The Silver Knight

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The Silver Knight
by Kate Cotoner
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Erotica/Romance

Copyright ©2010 by Kate Cotoner

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2010

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The Silver Knight

by Kate Cotoner

Halfway through the wood, Sufyan turned his horse back to face the way he'd come. The old chestnut gelding shook out its mane in complaint and snorted. Sufyan checked it, pulling on the bridle to make the horse stand still. It did so reluctantly, head nodding. Not for the first time, the animal's antics reminded him of a camel, the herd animals of his youth that grumbled if separated from their stable-mates or if turned from a well-trodden path.

The road through the wood twisted sharply beneath the ancient oaks, its worn surface sun-dappled with fading gold as sunset drew on. Shadows lengthened, the light muted beneath the trees to blur details into darkness. Within the half-hour, he knew all color would be leeched from this pleasant stretch of woodland to leave skeletal black branches poking up at the deepening blue of the sky.

All woods were dangerous after dark, especially this far north where the border was little more than a line marked on a map. He'd seen one such map laid out on a great table in the bishop's palace, and had studied it carefully. He knew where kingdoms ended and where disputed territory lay, but he also knew men cared nothing for such divisions when they could make a profit.

Sufyan stared through the haze of encroaching twilight, scanning the road for the man who'd shadowed him so closely for the last few hours. He couldn't remember where exactly he'd noticed his tail. The roads along the Northumbrian coast were mostly open and desolate, any travelers upon them visible by puffs of summer dust long before they approached, but still Sufyan hadn't seen his pursuer until these past twenty miles.

A knight on horseback followed him at a discreet interval, far enough away not to offer a threat but close enough to intrude upon his thoughts. Sufyan had traveled the length and breadth of Europe and understood the rules of the road. Not all men wished for companionship on their journey, but if they did not want it, they were obliged by manners to keep back and not seem to harry the footsteps of a fellow traveler.

Sufyan felt harried by the knight. He'd tried galloping a short way before slowing his pace, but every time he glanced over his shoulder, the knight seemed to be just behind him, always at the same distance.

Sufyan had never encountered anything like it. He crossed his hands over the neck of his horse and waited for the knight to show himself. Perhaps the knight would not follow into the wood; perhaps a border had been crossed somewhere, an old border marked not on maps but in men's memories. Perhaps then he could continue his journey alone without the niggling sensation of being watched all the time.

That hope vanished when he heard the steady clip-clop of horse's hooves. Through the trees came a slender figure in silver armor, mounted on a huge, black destrier caparisoned in scarlet and gold.

Sufyan touched his heels to the belly of his gelding. It stepped forward, ears flicked back as a sign of its caution as it spied the black warhorse.

The knight reined in the destrier and sat motionless. The waning sunlight burned lines and curves along his armor and touched the long, heavy sword carried at the knight's side.

Sufyan gave an inward snort. An old-fashioned weapon, a crusader's sword, it looked so antique it would probably snap if the knight tried to wield it in battle. Sufyan moved his right hand to touch the cross-belts over his chest in a gesture calculated to draw the knight's attention to the two curved scimitars he wore strapped to his back, Saracen-style. Now these were weapons, pure silvered steel honed to perfection and with a taste for Frankish blood. Sufyan was confident his blades were more than a match for the knight's straight, cruciform sword.

He walked his horse toward the knight, keeping his pace slow and measured. The black destrier stood as solid and silent as a rock. The knight's helm was lowered, features hidden from view. Sufyan liked to look into the eyes of any potential enemy. Denied the chance, he cast his gaze instead over the silver armor as he approached, looking for a heraldic device that might identify the stranger.

He was no more than six feet away from the knight when he heard a noise behind him, a shrill, unearthly cry that made his horse jerk sideways in response. Sufyan turned, momentarily distracted. The sound came again, sharp and terrifying. He couldn't tell whether it belonged to a human or an animal. His first instinct was to go and help; his second, more measured reaction was to look toward the knight.

Except the knight and his destrier had vanished.

* * * *

The village of Kirkfield lay southwest of the woodland. A small place with a mill and a tavern, it seemed unexceptional, akin to many other settlements Sufyan had passed through on his journeys. The village green, now devoid of life, showed the hoof prints of pigs and sheep. On the millpond, a swan glided back and forth, its neck arched with elegant disdain. Somewhere, a rooster crowed against the evening. Lights showed through shuttered windows and beneath doors, but no human stirred outside even though dusk had only just wrapped the world in ashy gray.

Sufyan dismounted from the chestnut gelding and led it into the tavern yard. When no one ventured out of the kitchen or stable-loft to take the animal from him, he chose a stall at random and tended his horse. He found a pitchfork and heaped in some fresh hay, checked the trough for water, and then sauntered across the yard and entered the tavern.

His appearance caused a flutter of panic, quickly muted, as every head turned in his direction. Then came a silence that spread through the tavern's inhabitants like ripples in the wake of the swan on the millpond.

He'd expected nothing less. Sufyan took a seat farthest from the hearth and stretched out, aware of the interest of the locals. Some peeked surreptitiously. Others, less cautious, stared with open curiosity. He put his feet up on the opposite bench and examined the shine of his boots, pretending ignorance.

He'd been stared at before, in courts and alehouses right across Europe. It didn't bother him now. In his younger days, he'd been too quick to take offense and had cried insult from more men than he'd had hot meals. The last time he'd challenged a man, he'd been obliged to take this job as a penance.

