Chapter 4

The mid afternoon sun beats down on my bare back and I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow. The farther south we go, the higher the temperatures climb. "And we haven't even made it to Dafoe," I think as images of the sticky swampland form at the forefront of my mind.

Over the past week on our travels, I feel as if we've done nothing but eat, sleep, and ride. Only once did we get come across a town, and while visiting only half of the men took the opportunity to bathe while the others chose the tavern instead—Rory included.

The devil himself rides up beside me, holding out his water skin. "Want a swig?" he asks from atop of his horse. Leaning over, I take it from his hands and drink deeply before passing it back and looking him over. His dark sticks to his forehead while perspiration causes his thin linen shirt to cling to his toned torso. His boots are carelessly on his feet, not even fully laced while the cuffs of his trousers are cuffed up to his calves.

Looking over my shoulder, I see that the majority of the men seem to be dressed similarly, some shirtless like myself. Normally, I wouldn't allow my men to look like so disheveled as they represent Paevia, but given the sweltering heat I'll allow it. Besides, I myself am half dressed.

Still navigating through a sparse forest, I have to command my horse to step over a large fallen branch. When she obeys without hesitation, I praise her with a nice pat on her neck.

"Do you think father has given up on me when it comes to settling down?" he asks me, and I know the question stems from our previous night's conversation about still wrapping our heads around Crispin being not only married but a father as well. Being the youngest—and a womanizer—the idea was farfetched.

Sighing, I give my shoulder a shrug. "Perhaps," I say, "He seems to have hope for the both of us though ever since Cora though."

Rory leans to the right, ducking around a large plant with prickly red thorns. "Why do you think he never tried to marry you off to King Fredrick's daughter?" he asks.

"I could think of many reasons," I snort. Thinking back to the time our fathers were contemplating our arranged married—they both had travel across the lands to visit until a decision was made—I got to know princess Portia quite well. When she wasn't bothering me 24/7 asking me to hand pick flowers, buy her new dresses, or take her on long walks around the country side she was busy barking orders at her servants and scolding them for the most minor inconvenience.

"My soup is too hot, blow on it!"

"Tommy, I want some fresh roses for my bedroom."

"Excuse me, but you will not be shinning my heels with dirty fingernails, go clean them this instant!"

"Thomas, you are to be at my room at eight o'clock sharp tonight. We are going to be looking at the stars in the court yard. Don't be late handsome."

"How dare you pick out this color of dress for me to wear today? You know it doesn't compliment my complexion! Imbecile!"

"Tom, I want you to be wearing something blue on our wedding day so it will match my eyes."

I shuddered at the thought and went to my father's quarters that night begging him to not make me marry her. He threw a few balls here and there inviting other noble women and duchesses hoping one would catch my eye, but in truth most were quite dull. Hardly any understood my humor, and when they did laugh it was forced in hopes that it would make me more interested.

Sure most if not all were beautiful, but looks does not automatically make you a good prospect for a queen.

Being that the last soirée was a few short months after Crispin and Cora's wedding two years ago, my father has seemed to finally accept the possibility of me entering sovereignty as a bachelor. The same can't be said for a few members on our court though as every now and then they bring up the issue that I have yet to father any children and will need an air unless I want the crown to be passed down.

In truth, as long as a Carlyle sits on the throne—or anyone who gives an actual shit about Paevia for that matter—I could care less who becomes king after me. In my opinion, monarchies seem to never progress when it comes to how lands are ruled. The same old beliefs are shared for generations and those under their rule eventually become surly and restless, wanting change. When they've had enough, they either result to uprisings and strikes or even go as far as attempting to send an assassin to end the bloodline.

Thankfully, our citizens seem overall pleased with my family. Not that we are without our faults of course, but every Carlyle that has worn the crown as always tried to take care of those that are of a lower class and I intend to keep it that way.

There are those on the council that would see otherwise—the ones that would gladly take food out of hungry children's mouths and smile as they do. "Anything to keep the rich riche and the poor poorer" I think.

"Yeah she was a piece of work, that one," Rory says, drawing me out of my thoughts.

We laugh as I nod my head, agreeing.  "Aye, she was. Poor thing is hopeless, really," I jest. "If she has a husband I feel sorry for the lad."

