A Dark Champion (13 page)

As he reached the door to her chambers, she spilled out of the room with three of her friends. Aquarius stepped back into the shadows quickly before they saw him.

Damn. He dare not approach her right now. Not while her friends could overhear them.

Kill or be killed…

Sooner or later, she was bound to be alone. Then the two of them would have a nice, long conversation.

Sick of heart and completely demoralized, Rowena and Zenobia made their way into the hall that was crowded with nobles who could still find no other topic than when Stryder would be made to pay for the lives he had taken.

Why couldn’t they find the one responsible?

But then they were searching for a needle in a haystack. There were close to two thousand people in Hexham for the tournament.

Two thousand.

Anyone could be the murderer. A blacksmith, a knight, a marshal, a…

Rowena froze midstep as a whole new thought came to her. “Zenobia, you said to me on your arrival that your people trained women for battle. Is this not true?”

“Aye.”

Her mind reeled with a whole new speculation. “Is it possible our murderer could be a woman and not a man?”

A sick look came over Zenobia’s face. Without an
other word, she spun around and started back out of the castle.

Rowena rushed after her. “Zenobia?”

Zenobia didn’t pause. Instead, she kept an angry, quick stride. “We are such fools!” she snapped. “Why didn’t one of us think of that before?”

“Then I’m right?”

“Aye, Rowena, most likely you are right. In fact, it makes perfect sense. Who better to get inside a knight’s tent and cut his throat? A woman could easily fool a man. ’Tis the last person he would suspect was out to kill him.”

Part of Rowena wanted to shout out in triumph, but another part of her was ill. They had been wasting precious time looking for the wrong person.

Not to mention she shivered at the thought of one of the women courtiers taking part in such a horrible activity.

Zenobia didn’t stop until they found the men in the list. Nassir, dressed as one of Stryder’s men, stood with Christian and Swan. Nassir and Swan looked as if they had been practicing with swords before Christian had joined them.

“’Tis a woman we seek,” Zenobia said, interrupting their conversation.

Christian frowned.

“What?” Swan asked, his face aghast.

Nassir said something that sounded like a curse in Arabic.

“Rowena made the connection,” Zenobia said.

Swan recovered his gaping expression to scoff at the idea. “A woman is our killer?”

“Who better to kill us in our sleep,” Christian asked quietly.

“The note,” Nassir added. “Remember what it said. ‘We didn’t all go home.’ Cyril was was one of the men who went down the
special
wing of the prison. Do you remember what he said that night?”

“None of them survived,” Christian said, his voice leaden. “The men said they were either dead or missing.”

“What special wing?” Rowena asked.

It was Swan who answered and his words horrified her. “The one where the Saracens kept their whores.”

“They weren’t whores,” Christian snapped, his face suddenly flush with rage. “They were the women who had been captured, and a few young boys.”

Feeling sick with the news, Rowena covered her mouth with her hand. Tears welled in her eyes. “They weren’t freed?”

The men looked even sicker than she felt.

“I wish I’d killed Cyril myself,” Christian snarled.

Nassir curled his lip. “Why didn’t one of us go and double-check what they had told us?”

“Because we were all afraid of being caught that night,” Zenobia reminded them. “The eldest of you was only a score of years. You were mere boys yourselves.”

“Still,” Christian said, his voice ridden with guilt and pain. “One of us should have checked when they returned alone.”

“We believed them,” Swan said quietly. “Why would they have lied about freeing them? Besides, every second counted and we were all terrified.”

“Whatever we do,” Nassir interjected, “we must never let Stryder know.”

Rowena frowned. “Why?”

They looked at her and she remembered the promise Stryder had made to the youth in the cell next to his.

“Oh mercy, the youth was one of them on that wing?” she asked, her throat tight.

They nodded.

Nassir took a deep breath and expelled it. “He will never forgive himself.”

“Nay,” Christian concurred, as Val headed across the yard toward their group.

Val joined them. “We have a problem.”

