The Silver Knight (5 page)

“Why?”

“Perhaps His Grace disliked the man as much as I did.” Sufyan shrugged. “For such a short, fat monk, the Prince Bishop has a mind like a barbed whip. He'd come to attend a meeting of senior clergy in Chartres accompanied only by two abbots and his summoner, who seemed also to be his divinely sanctioned bodyguard. He refused to go home with a man less.”

He paused again, thinking of his position. “A summoner's job is frequently unpleasant and dangerous. His Grace had seen me kill in a sacred place. This most holy of men obviously thought he could use an irreligious servant. He said I could either accept the job as his new chief summoner for as long as it took for me to make amends for my crime, or I could remain in Chartres to be burned at the stake. I accepted his offer.”

Silence stretched between them. Everard's face held the faintest flush of color as he stared at Sufyan. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, it seemed the knight recollected himself. Everard cleared his throat and leaned toward the dying fire. “I think the bird is ready now.” He prodded the pheasant's flesh. “Could I borrow your knife?” He smiled with satisfaction as he carved off a piece. “Ah, there it is. Perfect.”

Sufyan tried a little of the dark meat and agreed it tasted excellent. Their conversation had made him hungry again, and he ate, his fingers running with juices, content to remain silent for the moment.

When they had finished the last of the ale and sat picking over the bones of the pheasant, Sufyan thought it was time to pose some questions of his own. “I asked about you in the village.”

Everard stopped eating. “I see.”

“My lord, where is your manor?”

“North of here.” Everard's eyes seemed very bright. “But then, you knew that, didn't you? I'm surprised the villagers still remember.”

“Only one of them did.” Sufyan wiped his hands in the bracken and plucked a blade of grass, then tore it into strips lengthways. Keeping his voice neutral, he asked, “Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”

Everard put down the bone he held. He did not reply.

A dozen thoughts crowded into Sufyan's head. So far he'd proved nothing he hadn't known already. Questions teemed inside him, but he couldn't voice them aloud. He told himself he was afraid of insulting the knight and his family, but the reality was that he feared one answer above all others—that Everard was not the grandson of a returned soldier, but was in fact the crusader himself.

Such a thing seemed impossible. How could a man retain his youth and beauty for so many years? Yesterday, Sufyan would have declared these thoughts ridiculous, but after his encounter last night with the blood-fiend, he acknowledged now that all things were possible—including immortality.

“Yesterday,” he said quietly, “I thought you were an angel.”

Everard looked at him.

“Azrael, the Angel of Death, to be exact,” Sufyan continued. “To the righteous, he appears in a form most perfect and pleasing. In your silver armor, you seemed to me unearthly and beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Everard smiled. “Does your master know of your proclivities?”

Sufyan chose to misunderstand the question. “He may suspect I'm a Muslim, but I doubt he cares. His Grace is more concerned with political power than with the state of my soul, although whenever he sees me, he likes to lecture me on certain aspects of Christianity. I don't know if he's trying to convert me or whether he likes the sound of his own voice. I suspect the latter.”

“I didn't mean your faith.”

Sufyan gave him a sharp look. “You see too much, Montparnasse.”

Everard's smile deepened. “I know men. I would like to know you.”

“Now you speak in riddles.” Sufyan felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He wasn't sure if that had been a proposition and refused to hope for too much.

“On the contrary,” Everard corrected, “I believe my intentions are clear.”

Sufyan drew up his knees. Even if this was nothing more than an innocent flirtation to pass the time, it was still having an effect on him. He didn't want Everard to think him so barbarous that he couldn't control his desires, but neither did he want to miss an opportunity if it were offered.

“You said last night that the blood-fiend knew I was distracted,” Sufyan began. It felt difficult to admit the fact of his weakness so plainly. “You said it could sense my interest lay not with it, but elsewhere.”

Everard looked straight at him. “Yes.”

“You were the distraction.”

“I know.”

“It won't happen tonight.” Sufyan glanced away. “I will be focused.”

“I know you will.”

Sufyan looked at him. “You do?”

“Yes,” said Everard calmly. “Because if I give myself to you now, you will stop wondering what it would be like to fuck me.”

Sufyan gaped at him in astonishment.

Everard watched his reaction. He seemed uncertain, voice soft with anxiety when he asked, “Am I too forward?”