Rory chuckles and opens his mouth to reply when he notices the faint scent of smoke in the air just as I do. "You smell that?" he asks, looking up into the sky. I follow his gaze and see a grey could slowly rising to the sky in the far distance thought he tree tops.

Pulling back on my reigns, I inhale once again as my horse comes to a halt. The men do the same and I turn around in my saddle, wanting their opinion. By the way their noses are raised in the air, I gather that they too must now smell the smoke.

"What do you think it is, Tom?" Warren asks from the rear.

Turning back around, I squint my eyes in hopes of catching a better glimpse of the pillar that swirls into the blue sky. It's darker than your typical smoke that comes from firewood, and given by the amount I'd say it was structural.

Turning back towards them, I purse my lips. "Possibly a small farm or building if I had to guess. I'll leave it up to you to decide if we should lend aid. We have a little less than a week left until we are at camp," I say.

If it were entirely up to me—which I suppose it is—then I would offer whatever help we could to anyone that may be affected, but in situations like this I hate to take away my men's choice when they have options, especially if I may be unknowingly put them in danger unnecessarily.

They look around to each other and mumble, nodding their heads and shrugging.

"Aye, we'll take a look. It'd be a nice change of scenery," Nikolas says with a lighthearted grin.

Returning it, I myself nod. "Alright then. Have your weapons at the ready and your wits about you. I'll leave it up to you if you want to armor up," I tell them. We then move as quickly as the forest allows us too, the closer we near the stronger the scent of smoke becomes.

Soon, we are close enough to where we can see orange flames dancing in the distance through the foliage. Drawing closer, I realize that it looks to be a small monastery or commune, given the large wooden cross that sits atop a pointed steeple. Behind it, a silo burns as well. Taking a quick breath, I give a low whistle, signaling for the men to dismount. Familiar with my cues, they do silently and hitch their horses to the nearest tree to them.

Sliding off my saddle, my feet hit the ground with a soft thud and I grab my mares reigns, tying her off to the trunk of a pine. Grabbing my blade, I quickly fasten the hilt to my waist and slide out the claymore, testing it's weight in my hand. Looking up, my eyes lock onto my men's and I feel my heartbeat slowly pick up in anticipation. "I want four groups of five led by Rory, Nikolas, Warren and myself. I want us to surround the grounds in case whoever did this is still here," I command.

Understanding the plan, each gives me a nod and we split up into groups, moving swiftly through the brush until our boots connect with cobblestone. Getting a firmer grip on the hilt of my blade, my eyes scan for anything out of the ordinary. To the far left, there is a flash of blond hair as Warren and his men inspect the silo. Turning my focus back to the monastery up ahead, I take in the old building, noting the brown clay stones have begun to crack in places. Moss grows in some parts while ivy in others. There is an old well to the right and I notice that a bucket used to retrieve the liquid sits close by, tipped over on it's side. The windows in the building are made out of stained glass and depict various scenes, from a man wearing a crown of thorns weeping while arm's outstretched to a shepherd leading sheep to a river. Some of the intricate panes are broken though, and smoke slowly billows out. There are two large wooden doors ajar—appearing to have been damaged by an array if weapons as splintered chipping are scattered around.

Closing in the distance, we are only a few yards away when Nikolas and Rory appear—men closely in tow—shaking their heads.

"There was a small goat pen out back. Looks like whoever did this swiped 'em," Rory says.

"We didn't find any other doors. This looks to be like the only way in," Nikolas adds, wiping a strand of dark hair from his eyes.

"And Warren?" I ask, ignoring the sweat the drips down the bare skin of my back.

Rory and Nikolas share a look before Rory speaks up. "He sent Max to tell me they found some bodies before the kid rejoined him. Didn't say anything else, figured I'd let you know before we head inside," he says, jutting his chin toward the monastery.

"Hm," I hum, not surprised. Raids on religious buildings were not unheard of, given that they usually lacked protection and held riches inside.

"Cowards, who ever did it," I hear someone mutter.

"Well, better take a look inside for survivors. Be a shame if we didn't," I say, "Nikolas, take your men to assist Warren. We'll clear the building and meet you by the silos."

Nikolas gives a nod and heads towards the others, leaving Rory, myself, and four others behind.

