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Kristian smiled, pleased with the acknowledgment.

Very tall and very blond, as one might expect of a Northman, he was a prince of his people, something he’d left behind long ago.

In that respect, however, he was actually the only royal member of the Blackchurch trainers.

He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he had a strong magnetism about him, an authority and charm that drew people to him in a way other men lacked.

“I would not have a class at all were it not for most of you training them to reach this point,” he said, lifting his cup to his comrades. “That is why we are the best in the world, pojkar . That is why we are legendary.”

Pojkar. It was an affectionate term in Kristian’s language, something meaning boys or lads. Soft chants of agreement to his statement could be heard around the table, a table that did, indeed, contain the most legendary and impressive trainers of warriors that the world had seen.

That was Blackchurch—legendary and impressive.

In addition to Payne, Tay, Kristian, Sinclair, Creston, and Ming Tang, there were others—Fox de Merest, a former royal knight who was known as The Protector, Cruz Mediana de Aragon, a knight from Zaragoza who trained men in covert thinking and tactics, and a glorious warrior named Aamir ibn Rashid.

Known as The North Star, Aamir was from Egypt, his father was a great Egyptian warlord, and it was his task to teach men about different armies, cultures, and fighting techniques.

There was no one better at it.

The last four members of the group were the newest. They were either assistant trainers or newer full-fledged trainers, good men with a good purpose, but they hadn’t quite yet earned the camaraderie that the veteran trainers had built up over the years.

Bowen de Bermingham was the first, a new trainer who taught warrior etiquette and responsibilities.

Assistant trainers were Axton Summerlin, Anteaus de Bourne, and Rhodes St. James, men who rotated around, working with different trainers at different times.

They sat and drank, and ate, and listened because there was most definitely a hierarchy with the Blackchurch trainers and they’d not yet reached the privileged level.

For them, at this time, it was listen and learn .

Even from men who were relaxing and blowing off steam.

This was when they received the best insight into the legendary Blackchurch trainers.

“Now those eleven men go to Aamir,” Tay said, indicating the Egyptian down the table. “How many recruits do you have now, Aamir?”

“Seven,” Aamir said, his dark eyes glimmering with mirth.

“I am the last trainer they will have. When I am finished with them, they will have completed the Blackchurch training process and can finally call themselves graduates. One of them has already had an offer from a French duc for the Albigensian Crusade. He is prepared to pay the man handsomely and it should be a prestigious post.”

He was speaking of a vicious war in Southern France that had been going on for years. “It will come tae no good end,” Payne said, shaking his head. “That is a feud fought by the church. No one wants tae be involved in a holy war, Amir.”

“You would not go if someone offered you a good deal of money?” Aamir asked.

Payn continued to shake his head. “I would not ,” he said. “No one wins in a holy war. It goes on and on until there are no more men left tae fight it. Look at King Richard’s crusade thirty years ago. Who won? It was not the English, lads.”

“The Christian armies won several battles,” Aamir reminded him.

“But they failed tae capture Jerusalem,” Payne pointed out.

“That is why the Christian armies went in the first place, tae take Jerusalem from Saladin. Aye, I remember my history, Aamir. I know that Richard and the Christians shouldna have gone. They should have left the Levant tae the people who live in the land. There was too much death and destruction and too many fine Christian men lost.”

“You speak as though it was personal, Payne,” Tay spoke up, a faint smile on his lips. “War should never be taken personally.”

Payne looked at him. “My da fought with Richard’s army,” he said. “My mother said that when he returned, he wasna the same man. It did something tae him. So, nay, I wouldna fight in a holy war, no matter how much money I was offered.”

“But you would fight if Henry wanted to fight the Welsh?” Tay said.

Payne nodded firmly. “I dunna like the Welsh,” he said, listening to the snorts of laughter from his friends.

He looked down the table, finding one of the newer trainers.

“And I dunna like the Irish, either, de Bermingham. If ye have something tae say tae me about that, do it now. Fight me if ye must.”

Bowen de Bermingham knew Payne well enough to know that the man didn’t mean it.

Not much, anyway. Payne was vocal about disliking everyone from nearly every country and even some Scotsmen, but that was part of his brash personality.

He never meant it until someone threw a punch, and then he’d grin, back down, and buy the man he insulted more drink.

He was a loveable scoundrel, as Tay’s wife, Athdara, so kindly put it.

A loveable scoundrel with fists of iron.

And Bowen knew it.

“I will not fight you,” he said, waving his hands in surrender. “My father’s father was from Ireland, but my father was born here. So was my mother. And if you must know, I find my Irish relations intolerable, too.”

Payne burst out laughing. A serving wench passed him with a full pitcher and he gently grasped the girl, pulling the pitcher from her hand and pouring himself a full cup before giving it back to her so she could take it down the table.

After a hard night, everyone was relaxed and jovial, and more conversations, accusations, good-natured insults, and even boasts were passed around the table.

It was a regular night after a regular day of training.

