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 ladiesdoprefer 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. Andavoid 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. ButI 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 atle Château 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.
