A Dark Champion (5 page)

It was Cyril. The one Stryder had sent to free him. Only Cyril had refused. Instead, he had abused Aquarius as the others before him had and then left him for dead.

The so-called Brotherhood that had sworn all of their camp would survive, that none would be left be
hind, had left this poor shattered soul in the hands of their enemies.

For more than a thousand days and nights, Aquarius had been abused and punished for the rest of them who had escaped.

Now it was his turn to punish them.

He brushed his hand over the front of Stryder’s red and white tent.

Tonight, the earl would live.

The assassin had another name to cross off.

One who deserved his death even more than the earl of Blackmoor.

Aquarius saluted the earl, then made his way to the other end of the hill.

Stryder came awake to someone rapping on the wooden post of his tent. He blinked open his eyes to see that it was still murky out. Most likely just past dawn.

Groaning, he rolled over to go back to sleep.

“Lord Stryder?”

The whispered call was soft and decidedly feminine.

“I’m asleep,” he said gruffly.

To his dismay, the flap opened to show him Rowena.

Rowena stopped dead in her tracks as she caught sight of Stryder lying on his bed as bare as he’d been the day he entered the world. Why, she almost dropped the lute she held in her hands!

Never in her life had she beheld a naked man, but she had a thought that none could be more fair than the one in front of her now.

He was all sinewy, tanned flesh. A visual delight.

And against her will, her gaze fastened on the most private place of his body where he stood ramrod stiff.

Remembering herself, she spun about to give him her back. “Milord, would you please cover yourself?”

“Why should I?” he asked sullenly. “You’ve already seen all there is to me.”

Heat burst across her face at that. “Are you always this crass?”

“When a woman awakens me from a sound sleep in the privacy of my own quarters, aye. I think I have a right to be rather upset. Don’t you?”

“I thought you would be awake by now.”

“And why would you think that?”

“No reason other than the fact that it is daylight, milord.”

He huffed at that and, still completely bare, he got out of his bed and walked past her to look out the tent flap.

“’Tis barely dawn. No one is up at this hour.”

Clutching her lute to her, Rowena bit her lip at the sight of his bare posterior and the incredibly handsome sight he posed. She started to spin about as he looked at her over his shoulder, but forced herself not to.

He gave her a challenging stare.

“If you wish to flaunt yourself before me, milord, so be it. I am not a mouse to scurry at the approach of a cat.”

He turned to face her.

Rowena couldn’t breathe as her gaze took in his whole body from toe to head.

He was beautiful.

His broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips. Tawny skin glistened with vitality in the grayish light and his presence was mammoth. Commanding.

His manly body was lightly dusted with dark hairs that accentuated every muscle. His manhood was still stiff, rising high even in the chill of the moist, morning air.

She shivered at the fierce sight and wondered what it would be like to have a man such as this as a lover. Would he be tender? Or would he be true to his warrior’s nature and take her roughly? Savagely…

“Careful, lady,” he said with a note of warning in his voice. “There are those who would think you unchaste by such actions.”

She shrugged. “If that is the least of what they call me, then I am truly fortunate. As it is, I know well what others think of me and I care not.”

Stryder was amazed by her courage. What would it take to make such a woman tremble?

If not for the heated look in her innocent gaze, he would think she was one of those women who held no use for a man whatsoever.

But Rowena was not a follower of Sappho. She was all too aware of his nudity. And the blush on her face told him he was embarrassing her. Not to mention the fact that she gripped her instrument as if it were some kind of shield that could protect her from him.

He should cover himself, and yet he had to admit he liked the way she stared at him. The high color in her cheeks.

And he wondered what she would look like spread
across his bed, her face wild in abandonment as he showed her exactly why troubadours wrote tributes to love. Or at least to the physical pleasures of it.

“Have you ever been kissed, milady?”

She frowned at his question. “I beg your pardon?”

He approached her slowly. Methodically. The last thing he wanted was to send her scurrying out of his tent. “Have you ever had a man press his lips to—”

“I know what a kiss is, milord.”

“And?”

She stepped back from him. “My lips are no concern of yours. Nor is any other personal matter.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came to begin our lessons.”

He was aghast at that. “At this hour?”

“We are least likely to be disturbed now.”

“And I am least likely to agree to learn anything at this hour of day, milady. My sleep is hard won and too precious to be disturbed by something I find as distasteful as song.”

Rowena hesitated at the catch in his voice as he spoke those words to her. “Hard won how?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he headed back for his bed. “Come back at midday, Rowena, and I will be more approachable.”