In London and Winchester, he could pass on the streets as unremarkable. This far north, the golden color of his skin, the gloss of black hair, and the gleam of dark eyes marked him out as worthy of attention. Some days, Sufyan passed himself off as the by-blow of a French lord, which was at least a half-truth. When it suited his purpose, he would reveal the whole truth—that he was half Saracen and half French, the son of a market-trader in Antioch and a Breton knight.

He tapped his fingers on the table and waited. A young woman came forward, her eyes round as she looked him up and down. Black boots, black hose, black tunic, covered with a surcoat of black leather and velvet slashed at the sleeves to show a lining of crimson satin. Costly items, all of them, and Sufyan knew he wore his clothes to good effect. Vanity was a sin, according to his ecclesiastical master, but Sufyan tended to pay little attention to the bishop's admonishing attempts to save his immortal soul.

The woman bobbed a half curtsey. “Drink, sir? Something to eat?”

“Ale,” he said. “And a dish of whatever's cooking. No pig, though.”

“Very good, sir. Lamb stew it is. It'll be ready in a moment.”

She hurried off to the bar and returned with a tankard of frothy ale. Sufyan drank, hiding his distaste for the bitterness of the brew. Alcohol was forbidden to those of his religion, but he'd found that people spoke more easily to a man with a flagon of beer in his hand than to the man holding a cup of water. If only he could deaden himself to the taste, Sufyan thought he could be content with drinking the stuff.

As he put down the tankard and wiped a hand across his mouth, he saw that his presence had been temporarily accepted. He noticed a slight thaw in the atmosphere. Conversations continued at their normal level. If people looked at him, it was just because he happened to be sitting in their line of sight. Curiosity had been laid aside for the moment.

The lamb stew arrived at his table. He ate with quick economy and called for a second tankard of ale. Only when he'd pushed aside his dish and let the spoon clatter into the empty bowl did any of the locals approach him.

A group of men rose from their place by the fire and came near. Their leader was large and burly, with a shock of gray curls and a beard. The miller, Sufyan guessed from his build and the dusting of flour through his clothes. The others looked like farmers, with dirt beneath their nails and their faces tanned to a wrinkled darkness that made Sufyan's golden skin seem almost pale.

“Good evening, friend,” the miller said as he seated himself astride the bench opposite. “Have you come far?”

Sufyan smiled peaceably and lifted his fresh tankard, curling both hands around it in a gesture meant to reassure his audience that he was harmless enough. “From Durham,” he said, “with a diversion by way of the Scottish border.”

The miller nodded and glanced at his companions, who also nodded. “A fair distance. At least the weather held fine for you. Was it Berwick you went to? My wife has kin there.”

“Inland from Berwick.” Sufyan took a sip of the foul-tasting beer. “I had business with a baron, but it seems he was out visiting his neighbor over the border.” He smiled again, inviting them in on the joke. Any man who ran into Scotland to avoid a visitor was a man admitting to guilt.

The miller nodded again, and Sufyan thought these northerners were a dismal bunch of people. Not a cheerful word or a laugh among them. He would be pleased to get on the road again tomorrow and leave this place far behind him.

“Staying for the night, are you?” the miller asked.

“Yes.” Sufyan set his tankard on the table. “Unless I'm not welcome.”

The men looked at him in silence, clearly surprised by his plain speech.

“You're welcome right enough,” the miller said, recovering himself, “but if you'd arrived any later than sundown, all the doors in Kirkfield would've been locked against you. Not for all the gold in the kingdom would you have been let inside!”

Sufyan doubted any of these people would have turned down the chance to earn even a silver threepenny, but he didn't wish to argue. From the way the miller leaned closer and the way the farmers shuffled in tight, it seemed obvious there was a tale here waiting to be told. He contrived to look interested. “Why would that be, then?”

“Why?” The miller lowered his voice. “Because for the next few nights, the village is cursed.”

“Aye,” said one of the farmers, nodding solemnly. “Cursed!”

Sufyan tried not to laugh. The English and their curses amused him. They had no concept of what a curse truly meant or what damage could be caused by the glare of the evil eye. In this green land of rain and mist, a curse amounted to nothing more than a wax manikin stuck with pins or the fetus of a sheep laid on a neighbor's threshold. In Syria, where the djinn sported amongst dust devils and the sun was both benefactor and tyrant, curses were terrible, violent things, secret and hidden.

Careful not to reveal his thoughts, he prompted, “A curse, you say. What form does it take, this curse? Does it strike only the villagers, or does it afflict travelers through these parts, too?”

“It takes what it can,” the miller said darkly. “A foul fiend that feeds on the flesh of whoever is abroad after nightfall! It drinks the blood of any living creature, human or animal, to give strength to its vile limbs!”

The farmers muttered their agreement and made the sign of the Cross.

Sufyan sat forward. “Indeed. And does this fiend make a sound? Does it perhaps screech? I heard a noise earlier, terrifying and shrill. It spooked my horse, yet when I searched for the source of the noise, I could find nothing.”

The miller and the farmers huddled together, casting glances at one another. “Which way did you take?” asked the miller. “Through the woods, no doubt?”

“Yes. And,” Sufyan said, knowing how to spin a tale, “another strange thing befell me. A knight followed me along the road, shadowing my path these past twenty miles or so. He kept pace the whole time, neither gaining nor falling back. It was only when I entered these woods that I turned to face him.”

“The knight,” said one of the farmers. “You saw the knight?”

“Wearing silver mail and mounted on a big, black horse?” the miller demanded, reaching across the table to grip Sufyan's arm. “And the saddlecloth was scarlet and gold? Ah, praise God, we can sleep safe in our beds tonight—the knight will protect us once more!”