Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Six months later

The Black Cock Tavern

T hey called him Sin.

Not that he was a sinner, though he'd been known to indulge and a few things for that people might find questionable, but the very real fact was that it was his name.

Sinclair de Reyne.

He was on his way home.

Having spent the past few years in the Flemish duchy of Toxandria, fighting to regain it for the rightful duke, he'd done what he'd set out to do those years ago. Helping a young man regain that which had been stolen from him.

And, God's Bones, did he have stories to tell.

Most importantly, however, was the fact that he'd returned home to not only his rightful liege, but also friends he'd missed for a long time, friends and colleagues that were more like brothers to him, and he was eager to resume his position alongside them as a Blackchurch trainer.

The truth was that Sinclair served, and was employed by, the Blackchurch Guild.

Located deep in the heart of Devon, in the Exmoor Forest, Blackchurch was as mysterious and feared as the lands around it. It was far from London, far from most of the hustle and bustle of England as a whole, and it tended to have its own legends and ambiguities. There were beasts that roamed the moors and wood sprites waiting to trap unsuspecting men. Fae lingered in the vales and serpents swam in the lakes. Devon wasn't heavily traveled when it came to the Exmoor Forest, an area that sane men would stay away from, and that made it a perfect place for the most elite warrior training ground in England.

Possibly the world.

There were great castles like Kenilworth and Berkeley and Warwick who trained powerful knights that went on to serve great lords and kings. Those were the reputable castles with the reputable training programs, and nearly every nobleman's son in England aspired to train at one of those great training grounds.

And then there was Blackchurch.

It was in a league of its own.

Sinclair was proud to be part of that legacy, proud to be a trainer of the most elite warriors in the world. He'd missed the days of teaching men, and sometimes even women, the finer art of swordplay. He'd missed the days of camaraderie with his fellow trainers. He'd even missed this tavern, smelling of sewage and alcohol and stale bodies. It wasn't much, but it was home. Home to him, home to others. Everyone who knew anything about the Blackchurch Guild knew that the Black Cock tavern belonged to them. At least, that was where they spent their off time, where they were able to relax a little.

And that's why Sinclair had stopped here on his way home.

He was waiting for them.

In fact, he'd sent word ahead two days ago that he would be arriving. He'd only had marginal contact with those from Blackchurch in the time he'd been away, mostly with his close friend, Tay Munro, and the man's wife, Athdara. Sinclair's entire journey to Toxandria was because of Athdara, the daughter of a deposed duke. Her younger brother, Nicolai, was the rightful heir, and it had been Sinclair who helped the young man regain his property as a favor to both Tay and Athdara. He'd been handsomely paid— very handsomely—and even been given the title Lord Brexent and the lands that went with it, so it hadn't been a waste of time. He'd taken pride in watching young Nicolai ascend to his seat. But now he was back and it was time for him to resume his life.

He was ready.

Seated in a private room that was off the common room, he had been enjoying a beef pie, stuffed eggs, and a good deal of ale. The food wasn't elaborate, but it was plentiful. He'd been half-dead when he came into the tavern because he'd traveled for half a night and a full day to reach the place as it was a stone's throw from Blackchurch. Now, with the food and drink, he was starting to feel alive again.

Pushing the used bowls and utensils aside, he lifted one of two big saddlebags at his feet. Digging around in it, he pulled forth a leather-bound book. It was a big book, a journal of his adventures since leaving Blackchurch to go to Toxandria so he wouldn't forget the details. He'd written down every place of interest he visited, every person, and every battle. As he waited for his comrades to show up, which they would now that the sun had set and the evening meal was upon them, he began to read the early pages from his journal.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

As he read, someone entered the chamber. The remainder of the meal was cleared away and in its place was a bowl of something that smelled sweet and spicy. The scent alone brought Sinclair out of the pages of the book to discover the source. The servant who brought it was still in the room, placing another spoon near the bowl and putting a fresh pitcher of ale on the table.

"That smells good," Sinclair said, pulling the bowl in his direction. "What is it?"

"Pears stewed in wine and cinnamon and honey, my lord," came the reply. "It is favorite around here."

Bowl in front of his face, Sinclair inhaled deeply. "I can understand why," he said, sticking his finger into it and pulling out a pear, which immediately went into his mouth. "It tastes as good as it smells."

