A Dark Champion
Authors: Kinley MacGregor
INLEY
M
AC
G
REGOR
A
D
ARK
C
HAMPION
For all my readers and for the support you give. Thank you! To the RBL women, who provide me with a daily laugh and a reminder that we can all pull together. For the women and men who play on my websites and who have waited so very patiently for the Brotherhood books to begin.
To my family, especially my husband, who never lets me forget that love really is the most important thing. To my friends, who have supported me through everything, (Janet, Brynna, Lo, Kim, Rebecca, and Cathy), and to Lyssa, May, and Nancy, who let me take chances. Most of all, for my family and friends who are no longer with me—I miss you much.
May the sun always shine on you all, and here’s a big hug until next we meet!
B
ROTHERHOOD OF THE
S
WORD
C
ome and sit with me a moment, friend and pilgrim, for I have a tale to tell that many of you have never heard before.
It is one of honor and friendship. One of bravery and nobility. One of strength and loyalty. It is a tale of boys who became men, not because they aged in years, but because they walked through the very fires of hell, arm in arm, back to back, defiant and bold with only one code of honor between them.
We all survive.
We all go home.
We are brothers unto the end.
It is said that the strongest steel is forged by Satan’s fires. I have witnessed this myself. For I was once one of their number. Captured in a land known by many
as Outremer or the Holy Land, and held as hostage by my enemies, it was there that I found these amazing men.
There were fifty of them in my cell. Cramped and cold, tired, beaten, and worn. But not defeated. Nay, these men could never be defeated.
Not by anything born of this earth.
Though I knew them for young men, and in some cases mere boys, they looked as haggard as any old beggar. Their faces were lined by horror and starvation, their clothes tattered and shredded, their bodies scarred and bleeding from old wounds and new. Still, they fought on with a strength of will that amazes me unto this day.
Out of fifty, five of them emerged as our leaders: the Wraith, who moved with stealth and secrecy while he ran interference with our guards; the Scot, who sacrificed himself for others so that they would not be punished; the Widowmaker, who watched over us and planned our escape; the Sorcerer, who was able to distract and steal whatever we needed; and the Abbot, whose scholarly ways and unending faith reminded us that we were still human even though we lived as animals in a filthy cage.
We named the five of them the
Quinfortis
, a Latin term that means the strength of five. They kept our spirits and hope alive every day as our captors sought to break us. Without them none of us would ever have made it home.
We would be dead now.
All
of us.
It is in their honor that this chanson is written.
The Widowmaker
I met the man the Brotherhood termed the Widowmaker on the first day of my incarceration. His face had been so misshapen by a beating that he reminded me of some horrid monster. But it was his eyes that seared me.
Intelligent and sharp, they had seen right through me. He offered me his hand, as he had done the others who had been taken against their will, and told me that so long as he breathed, I would be protected.
He meant that.
On the night of our escape from hell, seven men stayed behind to cover our trail.
The Quinfortis, the Phantom, and the Pagan.
While we boarded a boat for home, the seven of them bravely faced our pursuers, alone with nothing more than their bare hands to protect them. Even now, years later, I can still clearly remember the sight of them in the moonlight as they fought like possessed champions while we ran at their behest.
The Wraith, the Scot, the Widowmaker, the Sorcerer, the Abbot, the Phantom, and the Pagan. Men who refused to use their God-given names while imprisoned since they had been reduced to animals forced to fight for bare sustenance.
Men who are bound by their scars and oaths to each other, and by the brand on their right hand that their enemies had placed there to remind them always of that time in the past when they were beasts.
But on the night of our escape, they weren’t animals. They weren’t men nor were they boys.
They were legends.
The kind of legends whose courage and selflessness should never be forgotten.
I have already told the tale of the Wraith in
Midsummer’s Knight
, about the blessings that have since come upon Simon of Ravenswood.
It is time now that I write of another.
The Widowmaker who is best known to the world as Lord Stryder, earl of Blackmoor—a man of many secrets and strengths.
A man who has fought all his life and who has yet to realize the beauty that can be found off the battlefield.