“Yes.” Sufyan changed his mind. “No. By God, you are unlike any other Norman I have ever met.”

“That's because I have a secret.” Everard's eyes flashed before he lowered his gaze. He looked innocent, sweet, and tempting.

“A secret,” Sufyan prompted. Almost without realizing it, he moved from his side of the fire to sit next to Everard. When he felt the well-worn fabric of the gray and white surcoat beneath his hands, he glanced down in bewilderment, surprised to find himself there.

Everard edged nearer. He cast a brief glance up at Sufyan, his eyes dark and brilliant, as hard as steel and as wanton as springtime. “I have darkness within me,” he confided in a murmur. His lips shaped the words like a prayer, like a sin. “I am a man divided, torn between greatness and the basest need; between love and hate, good and evil, light and dark.”

Sufyan barely heard what Everard said, his concentration entirely on the pale, perfect mouth, on that creamy skin and the ripe, tender body. He was close enough now to smell the wood-smoke caught in Everard's hair, to see the delicate shadow of a beard just beginning to show along Everard's jaw, to feel the tremble of eyelashes as Everard lifted his gaze to Sufyan in mute, deliberate appeal.

“Help me,” Everard whispered. “Help me fight the darkness.”

Sufyan touched his face, stroking a thumb over Everard's cheekbone. The knight felt both fragile and strong, a combination that begged to be loved and broken. “We'll fight it,” Sufyan said. A vague recollection of the blood-fiend came to mind, but he pushed away the thought. He slid a hand into the ruffled black of Everard's hair to grasp the back of his head. “Let us exorcise your darkness.”

Sufyan kissed him. Everard's skin felt youthful, his lips soft. The knight opened his mouth. Their tongues met, darting, possessing. Sufyan only stopped to pull free the laces of Everard's tunic, and then he dragged the garment over the knight's head and threw it aside. He kissed Everard again, laying him down on the surcoat, touching his chest. He traced the lines of Everard's chest, scratched a fingernail over the hard bud of a nipple, then skimmed a hand down over the flat belly. Everard's cock strained against the gray hose. Sufyan rubbed him through the fabric, watching his eyes dilate with pleasure.

“I want you naked.” Sufyan felt a kick of lust at Everard's blush of response and the way his tongue moistened his lower lip. While Everard wriggled free of the hose, Sufyan pulled off his own clothes, discarding them in a careless heap in the bracken. He turned back to see Everard gazing at him, staring at his cock as it stood straight and dark, brushing his belly.

Sufyan hesitated, not understanding the knight's fascination, and then, when Everard reached out and touched it, whispering, “It's true. Saracens’ cocks are different from Christians',” he realized why Everard stared so wantonly.

“All Muslims are circumcised,” Sufyan explained, shuddering slightly as Everard took his cock in both hands and stroked it. “It's—it's cleaner.”

“Clean. Oh. Let me taste.” Everard took Sufyan's cock in his mouth. His eyes closed as he ran his tongue the length of the hard shaft, and then his lips clamped tight as he began to suck.

Sufyan curled his fingers in Everard's hair and looked down at that sinful mouth wrapped around his cock. His gaze wandered over Everard's body, admiring the sweep of the knight's shoulders and the narrowing of his waist, the tight, round curves of his arse. A muffled groan broke from Sufyan as Everard sucked on his balls, tongue probing between Sufyan's thighs before he took Sufyan's cock between his lips again.

Intensity built between them. Everard pulled back, breathing heavily, his lips sheened with pre-come. His eyes slumberous and his pale skin flushed with desire, he whispered, “Fuck me.”

Sufyan moved around until he lay alongside Everard, who pillowed his head on his hands, his face turned to one side so Sufyan could see his expression. The line of his back was perfect, the slenderness of his waist a joy to behold. Everard wriggled, splaying his thighs to push his weight through his knees and into the ground, lifting his arse in blatant invitation.

Sufyan rested a hand on Everard's back, admiring the contrast of olive skin on white flesh. He stroked Everard's buttocks and slid questing fingers down the crease. Everard jerked forward with a breathless cry when Sufyan pressed a fingertip against his anus.

“Wait,” Everard gasped, raising his head to look back over his shoulder. “In my clothes—look for it—a glass bottle, very small...”