“But—”

“No buts, milady. I am weary and wish to sleep.”

His commanding tone sat ill with her, but what choice did she have?

She felt a childish urge to stamp her foot at him. Yet what good would that do?

None whatsoever. Sighing, she set her lute down for when she would return to teach him.

As she started for the opening, a cry rang out.

Lord Stryder was on his feet again in an instant, pulling on his breeches as chaos broke outside the tent.

Rowena left the tent with Stryder one step behind her. He held his sword in his hand as he brushed past her, rushing toward the tent where everyone else seemed to be gathering.

Half-dressed and half-asleep, knights were all stumbling past her.

At the top of the hill, men were gathered around a red and blue tent.

As soon as Stryder joined the men, they turned on him.

“You!” Lord Rupert, the elder brother of Cyril, snarled. “You killed my brother!”

Rowena wasn’t sure which of them was more stunned by that accusation.

“We all heard your threats against him,” Rupert snarled.

“I killed no one last night,” Stryder said, tense and angry.

“Liar!”

“I saw him leave Cyril’s tent myself just after matins,” another knight said. “There’s no mistaking the Blackmoor coat of arms.”

Before she could blink, Stryder was seized by a group of knights as Henry made his way through the crowd.

Rupert repeated his accusation to Henry.

“What say you, Lord Stryder?” Henry asked.

“I am innocent.”

One of Cyril’s younger brothers came out of the tent, holding a bloodied medallion. He handed it over to the king.

Henry studied it carefully, before looking back at Stryder. “You were with Cyril in Outremer?”

“Aye, Sire.”

“And where were you last night after you left the hall?”

“In my tent.”

“Alone?”

“Aye.”

“See,” Rupert spat. “He has no alibi. He killed my brother and I demand justice.”

“We shall investigate this matter further,” the king said stoically. “Until then, the earl shall be held in the castle under royal custody.”

Stryder’s jaw went slack at the king’s words. Indeed, even Rowena was stunned. Henry would arrest his own champion with no real evidence?

The royal guards seized Stryder’s sword and made to tie his hands behind his back.

“Wait!”

All gazes turned to Eleanor, who came forward out of the crowd. The queen passed a peeved glare from her husband to Rowena and finally to Stryder.

“Lord Stryder has an alibi.”

Rowena had never seen more frowns or shifty gazes in her life as everyone glanced about the crowd.

“Please,” Henry said, his voice tired as he looked at his queen. “Tell us not he was with you.”

Eleanor’s stare turned droll. “Nay, milord. The man was with Rowena last night per your royal dictate.”

Rowena’s eyes widened as she found herself the focal point of everyone. It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it, but no one called the queen of England a liar and kept said tongue for long.

“Is that not right, Lord Stryder?” Eleanor asked.

Stryder opened his mouth, then shot a look toward Rowena.

“Speak up, milord,” Eleanor said. “We know you wish to protect the lady’s reputation, but better she be compromised than you be hanged.”

“Stryder with the Bitch of Sussex?” someone said from the crowd. “I don’t believe it.”

Laughter broke through the crowd. Rowena felt her face heat up immediately.

Holding her head high, she met Stryder’s gaze and found an odd almost apologetic look there.

“And what were they doing, Your Grace?” Rupert asked. “Not to contradict your royal personage, but I find it hard to believe they would be romantically involved.”

“And so they weren’t,” Eleanor said without missing a breath. “The lady was tutoring his lordship on the lute.”

More laughter sounded.

Rowena began to panic. What was the queen thinking?

Henry looked at them skeptically. “The earl of Blackmoor spent his evening practicing music with the lady?”

“Is this not so, Rowena?” Eleanor asked.

All she could do was nod dutifully.

“’Tis a lie the wench told you, my queen,” Rupert said. “Everyone here knows the earl despises music.”

“A lie?” Eleanor arched a royal, censorious brow. “Lady Rowena, where is your lute?”

“In Lord Stryder’s tent,” she answered honestly.

The queen sent a squire to fetch it.

When the lad returned, the guards released Stryder.

“Show them what you learned, my lord,” the queen said quietly.

Stryder’s gaze was locked to her own.

Rowena held her breath. Did the man even know how to hold a lute?

’Twas a terrible gamble the queen was taking with all their lives.

Stryder’s gaze softened only a fraction of a degree before he held the lute in his hands. Astonished, she watched as his hands went straight to the correct positions, and then they fumbled a bit as he played a basic tune.