"Don't sheath your blades just yet," I say before making my way inside. Pushing the one of the heavy doors open, it creaks and echos throughout he church.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, smoke filled room, I make out that we are inside a wide hallway. Straight ahead, the corridor opens up to a sanctuary that has been ransacked. Scripts and papers are scattered about along with various puddles of blood that has begun to coagulate. There is a long alter for prayer to the far right and to the left is a stack of charred picture frames, signaling that the paintings they once held had been burned to ash. Books filled with what I assume to be scriptures sit in a stack near by and are coated with oil. "Guess whoever wanted those destroyed didn't get the chance to finish the job," I think, wondering what had stopped them.

"Tom," Rory says from the other side of the sanctuary. Looking over, he points to a closed door and I make my way over, noticing that the something—or should I saw someone—was dragged inside given the streaks of dried blood.

Pursing my lips, I grip the iron door knob and attempt to twist it before realized it's locked. "Hello? Anyone in there?" I call out, knocking with a single knuckle. There is a whimper and a "shhh" that comes from the other side and I glance at Rory who shrugs. "We aren't here to hurt you," I continue.

Trying the knob again, I notice that there is a key hole with a dim light shining through. Begging down, I rest my hands on my knees and peer inside, trying to get a look inside.

Straight ahead is a small window and from the light that comes through I can see that the blood smears lead inside before turning sharply to the right out of my view. A shadow moves on the other side and I see a flash of a hand before something comes directly at me through the keyhole. I only have a split second to jerk my head backwards to avoid it gouging my eye and I fall backwards, my elbows connecting with the hard surface of the floor. Rory cannot help but toss his head back in laughter and I look up, shooting him a glare.

"I could have lost my eye you git," I say, which only causes the other men to join in his laughter. When someone offers me a hand, I do not accept it and push myself up on my own, wiping my hands free of the gore that got on me from my fall. Looking back at the door, I bend down again—this time from a safer distance—and see the metal object poke out again, jabbing wildly. Quickly, I grab the thin strip and bend it upwards, not releasing it from my grip.

"Let go!" a female's voice shouts from the other side of the door, "Or I'll...I'll," she trails, trying to decide on a threat that might work out on us.

"You'll what, skewer us with your little poker?" Rory taunts, crossing his arms over his tanned chest.

Rolling my eyes, I let go and turn to him. "Now isn't the time for teasing, little brother. She and anyone else behind that door is frightened," I chastise, giving my head a shake. Normally, I hate having to get onto him—especially in front of the men—but now isn't the time for his antics.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Right, sorry."

Turning back to the door, I see the woman is trying her best to get the thin metal object back through the keyhole, but it's bent so awkwardly that she eventually gives up. There is some whispering behind the door and I shift my weight to my other foot, waiting for whatever conversation she is having come to an end.

"You aren't with those bandits, are you?" She asks, her tone fearful.

Knowing she is unable to see me, I give my head a shake any ways. "No my lady, we are not. I'm Prince Thomas Carlyle of Paevia. We saw the billows of smoke in the sky and thought it would be best to find it's source and see lend aid if needed," I answer. There is more whispering before the air is filled with only silence. "If you open the door me men and I will do our best to assist you. No harm will come to you, you have my word," I offer, sheathing my blade.

A few more silent moments pass before I hear a key jam into the hole. She twists it and slowly opens the wooden door and steps backwards a few inches, peering through the crack. I see her gaze size me up and take me in before studying the men behind me. She looks at Rory, taking a few moments longer to study him before stepping back once again, this time opening the door all the way.

Immediately, I notice that she is a nun, though instead of a black veil she wears white, signaling that she is in training. She's of a short stature—only around five feet or so—and has round, doe like eyes that are a warm brown. Strands of hair fall out of her headpiece and I can see that her locks match her eyes. Even though her face is dirty—smeared with both blood and soot—she is beautiful.

Behind her appears to be shelves for food storage though they are quite bare. A bundle of parsley and wheat hangs above and a sack of potatoes sits opened in the corner. "Their only option for safety was to retreat to the pantry?" I wonder to myself.

I give her a small bow of my head and raise both hands into the air, showing her that I mean no harm. She swallows hard and motions for us to come inside before turning around and ducking to the left.