Everyone was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

Until St. Sebastian de Bottreaux appeared.

The heir to the Blackchurch empire was well liked by those who served him and his father.

He was highly trained, just like the Blackchurch trainers were, but he tended to think more with his heart than his head.

His older brother, St. Gerard, had been accidentally killed a few years earlier, so the man had stepped into an unexpected position he hadn’t necessarily been trained for.

His appearance at the tavern was an unusual one.

Payne saw him first and he elbowed Tay, who elbowed Fox, seated next to him.

The three of them stood up to catch St. Sebastian’s attention, and when they did, the entire table caught sight of what had their focus and they, too, stood up.

When St. Sebastian saw them, he quickly moved through the smoky common room of the tavern and into the semiprivate alcove.

“I am very sorry to disrupt your evening of celebration,” he said, looking mostly at Payne and Tay and the men around them. “Unfortunately, we’ve received some concerning news and my father wants all of you returned to Blackchurch. We will be sealing up the gatehouses.”

Tay still had his cup of wine in his hand. “God’s Bones,” he muttered, puzzled. “What is so concerning that we are sealing the gatehouses?”

St. Sebastian reached onto the table and picked up Creston’s cup of wine, draining it before speaking because he’d run all the way from Blackchurch.

“We have just received word from Abelard,” he said, referring to his father’s cousin, St. Abelard de Bottreaux, the man who was in command of the more violent and scandalous arm of the de Bottreaux empire.

“One of his men just arrived on a sweaty horse, having ridden all the way from Minehead.”

“At night?” Tay said incredulously.

St. Sebastian nodded. “At night,” he confirmed. “As you know, Abelard and his band of pirates control the coast from Minehead to Ilfracombe,” he said. “Triton’s Hellions are all over Bristol Channel and the southern coast of Wales.”

The trainers were nodding. “We know,” Tay said. “And Santiago de Fernandez and the Demons of the Sea are on the west coast of Cornwall, among other places.”

St. Sebastian lifted his hand to beg patience.

“They are,” he said. “I am telling you what you already know, but there is a reason for that. It seems that a faction of Scottish pirates entered the Bristol Channel several days ago and tried to dock at Minehead. Abelard chased them away but he’s fairly certain they simply dodged him and came ashore near Highbridge.

He heard rumor that they were moving inland, down the River Parrett.

Abelard got the impression that they were trying to reach Blackchurch because when they tried to come ashore at Minehead, they kept asking how to reach the Lords of Exmoor. ”

That brought bewilderment to the men at the table, who looked at each other in confusion.

“Are you telling us that a band of pirates is coming to attack Blackchurch?” Aamir finally said. “ Who are they?”

St. Sebastian shook his head. “All I know is that Abelard’s messenger told us,” he said.

“He has said they are Scottish pirates and the only Scottish pirates we know are those we do not speak of. They have terrorized the entire west coast of Scotland, England, and Wales for years, but they’ve never come this far south. ”

“But now they are,” Tay said grimly.

St. Sebastian nodded, apprehension in his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “It seems so.”

“Medusa’s Disciples.”

Those softly uttered words by Tay brought consternation to a group that was already plagued by confusion. Kristian, who was their seagoing trainer, seemed particularly serious in the face of such information.

“We are safe from Triton’s Hellions and the Demons of the Sea by virtue of the fact that Blackchurch is related to one through blood and to the other through marriage,” he said, brow furrowed.

“Because of that relationship, other pirate factions leave us alone, but do Medusa’s Disciples have no such restraint? ”

St. Sebastian shook his head. “It seems not,” he said. “My father is very concerned because of their leader. God, I cannot even say the name.”

He shuddered, averting his gaze, but they all knew whom he was speaking of. Someone that no sane man liked to acknowledge. Tay, who had been contemplating the situation, finally dared to say it.

“Bloody Maude,” he muttered. “We all know what she is capable of. We’ve heard the rumors.”

There was some serious grunting of concern going around the table at that statement.

“I met a man once who had a brush with Bloody Maude,” Creston said ominously.

“He said that she wears her trophies around her neck. The woman has a necklace of dead and dried male members she’s put on a chain and uses it to frighten her enemies. ”

“It would frighten me right out of my skin,” Tay said with conviction. “She cuts off men’s male organs without thought. She displays them like some grotesque chain of jewels and I, for one, do not intend for my wife’s greatest pleasure to become part of some macabre collection.”

“And that is why we must return home,” St. Sebastian said, gesturing to the door. “Come, now. We can discuss Bloody Maude as we run back to the safety of Blackchurch.”

He didn’t need to prod anyone. The mere threat of the brutal Scottish pirate queen and her disregard for what men held precious had them all quite ready and willing to depart, heading out into the darkness.

Running out was more like it. No one wanted to stroll home leisurely with that kind of danger looming.

Tay lingered behind for just a moment to warn the tavernkeep, who thought it might be a good idea to close early and lock up for the night.

But why she was coming was anyone’s guess.

An evening of triumph was ending on a frightening note.