Chapter One
The Final Return
The twenty-sixth day of June
Anno Domini 1348
“Behold the land of my birth,” Turi murmured as the coastline of southern England loomed from behind a wall of evening fog. Standing at the bow of the small ship, he drew a deep breath and sought out the comforting hilt of his sword. Over sixty years had passed since his previous visit, when his feet had left their imprints in the country’s war-torn soil. At that time, he had fought for what little remained of his land.
And what little remained of his people.
Thirteen centuries of history had left a bloody trail across the Britannic isles. Even before the Romans retreated, other intruders had arrived to plunder the bounteous land, swarming like flies to leftover scraps. First came the warlike Germanic tribes. Then the ferocious Norsemen. Finally, this last group of Norman and French overlords, who now held sway over much of the land.
Turi had fought them all, and even alongside them at times as alliances had been formed and broken. But it had been an endless and futile exercise. As a result, Pendaran’s sentence had been far worse than Turi could ever have imagined.
Helpless to prevent it, he had watched the steady demise of his culture. Setantii, Carvetii, Gangani, all the great tribes and unions had crumbled, or been torn apart and scattered like stale crumbs. Most of the old dialects had disappeared. Many of the ancient customs had been abandoned, forgotten, or outlawed. Even the mighty gods had been usurped, in Turi’s eyes at least, by a single Christian entity. In that regard, Rome had its hand around Britannia’s throat once more.
Over time, the resistant indigenous had been pushed to the west and now had their backs to the Irish Sea. The most steadfast of these had come to be known as the Welsh. The Cymri. They had fought hard and long, and Turi had frequently joined their ranks. Sadly, internal strife and betrayal did little to help their cause. Sixty-six years earlier, after learning of the assassination of the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, Turi fled the country.
As he had many times before.
Not that he feared conflict. For centuries, fighting battles had been as much a part of his life as breathing and pissing. But he had learned to recognize the more ominous moments in history and knew when to retreat into the shadows. Wandering the known world, seeking refuge in one country or shelter in another, had become a part of Turi’s existence. It was a necessary pattern, the curse of a man who never aged and who possessed an unearthly ability to heal himself.
Except, as the punishment decreed, his heart and spirit had never been allowed to heal. Time had, however, granted him a few benefits. Heeding his father’s advice, Turi had become a formidable warrior; a master of sword, bow and staff. He always fought as a mortal, never forgetting his father’s warning.
Most assumed he had title, since he handled his sword with the superior skill of a seasoned knight. If asked, he truthfully claimed to be a mercenary, a hireling, offering his skill and services to those who needed them. It was a violent but lucrative lifestyle. He always had coin in his purse and had never known hunger.
He had learned to read and write and spoke several languages fluently. Yet he kept his wealth of knowledge hidden, and usually shied away from noble society. After all, a roughly-hewn stone was less noticeable than a bright, polished one. Consequently, he was intimately familiar with the more ominous nooks and crannies of most European and Middle Eastern cities.
“Strive to redeem your soul in readiness for its eventual journey.”
Turi gripped his sword tighter as he recalled Pendaran’s words. In this, he had failed.
Perpetually haunted by guilt and remorse, Turi had sustained his sanity through the distractions of an unruly triad; fornication, fighting, and fine wine. In these, he had indulged with unabashed enthusiasm. His soul had long since passed the point of redemption. He barely recognized that abused, innermost part of him.
But it no longer mattered. The Britannic islands were about to face another invader, surely the most destructive one of all. It had already cast its evil stench across much of Europe. A black pestilence, one that killed without pause and without mercy.
It would most likely kill him, too, eventually.
“… and pay heed to your visions, however trivial they may be, for they serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
He had not experienced any more visions. At least, none he remembered. Images of beautiful women and innocent children were likely meant for minds not already polluted by endless nightmares of betrayal and slaughter.
