He was speaking of a man named Rhodes St. James, a powerful knight who used to serve the Earl of Gloucester. The earl had sent him to Blackchurch for training and was prepared to wait the five years it took for a man to become a fully fledged Blackchurch knight, but somewhere in the process, Rhodes became indispensable as an assistant to trainers like Creston and Cruz, and he’d taken to the water module easily, so Kristian preferred to have the man assist him over any other trainer.
But there was also a problem with him.
“He does know what to do,” Creston agreed. “But that is an issue—he knowstoomuch. He is ambitious. He is waiting for one of us to get kicked in the head or fall in the water and drown so he can take our place. I do not know if I want to leave him alone, instructing my recruits. He might try to take my position out from under me.”
Cruz snorted. “He would never succeed,” he said. “He does not have your skill or your support. I would let him take tomorrow’s instruction and pair him with Anteaus because Anteaus will not let the man get away with anything. He’ll keep him in control.”
Anteaus de Bourne was another assistant trainer who would probably become a full-fledged trainer within the year. He was from a very old Northumberland family, having come to Blackchurch to train, but he was so skilled and so knowledgeable that he was easily on the same level as the senior trainers. The House of de Bourne was known for its warriors, but Anteaus just happened to have more modesty and control than someone like Rhodes did. That meant that Creston was comfortable with the suggestion.
“Very well,” he said. “They will make a good pair.”
“I agree,” Cruz said. “We will leave at dawn tomorrow and arrive in Bampton by midmorning. There is a smithy there who makes spectacular daggers. You know the one. I want to see what he has.”
Creston waggled his eyebrows as he looked at his wife. “It seems that we are leaving on the morrow and visiting a smithy, as well.”
Ophelia grinned broadly. “Good,” she said. “I am very grateful. I will clean up quickly and go to bed if we are to leave early.”
With that, she was gone, back into the kitchen room. Creston and Cruz could hear her banging around, wiping out the dishes they’d used. Hearing the noise, the black cat wandered in, meowing as he begged for food, and they could hear Ophelia talking to the cat.
“Shall I hunt down the draughts board so we can play a few rounds?” Creston said, yawning. “We have not played that game in a while.”
Cruz nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “I think I beat you last time.”
“Liar.”
“I am going to tell your wife that you are calling me names.”
“Who did you complain to before I got married?”
Cruz shrugged. “St. Denis, but he ignored me.”
Creston snorted. “So will she,” he said, rising wearily from his chair and going to the wardrobe against the wall that served as a cabinet for some of the things he had accumulated over the years, mostly blankets or odd pieces that weren’t worn enough to throw out. Creston tended to collect things that way. The wardrobe had been in the cottage when he’d taken possession, and he’d just left it there, a big, heavy piece that was well made. As soon as he opened one of the doors to hunt down thedraughts board and the little pieces that went along with it, there was a knock on the front door.
“I will see who it is,” Cruz said, getting out of his chair.
“If it is Ming Tang, I won’t play him,” Creston said, finally locating the board. “He cannot be beaten in a game of draughts, and he crushes my spirit every time.”
Cruz smirked as he headed to the door, opening it to see one of the gate guards standing there.
“Well?” he said. “What is it?”
The man was an older soldier who had served Blackchurch for nearly thirty years. “Good evening, my lord,” he said to Cruz. “I am looking for Sir Creston.”
Creston heard him. “What is it?”
He was pulling the game board, a solid piece of wood, out of the cabinet as the soldier stuck his head in and addressed him directly.
“Visitors at the gatehouse, my lord,” he said.
Creston was inspecting the board for chips, but he glanced up at the man. “Who is it?”
“A man who says he is your cousin,” he said. “Brenton de Royans.”
Creston stopped inspecting and looked at the soldier in surprise. “Brenton?” he repeated. “A big lad with shoulder-length hair that looks like it needs a good brushing?”
“The same, my lord.”
“He’s here?”