Swan rolled his eyes. “Just what we need. Anyone else have something they wish to add to our current predicaments?”

“What?” Nassir asked Val, ignoring Swan.

“Stryder is to undergo a trial by combat.”

“How is that bad?” Swan asked Val. “There is no man in Christendom who can best him. He’ll be freed in no time.”

And yet by the look on Val’s face, Rowena could tell the news wouldn’t be good. In trial by combat, the king’s champion represented the crown, but since Stryder was the only one of Henry’s champions present, it begged one simple question. “Who is he to fight? Will they send for Sin MacAllister or Draven of Ravenswood?”

“That was Henry’s first thought,” Val said, his face deadly earnest. “Until Cyril’s brother pointed out that Simon of Ravenswood is one of Stryder’s dearest
friends. Draven would no more kill Stryder than he would Simon.”

“And Sin is one of Henry’s dearest friends,” Christian said. “Henry would never take a chance on losing him to Stryder.”

Now it was Rowena’s turn to frown. “Then who’s left to fight him?”

“Oh, take a moment and think,” Val said to the group. “Who is the one man present in this crowd that Stryder would sooner throw himself to the lions than kill?”

“One of us?” Swan asked.

Val shook his head.

“Kit?” Swan tried again.

“Damien St. Cyr,” Christian said, his tone low and lethal.

Rowena sucked her breath in sharply at the name. Damien St. Cyr was the younger brother of the Queen of France and a man of extreme wealth, power and renown. She knew he was here, but since he kept to himself, she, like most of the court, had yet to see him.

“Who is that?” Nassir asked. “He isn’t one of us.”

Christian raked an irate hand through his blond hair. “Nay, but he should have been.”

“How so?”

Christian leaned back against the stone gate as if he needed to feel something solid at his back. “One night a few years ago, not long after we had escaped, Stryder and I were in Hamburg at a tournament when Damien showed up with a group of his men. I’ve never seen Stryder so pale. Two nights later, when Stryder was deep in his cups, I found out why. Stryder
and Damien were once close friends. Foster brothers, in fact. Damien was with Stryder, Simon, and Raven when they were captured in Outremer.”

“Then why wasn’t he in the camp with us?” Swan asked.

“Because he wouldn’t listen to Stryder. Instead of doing as Stryder said, and hiding his identity, Damien told the Saracens who he was. They took him away and Stryder never saw him again. Not until that night in Hamburg.”

“Hide what identity?” Nassir asked.

“He’s the great-grandson of William the Conqueror,” Rowena answered. “His sister, Alix, is the Queen of France, and his nephew Henri is count of Blois, Champagne, and Troyes. Not to mention the small fact that Henri is also married to the daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Louis of France.”

Zenobia frowned. “I think I’m rather confused. This is beginning to sound like he is his own brother’s son.”

Nassir shook his head at Zenobia’s comment. “Is there any royal house this man isn’t related to?”

“Mine,” Christian said.

“Are you certain?” Zenobia asked. “You know Eleanor and Louis did go on Crusade and your father was French.”

Christian cocked his head as if thinking that over. “Then again…”

Nassir held his hands up to interrupt the two of them. “Let us travel back to the point, lady and priest. Why would Stryder not fight this man?”

It was Christian who answered. “Because Damien
bears two Saracen marks on his face. One across each cheekbone.”

Zenobia turned pale.

Nassir cursed.

“What marks?” Rowena asked. “No one has ever seen Damien’s face. He’s always robed when in public.”

“I’ve seen them,” Swan said. “Only once when he lost his helm in the midst of a training match. They’re Arabic writing of some sort, but I couldn’t read it.”

“They’re the marks of a slave,” Zenobia said quietly.

“Aye,” Christian concurred. “Damien hates Stryder with a burning passion. He blames him for the fact that they were captured.”

“Stryder got them captured,” Val said, his voice thick. “It’s why he would never fight Damien. He blames himself for what happened to the man.”

