Set to Flame (Flame Series)

Set to Flame

Angie Arms

©2013 by Angie Arms

All rights reserved.
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-for example, electronic, photocopy, recording - without the prior written permission of the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

This book is a work of fiction.
  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my father.

I don’t think I ever saw him sit down and read a book but he never discouraged me from writing.  He did what he could to get me started and I will never forget that.

Chapter 1

1187 England

They were a dirty wild looking bunch.  He smelled their stench as he ro
de into the camp.  The camp was full of men, their unwashed clothes and bodies, the closeness of the animals and apparently latrine was enough to make him gag.  Hanging over it all was the smoke of numerous fires.  Many of the men dropped what they were doing to move in his direction.  By the time he reached the edge he pulled his horse to a stop as the men surrounded him.

Marcus Kinsey had to question his sanity for coming here.  He didn’t think he was any more welcome here than his father, Lord Landry of Fenton.  He heard rumors these rebels wanted to see his father dead.  He couldn’t blame these men for wanting to protect their women and children.  His father was known for his appetites along with his swift and decisive actions against those who stood in his way.

It was the rumors that
brought him here today.  To seek out the leader of these rebels, not to defend Fenton in his father’s name, but to offer his battle skills to the rebels.  What his father did was not right in his position of power.  It was an abomination what the man did yet King Henry turned a blind eye and his father had no one else to answer to in his own mind.  He had no regard for God and right or wrong.  Marcus knew his father would one day answer for what he did and the sooner he did the less people who would suffer.

Rose, his battle scarred stallion snorted, th
e red horse pawed the ground and Marcus quieted him easily but the men close took a cautious steps back.

“The prodigal son has graced us with his presence,” one man sneered pulling a dagger from his belt to take a menacing stance.

“Don’t expect us to kiss your feet,” another said as he spit at him.  The spittle fell short, short enough Marcus had to stop the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the attempt since it nearly landed on the burly man’s pooched out stomach.

“You think we’re going to let you leave with your skin intact?” another asked as he hefted a blade as long as a horse.  The weapon appeared to be so old it could have been a remnant of the Viking conquests. 
There was no way the cumbersome weapon would be any match against Marcus’s sword.  More jeers and insults followed before they abruptly ended as another man stepped among them.

The man may have just been an inch or two above average in height but something about him made him appear larger than life as his men parted for him to step forward.
  Despite his ragged attire he stood with his head high, his shoulders back and appeared to be nothing like the peasants that stood around him.  His black eyes studied him, they were intelligent, shrewd even.  His dark hair fell to his shoulders, his beard was shorter than most, more a case of neglect than attempting to grow a beard.    “Sir Marcus,” he said, looking him in the eye.  There was no anger or contempt in his voice as the man studied him.  The difference in their stations in life was obvious.  Marcus was dressed in fine clothes, his cloak alone was made with the finest fur, trimmed with gold embroidery that stood out against the black garment.  He would bet none of these men had ever worn anything half as rich upon their backs.  Most of their clothes were but remnants of rags, layered to protect them against the dropping temperatures of fall.

“Are you the leader of these men?”

A slow smile played across the man’s dark features before he responded, “Yes indeed.  Have you come to kill me?”  Marcus saw confidence in this man, a cockiness that made Marcus want to smile.  He obviously thought his skills were superior to the trained knight sitting on the horse before him.

“No, I have come to join you.”

Hostile eyes turned to him and Marcus got the distinct feeling the only thing that kept the men surrounding him in check was their impassive leader.

“Come, join me for a meal and we’ll talk.”

Marcus gave up the only advantage he had against so many numbers and slid from the back of his horse.

“Take care of his animal,” the man directed turning away.  Marcus showed no hesitation, these men were like wolves and would tear him apart at the first sign of weakness.  The man he followed led him to one of the many small fires scattered around the camp
and sat down upon the ground as he motioned Marcus to do the same.