And for those of you who are curious, my name, like those of the others, was hidden during my captivity. The Brotherhood gave me my own special moniker. I use my Christian name now, but for the purposes of introducing the world to the heroes I know, you may call me simply the Minstrel. I am a wandering bard, ever seeking my own peace from the past while I make sure that everyone knows of the personal sacrifices of the men who made up our company.
And now here begins the official tales of The Brotherhood of the Sword…
“T
est of arms, my bloody arse. They ought to call it the test of incompetent fools,” Stryder of Blackmoor muttered as he made his way from the list toward his tent.
There hadn’t been a single man on the ?eld he had sparred against who had posed any contest to him a tall. He might as well be ?ghting his brother Kit for all the skill the so-called knights showed.
It was a damn shame when a man couldn’t ?nd a decent opponent.
Of course, there were four men present at the yearly tournament who could challenge him—his own knights who traveled in his company: Raven, Will, Swan, and Val. But at this hour of the day, the only thing they would be ?ghting off was each other as
they struggled to make it to the garderobe before their excesses of last night undignified them.
The five of them had been too long abroad, and the temptation of the English court and its decadence had been more than Stryder’s men could deny. His four knights had spent all of last evening carousing and drinking.
The first to vanish had been Will, who had supped with a rich, voluptuous widow. After the meal and several tankards of mead, Will had discreetly made an exit with his lady in tow. Raven had collapsed from drink in the hall just after midnight, leaving Stryder and Swan to see him abed. Once they had the young man safely in his cot, Swan had left to meet with his latest paramour—a woman the knight had known all of an hour.
And Val…
Val had ended up in a drinking bout with several of the king’s men. No doubt, Val’s head would hurt for a week or more given how much beer and ale the man had consumed.
At half past three, Stryder had wished his friend well and sought his own bed. He hadn’t seen Val since.
When Stryder had gone to break his fast before practice this morn, the hall had been clear of his men and none of them had been in their tents.
By now, surely they had risen from the dead and returned.
Then again, most likely not.
As Stryder left the practice list, he was mobbed by more than a score of maidens seeking his favor. They
varied greatly in age and size. But one thing united them all.
Their desire to become the next countess of Blackmoor.
How he wished Simon of Ravenswood were here to help combat the shrill women who lauded his virtues as they elbowed and pranced trying to gain his notice.
Even his brother, Kit, would be of help.
But as usual, Kit was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he was off composing sappy, angst-filled songs with his mewling friends whose only thoughts were trivial and asinine.
Stryder deflected that thought quickly lest it test his temper even more.
“Lord Stryder, please choose me as the Lady of All Hearts!” one young woman screamed in his ear as she yanked at his black hair.
Stryder bit back a curse as he struggled to free himself of her demanding hand.
“Nay, I shall be the Lady, is that not correct, milord?”
Stryder couldn’t answer due to other women shouting over him. The women each grabbed hold of him and pulled at his surcoat and limbs while others were busy ramming their tokens into his armor and helm.
Not to mention his chausses…
“I got a lock of Lord Stryder’s hair!” one woman screamed as she fainted.
The other women stepped over her while one tried to swipe his hank of hair from the fallen woman’s grasp. The “unconscious” woman quickly bit her and then ran off with her trophy.
That only started a frenzy as other women tried to get their own piece of his flesh.
Stryder didn’t want to hurt any of the women, but disengaging them without violence was proving to be nearly impossible.
“Ladies, ladies!” a loud male voice boomed. “Please, a moment for his lordship who needs confess the multitude of sins he has committed.”
Stryder gave a rare smile as he recognized the heavily accented voice of Christian of Acre. It had been nigh to three years since he last had the pleasure of seeing his old friend.
The women pouted in unison as they fell back and made room for the man who was dressed in a friar’s homespun black habit.
But as they caught a look at Christian’s tall, muscular form, their faces brightened considerably.
“’Tis a pity he’s a monk,” one of the women said rather loudly.
“Aye,” another agreed.
Little did they know there was no holy oath binding the blond man in their midst. Christian wore a monk’s clothes to keep his identity secret.
It was evidenced by the spurs that occasionally flashed from beneath the black hem that trailed on the ground and the black cowl that was drawn over his head to hide the fact that Christian lacked a tonsure. This was no cleric, but rather one of the finest swordsmen Stryder had ever beheld.