“Nay, it wasn’t Stryder’s fault,” Christian contradicted. “Talk to Raven or Simon, who were there. It was Damien who caused their capture. Stryder took the blame and has carried it ever since. According to Simon, Damien’s problem was and has ever been the fact that as a spare prince, he has ached for his own slice of power. Once they were in the Holy Land, he resented Stryder’s authority and one day in order to prove himself, he led them against the Saracen band that captured them. Stryder led the others in to save Damien and ended up with all of them taken or killed.”

Silence fell between them while each of them considered the ramification of Stryder facing a man he would feel sorry for and guilty over.

“When are they to fight?” Nassir asked Val.

“On the morrow, at first light.”

The gravity of that statement hung heavy between them.

Rowena stood quietly as she considered what they should do. Like his men, she held no doubt that Stryder would refuse to harm Damien.

While they stood in the midst of the list in silent reflection, Kit joined their group, his face grim. “I take it from the looks of you that you’ve heard about the trial?”

Nassir and Christian nodded.

“Any thoughts on what we should do?” Swan asked.

“Kill Damien,” Nassir said.

Christian scoffed. “We can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Swan said. “You’re not related to him, and no one from France or England has ever been able to defeat your country.”

Christian was aghast. “I could never kill a man in cold blood.”

“Nassir?” Swan asked. “You’re our sand demon. Why don’t you go after him?”

Nassir rolled his eyes.

“I’ll kill him,” Val offered. “I can challenge him tonight while we sup.”

Swan shook his head. “Nay, you cannot. I’ve seen the man train. You’re good, Val, but he’s better.”

“Then kill him in the hall.”

They all turned arched looks toward Kit who spoke in a deadly tone. “You could go up behind him, pretend to stumble and then slide a grism into his back,
straight into his heart. By the time anyone realizes he’s been mortally wounded, you can be out of the hall and back in your tent.”

Nassir and Zenobia exchanged a bewildered look. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m a minstrel. ’Tis a common known way to deal with enemies.”

“I didn’t know that,” Rowena said.

Kit shrugged. “You don’t travel with minstrels who write of war.” Kit’s eyes took on a strange glint. “Imagine what it’s like when you stab someone who’s not expecting it. The look of horror and respect in their eyes as they stare at you, knowing you’re not so weak and helpless after all. The feel of that last gasp of their breath on your cheek before they fall dead at your feet.”

A bad feeling went through Rowena. “Kit?”

He gave her an innocent look. “Aye?”

“Is there something you wish to tell us?”

He blinked innocently. “Nay, why would there be? I only repeat what I’ve heard others say.”

Still there was an uncomfortable awkwardness between them all as each of them sized Kit up anew.

Could Kit…?

Nay, Rowena decided. It wasn’t in him to take a life.

She was sure of it. And even if he had, he would never allow Stryder to pay for the crime of it. He loved his brother too deeply for that.

It was a foolish thought. Her mind was seizing at any straw now. Besides, she fully believed the assassin was a woman. It made much more sense than Kit. The knights held even less regard for Kit than they
did for Rowena. None of them would have welcomed Kit into their tents, and Kit would never have framed his brother.

Swan sighed. “Well, if we can’t murder Damien—”

“Let me talk to him,” Rowena said, interrupting Swan.

“How well do you know him?” Christian asked.

“Not very well, but we have been introduced a few times in the past.”

“Why would he listen to you?” Zenobia asked.

Frustrated, Rowena looked at each of them in turn. “I’m ready to hear any other option the lot of you has that doesn’t involve his murder. Can anyone think of something better?”

“I throw my lot in with Kit’s suggestion,” Val said, his tone surly.

Swan shoved at the much larger knight. “Very well then, Rowena, you’re our only hope. If you fail to dissuade Damien from taking part in tomorrow’s trial, then Stryder will die.”

The full weight of that statement settled hard upon her shoulders.

Everything was now up to her.

Nodding, she took her leave of the group and headed toward the castle, but as she walked, she realized something.

