A Dark Champion (2 page)

Druce beamed. Thanking him, he dashed off with the mail armor draped over his shoulder and the money cradled carefully in his hand.

“You spoil him,” Christian said.

Stryder shrugged. “Children should be spoiled. Would that we had known such at his age.”

Christian’s gaze turned haunted at that and Stryder wondered if his own eyes showed the scars of his past so plainly.

Like him, Christian had been raised with the single principle of “spare the rod, spoil the child.”

Stryder could fell a full-grown man with a single blow. The idea of striking someone so much smaller than he sat ill in his gullet. With one reckless strike, he could kill the boy. Indeed, Stryder’s own lord had broken his jaw when he was Druce’s age for nothing more than dropping the man’s sword.

It was a chance he’d never take. He’d sooner cut off his arm than ever prey on someone weaker than he.

Stryder reached for a towel at the same time his tent flap was slung backward. He half expected to see a maid coming through it to offer herself to him and was a bit surprised to find his younger brother there, since Kit held no love of battle and often refused to come near Stryder’s tent.

Like Druce before him, Kit paid no heed to Christian in the corner.

Dressed in a garish red and orange combination, Kit held a large basket in his hands that was overfilled with letters and various pieces of ladies’ garb.

“What is this?” Stryder asked, as Kit set the whole of it at his feet.

Kit swept his orange hat from his head and wiped his sweaty brow with his arm. “Tokens from your admirers. I have been instructed to give you all of these personally and to make sure no other living human touches them.”

Christian laughed.

Kit snapped around to see Christian leaning back in the chair with a stein of ale braced on his stomach while his long legs were stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.

Kit’s blue eyes widened considerably. “You’re entertaining priests now?”

Stryder snorted at that. “Nay, Kit. Meet an old friend of mine, Christian. Christian, meet my younger brother, Kit.”

Christian inclined his head to Stryder’s brother.

Kit’s gaze never wavered from Christian, and it turned speculative the instant he noticed Christian’s
spurs and mail-covered boots peeking out from the hem of his black robes.

Stryder cleared his throat to draw Kit’s notice back toward him. Once he had his brother’s attention, Stryder very subtlety shook his head nay and passed a censoring gaze toward Christian.

Kit immediately took the hint to ask no questions and turned his back to Christian. He leaned over and pulled from the bunch a bright red ribbon that had a key attached to it. “This one in particular said that I was to make sure you received her gift or else she would poison me while I eat. So in lieu of hiring a taster for my meals, I wanted to make sure it reached you.”

Stryder rolled his eyes as Kit took it and broke the seal on the note that was also attached to the ribbon.

His brother read it aloud.

“A key to a chastity belt?” Christian asked in an amused tone.

“Aye,” Stryder said, his voice thick with ill humor. “And an invitation to a forced wedding if ever I saw one.”

Christian laughed again at that. “And you wonder
why I prefer to wear the garb of a monk. It’s the best shield I have found against conniving would-be brides, and even it isn’t foolproof, as you have seen.”

Stryder handed the key back to Kit. “Tell the lady I am previously engaged.”

Kit arched a brow at that, then headed for one of Stryder’s plate codpieces.

He frowned as he watched his brother place the codpiece inside his hose. “What is it you do?”

“The last time I told one of your would-be paramours nay on your behalf, she damn near unmanned me. This time I wish protection when I deliver the news.”

Stryder joined Christian’s laughter.

“’Tis not amusing,” Kit said, his tone offended. “You think what you do is dangerous? I defy you to be in my boots for one moment when I face the great Ovarian Horde in your stead.”

“And that is why I send you, my brother. I haven’t the courage to face them.”

“What?” Christian said in feigned shock. “Stryder of Blackmoor afraid? I never thought I would live to see the day a mere maid could send you craven.”

“The day you doff your cleric’s robes and don your crown, Your Highness, you may taunt me on that front. Until then, I know you for the coward you are as well.”

Christian’s eyes danced with mischief. “Women do make cowards of us all.”

Kit opened his mouth to say something, then must have rethought it. Grabbing a shield, he headed for
the door. “If I don’t return by night’s fall, please make sure I am buried on home soil.”

Stryder shook his head at his brother’s play, but then again…

Nay. None of the women would really hurt Kit.

As soon as they were alone, Stryder washed his face and chest in the wash basin, then toweled himself dry.

“How is it after all we have been through together that I never even knew you had a brother?” Christian asked as Stryder draped the towel over his shoulder and moved forward to pour himself a goblet of wine.

Stryder squelched the pain that innocent question conjured. Though he had shared much of his life with Christian, there were many things he had not shared with anyone. Things he would
never
share with anyone. “We are half brothers who grew up apart.”

