddenly, he was furious.

"You probably already knew when you entered the tavern," he growled. "You've been a dreg for a month. How could you not know who I was?"

She blinked, startled by his anger. "Because dregs do not mix with the rest of Blackchurch," she hissed. " You know that. These are your rules. There is no way I could have known who you are."

That was more than likely true. Dregs were kept far from trainers and recruits for the most part. He didn't even know why he'd said that, only that his anger had the better of him. He'd finally met a woman he could warm to, and here she was, a recruit. One of his recruits.

He simply couldn't believe his horrific luck.

He wanted her out. He wanted her out of Blackchurch. He'd help her find another profession, something that didn't involve the covert operations of the Blackchurch Guild. Perhaps he'd buy a home somewhere and keep her there, where she could pursue ladylike pursuits and he'd have himself a mistress. Anything to get her out of Blackchurch and the training she was about to face. He hated to think what she was in for if she remained.

"Fair enough," he finally said. "We will not discuss it. But I will ask you to walk out, Athdara. Will you leave and go to The Black Cock? I will find you there tonight and we will… discuss this situation then."

She shook her head. "There is nothing to discuss," she said. "I am here, and I am going to train. You said you were a teacher. I am willing to learn."

They were taking up too much time with this private, hissing conversation, and Tay didn't want his recruits to think something strange was going on. As it was, they probably thought he was trying to warn her off before things got started, which was the truth.

But there was more to it than that.

"If you stay, I cannot treat you differently than any other recruit."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

She nodded. "I do."

"Then I must make an example of you."

Her jaw flexed, but she didn't cower or ask what he meant. She knew. Tay knew. They looked at each other, and a ripple of sorrow crossed his features. She was either being stubborn or noble; he wasn't sure which. But he was going to have to break her.

Reaching out, he pushed her back by the shoulder and turned to the recruits.

"I will demonstrate this exercise," he said loudly. "The purpose of this exercise, as I said, is to determine how long men can stand against one another in a show of endurance. One man will hit first, then the second man will hit. The blows will go back and forth until one man folds. You may hit a man anywhere between his head and his feet. There is nothing that is off-limits. Are there any questions?"

One man raised his hand. "When we face an opponent, who will go first, my lord?"

Tay motioned over one of his assistants, a big man with short brown hair who was dressed almost exclusively in tanned leather. "This is Bowen de Bermingham," he said. "You will obey him as you obey me. He will have each man draw straws. Whoever draws the shortest straw will receive the first blow. Are there any further questions?"

The recruits shook their heads, looking at each other, but no one spoke. Satisfied they understood what was expected, Tay faced Athdara. He pointed to the barrel filled with clubs.

"Choose your weapon," he growled.

Athdara's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she headed over to the barrel and began rifling through the clubs. All the while, she was thinking of what she needed to do. She didn't want to hurt him, but she didn't want to fail, either. He said nothing was off-limits, and, as a woman, Athdara knew where to hit a man hardest with the best chance of having him fall. She'd had to do it before—aiming for a man's privates in a fight—and she was very sorry she was going to have to do that to Tay. But in this situation, it was either him or her, and she was determined that she would be the last man standing.

The last woman standing.

She collected her club.

It was made from very old wood, long and heavy, solid like a rock, with a big, bulbous tip to it. Just perfect to plow into a man's crotch. God help her, she had to do it but was loath to.

She went to stand a few feet away from him.

Tay's focus never left her face as he motioned Bowen over. Without any consideration to the fact that she was a lady and it would be polite to let her draw first, Tay drew the first straw and held it up. Bowen held up the second one he'd had in his hand.

Tay drew the long straw.

Athdara's heart sank when she realized that she would receive the first blow. She wasn't sure where he was going to aim, but given how big he was, a blow to her head could quite possibly knock her unconscious. If that happened, her quest to train at Blackchurch would be over before it started. He'd already made it clear that he didn't want her here, so as Tay began to circle her, holding his giant club with considerable ease, Athdara tracked him. She didn't know how she was going to brace herself against what would undoubtedly be a horrific blow, but she was going to try.

Suddenly, Tay came to a halt.

"Let me be clear that you are only allowed one blow at a time," he said to the recruits. "Your opponent is allowed to fall, but if he cannot rise again, he is eliminated. Is that understood?"

The recruits nodded. He looked at Athdara, who also nodded.

Then he began to circle again.