Slowly, I follow her inside and turn, finding a group of injured women and on priest sit cowering against the far wall. I can their faces quickly, all appear to be frightened. The priest has a wound over his brow that no longer bleeds and I assumed that the bandits must have bashed him over the head. His holy robes are tattered and dirty and he glares at me as I study him.

Ignoring him, I move onto the women, noting that they too are nuns in training. Tear streaked cheeks flush red under my gaze until a pair of blue eyes catch my attention. A woman in her mid twenties comforts another, strawberry blond waves cascade down her heart shape face. She grips her veil in one hand and holds another nun's in the other, her full lips—the bottom split as if someone struck her—whisper soothing words the her ear. Her almond eyes never leave mine though, and I offer her a gentle smile. She too is beautiful.

Behind me the other men, including Rory, fill the room—causing the priest and nuns to cower.

"It's okay, we aren't here to harm you," I tell them, slowly unsheathe get my blade and sitting it down on the floor. "There's no sign of the bandits so you're safe."

Some of the women begin crying and I can't tell if it's from fear of us or joy that the heathens have left.

"We do not need your help, God will save us," the priest says, pushing himself up from the floor.

The woman who greeted us first turns to him and helps him to his feet. "Father, it was God who sent us these men. Show them kindness," she tells him, removing her veil to reveal straight brown hair that is pinned up.

Looking back to us, she steals a glance from Rory and focuses her gaze on me. "My name is Beth Ann, this here is Father Anthony," she says, motioning to him. "Early this morning a group came through and took everything, butchering some and beating others. Those that were left retreated to the pantry and we locked ourselves inside. We weren't sure if they had left or not..." she trails.

Understanding, I give her a nod. "I'm very sorry to hear," I say. "What can my men and I do to help?"

She looks back at the priest—Father Anthony—before turning back to me. "If you could offer us your protection for the time being we would be truly grateful."

Father Anthony gives her a displeased look but says nothing. It's clear that he isn't fond of the idea—or us fo that matter—but he knows that they really do not have a choice.

"Of course," I tell her. "We can work out specifics after you ladies have had some food and rest. Would that be alright?"

She nods and the women begin to stand. I watch the strawberry blond pull herself up and wince before turning to the young woman—girl, really, as she cannot be m0re than seventeen—and offers her a hand, helping her to her feet. Stepping aside, I allow the nuns to exit the small room and notice that one lays still on the floor. By her pale face and slightly closed eyes, I know immediately that she is gone. Her white robes are torn and and bloodied and I feel my face fall.

"One of the men stuck her with his knife," a small voice says. I turn around and see it is the red head with blue eyes that lingers by the doorway. "I knew she'd never make it but I couldn't leave her out there to die alone so I dragged her inside," she says, wincing as she takes in a breath. Years of fighting—both with weapons and bare hands—allows me to assume that a rib or two must be bruised as she cradles her side with a hand. I notice then that her knuckles are scraped and have begun to scab over.

"Her name was Gloria," she adds, quickly wiping a tear from her face as it falls.

I give her a nod and press my lips together, not sure what I could say to bring comfort to the woman. "I'll make sure she is buried properly," I say. I then turn back to the young woman and scoop her body up into my arms before following the red head through the monastery. "What's yours?" I ask as I study her from behind. "If she is to be traveling with us, I should probably try to learn it," I tell myself.

"Claire, your grace," she says, pausing to face me.

"You do not have to call me that," I tell her gently, "Thomas works just fine."

She looks me up and down before continuing ahead in a slow pace. Something in me wants our short exchange of words to continue, but considering I am holding her deceased friend in my arms and the trauma that her convent have just been through, I allow her to catch up to the other nuns in silence.

Stepping outside into the soft afternoon light, I see that Nikolas, Rory and the others have joined Warren and his men by the silo who seem to be digging multiple graves. Turning to my right at the nuns of have formed a small group, I make my way towards them.

"My men are going to bury the dead before we continue. I'll send some men to retrieve the horses and have them bring you food and water in the meantime. If you wish to have funerals we can collect you when we are done," I say, my eyes finding Beth Ann. Considering she was the one who represented the nuns and priest a few moments ago, I unofficially decide to elect her as their leader.

She gives me a quick nod and begins to usher the women into the shade given by a large oak. Sighing, I turn around and begin the walk towards my men.