"My thoughts also, my lord."

He was about to say something more as he happened to glance up at the servant. After that, speech seemed to leave him for a moment.

But his thoughts didn't.

Behold, perfection!

Standing next to the table was inarguably the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. She had dark and curly hair, very long, that was pulled into a braid that draped over her left shoulder. With pale skin, slightly freckled on the nose, she also possessed full lips, dark brows, and eyes of the brightest blue that Sinclair had ever seen.

She was absolutely astonishing.

"Who are you?" he finally managed to ask. "I've not seen you here before."

She smiled faintly. "And I've not seen you here before either, my lord," she said. "My name is Lisi."

Lee-see.

He looked her over as if struggling to believe what he was actually seeing. "How long have you been here, Lisi?"

"Only a few months, my lord," she said.

"Are you getting along well?"

"I am, my lord."

Sinclair dipped his head in the direction of the common room. "This place can be a little rough at times."

Her smile grew. "Nothing that a good club will not solve, my lord."

He grinned. "Hobbes lets you beat his customers, does he?" he said. "It is about time he took some of these fools to task. He lets them get away with too much. Where is the man, by the way?"

They were speaking of Hobbes, the owner of the Black Cock, and the woman pointed toward the kitchens.

"One of the ovens is not working properly," she said. "Shall I fetch him for you?"

Sinclair shrugged. "When he is finished," he said. "I do not wish to take him away from his ovens. He might take a club to me ."

The woman laughed softly. "You know him, my lord?"

"I know him well."

"Then I shall tell him that you are looking forward to seeing him."

Sinclair nodded, and she slipped out of the room, but his gaze remained where he'd last seen her. He sat there, staring at the doorway, thinking that she was extremely articulate and well spoken for a serving wench. Coupled with her fine looks, something told him that she was a well-bred woman.

So what was she doing working as a serving wench in the wilds of Devon?

Pondering that very thing, he picked up the spoon and turned his attention to the pears, which he made short work of. He was on the last one when a round man with a halo of white hair appeared.

"Lord Sin!" Hobbes said happily. "Someone said that they saw you come in, but I've been up to my neck in a foul oven. Welcome home, my lord!"

He reached out to shake Sinclair's hand enthusiastically. Sinclair grinned as the man practically shook his arm right out of the socket.

"So you remember me, do you?" he said. "I seriously wondered if people would."

"Why?" Hobbes asked. "It has only been three years. That can change a man, but not enough. Not you."

Sinclair appreciated the complement. "And not you, either," he said. "How have things been around here since I've been away? Quiet?"

Hobbes shrugged. "Quiet enough," he said. "We had a few rough moments, but all taverns do. It is the way of things."

"Rough moments?"

"Fights, stabbings. That kind of thing."

Sinclair nodded in understanding. "The usual."

"Exactly. The usual."

Sinclair pondered that. "I'm glad to see that little has changed," he said. "But I have seen a few new faces around."

Hobbes nodded. "We have a new cook," he said. "And a new serving women."

"I met Lisi."

"Ah," Hobbes said. "She is a very hard worker. And very pretty, though I am certain you did not notice."

Sinclair's brow furrowed as if he were offended by the comment, but he couldn't quite manage it. "And I am certain I am not the only one who has noticed it, either."

Hobbes shook his head, laughing. "You are not," he said. "Your colleague from Blackchurch, Payne, has made a nuisance of himself with her, but she soundly ignores him."

That brought a chuckle from Sinclair. "So the big Scotsman has made his interest in her known, has he?" he said, speaking of the trainer who was known as the Tempest. Every trainer had a moniker at Blackchurch, something that defined them, and Tempest most definitely defined the hotheaded Scot. "I did not know he was capable of such things. He's not had a woman since I've known him."

"And he'll not have this woman," Hobbes said. "She has no interest in him."

"Does she take money for comfort?"

He meant to know if she was a whore, but Hobbes shook his head firmly. "Her?" he said. "Never. She does her work, sleeps, and does it again the next day. She does not speak of herself, of her past, or of anything, truly, but she is friendly and the customers like her. If anyone tries to get too friendly with her, she's not afraid to poke men in the eyes or kick them in the belly. I've seen her."

