Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Exford Castle

"S he did what ?"

"Hit him squarely in his manhood with a club. Nearly toppled him."

St. Denis de Bottreaux stared at the man who had just delivered the most astonishing report from the morning's training session with Tay Munro. His Leviathan. Or, from what he'd heard, it sounded more like David against Goliath, and Goliath had taken a nasty blow.

"Christ," St. Denis hissed. "Did he kill her?"

"Nay."

St. Denis wiped a hand of relief across his aged forehead. "Praise God," he said. "Tay does not like women as it is, so I am not entirely sure what this is going to do for their relationship. You told him that he is not to persecute her like he does the other women he trains, correct?"

"I told him."

St. Denis could hardly believe what he'd heard, but more than that, he could hardly believe Munro's reaction to such a thing. He knew a thing or two about aggressive, stalwart men.

His family had been training them for generations.

St. Denis didn't look like the usual knight or even a man who was in charge, and related to, a vast empire built on piracy and unscrupulous ethics. His forefathers knew how to get a job done, by any means necessary, and all de Bottreaux men were raised in such a fashion. They were not driven by greed or evil. That wasn't the basis or the nature of their empire. What drove them was family—a need to fulfill one's legacy, and the need to make money. Some men would say they were moral by character, but immoral by trade. They were honorable men, all of them, but sometimes they dictated the terms of what that honor entailed.

St. Denis was a short man, with graying, curly hair that hung to his shoulders. He wasn't particularly big or broad, but he could handle a sword better than most. His strengths lay in his judgment and wisdom, and in his unerring ability to command a battle. He was brilliant in that respect, and he, more than any of his ancestors, had built Blackchurch into what it was today. When he had inherited the guild from his father, it was half the size, but he'd built it up into something grand and powerful.

He had sons to leave it to.

In fact, he was looking at those sons right now. They had just delivered the message about an unfortunate incident involving one of his trainers. St. Gerard and St. Sebastian, or simply Gerard and Sebo, as they were called, were his only children. Both were highly educated and well trained by the Master Knights of Kenilworth Castle. However, Blackchurch was built on the principle of remaining neutral in any given conflict, so although the sons were politically neutral against the rule of King John, the truth was that they sided with the warlords who opposed the king's rule. They even had a peripheral relationship with William Marshal and his network of agents and spies, though Blackchurch didn't nurture that relationship purely because it would lead to taking sides. Blackchurch was a training ground and nothing more, training warriors for both sides of the conflict if the price was right.

Blackchurch was in it for the money, not the politics. They provided a service and nothing more.

And that service included taking on women, though St. Denis had always been hesitant about that. If they were strong enough and good enough, he would consider it, as he had with the daughter of his old friend, the Duke of Toxandria. She had presented herself as intelligent and determined, and God knew he couldn't fault her for her motivation for wanting to learn about warfare. Her father had been toppled by his greedy brother, and she wanted to regain the duchy. St. Denis knew he couldn't send men with her for such a venture, and he felt guilty about it, so he had agreed to train her at no cost. That was the only contribution he could make.

But given what happened with Tay Munro, he was beginning to question that decision.

"Good God," St. Denis mumbled, running a weary hand over his face. "Clearly, he didn't listen. What on earth could the man have said to make her hit him like that?"

St. Gerard eyed his father. He was taller and broader than the man, a true warrior in every sense. His blue eyes gleamed.

"Knowing Tay, it could have been anything," he said. "Father, I know you wanted Sebo and me to look out for this Athdara de Ghent, but I have my own responsibilities with advanced men I am currently working with, and Sebo is dealing with an entirely new group of dregs who are assembling. We have our own tasks. If this daughter of your friend is going to survive, then it will have to be under her own power. We cannot nursemaid her."

St. Denis put up a hand to silence his son. He eyed him for a moment—a man that looked just as he had in his youth. His brother, on the other hand, looked like their mother—tall and sinewy, with flaming red hair. St. Sebastian de Bottreaux turned a female head or two with his comely looks, but he had two things that prevented him from finding a bride—he had a stammer that made him shy and unwilling to speak to anyone he didn't know, which made it difficult when one needed to woo a lady. But he was also the son with the most wisdom, the most insight. Being looked down upon most of his life for his speech impediment gave him extraordinary compassion.

"I am not asking you to nursemaid her," St. Denis said. "You came back with a report that I will assume you got from one of Munro's men. I was simply expressing some surprise at what had happened. I have given Lady Athdara the keys to the kingdom by admitting her to Blackchurch. It's up to her what she does with those keys. Either open the door and accept the opportunity, or…"

"Or bite the hand that feeds her and make a fool of herself," St. Gerard finished for him. "I was told she ran off afterwards, so it's possible she has left us after only the first day. Mayhap it is for the best."