Not to mention that in his mother’s homeland of Byzantium, Christian of Acre was a royal prince who was only one step away from the throne.
“Abbot,” Stryder said in greeting as he shook Christian’s proffered arm. “It’s been too long.”
“Aye,” Christian agreed, gripping Stryder’s arm tightly and patting him roughly on the shoulder. “It has indeed. But it appears little has changed with you.” Christian’s blue gaze swept through the women, who were still reluctant to leave them.
Stryder let out a tired breath. “True, very true.”
“Brother?” one of the women asked Christian. She was a petite brunette with lush curves. The open invitation on her face said that if Christian agreed to it they would both be needing a priest to confess to by morning. “Might I give
my
confession later?”
A devilish look flashed in Christian’s eyes. Stryder could see him weighing his answer carefully.
When he spoke, his words were what Stryder had expected. Christian might be a heathen in his current beliefs, but he still bore enough respect for the clergy who had raised him that he would never dishonor their reputation by accepting a woman’s invitation while he wore a holy man’s garb. “Aye, my lady. I am told the local priest here has quite a few openings.”
Her face fell with disappointment.
“If you ladies will forgive us…” Christian led the way out of the group, toward the brightly colored tents that the knights had pitched on a hill outside the castle walls.
More than three hundred knights had ventured to Hexham for the monthlong games that were held every year in the fall. Unlike the other knights, Stryder hadn’t come here seeking fame or fortune—he had more than his share of both. He was in Hexham at
the king’s command so that the king could keep an eye on Stryder, who had been having more than his fair share of “accidents” lately. Indeed, someone wanted him dead in the worst sort of way and until they found out who, Henry wanted to keep Stryder on home soil.
Stryder glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the ladies were trailing after them. Though the women looked on their departure longingly, they had blessedly remained behind.
“What brings you here?” Stryder asked Christian.
Christian’s expression was dark as they climbed the hill. “I come with bad tidings, I’m afraid. Lysander of Marseilles was killed.”
Stryder stopped dead in his tracks at the news. Lysander of Marseilles had been one of the men who had been imprisoned in Outremer. Once the Brotherhood had freed the man, Stryder himself had sent Lysander to Scotland to serve in the household of a friend.
“How can that be?”
“He was tortured and murdered,” Christian said, his voice carrying the full weight of anger that Stryder felt.
“Who would dare such?”
“An enemy to the Highland MacAllister clan,” Christian said, his voice deepened by anger and grief. “After Lysander and Pagan helped Ewan MacAllister home, Lysander was captured and killed for the deed. I’m headed north now to help Pagan find and kill those responsible.”
“You need another sword?”
Christian’s face relaxed instantly. “I would say aye, but the mere fact that you are here in England and not on the continent tells me you are on king’s business and not free to leave.”
Stryder growled at that. “Aye. But it sits ill with me that one of our own was slain.”
“Believe me, we all share that sentiment.”
Stryder had no doubt. They hadn’t survived the horrors of their captivity to return home to be tortured and murdered. The anger he felt at that thought swirled inside him, making him want blood. “Swear to me you’ll make the culprit pay.”
“You may have no fear on that count. Pagan wrote that he intended to show the one responsible how the Saracens treated their prisoners.”
Stryder grimaced involuntarily at the reminder of some of their “lessons” at the hands of their captors. Those heathens knew well how to make anyone regret having been born, and when it came to bloody acts, he doubted if anyone could best Pagan. No one knew the man’s real nationality, but they all knew Pagan’s willingness to cut any handy throat. “Good.”
Christian clapped him on the back and started up the hill again.
As they walked, Stryder began picking the ribbons and garters from his armor and helm where the women had placed them.
Christian gave a low deep laugh as he watched him. “Ever your curse to be pursued by the fairer sex, eh?”
Stryder gave him a droll stare. “Methinks I should
tell them of Prince Christian. That should bide me a moment of peace from them and their machinations to wed me.”
“That would help you not at all since I am already betrothed.”