As he took his seat the man
asked, “Why did you really come here?”  He leaned forward to take a bowl from a rock near the fire then handed it to Marcus before picking one up for himself. 

“To join you.”
  Marcus watched the man use his index and middle finger to scoop the contents of the bowl up and stuff it into his mouth. 

“No, really,” he said as he chewed.  “What’s in it for you?”

“I want my father’s cruelty to end.”  Marcus looked away and down into the bowl he held in his hands.  He was glad he had not eaten earlier or he may have lost the meal as he looked down in the contents.  The food appeared to be some kind of porridge but with it were the obvious bodies of maggots.  With a scowl he bent forward at the waist and sat the bowl back on its rock.

When he looked back at the man beside him he saw
a smirk on his lips and amusement lighting his dark eyes.  At first sight Marcus thought them to be black but were instead a brown so dark only the true color could be seen when the light was directly upon them.  His eyes crinkled at the corners with his amusement for his visitor’s soft stomach.

“How can you…?” Marcus stopped himself.  He did not wish to cause the tension his repulsion at what the man ate would create.  He studied the man who, like himself, could not have s
een more than 28 years.

“Eat this?” he asked before using his fingers to scrape the rest of the bowl to get the last drop.  He went so far as to make a
slurping sound as he licked his fingers off.

Marcus could only nod as he stared at the man speechlessly.

“Do you know who I am?”  He tossed the bowl close to the stones surrounding the fire then wiped his fingers on his already filthy pants.  “They call me the Bastard.”

Recognition dawned on Marcus.  Everyone who grew up around Fenton had heard of the Bastard.  He was the son of Gretchen, the village’s cheapest whore.  She was cheap because she had a fondness for ale and nothing else.  Of course there was no
telling who the Bastard’s father was.  But what made the Bastard so infamous was his remarkable knack for surviving.  Gretchen tried to drown her unwanted baby at birth and thinking he was dead she left him by the river.  Some villagers found him still alive and Lord Landry forced her to take him back.

Marcus was well
acquainted with the stories of the Bastard.  They were indeed the same age, which is why Marcus’s father had stepped in and given a shit about the Bastard to begin with because his own son had just been born.  When he was 10 Gretchen had sold him, he was only gone from the village for a month while Gretchen stayed in a blissful stupor.  At the time Marcus thought it was to work but now that he knew the world as he did he had to wonder if the temporary purchase of the boy could have been for much darker reasons.   He eventually returned and as before everyone in the village shunned the boy.  The other children teased and beat on him while the adults refused him any assistance, even their scraps of food.  A whore’s son had no place.  At least a daughter would have some use but a son was just a waste of the village’s resources.

“My name is Garrick.”  The man beside him shrugged and Marcus noticed beneath his layers of clothes his shoulders were thin to match his sunken cheeks.  It was funny this man seemed to
emanate a much stronger presence.  “I gave myself that name because Bastard did not suit me anymore.”

Garrick leaned toward him, his elbows on his knee and for some reason the look in those dark eyes sent a shiver up Marcus’s spine.  “Eating maggots no longer suits me.  I don’t give a fuck about the people.  I’m going to take your castle and your land.”

“Do you think the king will let you keep Fenton?” Marcus asked voicing the most obvious problem with the man’s plan.

“I will sell my soul
to the king.  I will kill whomever, whenever for him just so long as I do not have to eat this slop ever again.  You say you want your father gone for noble reasons?  I want him gone for greed and I will have everything you are heir to.”

“
Will you treat the people fairly?”

Garrick
straightened as he scoffed.  “I don’t care what the people do for I do not just want your power and wealth, there is so much more and I will die trying if need be.”

“I will help you.”

The man’s gaze left the fire and landed on him.  Marcus would give up his sword to know what the man was thinking. 

“I can show you the best place for an attack but I will not be the one to kill my father.”

Garrick continued in his study of Marcus before giving a nod.  “If I find you turn on me I will make you suffer.”  The man’s voice suddenly grew cold with those words and Marcus heard the sincerity and knowledge of suffering in it. 