“Ah,” Christian said as he watched his friend take a seat across from him.

Stryder looked tired. His blue eyes were troubled, but then Stryder had never been light of heart. His friend, much like him, had always been overly earnest.

Simon of Ravenswood used to refer to them as the Doomsday Duo. But then they had all seen far too much of the darker side of man’s cruelty.

It had a way of robbing them of their optimism.

“Have you seen the Scot lately?” Stryder asked.

“It will be a year ago September.”

“How does he?”

Christian sighed as he remembered their companion who had chosen to hide himself in the country of
England as opposed to going home to his family in Scotland. “Same as before. He is reclusive and refuses to let any see his face. He barely spoke to me while I was there.”

Stryder looked away, his brow even more troubled. Christian knew he blamed himself for what had happened to the Scot during their captivity. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Christian referred to the incident when one of their group had tried to escape. Barely ten-and-six in age, the boy’s escape route had been discovered before any of them had had a chance to use it.

When the Saracens came for one of them to punish for it, the Scot had stepped forward to take the blame, knowing the one responsible would never have survived the punishment.

Their captors had tortured the Scot for a full fortnight. When he was returned to their cell, his eye had been taken and the man had been left horribly scarred.

The Scot had never been the same, and Stryder blamed himself to this day for not taking the blame himself.

“You can’t carry the ills for the entire world, Stryder. Some things are just meant to be.”

Stryder took a deep draught of wine, but said nothing.

He didn’t have to. The two of them had known each other so long that Christian knew what was on his mind.

What they did was hard and never ending. They had more commitments than they could meet and
both of them felt responsible for every member of their guard.

Theirs was a lonely life.

Aye, they could have any wench who took their fancy, maiden or experienced, but then what?

Neither of them needed or wanted the burden of a wife who would demand even more of their precious time.

Christian had the burden of a kingdom waiting one day to claim him, but Stryder…He had demons who commanded him. Demons that wouldn’t give him peace.

Ever.

Christian only hoped that in the end, they wouldn’t drive his friend mad the way they had driven Stryder’s father insane.

It was well known by all that Geoffrey of Blackmoor had died by his own hand.

But not before he had tried to kill his own son.

“Y
ou should have been there, Rowena.”

Rowena de Vitry plastered a patient smileon her face as her lady-in-waiting, Elizabeth, rambled on while their maids prepared their hair and veils for the coming supper. They each sat on wooden chairs before an open window.

“Lord Stryder just popped out of his tent as we headed for the castle. Barely three feet away from us, he hardly had a stitch on.” Elizabeth sighed dreamily as she propped her elbow on the dressing table and stared into space.

Rowena did her best not to roll her eyes at her friend’s adolescent behavior. She held little doubt that if left alone, Elizabeth would spend the next sennight
doing nothing more than staring out her bower window, mooning over the earl.

“You’ve never seen a man so well shaped. His jet-black hair was wet and dripping down his muscles and…”

Elizabeth broke off into another sigh. “You should see his chest. I declare but you can see every tiny muscle flex when he breathes.”

Rowena could feel her smile slipping away. “Yea, and I’m sure they flex well as they drive a sword into a man to take his life.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed, sitting up straighter so that her maid could coil her braids about her head and pin them. “By all accounts he is the fiercest knight in all Christendom. Why else would he be named the king’s champion?”

“Why else, indeed,” Rowena whispered, then clenched her teeth. Knights. How she despised them and all they signified. To her, there was nothing glorious about battle or death.

What real man could take pride in spreading misery and heartache?

Ever since she had received news at age eleven that her beloved father had fallen in battle, she had despised war and those who took part in it. Unlike her friends, she didn’t swoon when she confronted a purveyor of death. Nay, she gave them a wide berth.

And she wished a pox on them all.

In her heart, it was a gentle man she sought. One who was kind to others and who could be compassionate without fear of it weakening him.

“Find the man who will love you, bit. One who is worthy of your devotion. Let no man have you because you are landed. Better I should give up all to Henry than have my girl miserable. Life’s too short for all of us, and I want you to enjoy every day of yours.”

Her father’s words still echoed in her mind and, most importantly, in her heart. He had been a good man, and it was one such as he that she sought for husband.

Unfortunately, she had yet to find anyone even close to his decency. Instead, she was courted by men who saw nothing but lands and wealth whenever they looked at her.

At age ten-and-five, she had once come to sup at banquet dressed as a gold nugget and caused quite a stir amongst the nobles. Her unamused uncle had taken a strap to her and quickly forced her to change her clothes.

Though she had never repeated that experience, Rowena was still the same. She would never have a man who saw her as a means to an end. She would only marry a man who saw her as a woman.