St. Denis looked at him, surprised. "She ran away?"

"Aye."

St. Denis rolled his eyes. "Damnation, girl," he muttered to a woman who could not hear him, but his next words were aimed at his sons. "Something you need to learn, Gerard, is compassion. Sebo has a measure of it, but you do not. Someone who had come to me for help has run off, and all you can say is that it is for the best? It is not for the best. That woman's father saved my life. Were it not for him, Sebo would not be here, and you would be fatherless."

St. Gerard tried not to appear too scolded. "You've never spoken of the Duke of Toxandria."

"That does not mean that he is not important to me," St. Denis snapped. "It simply means that he is one of many brothers in arms from my past, but in his case, he saved my life in battle."

"H-how, Father?" St. Sebastian said.

St. Denis glanced at his big, glorious son. "When I was a young knight and you were just an infant, my father sent me to serve Sir Edward de Lohr of Lohrham Forest. He was a great supporter of Henry the Young King at the time, and we saw action in Rouen and in the Vexin. In one particular battle, there was close-quarters fighting and Anton de Ghent prevented a French soldier from sinking his sword into my back. We didn't know each other well before the event, but after that, we became good friends. He was a good man. His brother murdering him and stealing his duchy is not the ending that man deserved. It is a great injustice."

"So the daughter came to you and wanted to be trained?" St. Gerard said. "Why? You never did tell us why."

"Because she wants to learn how to be a warrior so she can raise an army and take back her father's legacy," St. Denis said. "As I told you, I cannot send an army with her, but I can train her. To honor her father's memory, I can train her and teach her what she needs to know. Is that not a good enough reason to have her here, Gerard? To help her avenge the death of the man who saved my life?"

St. Gerard didn't have a response for that. He simply nodded in understanding and quite possibly defeat. "Then what do you want us to do?" he asked.

St. Denis shook his head, an exasperated gesture. "Let us hope she returns," he said. "I want to speak to Tay, but I shall do it tomorrow. I am afraid I might become angry with him if I do it today, so let me sleep on it. Meanwhile, we have a full class of new recruits, and that is enough to keep everyone occupied."

St. Gerard nodded. "We are calling them the Spartan class," he said. "The Trojan class has already made it to Ming Tang, and he shall have them for the next several months. The Roman class is with the Swordsman as we speak, and the Greek class is learning about water warfare with the Viking."

"What about the other trainers?"

"They are busy as well, but with individual warriors," St. Gerard said. "The only classes we have at the moment are the ones I have mentioned."

St. Denis absorbed the information. They were in his solar in the small castle of Exford, which was situated near the old Blackchurch ruins and the trainers' village. When St. Denis' ancestor had taken over the area, including the castle, the castle was in poor shape, just like the church. It had taken many years to rebuild it, a fortified tower and keep right in the middle of the Blackchurch lands, which acted as the home for the de Bottreaux family. It was also a safe haven should Blackchurch be invaded, but that had never happened in the history of the guild.

Pensively, St. Denis turned to the lancet windows that faced Lake Cocytus. He could see the cogs along the shore, the one that Kristian Heldane, the trainer called the Viking, used in his sea-warfare class. Truth be told, sometimes St. Denis took one of those boats and rolled it out onto the lake simply because he liked to sail. It was peaceful on that deep blue body of water, away from the demands of Blackchurch.

Away from daughters of old friends and aggressive trainers.

"Call a meeting of the trainers for tomorrow," he finally said. "Everyone. I want to hear about their classes, and I want to hear their opinions. We have a lot of men at the moment, and I want to know the state of our classes. We must discuss the coming winter and cutting down on the dregs for the season. They are always expensive to feed in winter, and, frankly, I do not see the need for large classes."

"As you wish, Father," St. Gerard said.

Trying to focus on business and the normal running of Blackchurch and not on Athdara de Ghent, St. Denis turned for the table next to him and a rock crystal decanter with fine French wine.

"Go, now," he said. "Send Aamir to me if you see him."

St. Sebastian was already through the door, with St. Gerard not far behind. They were in a narrow corridor that led to the entry, but St. Sebastian stopped. St. Gerard nearly plowed into him as brother faced brother.

"Y-you had better w-warn Tay that F-Father is upset over the de Ghent girl," St. Sebastian said. "I-I do not know what he d-did to provoke her into smashing his manhood, b-but knowing him, it c-cannot be good. H-he was told not to p-persecute her."

St. Gerard nodded impatiently, pushing past his brother. "Tay does not normally disobey a directive," he said. "But I will find out what I can."

St. Sebastian watched his brother head out of the keep. He knew that Tay and his brother were good friends, and St. Gerard was correct—Tay wasn't the disobedient type.

But when it came to a woman, anything was possible.