Silence rang out.

The man knew how to play…

Rowena’s mind whirled with the knowledge of that.

Henry sighed and nodded. “Well then, it appears the earl has an alibi after all.”

“Nay!” the knight who had accused him earlier said. “I saw him.”

“Perhaps it was another you saw,” Eleanor interjected. “One who favored the earl.”

The man frowned, but his gaze said he was sure it was Stryder he had seen.

Henry took the lute from Stryder. His gaze was a bit
suspicious as he handed the lute to Rowena, who was now fearful even more of a forced match.

“Relax, child,” Henry said. “The two of you have a month as We promised. We pray you to make good use of it.”

His words spoken, the king turned around and left them.

The crowd dispersed slowly. Rupert didn’t move. He kept a gimlet eye on both of them.

By Stryder’s face, she could tell how upset he was by all of this. Without a word, he headed back toward his tent.

Rowena followed. “Lord Stryder?”

“Leave me alone,” he snarled without hesitating.

She hurried to catch up to him and pull him to a stop. “Milord, please…”

His gaze burned into her. “What is it you want of me now?”

“Who taught you to play?”

“What difference does it make?”

Rowena didn’t know, but she was desperate for an answer. “Why do you disdain music so?”

“For the same reason you disdain knights, my lady. Music cost me the life of the one person I held dearest in this world and ever since her death, I hate not only it, but all who carry its sound.”

R
owena couldn’t move as she watched the earl return to his tent. She took a step forward, but was stopped as someone took her by the arm.

“Give him some peace, Rowena.”

She paused at the pleading look in Kit’s eyes. “You heard?”

He nodded.

“He must have loved his lady greatly.”

“Aye, he did. He still carries our mother’s ring with him everywhere he goes.”

“Your mother?”

He nodded. “She was murdered by Stryder’s father when he learned of my bastard birth. They say his rage was such that no one dared go near him—no one but Stryder. In anger, his father accused him of being
bastard born as well. He ran the boy through and then gashed Stryder’s head.” Kit made a mark on his neck where she knew Stryder carried a severe scar. “While Stryder lay on the floor of the hall, his father killed our mother before his eyes.”

“Then his father took his own life,” she breathed.

“That is what they say.”

There was an odd note in his voice. “But?” she prompted.

Kit refused to say anything more. “Our mother was much like you. She loved nothing more than to play her lute and sing. My father was one of the noble-born minstrels who came to her hall while Stryder’s father was away. I don’t remember much of my mother, really, I was only five when she died. But I am told she birthed me at her sister’s home and then sent me to my father so that her husband would never learn of my existence.”

“She and Stryder came once to visit you while you fostered with us.” Rowena vaguely recalled the event. It was the only time anyone had ever come to visit Kit.

“Aye. She did that as much as she dared. Unfortunately, it was such a visit to my father’s home that caused her death. Stryder’s father had come home early from a trip to find them gone. When they returned, one of her servants betrayed her.”

Rowena felt for her friend deeply. “Oh Kit, I am so sorry.”

His eyes sad, he swallowed. “I am not the one who needs your sympathy, Rowena. I grieve for her because she was my mother, but I knew her very little. ’Twas Stryder who was devastated. He worshiped her.”

Rowena fought down her tears at the thought of the pain Stryder must feel.

“My brother’s life has been most harsh and still he is honorable. I know of no other who could have survived what he has and remain so noble.”

“Aye. He could have made both Eleanor and I out to be liars.”

He nodded.

“But what of Cyril?” she asked. “Do you think Lord Stryder—”

“Nay. I know better. If Stryder wished him dead, he would have faced him on the battlefield. Deception is not in my brother’s nature.”

She had thought as much. “Why would Lord Aubrey lie?”

“Perhaps he didn’t. Anyone may don a cloak. In the dark, I should think one could look as guilty as any other.”

Rowena bit her lip at the thought. Aye, but who would want Stryder blamed?

She excused herself and headed back toward the crowd that continued to gather around Cyril’s tent.

“I still say the earl did this,” one of the barons said to a small group outside the tent.

“Why would he sneak up on him and cut his throat while he slept? In all the years I’ve known Stryder, I’ve never known him to do such a thing.”

Another baron snorted. “Madness possessed his father. Mayhap it has possessed him too.”

Rowena ignored the men who continued to argue for and against Stryder. In truth, she felt very sorry for
Cyril—more than she would have thought possible. Not even he had deserved a death such as this.

