A Dark Champion (23 page)

Rowena sat in the stands with her ladies-in-waiting, wearing a white gown trimmed in down, and a crown on her head made of white goose feathers.

He laughed in spite of himself, especially as he saw her uncle’s face beside her.

Leave it to his lady to vex any man near her.

Rowena hated the fact that her uncle and king commanded her presence at this debacle.

Every time two men charged each other, she cringed and closed her eyes. She’d always hated the sound of the horses’ hooves, of wood striking flesh and metal, and the inevitable sound of a body slamming into the ground.

How could men be so barbaric to one another?

The hair on the back of her neck rose. Rowena turned her head, expecting to find Stryder staring at her.

He wasn’t. Damien sat below on the back of his large, white destrier. Both of them were covered in golden mail armor. She couldn’t see Damien’s eyes or his face, but she could feel his cold gaze on her body.

She quickly averted her eyes.

It seemed she waited for an eternity before Stryder finally rode.

He unhorsed his first challenger with no effort at all. A cheer went up through the crowd.

Reaching the end of this list, he turned his black horse about. It reared, pawing at the air while Stryder dropped the broken lance.

He righted his horse and inclined his head to her.

Rowena bit her lip, thrilled even though she shouldn’t be. Before she could stop herself, she blew a kiss at her champion.

“What is it you do?” her uncle asked.

“Nothing,” she said, looking down and plucking at her sleeve.

“Did you…” he looked at Stryder, then back at her. “Did you just blow a kiss at the earl of Blackmoor?”

“You’re seeing things, uncle.”

“Aye, she did,” Bridget said from beside her. “She loves the earl, milord.”

Rowena scowled at her friend.

“Is this true?” he asked her.

There was no need in denying it. “Aye, uncle, ’twould seem so.”

His face turned deadly earnest. “Then I pray for your sake, Rowena, that he doesn’t lose.”

“He won’t,” she said with conviction. He had to win this. More than just her future depended on his success.

Once the matches were finished and the nobles had gone to sup, Stryder had expected Rowena to come to his tent that night. He’d made all the preparations, including sending Alexander to sleep with Raven.

But she never showed, and when he went to the hall to ask after her, he was met by her friend Joanne, who told him Rowena was ill that night and unable to attend the festivities.

When he tried to go to her room to check on her, her uncle kept him away.

“We can’t have anyone think we are favoring one knight over any other, now can we?”

Angry at the truth, Stryder made his way back to his tent, where he spent a lonely night dreaming of a woman dressed as a goose making love to him.

By the time he took the field in the morning, he was exhausted.

As before, Rowena was in the stands, dressed in another goose gown. But she looked rather pale this day.

Concerned, he again tried to see her and was denied access to her by her uncle and the king.

So he sent Alexander to her instead. His son rushed through the crowd, dodging bodies until he made his way through the stands to Rowena’s side.

His heart pounded with pride as she took the boy and sat him in her lap so that he could watch the matches. She still looked wan, but there was a little more color in her cheeks now that she was chatting with Alexander and pointing things out to him.

A few minutes later, when it was Stryder’s turn to joust, Raven grabbed his reins and held him in place when he would have ridden out to meet his opponent.

“What are you doing?”

Raven indicated the stands with his head where Stryder looked to see Alexander running toward him.

Alexander stumbled as he reached them, making Stryder’s horse a bit jumpy.

As Stryder soothed the beast, Raven quickly scooped Alexander up out of harm’s way.

“Careful, bit,” he warned. “Your father’s horse might think you a small mouse to be trampled.”

Alexander was breathing hard as Raven held him up to Stryder. “The Lady Rowena sends you this, Father.”

Alexander handed him a scrap of paper that had something written on it. “She says to tell you that she cannot see you until the last match is won, but to hold that close and then she will read it to you and you will be overjoyed.”

Stryder hugged Alexander and thanked him.

Raven set him down and the boy ran back to
Rowena while Stryder tucked the note into his gauntlet.