Sufyan searched the tangle of garments. He found the bottle and uncorked it, sniffing the contents. Oil, but unscented. How unusual. He dripped some over his fingers and began to grease Everard's cleft. “Where did you get this?”

“The church.” Everard caught his breath, pushing back against Sufyan's fingers. “It's chrism. Used during the sacraments.”

“
Bism'allah
, Montparnasse, you are as heathen as I!” The thought of a Christian misusing the blessed oils of the most sacred rites of the Church for his own selfish pleasure both shocked and excited Sufyan. He circled Everard's anus with his finger and then pushed it inside, opening him, preparing him for more.

Everard laughed breathlessly. “Necessity is the mother of invention—ah! Yes. Like that. Oh, God—” His body trembled and he thrust back, hard and urgent, impaling himself on Sufyan's finger. He whimpered. “Come, fuck me. Do it now.”

Sufyan withdrew his finger and smeared a palmful of the chrism over the head of his cock. He nudged Everard's knees farther apart and positioned himself, guiding his prick against the ring of tight muscle. He pressed forward, seeking entrance, and Everard relaxed.

Sufyan gasped as he slid inside the knight in one long, smooth stroke. Everard felt so hot and tight that Sufyan wanted to sink into him endlessly. Sufyan wormed his left arm beneath Everard's chest and grasped the knight's hip with his right hand, all the better to hold him closer and control the pace.

“Please.” Everard's voice ached with need.

Sufyan began to fuck him. He wished he could look into Everard's eyes. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the curve of one creamy shoulder and on the knight's profile. Everard's eyes closed, brow furrowed, accepting the rhythm Sufyan set. Everard's lips parted, soft and full, as desperate, ecstatic cries emerged, forced from him with each thrust. He looked beautiful.

Sufyan felt his heart turn over. He wanted Everard every way possible, until they were both too exhausted to move. Memories flashed through his mind, images of other men he'd had, countless fucks at home and across Europe. He steepened his thrusts as the haze of approaching climax wrapped around him. He drove into Everard's tight, welcoming body, feeling the knight writhe beneath him. Every man he remembered wore Everard's face. The blood-fiend wore Everard's face.

With a gasp of mingled shock and intense, fractured delight, Sufyan came. He spurted inside Everard, clinging to the pale body as he rode out his orgasm. Darkness roared at him; dizziness rushed to claim him. He felt Everard convulse underneath him, heard the knight cry out, and then Sufyan slumped forward, his heart pounding and his breath frantic and shallow.

After a long time, Sufyan moved. Everard lay quiet and still, not even flinching when Sufyan withdrew and used a handful of bracken to wipe them clean. Only when Sufyan had put on his clothes and buckled on his swords did Everard roll over and sit up. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Sufyan felt awkward. Usually in a situation like this, he either paid his money or he walked away. He'd never had to spend the rest of the night alongside a man he'd just fucked. He tossed Everard's clothes at him. “Get dressed.”

“You'll be able to focus on the blood-fiend now,” Everard said.

“What?” Sufyan stared at him, trying to shake off the image he'd had at the moment of orgasm—the repellent, skeletal form of the fiend with Everard's beautiful face replacing the horrific visage he'd seen last night.

Everard smiled and pointed at the sky. “It's dusk. We have to go to work.”

* * * *

The lamps were lit inside the church. Sufyan prowled through the nave, peering into the little chapel with its red-paned window and examining the sanctuary behind the altar. He found no clues as to the resting place of the blood-fiend, and supposed its grave must lie outside, perhaps even beyond the cemetery.

“I searched every inch of the churchyard,” he said, “and yet I could not find a place disturbed.”

Everard leaned against the open font, arms folded across his chest. He wore his silver mail and over it, the surcoat stained and crumpled from their exertions. “The fiend is cunning. I doubt it would advertise its lair as easily as that during daylight hours. We need to discover it while the monster roams free.”

“Then that's our plan.” Sufyan walked down the steps from the altar and scuffed his boots along the floor. The paving stones seemed colder than yesterday. He picked up his feet and hurried to join Everard.

“So, one of us fights the fiend while the other goes in search of its tomb?” Everard asked. “That sounds reasonable.”

“And when dawn breaks and the monster flees, we can follow it to its grave and destroy it while it lies helpless,” Sufyan said. “The perfect plan.”