Her heart heavy, she had started toward the castle when something caught her gaze. It was a tiny slip of vellum poking out from underneath the canvas of Cyril’s tent.

While the men continued to speculate, she bent over and retrieved it. The instant she opened it, her heart stopped.

It was written in Arabic.

We all did not go home.

We all did not survive.

Death to the Brotherhood. May you all burn in the fires of Lucifer’s deepest pit.

At the bottom, stamped in blood, was a symbol she had seen just this morning while Stryder had stood naked before her…

Stryder was washing the sleep from his face when he heard someone enter his tent without preamble.

He spun to catch the culprit only to have her dodge and move quickly away, out of his grasp.

“’Tis only I,” a soft, feminine voice said.

Stryder growled low in his throat. “Can I not be free of you this morn?” he groused as he turned to face Rowena. Though to be honest, he did feel a bit of growing respect for the lady who had outmaneuvered him just now.

She straightened with a haughty stare at him. Instead of making one of her infamous remarks, she closed the distance between them and took his right hand into hers.

A small chill stole up his spine at the way she caressed the brand on the back of his hand. As always, the sight of that mark made his stomach shrink, his anger snap.

“What is this from?” she asked quietly.

“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to pull his hand away.

She wouldn’t release it. “Why does this make you so angry?”

“Rowena—”

She didn’t take the warning. Her fingers brushed over the raised skin where the Saracens had seared their mark of a scimitar and moon on his flesh. He’d been only ten-and-five when they had branded him. Even after all these years, he could recall the pain of the wound. The degradation.

“Is this part of the Brotherhood of the Sword?”

He tensed at her question. “What do you know of the Brotherhood?”

“I travel with minstrels, milord. There are whispers of a group of men who were once political prisoners in the Holy Land. Men who saved others and brought them home. Noble and decent men who still fight to bring more home and see them safely to the bosoms of their families.”

Pain racked Stryder, but his anger overshadowed that. No one was supposed to know of them. “Where have you heard this?”

“I told you, there are many who sing of such tales. The stories started about two years ago, and no one is certain who began them. The words and music show up anonymously at various tournaments where we gather, lauding the virtues and bravery of the Broth
erhood’s members.” She narrowed her gaze on him as if she could read his very mind. “You are one of them, aren’t you?”

Stryder had been hiding for so long that he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to her. “Release me.”

To his relief, she did. “‘They travel through the night on the wings of heavenly stallions bringing hope and new faith to those left behind. Even though they are free, they never forget their past and spend their lives trying to bring peace to others.’”

He frowned at her words. “What is that you quote?”

“One of the chansons that is written about the Brotherhood.” She held the note out to Stryder. “This was on the ground just outside of Cyril’s tent. I find it hard to believe that he was a member of your Brotherhood, but you…”

Stryder stared at the paper. He could read none of it, but he could see the bloody symbol. It was the same as the one on his hand. “What does this say?”

“Can you not read Arabic?”

“I can’t read anything, Rowena.”

He expected to see condemnation from her for his “uneducated” status. Instead, she merely nodded and then read the note for him.

Stryder’s gaze darkened. “Are you sure this came from his tent?”

“Aye. It looked as if it had been blown free of wherever it had been placed.” Her brow puckered. “What does the person mean that not everyone survived or went home?”

Stryder stood there, his soul screaming out at the letter and what it signified. Could one of their own
have killed Cyril, or was this a Saracen playing havoc with them?

It didn’t make sense. Nay, they had made certain no one was left behind the night they escaped.

No one.

It wasn’t in his nature to trust anyone and yet he found himself confiding in Rowena. “It was a vow all of us made while we were prisoners that we all would survive and go home.”

“Who was left behind?”

“No one out of our camp. We made sure of it. On the night we escaped, we sent groups to free the others while Christian and I led the youngest members out.” He shook his head. “It can’t be one of us. It’s some Saracen playing with our heads. It has to be.”

“Why?”

“To punish us for leaving and for helping others to escape. No doubt they have been hunting us all this time with no other purpose than to kill us off one by one.”

“But why kill Cyril?” she asked as she folded up the note. “He didn’t strike me as the kind to help anyone save himself.”

It was true. Cyril had refused their cause once they were free and had gone home, ever forgetful of what they’d been through, of the promises they had made to each other.

“I don’t know.”

Her face lighted as if she’d had an epiphany. “Unless it was to frame you for it. Perhaps you were the target all along. Why else wear your cloak?”

