The Silver Knight (4 page)

“I am argumentative?” Everard gasped before he dissolved into laughter again.

Sufyan glared at him. “Yes, you are. And you sprinkled me with holy water.”

Everard met his gaze with a mischievous expression. “Oh, Sufyan, did you think you would melt?”

“No, I— “ Sufyan was saved from having to think of an appropriate reply by the sudden charge of the blood-fiend, which hurled itself from a yew tree with a horrific shriek. Both men parried its attack and fought their way back to the church, giving ground in the face of the fiend's savagery. If it had been difficult to kill before, now it thrashed at them like a creature possessed by Satan himself.

They slammed the door behind them. Everard leaned against it while Sufyan dropped the bolt. The blood-fiend banged its fists on the wood, baying a challenge for them to come out. Sufyan yelled back at it, feeling impotent rage consume him. Nothing human had ever beaten him so far, except for the Prince Bishop of Durham, who'd simply been lucky. The idea that something inhuman could get the better of him made Sufyan furious.

He calmed when he felt Everard's hand on his shoulder. “Don't,” said the knight. “You must be patient with the fiend. This is only the first night of our battle.”

“I'll rip its head off,” Sufyan muttered. “I'll flay its skin and crush its bones. I'll grind its sinews. I'll—I'll—”

He subsided into silence and allowed Everard to lead him to the font, where they waited, nursing their swords, for the next few hours. Their vigil was undisturbed, and by the time the dawn peered through the narrow windows, Sufyan felt blear-eyed and weary.

“Sunrise,” Everard said, sheathing his blade and stretching his arms above his head with a tired sigh. “The fiend will have hidden itself in its tomb by now. The villagers are safe until tonight, and I must leave.”

Sufyan rubbed his face. “Where will you go?”

“Not far. I will return later this afternoon. And you?”

“I don't know.” Sufyan replaced his scimitars in their scabbards and yawned. “I think I'll go back to the tavern and sleep.”

Everard smiled. “If they let you.” He hesitated, his smile fading, and then asked, “Will I see you this evening?”

Sufyan looked at him, backlit against the warmth of the rising sun, and felt desire mount within him. He would battle a dozen blood-fiends for the chance to see Everard de Montparnasse again.

“Yes,” he said. “You will see me tonight.”

* * * *

By late afternoon, Sufyan had wearied of repeating his story of the previous night's events to the awestruck villagers. They kept knocking on the door of the room he'd rented, so he hid himself in the stables with his horse and managed to snatch a few hours of sleep before the miller found him and pulled him into the tavern to tell his tale yet again.

While the sun still traveled west, Sufyan bought a meat pie and a flagon of ale from the tavern wench and set off to investigate the land around the church. The wood encroached right up to the graveyard wall on three sides, and during his exploration, Sufyan found a sheltered spot that caught the best of the afternoon sun. Long grass, wildflowers, and bracken grew in abundance beneath oak and birch trees, all within spitting distance of the boundary wall.

He lay in the grass and found it soft and fragrant. The distant music of birdsong formed a pleasant counterpoint to the whisper of the breeze through the branches. Sufyan cushioned his head on his hands and stretched out, enjoying this most simple of pleasures for a moment.

Recalling himself to his task, he hid the pie and ale in the bracken, and continued his investigation of the churchyard. He picked up a stick, which he poked into any suspicious-looking fissures around the graves, but after a couple of hours all he'd found were rabbit holes and a regurgitated owl pellet lying on the slab of a tomb.

Sufyan sat on the boundary wall and looked down toward Kirkfield. Even from this distance, he could see a few figures crossing the village green amongst the pigs and sheep. The millwheel turned in the race, reminding him of a conversation he'd had with the villagers earlier that day.

“Everard de Montparnasse,” he'd said to the miller. “Do you know the name?”

The miller had looked blank. “The silver knight is called Montparnasse? Can't say I recall the name.”

He asked every villager he met, but it seemed no one had ever heard of Everard de Montparnasse until Sufyan had gone into the tavern kitchen to collect his flagon of ale. In a corner, an old crone sat on a stool, sucking her toothless gums and humming to herself as she carded a handful of wool. She looked up when she heard the name.

