The Black Death (A Medieval Action/Romance)

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

“Glad you could finally join us,” Drystan joked at the three people that had just entered the room.

They hadn’t spotted Izzie yet giving her enough time to look them all over.

They were all men but Izzie wasn’t at all surprised by that.

They were all of similar height although the first man was a few inches shorter, maybe five foot eleven, but his handsome looks of tanned skin and golden locks made up for his height. He carried a crossbow and a belt of daggers around his waist.

Izzie assumed that she was going to get on with him.

The man behind him was the exact opposite with jet black hair and matching eyes; scars crisscrossed his skin and his face hadn’t been spared. His left eyebrow was jagged and the corner of his mouth was slightly swollen and off line with the rest of his mouth. He held an axe over his shoulder whilst another one was strapped to his belt. His physique was bigger than the others with long black hair that was tied at the nape of his neck.

And the final man was similar to the first with his golden hair but it was long and straight and he carried a simple sword. He seemed in his late twenties along with the others apart from the axe-wielding man who seemed in his early forties.

“How would ye like an axe in ye neck?” the black haired man asked in a heavy Scottish brogue accent.

“I’ve already had a dagger to it this morning, I think that’s all I can handle,” Drystan muttered, stuffing another slice of cake in his mouth that Brandon put out.

The Scottish man laughed heavily, resting his hands on his stomach, “Ye allowed a mere lass get that close to ye?”

“A mere lass?” Drystan scoffed, making Izzie smile to herself with pride.

“Would you all like to sit down,” Brandon hurried them along, interrupting Drystan’s conversation with the Scottish man, “Isadora,” he gestured to her in the corner, shocking the other three who had thought they were alone.

“Bluidy hell!” The Scottish man shouted when she stepped out from the shadows.

“Isadora,” Brandon murmured as he stood and gestured to the others, “You know Drystan, this is Iagan,” He nodded to the Scottish man, “This is Dermot,” he gestured to the first blonde man who had a row of daggers around his waist, “and this is Jarred,” he gestured to the last blonde man with a sword or nodded his head at Isadora.

Isadora didn’t return the gesture; she had no intentions of making friends. She preferred working on her own.

“What are we doing here, Brandon?” Isadora asked as she seated herself on the edge of his desk, away from the others and closer to the door. The others exchanged glances at her coldness but they said nothing.