“Those are points well taken.” It could also explain why so many attempts had been made on his life. He and his men had been looking for someone who resented his friendship with the throne. Perhaps his enemy had nothing to do with Henry, but rather was his past coming back to claim him.

Stryder took the note from her and placed it on his desk. “Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“You intend to keep your Brotherhood secret?”

“Aye. No one needs know who among us were there and what we were forced to do to survive. We’ve all struggled hard to regain the lives and dignity that were taken from us.”

She inclined her head toward him as if she understood exactly what he meant. “I shall keep your secret, Stryder. Always.”

She started for the door.

“Rowena?”

She paused at his voice.

“In the future, the best time to approach me for lessons is after we sup.”

She nodded and offered him a small, almost fragile smile that played havoc with his insides…and his groin. “Then I shall see you tonight, milord. I prithee that you find no more trouble between now and then.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in wry humor. “We shall see what the day holds, shall we not?”

Rowena nodded in agreement. They would indeed.

Gathering her skirts, she swept from his tent, past the four knights who traveled with Stryder. The small group of men paused outside the tent to stare in her
wake while she made her way back to her rooms in the castle.

It didn’t take long to return to her chambers inside the cool safety of the donjon’s whitewashed walls.

The last thing Rowena expected was to find her women gathered together in her solar. Already word of Cyril’s death and Stryder’s possible part in it had reached them.

“What are we to do?” Bridget asked as Rowena’s ladies-in-waiting huddled in the center of the room like a small flock of chickens. Bridget was a short woman who possessed jet-black hair and a small, willowy frame. “If Lord Stryder is convicted—”

“I shall never marry,” Marian whined. Barely a year older than Rowena, Marian held light blond hair and a lush, round body that got the lady into plenty of compromising positions whenever a handsome man came near. “We’ll all be forced back to Sussex!”

“Nay,” Joanne said, her voice every bit as upset. “I cannot abide another milksop man coming to me and singing odes to my thighs and neck as if I’m nothing more than a succulent hen.”

Bridget patted her comfortingly on her back. “Have no fear, Joanne. We will not go back to Sussex, nor will Lord Stryder perish. We shall find the one responsible and hang him ourselves.”

“What is this?” Rowena asked.

Her ladies-in-waiting immediately broke apart. They looked about as if they were guilty of some crime.

“What is what, milady?” Joanne asked, feigning innocence.

Rowena looked at each one of them in turn. “What have you planned?”

“We’re going to find Cyril’s killer,” Bridget announced proudly.

“We’ll have to be devious,” Marian chimed in. “Ply men with…drinks and our wiles. But I think we are up to the challenge.”

The others nodded in ready agreement.

It was all Rowena could do to not roll her eyes as visions of her companions in trouble flashed through her mind. No wonder her uncle kept them secluded in Sussex. The whole lot of them, while tender-hearted, were ever ready to seduce any man who came near them. “You would do all this for Lord Stryder?”

Marian nodded. “Well, aye. He must be proven innocent.”

“And why is that?” Rowena asked.

“So that you can marry him,” Joanne said simply.

Rowena cocked her head at that. “I thought
you
wanted to marry him.”

“Well, aye, I do, or did, but now that the king has chosen you for his bride we’ve been—”

Bridget cut her words off with a sharp elbow to her side.

“Ow!” Joanne snapped.

Rowena folded her arms over her chest as a bad feeling went through her. “You’ve been what?”

“You might as well tell her,” Elizabeth spoke up from Joanne’s right. “It’s not like she won’t figure it out.”

Marian sighed. “Well, we’ve been talking. You and your uncle keep us sequestered in Sussex with your
minstrel friends visiting and while we’ve been here, it has come to our attention that there is many a fine man to be had.”

“Aye,” Bridget agreed. “Have you seen Stephen of Nottingham? A finer man I’ve never beheld.”

“He’s a barbarian,” Rowena said as she remembered the way the man had belched at dinner the night before. He had then slammed his goblet down and ordered more wine, which he had consumed faster than she could blink. It was followed by another belch.

“He’s a man,” Marian snapped. “No offense, milady, but we’ve all had it up to here”—she held her hand to her chin—“with those mewling knaves you have visiting Sussex. We’re tired of having them sing odes to our eyes and juices while our juices are drying up. We want a real man.”

“Aye!” they agreed in unison.

Bridget patted Rowena gently on the arm. “We understand and respect the fact that you’re not inclined for a manly sort, milady. But for the rest of us, we rather like someone who can pick us up and not whine about it. Lord Stryder has many knights in his company.”