“Do you think Lord Stryder might choose me as the Lady of All Hearts?” Elizabeth prattled on. “I know he’ll be the knight who wins the tourney, and I should like so much to be picked.” A blush crept over Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I left him my handkerchief as a token when he helped us bring Joanne inside. Do you think he kept it?”

Rowena gave Elizabeth a genuine smile. Her friend couldn’t help her infatuation for a barbarian. And though it pained her to listen to it, she loved Elizabeth
enough not to crush her dreams. If being tossed over a man’s shoulder and being treated like a possession made her friend happy, and it did, then Rowena wished her friend well and all the barbarians her friend could handle. “Why would he not keep a token from someone as beautiful as you?”

Elizabeth smiled. “You’re so kind, Rowena. I hope you fill the hall at your recital.”

Rowena glanced to her lute, which rested on the window sill. Music and poetry were her life. And it was the only life she wanted, if the truth were told. While her ladies-in-waiting dreamed of husbands, children, and titles, she dreamed of traveling from castle to castle, singing for her supper and seeing the world, or at the very least, opening a school so that she could train others to cherish music as much as she did.

But unlike her male minstrel counterparts, who wrote songs that glorified war and knights, she wrote only of love.

Her stance against the order of knighthood was often mocked by other troubadours and nobles who thought her foolish. However, she didn’t care. She’d won enough awards and contests with her words of love that she didn’t need the approval of the more traditional minstrels. She had faith in her music.

If only her father had lived to see her success….

Rowena blinked away the mist in her eyes. Even after all this time, her heart still ached for the father she’d loved so dearly. But it wasn’t in her nature to let others see her pain. She was a quiet sort who kept her feelings close to her breast.

As she turned her attention back to Elizabeth, a knock sounded on the door.

At Elizabeth’s bidding, Joanne stuck her blond head in, slightly dislodging her yellow veil in the process. She wore a gown of watchet, and her green eyes twinkled merrily. Joanne was one of four ladies-in-waiting who were fostering in Rowena’s household and who had come with her to Hexham for the tournament. “Are you two not ready?”

Elizabeth ignored the question and asked one of her own. “Is
he
in the hall yet?” The excitement in Elizabeth’s voice told Rowena that the
he
she referred to must be the earl of Blackmoor.

The earl had arrived in Hexham two days before and so far Rowena had been spared his boorish company.

Something that was sure to change shortly.

Joanne’s face beamed. “Aye, he just entered the hall.”

Elizabeth overturned her chair in her haste to leave the room.

Sedately, Rowena rose to her feet and followed after her friends, who were rushing down the corridor in a most unladylike fashion as they giggled and recounted their earlier encounter with the earl.

“I can’t believe he actually carried me,” Joanne said in a breathless voice. “How I wish I’d been awake.”

“How I wish I’d been the one who fainted,” Elizabeth inserted. “Oh, to be carried by those strong arms!”

Rowena shook her head. In spite of her best efforts,
a smile hovered at the edges of her lips. She loved her two friends, but there were times when they still acted as if they were children instead of women full grown.

Elizabeth and Joanne paused along the gallery where numerous other women were leaning over the low stone wall to spy on the men below. The hall was crowded with people and hounds and musicians as servants prepared the tables for the coming meal. Over and over, Rowena heard various women exclaiming over Lord Stryder, the earl of Blackmoor.

“Is his hair not as dark as a midnight sky?” a woman to her left breathed.

“Oh, aye. And his shoulders are by far the broadest of any below.”

“You can tell by his walk that he’s a man to satisfy a woman’s needs. Oh, but for a chance to find out for myself.”

Rowena plucked absently at her sleeve as she sought a way to block out the inane prattle. It was such an effort not to be sick in the midst of the hallway.

“I hear he’s vowed to never marry.”

Rowena quirked an eyebrow at the untoward comment. Perhaps the man had some intelligence after all.

“Why would he vow such?” Elizabeth asked.

“They say he’s cursed.”

“Cursed with the looks of a handsome devil, and the prowess of Saint George. I wish someone would curse me with such a man!”

Unable to stand any more of their comments, Rowena pushed gently past the thronging women and slowly descended the stairs. Let them ogle if they
must. She had other things to do, such as finding something bitter to remove the cloying sugary taste of their comments from her throat.

As she entered the foyer, a young page accidently ran into her in his haste to fetch more wine for his lord. Rowena tried to right herself, but just as she straightened a hound shot across her path and caught in the hem of her gown. Propelled forward, she felt herself falling.

She gasped, reaching out for a way to steady herself. Just as she was certain she would undignify herself with a sprawl in the center of the crowd, someone caught her.