“Montparnasse,” she'd said, her voice frail with accumulated memories. “They owned the demesne north of here. Dead, now, of course—all of them dead. So sad! The old baron and his wife had a son, their only child, who went off to fight in the crusades. It was said a plague took him before his ship ever reached the Holy Land. The baron and his wife died of heartbreak.”

The crone had cackled then, displaying blackened gums. “But you know what? The son did not die of plague. He survived and came home to find his parents dead, his servants scattered, and his home in ruins.”

Sufyan had crouched and taken her hands. “What happened to him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? It was a long time ago. Who can remember such things?”

He'd wanted to ask further questions, but the tavern wench had brought him his ale and told him not to pay attention to anything her mother had said, because the old woman was senile and often confused about events.

Now, as he sat on the wall and gazed at the smudge of smoke from the chimney of the tavern, Sufyan wondered if Everard was the grandson of the Montparnasse heir who'd returned too late from the crusades. If so, why didn't he claim his demesne and rebuild his manor?

Sufyan frowned, pondering these thoughts. Perhaps the Montparnasse family had supported the wrong side in the civil war. The Prince Bishop's secular role as Earl Palatine in the borderlands meant he'd disinherited many a noble family in royal revenge as the winds of fortune favored first one claimant to the throne of England and then the other.

On occasion, His Grace had sent Sufyan to a few of these unfortunate barons to inform them of their reduced status and to take account of their households, which then passed to the Prince Bishop until the King—or Empress—redistributed the lands at whim amongst their own followers.

With an inward shrug, Sufyan abandoned his thoughts and slid down from the wall. The sun had started to sink toward the horizon, the sky a deepening blue above him. Dusk would soon arrive. He thought of the meat pie and ale and decided to eat before he faced the blood-fiend again.

As he made his way back to the little clearing, Sufyan caught the scent of wood-smoke and roasted fowl. He picked up his pace, seeing the thin trail of white from the far side of the churchyard wall. In moments, he'd crossed the cemetery and vaulted the wall, landing amidst the wildflowers and bracken.

“Good afternoon.” Everard lounged beside a small fire, over which a plump pheasant cooked upon a makeshift spit. The meat pie sat warming on a flat stone close to the heat, and the flagon of ale nestled amongst the bracken. Everard's sword was propped against a tree, its tip stained with blood and dotted with feathers.

Sufyan stared nonplussed, first at the food and then at the knight. His mouth watered, but he didn't know what made him hunger the most—the meat or the man.

Everard had stripped out of his suit of mail, which lay beside his helm in a gleaming pile of silver links on the edge of the clearing. His surcoat was spread out beneath him on the grass, leaving him dressed only in a pale gray tunic and hose. The tunic was open at the throat, unlaced across his chest to show the slender, toned body beneath, the skin as rich and white as cream. The close-fitting hose clung to long, muscled thighs and strong calves. His feet were bare, his toes wriggling into the grass as he looked up at Sufyan.

“You've been hunting,” was all Sufyan could think to say. He nodded at the pheasant, adding unnecessarily, “I bought a pie from the tavern. And ale. You're welcome to share with me, if you want.”

“And you may share the pheasant,” Everard responded. “I tracked down a wild boar piglet, but thought you would not care for pork meat.”

“No. It is unclean.” Sufyan sat on the grass opposite the knight, unable to look away. He'd known Everard would be beautiful without armor, but to see him in a state of undress like this was a torment. Sufyan's breath caught when Everard leaned forward to turn the bird on the spit. The tunic gaped open, giving Sufyan a brief glimpse of one dusky pink nipple.

“It's kind of you to think of me,” Sufyan said. His voice emerged sounding scratchy and dry. Feeling parched, he reached for the ale-flagon. He undid the stopper and took a huge gulp before offering it over.

Everard sat up and took the flagon. Sufyan couldn't watch while the knight drank, knowing he'd find the sight too erotic. Instead, he removed a dagger from the sleeve of his surcoat and busied himself with cutting the pie into equal slices.

“I find it intriguing that a Saracen should be so far from home and working as a summoner for the Prince Bishop of Durham,” Everard said, putting down the ale-flagon between them.

“Europe is full of crusaders’ bastards looking for their fathers.” Sufyan took a piece of pie, cradling it in his palm. “Some of us are obliged to take whatever employment is offered, no matter how strange or demeaning.”