“Ahh,” Stryder said, laughing darkly. “The mysterious princess you’ve never seen. Tell me, do you really think she still waits on your hoary hide to return to her?”
“I wish it were otherwise, but I receive enough letters from my uncle urging me to return home and marry her to know she is ever the dutiful maid who sits waiting patiently for my homecoming.” Christian’s voice was tinged with ire at that.
Stryder knew his friend well enough to know Christian wished the maid would find someone else to marry. Like him, Christian was most happy as a bachelor and had no desire to tie a woman to his side.
At least not for any longer than a single night.
Stryder led the way into his red and white–striped tent. He set his helm on the table and doffed his gauntlets. “Will you return home to marry her soon?”
Bitter anger flashed in Christian’s eyes. “I’ve no desire to return home for many reasons. Prince I may be, but I owe them nothing. My loyalties are strictly to the Brotherhood now.”
Stryder nodded in understanding. Christian’s family had been the reason he was living in the monastery when it had been captured by Saracens in Acre. After the death of Christian’s parents when he was six, Christian’s uncle had sequestered the boy with the monks in hopes that Christian would learn
his place so that he could return to Byzantium to be a puppet easily controlled.
That plan could not have gone more wrongly, since the man before Stryder was stronger than steel and would never be controlled by anyone or anything.
Stryder’s squire, Druce, came running into the tent. At ten-and-four, the boy was gangly and uncoordinated. His curly black hair was cut short, but always managed to look unruly. The boy often ran about daydreaming and falling over things. Even so, Stryder never lost patience with him.
Like Stryder had been at that age, Druce was an orphan and a ward of the crown.
“I’m sorry I’m late, milord,” Druce said as he grabbed a stool and dragged it toward Stryder. “There was a storyteller who came and she was fantastic. I could have listened to her all day as she spun stories of lovers betrayed by the Fates.” Druce climbed onto the stool and reached to unlace the back of Stryder’s armor.
Stryder grunted at that as he dipped lower so Druce could reach the fastenings more easily.
Stryder knew the instant Druce became aware of Christian’s presence. The boy tumbled off the stool and almost knocked Stryder over as he went sprawling onto the floor.
The boy looked up, his entire face contrite. “I’m so sorry, Lord Stryder. Did I interrupt something?”
“Nay,” Stryder said, helping him up. “Christian and I were only talking of inconsequential matters.” Stryder introduced the lad to Christian. “Christian of Acre, meet Druce, my ward and squire.”
“Greetings, Druce,” Christian said before meeting Stryder’s gaze. Christian’s eyes were troubled even more than before. “Did something happen to Raven?”
“Nay. He was knighted a few months back and is sleeping off a night of misbegotten youth.”
His face relaxing, Christian grunted at that as Druce returned to disarm Stryder.
Druce meanwhile prattled on about the woman he’d been listening to. “Have you ever heard of the Lady of Love, milord?”
“Nay,” Stryder answered.
“I have,” Christian said as he took a seat at the desk and poured himself a cup of ale. “She’s just your type of lady, Stryder. A troubadour of great renown, she despises knights and writes only of courtly love and how needed it is in this day and age of great violence.”
Stryder curled his lips at that. If there was one thing he hated above all, it was those who purveyed the virtues of courtly love. That so-called noble sentiment had cost more lives and strife than any sword ever had. “A pox to all of her ilk.”
“Nay, milord,” Druce said, his face dreamy. “She is more beautiful than Venus and holds the voice of the sweetest lark. Surely the lady has no equal. You should listen to her as she tells how the world could be if only we strove for peace with the same passion we use to pursue war.”
Stryder exchanged a knowing look with Christian. “You are young, Druce. One day you will realize that all women are the same. They want nothing more than a man to care for them so that they can pester
and pick until a man is nigh mad with their nagging. They have but one use.”
“And that is, milord?” Druce asked.
Christian’s eyes danced with merriment. “That you will soon discover on your own, boy. But for now you are too young for it.”
Druce’s mouth formed a small O that said the boy already had an inkling of it as he gathered Stryder’s mail pieces.
Stryder tossed his squire a bag of coins. “Drop the armor off with the armorer to be polished, and then take the rest of the day and enjoy it.”