“A letter,” Raven scoffed. “You brave life and limb and instead of a kiss, all you get is a worthless piece of paper.” He shook his head. “God spare me the arrow, and if Cupid must shoot my heart, then let it kill me.”

Stryder ignored him as he took his lance from Raven’s hand and faced his opponent.

He raced his stallion down the field and unhorsed the other rider on the first pass.

Stryder tossed his lance to the ground, then looked back for Rowena.

Her seat was vacant and there was no sign of Alexander anywhere.

Disappointed, he let out a tired breath. No doubt the sight of him bearing a man to the ground was upsetting to her.

Wishing he could spend some time with her, he dismounted and went to wait for his next match.

That night after the jousting had ended, there was no sight of either Alexander or Rowena in the great hall or his tent. All he received was a visit from Fatima telling him that the lady had wanted company tonight and so she had kept Alexander in her bedchamber.

So much for sending in his spy.

Damn.

His heart heavy, Stryder pulled his note out and stared at it. Yet again in his life, he wished he could read. Instead, he traced the beautiful script with his finger, wishing Rowena was with him.

Earlier, he had almost asked one of his men to read
it for him, but had stopped himself. It might contain something personal. She had said she would read it to him and so he would guard it close until she did.

Aching for her, Stryder lifted the paper to his nose where he caught the faintest whiff of her scent. His body stirred instantly as an image of her in her sheer gown hovered in his mind.

“You are a witch,” he breathed. “Ever tormenting me.”

But she was a witch he loved, and on the morrow, she would be his.

At least that was what he thought.

The morning dawned bright. For once, Stryder slept well, and when he took the field, Rowena sat in the stands with Alexander. The two of them waved at him.

His heart light, he bore down his next two opponents and at the end of the day, the event turned out just as he had thought it would.

Everything came down to him against Damien.

They listened as the heralds called out the results. It was almost over.

Rowena would soon be his and no one would be able to separate them.

Damien reined his horse in beside him and gave him a smug look that not even Damien’s helmet could mask. “Look your last on your lady, Stryder. In a few minutes, she will belong to me.”

“Nay,” Stryder said, knowing the truth in his heart. “She will never belong to you.”

And in that moment his mother’s face came to him and he had an epiphany.

Rowena did belong to him, just as he belonged to her, and it wasn’t in a way he had thought.

She had touched his heart, his soul, and now, as he was about to face his childhood friend turned enemy, he finally understood why Rowena was a goose.

Just as he understood that the only reason Damien wanted her was because Stryder did. She meant nothing to Damien.

But she meant everything to Stryder.

Rowena was right. Some battles could never be fought by sword or by lance. Not by arrow or siege.

There was only one way to win his lady.

Rowena held Alexander close as he chattered away about how his father was going to beat the other knight. How no one could ever defeat a knight as great as his father. “My uncle said so,” Alexander said with conviction. “And my uncle never lied to me. Never once.”

She squeezed the little chatterbox as she waited for the match to begin.

As with all the other knights before them, Damien and Stryder faced off. Damien’s armor glinted of golden wealth. Stryder, who could just as easily have had expensive armor, wore a plain silver mail suit over his leather aketon. His was a practical suit of war.

The horses stamped until the herald raised the flag. The two knights kicked their horses forward.

Rowena held her breath, waiting for the sounds she hated.

But for once they didn’t come.

Just as Stryder would have made contact with
Damien, he veered his horse away from the lance and the list.

Her jaw, along with every one in the stands, fell slack.

Stryder tossed his lance to Raven who stared at him as if he had lost his senses.

Indeed, he must have. Why had he not jousted against Damien?

The herald ran to Stryder and said something she couldn’t hear even though the crowd was so silent that she could hear her own heartbeat as everyone waited to learn what was going on.

Was the earl injured?

Had his horse been damaged?

Stryder looked over at her, shook his head at the herald, and then kicked his horse from the field.