Turi bit down against a fresh surge of guilt. Soon, his torment would ease. In this year of the Christian god, 1348, his sentence was almost complete. Turi, son of Pendaran, had endured. He had decided to return to the place of his birth. Go back to where it all began and, from there, let destiny guide him. It seemed fitting, somehow.
Things had changed dramatically over the centuries. His home, of course, was long gone.
A mere thirty years after Turi’s banishment, the Romans built a great fort not far to the south of where the Setantii village once stood. After the Romans left, the Saxons took over the abandoned post and built upon it. Now dominated by a Norman castle, the walled town of Chester occupied a strategically important spot close to the Welsh border.
It had long been unrecognizable as Turi’s home, but he felt drawn to the region, nonetheless. By the grace of the gods, he hoped to find some semblance of peace there. He wondered if he might at last see his elusive father again. On better terms, this time.
His attention shifted as a shout went up. The sail lowered and the oars took over, steering the little ship with more precision through the thickening mist. Turi shifted his bow higher on his shoulder and braced his legs. A short while later, the ship’s flat stern grated against the pebbled shore of Melcombe’s harbor and the vessel lurched to a halt.
A mumble arose behind him as the other passengers readied themselves to disembark. For most, it meant utilizing a small, rope ladder that hung from the side, near the bow. Turi, however, bid the ship’s master farewell with a nod and used the side of the small ship to vault onto the beach.
There, he paused for a moment and took stock of his surroundings. Despite the fog, he could see that the village had grown. As his feet crunched up the pebble beach, one thing in particular drew his eye. Situated at the far end of the small harbor, the inn, with its lime-washed walls and thatched roof, was a welcome sight. In apparent defiance of the dreary weather, the door to the inn stood half-open and a faint glow of lantern light spilled out. It served as an enticing beacon to those who sought shelter and sustenance.
And if the light had not been visible, a lost traveler might still be guided by the elevated voices of drunken men, gales of raucous laughter, and shouts of exasperation. The usual tavern clientele.
Eager to shore up his sagging spirit with a skinful of wine and, hopefully, a worthy wench, Turi made a beeline for the place. A brief hush fell over the crowd when he crossed the threshold. An expected response, for Turi cast an impressive shadow. His cloak of gray wool hung to one side, leaving his sword and bow visible. He never wore mail. He had no need of it. He knew he had an intimidating appearance, one that made most men think twice about challenging him. As was his intent.
Ignoring the curious glances and needing wine to help quell the noise in his head, Turi headed for the bar with a purposeful stride. The proprietor, a small reed of a man with a bald head and a brown moustache, gave him a wink.
“We’ll ’ave no trouble, lad.”
“As you wish.” Turi’s gaze swept the room. “If anyone starts it, I will end it for you. But my services do not come cheap.”
The man’s mouth curved into a smile. “Ale?”
“Wine.”
“Food?”
“Nay.”
“Female company?”
Turi tossed some coins on the bar. “Recently bathed, with firm breasts and good teeth.”
The man chuckled, scooped up the silver, and gestured with his chin. “There’s a vacant table in the corner by the door. Have a seat.”
Turi settled himself and cast a probing gaze around the dimly lit room. He sought information. All humans spoke a common language that had little to do with words. Facial expressions, stance, habitual movements. A man could learn much from a simple study, and Turi liked to know about those who shared his space. He could always pick out the cats from the mice.
Or the rats.
Being a harbor tavern, most of the patrons appeared to have some affiliation with the sea. An elderly couple sat by the window. A fisherman and his wife, Turi guessed, the latter obviously flaying her husband with her tongue. The man’s face wore a mask of resignation. Boredom, even. He’d apparently heard it all before.
A group of what looked like merchant seamen, seated at a large table by the back wall, was immersed in a boisterous game of dice. One to keep an eye on. They did not appear to be dangerous men, but mixing drinking and gambling was always an unstable combination.
At another table, an arm wrestling contest was underway. Cordial and good humored, judging by the friendly back slaps and bursts of laughter. In a shadowed corner, a man and a shapely tavern wench explored their physical differences in a subtle and consensual fashion. Harmless.