~  
~   ~

1 year later

They had come upon Garrick when he least expected it.  The girl had to have had something to do with it otherwise she would have cried out at the sudden intruders in her home.  An unyielding arm pulled him off her and before he could react he felt a blade cutting into his throat just below his ear.  He couldn’t so much feel the pain but felt the dagger, knew what it was and felt the pressure it created as it pressed its way through the skin.  He felt it pulling downward, following the line of his jaw bone, just beneath.  Someone had come to kill him and they had succeeded he thought as his eyes threatened to roll back into his head.  He could do nothing to fight off the man, it was as if his head was already severed and his brain could send no signals to his body.  The blade was almost to the point he would bleed out quickly.

He thought this moment would bring him fear, remorse for his life at least, but he felt nothing.  A growl came from the doorway, feral in its intensity but human all the same.  Marcus.

Garrick felt himself released but his body was like a rag doll, his legs buckled and he fell to his knees.  From a distance he heard the battle around him, the cries of pain, and the gurgles of death as Marcus avenged him.  Garrick could not turn his head, he could do nothing but kneel and feel his own blood warm his chest as it flowed freely.

In front of him the girl rose up, a knife raised ready to plunge it into him.  He couldn’t tell her not to
bother, she need not finish him off because he was losing too much blood to survive the first knife wound.  A sword came into his peripheral vision, followed by an arm then the rest of Marcus as his blade plunged nearly to the hilt into the girl’s side.  Her cry was cut short as the blade was twisted then pulled from her and the life left her blue eyes.  They stared blankly at him before her body fell away.  Such a pretty thing she was, young and eager to take him to her bed.  Now he knew why.

He felt himself sagging, falling.  The dirt floor beneath him felt strange, his entire body felt strange.

“Garrick!”

It was
Marcus.  He sounded frantic.  Garrick felt his strong calloused hand pressed to his neck.  He wanted to tell Marcus to calm down, to not waste his time.  How unlike Marcus it was to be panicked.  He was the calmest and most patient person he knew.  Nothing ever seemed to ruffle his feathers.  Garrick could feel the blood turning to warm mud beneath him on the hard packed floor.  It couldn’t be much longer now.  Wouldn’t his mother be glad he thought and for a fleeting moment the rage came back and he had the urge again to drive a knife into her black heart.

“I have to stop the bleeding,” Marcus mumbled to
himself.  “Halvor!” he screamed.  “Halvor!”

“Dear God!”
came from the doorway.

Halvor
was with them. 

“Quick we have to get him to the surgeon.”

Big hands lifted him, carried him as if he weighed nothing.  Having the wealth to have food and the constant fighting to keep it had allowed Garrick to put on considerable weight over the last few months but Halvor lifted him like he was a child.  He heard his two men talking and heard the frantic note in their voices.  He couldn’t understand why these two were trying to save him.  If he died Marcus would likely get his land back.  He was sure there were many who could reward them for just letting him bleed out.

Torches glowed, blinding him, sending searing pain stabbing into his skull.

“Fix him.”

“I can’t, he’s dy
ing.”  It must be the voice of the surgeon echoing what Garrick already knew. 

“
Fix him now!” was that Marcus again? When had he ever raised his voice?

“He is bleeding too much.”  The man was insistent.

There was the sound of a small struggle before hands were on his neck.  Pain like he never experienced before sliced its way through him.  There was no beginning and no end, only the pain and darkness.

~  
~   ~

“We have to move him,” Marcus insisted.  Why couldn’t he make Halvor understand the greater danger was if they didn’t move him?  They knew the king’s men were here, looking for those who opposed him.  Word was getting around how the new knight of Henry’s was ruthless in tracking down his quarry.  The Fenton Bastard is what they were calling him.  Garrick was coming to find no matter how much power or riches he would accumulate he could not get away from the title.