The herald ran to the stands where Henry and Eleanor sat. Taking a deep breath, he shouted out, “The earl of Blackmoor has forfeited the match, Majesties. The victor and winner of the tournament is Damien St. Cyr, duc de Navarre, comte de Bijoux and Averlay and he names the Lady Rowena as the Queen of All Hearts.”

Rowena sat in stunned silence, unable to believe what she had just witnessed.

“I’ll be damned and burned in Lucifer’s deepest pit,” someone said from behind her. “I can’t believe this spectacle. Remember last year when the earl almost killed his best friend rather than see himself lose a match?”

“Aye,” another man said. “The bitch of Sussex must truly be her namesake for the earl to forfeit after all
this. I never thought I would live to see Stryder lose a match.”

“And to throw it, no less. She must be the worst sort of womankind.”

Pain seized her heart at their harsh words as her uncle snapped to his feet to confront the men behind them.

“How dare you!” he snarled.

He said something more, but she couldn’t hear it for the ringing in her ears.

“My father lost?” Alexander wailed. “How can he lose?”

Rowena picked the child up and gave him to Joanne. She needed to get away from the crowd. From everything as her mind reeled from what had just happened.

Her knight had refused to fight for her.

She stumbled from the stands and headed blindly toward the castle.

Stryder had ridden off?

He had forfeited?

“Oh God,” she breathed. “Please let me be dreaming. Please, don’t let this be real.”

Yet it was.

Stryder was gone and he didn’t want her. He who would kill over any little thing had left her there alone to suffer the worst sort of humiliation.

He who lived to fight had refused to fight for
her.

Unmitigated agony washed through her until tears streamed down her face.

What kind of fool was she?

Wanting to die, she made her way to her room so
that she could just lie down and pretend that this day had never happened.

“Rowena!” Bridget snapped, pulling at her as she lay on her bed in a numbed cocoon of pain. “The song competition is beginning. You must get up.”

She refused. Rowena never wanted to leave this bed again.

“Up!” Joanne said, tugging at her. “King Henry himself said that he will send his guards up here to fetch you if you refuse.”

“Why bother?” Rowena wailed. “Stryder wouldn’t joust for me, think you he will sing? I have no desire to go back down there where they can whisper and talk about me.”

Her friends exchanged shamed glances.

Joanne tried again. “You are under royal command, Rowena. Please.”

Hating her birthright more than ever, Rowena forced herself to rise.

Her friends seized her instantly and started straightening her clothes and smoothing her hair.

“Nay!” she said, pushing them away. “I’m the bitch of Sussex. ’Tis not my appearance that makes men desire me. ’Tis only my lands.”

Bridget gave her a peeved glare. “At least wash your face.”

Shaking her head, Rowena left the bed, swung open the door and headed with angry strides down the stairs. Why should she make herself presentable?

At least this way, they had something more tangible to mock.

But as she reached the great hall, her courage faltered a bit. There was quite a crowd in there. A large crowd that turned to stare en masse at her as she entered.

Heads came together, but she cared not.

Holding her head as high as any queen, Rowena strode through them, daring them to laugh. Some did. But she didn’t care.

She couldn’t feel their condemnation. All she could feel was the breaking of her heart.

She went to the chair to the right of Eleanor’s that had been reserved for her.

“Child,” the queen said gruffly as soon as Rowena sat down, “have you had an accident?”

“Aye, Majesty,” she breathed under her breath. “I have been trampled and crushed. I fear I shall never be the same.”

The queen patted her hand. “You have already missed the first three troubadours.”

“Were they any good?”

“Nay. Count your blessings.”

But not even Eleanor’s humor could cheer her. “How many are entered?”

“Only a dozen.”

Rowena took a deep breath and waited as the next male began his song. And as she listened, she began to agree with Stryder. Love songs did in fact reek like rubbish. They weren’t speaking of real love, only of odes to women’s throats and dried-up thighs.

She no longer wished a pox on knights. She wished one on all these horrible men who sang to her of made-up emotions of unrequited love.