The mood turned dark, filled with anxiety and uncertainty. Athdara watched him, his big body, every twitch and every step. She was trying to anticipate when he was going to move toward her, and when he finally did, it was as fast as lightning. Suddenly, he was in front of her swinging the club at her knees. Damage the knees and she wouldn't be able to go on.

He may be fast, but she was faster—when she saw him swing for her knees, she leapt up, pulling her legs up against her body, completely missing the club. In fact, she'd simply jumped over it.

The move surprised Tay as well as the group. His momentum nearly brought him full circle, and it was an effort to stop himself from spinning once his swinging club met with air and not a physical barrier.

Athdara landed on her feet, wide-eyed and breathless, and Tay's eyes narrowed at her.

"I suppose I should have been clear that the man receiving the blow cannot move," he said. "That is not how this works. But since I was not clear, I will allow that you have avoided the blow this time. But not the next time. Is that clear?"

Athdara nodded. "It is, my lord."

He nodded back. "Very well," he said, dropping his club and simply standing there. "Go ahead. Do your worst."

Athdara didn't want to. She really didn't want to hit him in any fashion, but she didn't have a choice. She had to make this blow count so he wouldn't get up and take her head off. Terrified, she walked up to him, gripped the club with both hands, and swung it as hard as she could straight into his privates.

The group of recruits gasped.

Tay immediately folded over, his hands on his thighs, but he didn't stagger. As Athdara stood there and panted, verging on tears, everyone who had witnessed the blow seemed to be holding their breath, and that included Tay.

After several long, excruciating moments, he vomited. Everything he'd eaten for the past week and then some came flying from his mouth and onto the grass. The man heaved and heaved until he could heave no more.

Athdara couldn't take it.

Tossing the club aside, she headed out of the field. She just started walking. The tears came, and she began to weep. Sobbing, she began to run, heading toward the cloister, where she would gather her things and leave. There was no turning back at that point. She'd done something she shouldn't have done, but she hadn't known better. She didn't know what else to do. Warfare wasn't always noble knights politely swinging swords. It was brutal and nasty, and it was about survival. That was what she had been doing—surviving.

But she knew there was no coming back from that.

By the time she hit the cloister, she was hysterical. She went straight to her corner and grabbed her meager satchel, shoving her things into it, including the blanket on top of her bed. She didn't have one and would need it whilst traveling. She didn't know what she was going to do now, but she would have to explain it to Lord Exmoor. He'd graciously agreed to let her into Blackchurch without the usual pledge. Men, or women, either paid the fee up front or pledged to pay it from their future earnings. St. Denis had waived all of that because he'd known her father. That was her connection to Blackchurch and why she'd come.

But now, she knew she couldn't stay.

Everything was ruined.

With her things gathered, she tossed her cloak on and began to head out. She trudged across the former cloister, now mere ruins, heading for the north gatehouse. That was the one less traveled, and she didn't want to be seen. She didn't want anyone to see her shame as she fled Blackchurch.

She was on the road, halfway between the dormitory and the gatehouse, when someone came up behind her.

"Wait. Lady, stop ."

Startled, she came to a halt to see Bowen standing behind her. He was out of breath, as if he'd been running.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

Athdara backed away from him. "I'm leaving," she said. "You need not worry over me."

"Please, stop," he said, holding out a hand but making no move to grab her. "I'm not entirely sure why you are leaving, but Munro wants you to return. He told me to find you and bring you back."

Athdara shook her head. "Nay," she said hoarsely. "I cannot. Not after what I did."

"What you did was brilliant."

She stopped, her eyes widening. "What?" she gasped. "How can you say that?"

Bowen wasn't quite sure why she was so upset. "Because you exploited a weakness," he said. "That is exactly what you are supposed to do. Are you going to come back or not?"

She blinked. That certainly wasn't what she had expected to hear. But she wasn't going to fall for the praise. She'd bashed Tay in his privates out of sheer panic and regretted it immediately. The man who had spoken so sweetly to her, who had made her feel giddy—she'd just ruined everything, and it was a complication she didn't need. She would have to figure out some other way to seek revenge against her uncle, but Blackchurch wasn't it.

"Nay," she finally said, her voice trembling. "I thank you for asking, but I am not coming back. Tell Munro… tell him that I am sorry. So very sorry."

With that, she turned around and began to walk again, heading to the gatehouse that faced north. It was the second of two gatehouses protecting Blackchurch's perimeter, and the road led into the wilds of Exmoor before gradually joining up with a larger road that led to the coast. She'd go to the coast and find a job, anything where she could earn a little money, and figure out what to do from there.

Her destiny didn't lie at Blackchurch.