Sinclair chuckled. "So she fights back," he said. "Good girl. A lass that pretty has had to learn to defend herself."

"She's not afraid to."

"I'll remember that."

From back in the kitchens, someone called Hobbes' name and he scooted away, shouting at them as he went. Something about smoke, Sinclair thought. It was the usual chaos at the Black Cock, and he found that comforting. He was home, and as the minutes ticked away, it was more and more as if he'd never even left. Pouring himself more wine from the pitcher that Lisi had left, he silently toasted his return.

It was good to be back.

As the night deepened, Lisi returned a couple of times, bringing him more of the stewed pears and then a dish sent by Hobbes, beans and onions in a chicken broth that was very good. He ate most of it but was so full from the other food that he'd ordered that he couldn't finish it. It was growing late and he was coming to think his friends wouldn't be coming to the Black Cock to meet him, so he was simply going to have to go to Blackchurch and see them there.

Leaning over in his chair, he was securing his saddlebags when he heard footsteps behind him. Before he could sit up to see who it was, someone hit him from behind and he went over onto the floor. Men began piling on top of him, and he would have been fighting them off fiercely had he not realized one thing.

They were laughing.

He recognized the laughter.

"Ah, my bonny lad!" The Tempest himself, Payne Matheson, was on top of him, kissing him loudly on the cheek as the rest of his face was pressed into the floor. "The Swordsman has returned!"

More laughter as someone yanked Payne off him only to have another body take his place.

"Did you truly think we would not greet you appropriately?" a deep voice asked. "You deserve nothing less than this grand welcome, my friend. Welcome home."

Sinclair recognized the voice of Fox de Merest, the trainer known as the Protector. Fox wasn't usually the rowdy type, but even he was getting in on the friendly beating. Sinclair could feel someone roughing up his legs and torso, not too terribly, but just enough to buffet him around as he tried to push himself up from the floor.

"Release me, you idiots," he said, finally able to push himself onto all fours. "Do you not know that I am a titled lord now? How dare you take to beating me."

More laughter greeted him as he made it to his knees and looked up to see that he was surrounded. Everyone was patting him, pushing him, trying to topple him over onto his bum. But he fought them off, laughing softly as Tay Munro, his dear and close friend, pulled him to his feet and into an embrace.

"We wanted to make your return memorable," Tay said, releasing him long enough to take a good, long look at him. "It really is you. Thank God you've made it home."

Sinclair smiled at the big man with the dark hair. Being half Grecian and half Norman gave him a big build and dark coloring. "Aye, I've made it home," Sinclair said. "Finally. It seemed as if it took forever."

"When did you leave Toxandria?"

"Almost eight weeks ago."

"But you're back now." Another man grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from Tay and directing him toward a chair. Kristian Heldane, a man born in the land of the Northmen, practically shoved him down to sit. "We want to hear about your adventures. You must have great stories to tell."

Sinclair nodded as someone shoved another cup of wine in his direction. "Many stories, for certain," he said. "In fact, I was looking at my journal earlier. I documented everything I could because I did not want to forget anything. And I know that Lady Munro will want an accounting of her brother's new rule."

"She will, indeed," Tay said, sitting down on his right. "She was unable to come because our youngest is not sleeping well at night. New teeth are sprouting. But she will expect to see you in the morning, and you had better be prepared to tell her everything."

"I will," Sinclair said. "I intended to report to her even before Denis."

St. Denis de Bottreaux was the owner of Blackchurch, known as the Lord of Exmoor, the latest in a long line of de Bottreaux men to carry on the Blackchurch tradition. Everyone was sitting at this point and Sinclair found himself looking around the table at men he'd missed a great deal. Men he knew every detail about, the good and the bad.

For example, Kristian was a prince to his people, but he could not return home, so he taught recruits the ways of the Northmen. Next to him was none other than Creston de Royans, a trainer known as the Avenger, from the powerful de Royans family. A more brilliant military strategist had never existed, and there were times in Toxandria that Sinclair had sorely wished he had the man with him.

But there were more.