Strong arms wrapped tightly around her, spinning her about before holding her close against a chest taut with muscles.

Rowena looked up and felt her jaw go slack.

Never in the whole of her life had she seen the like…

Never.

Blue eyes, fierce and piercing, stared out from a face of pure masculine heaven. It was all she could do to not reach out and run her hand along the sharp angle of that perfectly sculpted jaw, to let the telltale black stubble scrape her fingertip…

The man was utterly gorgeous.

Perfect.

He possessed that rare manly beauty that would be feminine on anyone who lacked his raw, earthy masculinity. Or on anyone who lacked the size of him.

He was huge! Tall and well muscled, he held her
with ease. His unfashionably long hair spoke that this man didn’t cater to current tastes, and the humor in his gaze said he possessed a good, tender nature.

As he continued to watch her with fascinated interest, her face burned with heat.

This was a most embarrassing embrace, if the truth were told. Her body was tilted backward so that she looked up at the stranger with only the strength of his arms supporting her. He surrounded her with warmth and security, and his handsome face bore a mixture of concern and amusement.

“Are you all right, milady?” he asked.

There was music in that masculine tone. A rich, deep bass that would no doubt resonate with beauty should he use it to sing.

An aura of danger surrounded him that said he followed no man’s rules save his own. An aura that said he held a dark, sinister side to him that would have been frightening had it not been softened by an air of charming good humor. It was a strange dichotomy that held her enthralled.

His wavy black hair swept about his broad shoulders and as he smiled, she saw the dimples that cut deep moons into his cheeks.

Her heart pounded as chills went through her at the sight of those devilish dimples.

He had also asked her a question. She remembered it, but for her life she couldn’t remember what he’d said.

Until he set her back on her feet.

Mortified that she hadn’t moved, that she was act
ing every bit as childish as her friends, Rowena felt another wave of heat rush up over her cheeks.

In an effort to look away from the laughter in his blue mirthful eyes, her gaze dropped to his broad chest. He wore a tight red and black supertunic that slid sinuously over lean muscles, muscles she remembered feeling pressed against her all too well.

His body was truly a feast for her eyes.

Until she saw
it
….

The sword he had strapped to his lean hips.

“You’re a knight,” she pronounced slowly, understanding now the dark side of him that she had glimpsed.

Knight. Murderer. They were synonymous, and she should have known he was one of their dreaded breed. She shouldn’t be surprised by the knowledge. Most noblemen were knights, yet a wave of bitter disappointment claimed her.

How she wished he had been born another. ’Twas such a pity that so handsome a man would waste his time on such pointless, cruel endeavors.

“Aye, milady,” he said again in that wonderful, melodic voice. “A knight ever at your service.”

She supposed she should thank him for the quick reflexes that had kept her from falling, but then those reflexes had only been honed so that he could kill others. Rather she should sprawl upon the floor a thousand times than one man should perish in war.

“I appreciate your service, sir,” she said, her voice carrying the full arctic impact of her mood.

She started away from him.

“Milady?”

Without thought, she paused and turned back toward him.

“Will you not give me your name?”

“Nay.”

This time when she started away from him, he actually blocked her path.

“Nay?” he asked, his eyes showing his surprise, and yet they also managed to be charming and warm. ’Twas obvious he didn’t hear that word often from a maid’s lips.

“You have no need for my name, sir knight. I am sure there are plenty here who would gladly give you theirs, but I am not one of them.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up, displaying a single dimple in his left cheek. In spite of her best intentions, she found his devilish air…

Entertaining?

Nay, that wasn’t really the word, she found him…well…delightful, if she dare admit it. He really was too charming for words.

“Can I not claim mere curiosity, milady? After all, ’tis not often I find an unknown woman in my arms.”

Rowena bit her bottom lip in an effort to suppress her smile which proved a treacherous beast against her will. “There is something about you, sir, that tells me that is not true.”

His rich laughter rippled in her ears as he bestowed his full smile upon her. That smile did the strangest things to her body. It made her pulse race, her mind giddy.

“Then shall we say ’tis not often I find a maid in my arms who is reluctant?”

“Now that I believe most definitely.” She took a step backward, more afraid of her sudden desire to stay with him than of his occupation.

Whatever was the matter with her? She’d never before wanted to be in the same country as such men, and now all of a sudden she actually wanted to take a moment to chat with this one.

She must have drunk too much wine.

You haven’t had a sip, Rowena. You only just now entered the hall.

Oh, well, then it must be the excitement of the day’s events. Aye, that was it.

That
must
be it.

“If you’ll excuse me?” she asked.

He stepped back reluctantly. “This time only, milady. When next we meet, I’ll be expecting a name for you.”