This was the weight of responsibility that Stryder had lived with since his youth. He had been the leader of the Brotherhood. Their lives had all been in his hands, and to a degree those lives still were.

It was a horrifying burden that he carried with grace.

And in that moment, she realized something even more terrifying.

She loved Stryder of Blackmoor.

Knight. Knave.

Hero.

And she would do whatever she must to see him free of his prison.

G
etting in to see Damien St. Cyr proved to be even more difficult than getting in to see the king.

His chambers were just off those of the king and queen themselves. In fact, he had traveled here to Hexham in their royal company and had kept to himself almost exclusively since their arrival.

Unlike the other nobles, he never ate in the hall, nor did he venture out to train with the other knights. His time in the list was reserved at dawn or dusk with only the most renowned of tutors, and during those times no other knight was allowed to be near the area.

It made her wonder how Swan had ever glimpsed the man’s cheeks, especially since the prince wore a gilded mask over the top part of his face. He was
never seen without a full cloak, even in the dead of summer, with a cowl pulled up to conceal the mask.

Not that she knew what said mask looked like. She’d only heard other courtiers gossip about it. Many claimed that he had been burned as a young man and sought to cover those scars. Others said he was deformed from birth and that no one had ever glimpsed his real face or hair.

But if Swan was correct about the writing…

“He will see you, milady.”

Rowena let out a relieved breath as his servant stood back and opened the door to let her inside the prince’s private chambers.

Nervous and unsure, she entered his chambers slowly. They were lush with burgundy wall hangings and ornate, mahogany chairs covered by plush, dark blue cushions. There was a closed door to her right that no doubt led from this sitting area into the bedchamber.

Damien stood with his back to her, looking out a corner window. He was at all man. One of intimidating size.

“Rowena de Vitry.” He said her name in a voice that was silken and smooth. Deep and cultured. “What brings the renowned Lady of Love into the humble presence of a man such as myself?”

She swallowed and wished she knew more about the noble lord before her. But in truth, few rumors were ever spoken about him, and that in and of itself told much about his family’s vast influence.

And Damien’s power.

“I’ve come to ask a favor of you, milord.”

He turned toward her then. Rowena could see nothing of his face or form. His thick cloak held him completely concealed from her. Even his hands were covered by dark gray gloves.

There was something so commanding about his presence that it sent a shiver over her.

“And what is this favor you would ask of me, milady?”

“You are to fight Stryder of Blackmoor on the—”

He let out a hiss so hate-filled that it made her jump and succeeded in cutting off her words immediately.

“Forgive me, Rowena. May I call you Rowena?”

Her heart hammering, she nodded.

He moved to stand just before her so that he towered over her slight frame. She had a feeling he did it just to intimidate her and it worked much better than she would have liked.

Damien lifted his gloved hand up to her chin and then tilted her head so that she was looking up into the merest of outlines hidden beneath the folds of his cowl.

“You are beautiful,” he breathed. “I can see why he took you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never beg, Rowena. ’Tis degrading.”

She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her arm and held her near him.

He laughed darkly at her efforts to free herself. “It won’t do you any good to fight me, Rowena. I know all about you and that bastard. What the two of you did this morning while you thought yourselves safe in
his cell. Who do you think had Henry separate you two even while Eleanor argued against it?”

She froze at his words. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His grip tightened. “Of course you do. No doubt you dream of feeling him inside you again even while you look at me.”

She struggled to free herself of his oppressive grip. How dare he handle her so!

And yet he was one step away from two powerful thrones. No one would ever question anything this man did.

“Sh,” he said quietly. His touch turned from forceful to soothing. “Forgive me for my manners. I don’t normally attack women, I promise you. ’Tis just that my anger at your earl knows no bounds. The mere mention of his name…”

He released her so suddenly that she actually stumbled away from him.

Sadness engulfed the man. He seemed to deflate right before her eyes. “Ask me for no mercy or quarter where that man is concerned, Rowena. I have spent far too many hours of my life wishing him dead.”