Everard lowered his gaze. “I didn't mean to insult you.”

“I know, and you didn't. Here, have some pie. It's good.”

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the crack of the fire and the hiss of burning fat as the pheasant continued to cook. Sufyan watched the wavering flames and tried to think of anything but Everard.

Conversation seemed the safest option. He took another swig of ale and said, “My mother used to say I inherited my looks from her and my secretive nature from my father. The Bretons are a close-mouthed people. Certainly I was never able to get any answers from them when I went looking for my sire.”

Everard brushed crumbs from his fingers. “Half Saracen, half Breton! A heady mix indeed. The Bretons are a strange, mysterious people. Magicians, poets, and mercenaries. Which one are you, I wonder?”

“You don't have to wonder. I'm the mercenary.” Sufyan gave him a curious glance. “You think I'm mysterious?”

Everard smiled but did not answer. Instead, he asked, “Your father. Did you ever find him?”

“No.” It still pained Sufyan that his yearlong journey to the wild, northwest quarter of France had ended in such failure, but he'd done his best to find his father and could do no more. He lifted his hands to express his disappointment. “I didn't want anything from him. My mother always spoke of him as a good and kindly man. I just thought it proper to introduce myself. A man should know his sons. But it was not fated to be.”

“You Saracens place a lot on fate.”

Sufyan looked at him. It had been a comment, not a criticism. “Yes, we do. Every meeting, good or bad, has been already written into our destiny.”

Everard smiled. His gaze seemed almost flirtatious. “So we were fated to meet, you and I.”

“That is correct.” Sufyan tried not to respond in kind. “Just as I was fated to become His Grace's chief summoner.”

“How did that happen?”

Sufyan shook his head, reluctant to speak of it.

“Oh, tell me,” Everard begged, his eyes alight with interest. “Please.”

“You will think less of me,” Sufyan warned, “but very well, I will tell you. It happened when I was on my way back from Bretagne. I had thought of going to Paris, but found myself delayed in Chartres. One evening, a group of us were playing dice in a tavern. An Englishman joined us, full of his own importance. He drank too much and was careless with his purse. He also had an inflated opinion of his skills at dice.”

Everard chuckled. “I've met many like him. Go on.”

“He challenged me to a game and lost. He took it badly and accused me of cheating. I had won fairly and demanded my money. He refused to pay his debt to... what did he call me? ‘A heathen savage who spoke incomprehensible French.'” Sufyan heard his voice tinge with sarcasm. “Apparently, bets made with a half-breed are not worth honoring.”

Everard sat forward. “You killed him.”

“I did. But first we fought and drew half the tavern into our brawl, and when he realized I would best him, the Englishman ran away. I was drunk and angry enough to chase him... which I did, all the way to the cathedral.”

Sufyan paused, remembering that night as clearly as if it had been yesterday. “I caught him outside the church. A crowd of people had gathered, but no one came to stop us. He shouted things in English and French, calling himself the chief summoner of the Prince Bishop of Durham. Such a title meant nothing to me. When I swung at him, he seemed to know his life was forfeit.

“He fled into the cathedral, bleating like a lamb. I followed. Inside, a group of monks were praying. I ignored them. By now the Englishman's actions had made me so furious, I had lost my reason. I knew what he intended—he would try to touch the altar and claim sanctuary, and then I would have lost my money and my dignity, for I knew the monks would help a fellow Christian.”

Sufyan lifted his gaze and looked at Everard. “And so I killed him before he could reach safety. He did not die well. His blood splashed over the robes of a short, fat monk who stood nearby. I regretted that, and apologized. Another monk cried for help. I knew I would be taken and burned alive for my crime, for spilling Christian blood in a Christian church, and so I did the only thing I could—I went to the altar and claimed sanctuary.”

Everard stared, his lips parting with astonishment. “You dared such a thing!”

Sufyan felt a smile twitch in response. “Many people said the law of sanctuary didn't apply to me, but to my surprise, the fat monk supported my claim. The others deferred to him. I didn't know why, until he introduced himself as the Prince Bishop of Durham and Earl Palatine. I had killed his summoner, and yet he saved me.”