A fellow propped against the far end of the bar drew Turi’s attention. Ruddy faced, with a thick neck and thicker legs. A roughly-shorn head, a few days’ growth on his chin, and a dagger at his waist. Not a knight, but a military build, nonetheless. Between swallowing mouthfuls of ale, the man would cast surreptitious glances at the amorous couple in the corner. Then, like a starving dog might when eyeing a bone, he’d lick his lips.
Turi’s mouth quirked slightly.
Movement to his side caught his eye and he raised a brow at the sight of the lass headed his way. Her smile was all there. So was her chest, most of it trying to escape from a robe that appeared to have been made for someone smaller. The wench studied him with obvious and equal interest through wide, dark eyes. Almost as dark as her hair, which hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. A comely lass, indeed. And, better yet, she was clutching a good-sized flagon and two goblets.
“Looks to be a promising night,” Turi murmured, as she drew near.
“Good eve to you, milord,” she said, releasing a breath as she placed the goblets and flagon on the table. “I am called Edyth.”
“A pretty Saxon name.” Turi smiled over a familiar and ancient thrust of resentment. Whether he liked it or not, the Saesneg were now stitched into Britannia’s violent tapestry. He fingered the end of the woman’s braid that dangled before him like a lure. She was dark for an Englishwoman. “I am Turi.”
Edyth fluttered her eyelashes and filled the goblets with practiced ease. “A fine name for an ’andsome man.” She edged her backside into the chair beside him. “Are you a knight, then?”
The lass smelled of stale ale and tallow smoke, sweetened with a hint of musty lavender. Turi took a swig of wine and rolled the liquid around his mouth for a moment before swallowing. An austere flavor. No matter. Three or four more goblets and the shadows that always clung to him would loosen their hold a little. “I am a knight in all the ways that matter, my lady.”
“My lady?” She giggled and stroked a hand down his thigh. “God’s truth, no one ever called me that before. You ’ave a sweet tongue, milord.”
He regarded the voluptuous expanse spilling over the top of her robe. “So I’ve been told.”
Edyth giggled again and slid her hand between his legs. Turi threw more wine down his throat as his groin tightened.
“I’ve been told to look after you.” Her breasts pillowed against his arm as her hand wandered ever higher. “I would know, then, of your preferences and your pleasure.”
“The night is not yet born.” Turi drew breath as she cupped him. “We have time to explore many options.”
“And I am yours to command.” She gave him an intimate squeeze and flicked her tongue at his ear lobe. “God’s bollocks, ’tis a fine weapon you ’ave, milord.”
“Setantii steel,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t talkin’ ’bout your sword.”
“Neither was I.”
Turi’s goblet paused halfway to his mouth as he locked eyes with the thick-necked man at the bar. The soldier shifted his gaze away, licking his lips as he did so. Turi gripped his goblet a little tighter and took another gulp.
“There’s a cozy little room out back,” Edyth said, her busy hand adding thickness and length to Turi’s cock. “We’ll not be disturbed.”
“Not yet.” Turi placed his hand atop Edyth’s, halting its ministrations. The lass had obvious talents and Turi didn’t doubt he’d enjoy her, but he had no desire to rush. Besides, the wine needed time to smooth out his ragged edges.
A predator, he thought, still watching the soldier. Turi recognized the creature that lingered behind the man’s leering eyes. It was a common enough demon among mortals. A dangerous beast of prey, hungry for something other than food.
Edyth’s breasts lifted off his arm. “Do I not please you, milord?”
The childish petulance in her voice drew Turi’s attention. He set the goblet down and met her gaze. “Do you have other clients awaiting your pleasure tonight, Edyth?”
“Um, nay. Only you. For now, anyway.”
“Then I see no need to rush the pleasure I’m certain we’re bound to share.” He stroked his knuckles across her cheek. “And yes, my lady, you please me greatly.”