“Why? What has he ever done to you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he spoke with a deadly calm that sent a chill over her. “Your secret is safe with me, milady. I will tell no one what I know of the two of you. But I would ask one small price for my silence.”

She braced herself for more cruelty. “And that is?”

He waited several minutes before he spoke and
when he did his tone was so low that she barely heard it.

“If you still believe in God, then say a prayer for me. He turned a deaf ear to my pleas long ago.”

Rowena couldn’t have been more stunned.

“Guards,” Damien called out loud.

The door outside opened instantly.

“Take the lady and see her safely to her uncle.”

“But milord—”

“Nay, Rowena,” he said coldly. “Tomorrow God himself will decide the fate of the man. I only hope that I am the instrument that finally rids this earth of his pestilence.”

Rowena hardly slept at all. The entire night was spent with her turning about in bed as Damien and his hatred roiled through her.

Did Stryder know whom he was to fight? Had someone maliciously told him?

What would he do? But then she knew. He would never kill a man he blamed himself for hurting.

Rowena woke up just before the sun did, along with her ladies-in-waiting. They, too, had spent a restless night, and like the rest of the court, they wanted to bear witness to Lord Stryder’s trial.

Rowena rushed to get to the list, but while her women took a place in the stands that had been set up for the tournament, she snuck around the back to Stryder’s tent, where the earl had been taken to suit himself up in his armor.

There were more than a dozen guards set around the tent and as she approached, the captain stopped her.

“He’s to have no visitors.”

“Please,” she implored him beseechingly. “I only wish one word with him.”

“Have a heart, Boswell,” another guard said. “The man could very well die this morning.”

The captain debated.

“Let her in for a moment,” another one prompted. “He’s only got a few minutes more before they start. Let him leave this world with the memory of a fair maid’s face.”

The captain’s features turned stern as he looked at her. “Only a moment, so you’d best be quick about it.”

Rowena gave him a chaste kiss on his grizzled cheek before she dashed into the tent.

She pulled up sharply.

Stryder stood with his back to her while Kit tightened the laces on his mail cuirass. She’d never seen two men look more dour.

“I still say you should have taken Christian up on his offer to run.”

“I will not run, Kit, you know that. I can take any French champion.”

Kit glanced past Stryder to see her. He paused, then released his brother.

Stryder turned, and at the moment their gazes locked, she felt a cold shock go through her.

Kit stepped between them.
“He doesn’t know it’s Damien.”
The words were mouthed to her.

Rowena crossed herself and hoped that Damien’s armor would shield him so that Stryder never learned who it was he faced.

“I’ll wait outside,” Kit said, leaving them alone.

Rowena was overwhelmed to see Stryder looking remarkably fit and awake so early. Before she could stop herself, she threw herself into his arms and held him close.

Stryder closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of Rowena’s hair. For the first time in his life, he hated the mail armor that kept him from feeling her soft curves that were pressed up against him.

All night long, all he had done was dream of her. Dream of tasting her lips, feeling her hands on his flesh.

Now he wasted no time in dipping his head down to capture that mouth that had haunted his sleep. He growled at the taste of her, at the feel of her hand clutching his hair.

He ran his hands down her back, letting his palms cup and press her closer to him. He wanted inside her so badly that it was all he could do not to rip the armor from his body and take her.

But there wasn’t enough time for that.

“Sweetest Rowena,” he murmured against her lips. “Thank you for coming.”

Rowena felt tears prick her eyes at his words. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t think they would allow it.”

She scoffed at him. “Since when do I follow the dictates of others?”

He laughed at that and squeezed her so tight that she yelped.

“Forgive me?”

She nodded, then pulled one of the ribbons from her hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked as she moved to wrap it around his biceps.

“A token for you, milord. One to bring you good luck.”

He was humbled by her offering. “You who have no regard for war would offer me such?”

She looked up, her gaze searing and sincere. “Aye, Stryder. I would see justice done this morning, and you free so that you can give me my choice of husband.”