At the end of the table, next to Creston, sat a dark-haired man who was tall and well built. Cruz Mediana de Aragon was a knight from the Holy Order of Santiago, an expert in negotiation and politics, known the Conquistador. Seated to his right was a man who had a special place at Blackchurch because he had come to England after King Richard's crusade and his father was a great Egyptian warlord. Aamir ibn Rashad was called the North Star because he was strong and constant, and seated next to him was the man that Sinclair had probably missed most of all.

A man who was smiling warmly at him.

Ming Tang was a monk from far to the east and more than likely a better warrior than any of them. Known as the Dragon, he was a man of many trades, many skills, and his wisdom was well respected. He wasn't big like the other men were, men who had been born and bred for battle, but rather smaller in a way that had nothing to do with his strength. He was still one of the strongest men in the group, powerful in a way that wasn't noticeable until one got into a confrontation with him.

By then, it was too late.

Sinclair was very glad to see him.

"Was it a glorious adventure, lad?" Payne shouted from across the table as he grabbed at the nearest pitcher of wine. "Tell us of yer greatness."

Sinclair laughed softly. "If I tell you all of it before I tell Lady Munro, I suspect she might box my ears or worse," he said. "Instead, tell me of everything that has gone on here in my absence. Anything of note."

As Payne waved him off, upset he wasn't going to hear about glorious adventures until Sinclair had delivered his report to Athdara, Tay spoke.

"We've had several classes of recruits move through since you left," he said. "As we discussed before you left, your class was divided up between Creston and Cruz. They combined it with their own teaching segments."

"True," Creston spoke up. Big and blond, he was handsome and congenial, masking the deadly warrior within. "We tried to teach them as you would, but, of course, you are the expert. Quite honestly, I am glad you are back. I feel as if the recruits we've been teaching over the past three years have not received the full Blackchurch experience because of your absence."

"I am certain you did quite well," Sinclair said. "Better than ‘well,' actually. I know how you both are with a sword."

"Ah, but we are not you, amigo ," Cruz said, smiling. "With the Swordsman returned, we are once again whole."

Sinclair smiled at the pair, who were the best of friends. Rarely did one do anything without the other. "Indeed, we are," he said. "Any recruits of note?"

Around the table, the trainers nodded. "A few," Ming Tang said. He had a deep, deliberate way of speaking, something that conveyed comfort and wisdom. "We had a few sons of French ducs pass through and the daughter of a Northman king, which was uncomfortable for Kristian."

"Why?" Sinclair asked, looking at Kristian.

"Because I knew her father," Kristian said quietly. "He was an enemy of my father."

It sounded complicated and uncomfortable for Kristian, but given the man's background and how he was an exiled prince, Sinclair didn't delve into it further. Unless Kristian wanted to discuss it, no one pried. In fact, there were a few Blackchurch trainers like that, men with pasts that were better left buried, and everyone respected their privacy. It was an unspoken rule because in the world of Blackchurch, a man's reputation was based on how he performed as a trainer and how he treated his fellow trainers, not the often rocky and mysterious threads of his past.

Sinclair knew that better than most.

"But you survived," he said, glossing over the subject. "We should be just a few weeks into the new group of recruits. Has Tay managed to eliminate the weak with his initiation classes?"

That brought smiles around the table. Tay was the trainer that all new recruits, referred to as dregs, faced when they came to Blackchurch. They'd already had to go through a litany of tests to see if they were even worthy of Blackchurch training, so the ones that faced Tay were usually of the hearty sort. But even Tay was known to wash out more than half of them before they ever faced any other Blackchurch trainer, so Tay's heavy hand with new recruits was well established.

And well feared.

"I have," Tay replied proudly. "You do not think I would let anyone unworthy pass my rigorous tests, do you?"

"Of course not," Sinclair said, grinning. "Is there anyone particularly worthy?"

Creston and Cruz glanced at one another. "In fact, there is," Creston said. "I'm glad you asked. There is a recruit who is a Warwick-trained knight. He descends from the last king of Northumbria, Eric Bloodaxe. His father is the Earl of Bernicia. Honestly, Sin, the man has a pedigree more impressive than anything I've ever seen. He came here right after you left, passed Tay's tests, made it into the recruit group and into the advanced group. He's not only Warwick trained, but Northwood trained as well, so his qualifications are impeccable. So are his sword skills. He has been helping with your class and Exmoor wants him to continue to do so even after your return, but only as support. You are the master, Sin. No one can replace you. But Anteaus de Bourne has been doing an excellent job of educating our recruits while you were away."