At that moment, a shape appeared in the open doorway and a cloaked figure swept past. Small and slightly built, it moved swiftly and with purpose, straight to the bar. A lull crept over the crowd and the proprietor’s brows lifted in apparent surprise as he regarded this new patron. Turi frowned, noting the fine embroidery edging the cloak and the scuffed, but well-made leather shoes visible beneath the skirts. A woman, and obviously high-born. She stood out like a butterfly in a meat market.
Turi glanced at the doorway, expecting to see an escort or chaperone of some kind. But the threshold remained empty and Turi’s curiosity stirred as did his instincts. Something was amiss.
As the woman conversed with the proprietor, at least a dozen pairs of eyes regarded her, all asking the same question. Edyth voiced it as she filled Turi’s goblet again. “Wonder what she wants? No place, this, for one such as ’er.”
Equally intrigued, Turi leaned forward, straining to hear the conversation. The shared words were beyond earshot, but the nods and gestures told him enough.
“She’s lost,” Turi said, more to himself than Edyth. “Asking for directions.”
His gaze then centered on the thick-necked soldier. The man had sidled closer to the woman and kept casting sideways glances at her. Turi’s jaw tightened. Had the predator spotted a potential prey? So far, he had not licked his lips. Perhaps he, too, was merely curious. Maybe the woman was past her prime. Or less than pleasant to look upon. Since she wore a hood, Turi had not seen her face.
At last the woman gave a final nod. Then she turned and headed for the door with as much purpose in her step as she’d shown earlier. A pale hand held her hood in place and shielded her features as she disappeared into the fog. Turi caught a fleeting glimpse of russet hair and the profile of a feminine chin. Mere moments after she left, the noise in the room resumed its previous level.
Turi turned his gaze back to the bar, hoping his growing apprehension was unfounded.
“I have not heard of Setantii before.” Edyth’s hand drifted back to Turi’s thigh. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Aye.” An easy answer and close enough to the truth. The soldier at the bar assumed a nonchalant posture and emptied the contents of his tankard down his throat. Turi shifted in his seat and kept watching.
Edyth’s fingertips brushed across Turi’s groin again. “It’s the name of your village?”
“Aye.”
“Where is it?”
The soldier banged the empty tankard on the counter and ordered another ale. Turi released a cautious breath of relief, finished the contents of his goblet, and turned his attention back to Edyth.
“North.” A familiar warmth had at last begun to filter into Turi’s tormented brain. Wine, he thought, was surely a creation of the gods. So were women’s breasts. He grazed a hand over one of Edyth’s ample blessings and felt the nipple harden. “’Tis in the north. A long way from here.”
She hummed and leaned into his touch. “Men like my tits,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I’m not surprised. They are very –”
The soldier finished his ale in a couple of impressive gulps, released a loud belch, and licked his lips. The air moved as he brushed past their table on the way out. He left a stench of rotten breath and sweat in his wake. Turi’s gut clenched.
Shite.
Edyth sniffed. “Very what?”
Turi sat back and reasoned with himself. His leaving doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The man might have a home to go to. Maybe the lass wasn’t alone. Maybe she had an armed escort waiting outside. Maybe my instincts are wrong.
“Milord?” Edyth nuzzled his ear. “What were you goin’ to say?”
Turi uttered a curse in a dialect no longer heard anywhere in the world. His instincts were thirteen centuries old. They were never wrong. The real question lay in why he felt compelled to rush to the aid of a noblewoman he’d never even met. It was a profound and startling compulsion, one he could not deny. A belated moment of redemption, perhaps?
“Forgive me, Edyth.” He dug into the purse at his belt, drew out two pieces of silver, and pressed them into her hand. The lass, he knew, wouldn’t make that much in a month. “You’re a fine woman and I wish I could stay, but I have to go.”
“Go where? I don’t…” Her eyes widened as she studied the coins. “God’s bollocks.”
“I have to take care of something.” Turi grabbed his bow, rose to his feet, and then bent to kiss Edyth on the cheek. “And your tits are very beautiful.”
Anticipation thrumming in his veins, Turi disappeared into the fog.