He grunted at that. “And here I thought you had a more nobler reason for your actions.”

She reached up and placed her hand to his cheek. “I am but teasing you. I want nothing to happen to you this day. If you should happen to die, I fear I would be most put out.”

“Not nearly as much as I would be,” he teased back. “Besides, I keep telling everyone that I hold no fear. I have no equal on the field.”

Someone cleared their throat.

Rowena glanced over her shoulder to see the captain standing in the entrance. “ ’Tis time.”

Stryder inclined his head. He started away, but before he could take a step, Rowena pulled him back toward her.

She kissed him quickly on the lips. “I wish you the strength of Hercules.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss on her palm. “I will see you anon.”

Rowena nodded as the captain came forward to lead him toward the list.

She followed behind the men, then took her own place among her ladies in the stands.

“There you are,” Elizabeth said as she took a seat beside her. “We had begun to fear something had happened to you.”

Stryder entered the list, which was surrounded by archers in the event that he decided to run. Not that he would, but ’twas customary under the circumstances.

Two swords were being held by heralds in the center of the list. All he waited on was the appearance of the French champion to challenge him.

He almost laughed at the thought.

But then his humor died the instant he saw his opponent take the field. In fact, his entire body went cold at the sight of the royal French coat of arms over the gold mail armor. Even though the man’s face was covered by his great helm, he knew him in an instant.

It was Damien St. Cyr.

Stryder cursed.

“That sentiment is entirely mutual,” Damien growled as he stopped before him.

Stryder longed to curse fate again. How could Henry have done this to him?

“Don’t do this, Damien. We were friends once, you and I.”

“And now we are enemies. It’s strange how fate turns, isn’t it?” Damien reached for his sword.

“I don’t consider you my enemy.”

Damien tossed Stryder the other sword. “Then you’re a fool and quite deserving of your death.”

At the same instant Stryder caught his sword, Damien lunged at him. Stryder barely had time to parry the thrust and spin away from him.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Damien. I’ve no desire to see any more pain placed upon your shoulders.”

Damien roared as he attacked with the fury and power of ten men.

Stryder had to actually work to keep the knight from hurting him—a true rarity. Damien hadn’t studied much during the years since they had been friends. Back in those days, the boy had been free-spirited and fun-loving.

His parents’ youngest child, Damien had been doted on by both of them as well as his older sister, Alix.

Even though barely a year separated their ages, Stryder had always thought of Damien as a young brother in need of protection.

But the man before him was nothing like the boy he’d known. This Damien was angry and bitter. His rage glittered like ice in the greenish-gold depths of the eyes that glared out at Stryder from the slits in Damien’s helm.

Stryder had no idea what the Saracens had done to Damien, but it was obvious they hadn’t just held him kindly for ransom as Damien had said they would.

Damien kicked at Stryder’s leg, then slashed at his head.

Stryder barely dodged the killing blow.

Damien dropped his sword, grabbed him by his surcoat and slung him into the low railing that segregated their area from the spectators.

Stryder let go of his own sword as they fought hand to hand. This wasn’t the combat Henry had intended. To Damien it was personal.

And it made Stryder’s heart ache. He’d tried many
times to speak to his old friend over the past few years only to have Damien’s men refuse.

“I never meant for you to be hurt,” Stryder said.

Damien growled low and deep like an animal in pain before he slammed his fist down on his shoulder.

Stryder took the blow without flinching.

“Don’t you dare be sanctimonious with me, you bastard. I promise you I’m not leaving this field until I bathe in your blood.”

“Is that what you want?” Stryder asked as he dodged another blow. “Is that what it’ll take to set the past right again?” He pulled his helm from his head and stared at his friend. “I still consider you my brother, Damien.”

Damien backhanded him across the face.

Stryder staggered back as he tasted the blood on his lips. Licking the metallic taste, he righted himself.

“Fight me, damn you.”

Stryder shook his head. “I don’t wish to fight you.”