Sinclair didn't seem particularly pleased with that. "While I am happy that things have continued in my absence, I am not entirely sure I need help with resuming my duties," he said. "But I look forward to meeting de Bourne."

Tay, sitting closest to him, put his hand on the man's shoulder. "We would never try to replace you," he said. "You know that. Furthermore, I would never allow it. You left to do me and my wife the greatest favor and you did not have to do it. Trust me when I tell you that your position is secure, Sin. We admire you and love you above all else. You are part of us. But de Bourne has talent and was helping Creston and Cruz when they needed it. In the same manner as Bowen helped me before he became a trainer."

He was speaking of Bowen de Birmingham, a former recruit who had such grit, such stamina, that Tay had recruited him as an assistant years ago. Only to help, never to supersede, but even so, Bowen had worked himself into the position of trainer through Tay's recommendation. Sinclair knew that and, given the example, began to feel a little better about the situation.

"As I said, I look forward to meeting him," he said. "But the moment I see a hint of resentment that I have returned to assume my position, I will throw the man out on his ear and I do not care what his credentials are. Understood?"

He received firm nods from Creston, Cruz, and Tay. Payne, who was drinking up the last of the wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"And I'll help ye toss him out," he declared. "But I dunna think it will come tae that. He seems tae have some humility, which is more than I can say for most of us. He knows ye're returning. It'll not be a surprise."

As Sinclair nodded, because Payne would have mentioned if de Bourne had been the ambitious sort, Ming Tang spoke quietly.

"Sin, you have something with us that no one could ever replace," he said. "We are a brotherhood. No one can usurp that, and in this brotherhood, acceptance of outsiders does not come easily. Look at de Bourne as a subordinate and nothing more. But I will say he was very helpful to Creston and Cruz, who worked hard to cover your classes during your absence."

Sinclair looked across the table at Creston and Cruz, lifting his cup. "And I could have no finer brothers," he said sincerely. "You have my deepest gratitude, but I have also intend to split some of the money I received for my efforts with you. I could not have gone had the two of you not volunteered to train in my place."

Creston waved him off. "No need," he said. "I did not do it for money."

"How much?" Cruz said, drawing chuckles from the group. But he grinned and waved Sinclair off, also. "I was only jesting. I did not do it for the money either. I did it for you, so Denis would not replace you."

Sinclair smiled at his friends. "We'll discuss the compensation later," he said. "Rest assured that it is not a dead subject by any means. But tell me about Denis and Sebo. Is everything well with them?"

The man referred to as "Sebo" was St. Denis' son, St. Sebastian. He was the youngest of St. Denis' two sons and the heir after the unexpected death of his older brother, St. Gerard, a few years ago. St. Sebastian was Kenilworth trained, and had gone to the Levant with King Richard's crusade, so he was an excellent and experienced knight, and more of a leader than his father, who was more of an administrator and scholar.

It was a subject that Tay, in particular, knew a good deal about.

"Denis has become the tutor for my children and for Fox's," he said, indicating the only other married trainer in the group. "He has five young boys to teach—my three eldest and Fox's two eldest. Though Denis comes from a long line of Exmoor lords, I do believe his true calling is tutelage. He teaches children while Sebo manages Blackchurch. He would have come tonight but he thought you would like time with us first before he and his father greet you."

Sinclair nodded. "He is an intuitive man," he said, looking around the group. "All I can tell you is that it was difficult and there was hardship. There were plots and schemes and spies, just as you would imagine, but it was good to be in battle again. I had not realized I'd missed it so much until the first battle we had in a village called Bethune. The young duke's uncle heard we were coming and made sure to meet us. After that… Well, I will tell you the rest of it once I've told Lady Munro, so until then… know that I am glad to be back."

He lifted his cup, and those around the table echoed his sentiment. But there wasn't anything left in his cup, and he was about to send for more when a crash in the common room caught his attention. In fact, it caught everyone's attention. Payne was on his feet first, yanking back the curtain to be faced with an all-out brawl.

It was chaos in the common room of the Black Cock.

And Sinclair, on his feet, noticed someone right in the middle of it.