"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."
Druce beamed. Thanking him, he dashed off with the mail armor draped over his shoulder and the money cradled carefully in his hand.
"You spoil him," Christian said.
Stryder shrugged. "Children should be spoiled. Would that we had known such at his age."
Christian's gaze turned haunted at that and Stryder wondered if his own eyes showed the scars of his past so plainly.
Like him, Christian had been raised with the single principle of "spare the rod, spoil the child."
Stryder could fell a full-grown man with a single blow. The idea of striking someone so much smaller than he sat ill in his gullet. With one reckless strike, he could kill the boy. Indeed, Stryder's own lord had broken his jaw when he was Druce's age for nothing more than dropping the man's sword.
It was a chance he'd never take. He'd sooner cut off his arm than ever prey on someone weaker than he.
Stryder reached for a towel at the same time his tent flap was slung backward. He half expected to see a maid coming through it to offer herself to him and was a bit surprised to find his younger brother there, since Kit held no love of battle and often refused to come near Stryder's tent.
Like Druce before him, Kit paid no heed to Christian in the corner.
Dressed in a garish red and orange combination, Kit held a large basket in his hands that was overfilled with letters and various pieces of ladies' garb.
"What is this?" Stryder asked, as Kit set the whole of it at his feet.
Kit swept his orange hat from his head and wiped his sweaty brow with his arm. "Tokens from your admirers. I have been instructed to give you all of these personally and to make sure no other living human touches them."
Christian laughed.
Kit snapped around to see Christian leaning back in the chair with a stein of ale braced on his stomach while his long legs were stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.
Kit's blue eyes widened considerably. "You're entertaining priests now?"
Stryder snorted at that. "Nay, Kit. Meet an old friend of mine, Christian. Christian, meet my younger brother, Kit."
Christian inclined his head to Stryder's brother.
Kit's gaze never wavered from Christian, and it turned speculative the instant he noticed Christian's spurs and mail-covered boots peeking out from the hem of his black robes.
Stryder cleared his throat to draw Kit's notice back toward him. Once he had his brother's attention, Stryder very subtlety shook his head nay and passed a censoring gaze toward Christian.
Kit immediately took the hint to ask no questions and turned his back to Christian. He leaned over and pulled from the bunch a bright red ribbon that had a key attached to it. "This one in particular said that I was to make sure you received her gift or else she would poison me while I eat. So in lieu of hiring a taster for my meals, I wanted to make sure it reached you."
Stryder rolled his eyes as Kit took it and broke the seal on the note that was also attached to the ribbon.
His brother read it aloud.
"Milord, 'tis with great honor I give you the key to my chastity belt. Meet me tonight in the rose courtyard.
Ever your lady,
Charity of York"
"A key to a chastity belt?" Christian asked in an amused tone.
"Aye," Stryder said, his voice thick with ill humor. "And an invitation to a forced wedding if ever I saw one."
Christian laughed again at that. "And you wonder why I prefer to wear th
e garb of a monk. It's the best shield I have found against conniving would-be brides, and even it isn't foolproof, as you have seen."
Stryder handed the key back to Kit. "Tell the lady I am previously engaged."
Kit arched a brow at that, then headed for one of Stryder's plate codpieces.
He frowned as he watched his brother place the codpiece inside his hose. "What is it you do?"
"The last time I told one of your would-be paramours nay on your behalf, she damn near unmanned me. This time I wish protection when I deliver the news."
Stryder joined Christian's laughter.
"'Tis not amusing," Kit said, his tone offended. "You think what you do is dangerous? I defy you to be in my boots for one moment when I face the great Ovarian Horde in your stead."
"And that is why I send you, my brother. I haven't the courage to face them."
"What?" Christian said in feigned shock. "Stryder of Blackmoor afraid? I never thought I would live to see the day a mere maid could send you craven."
"The day you doff your cleric's robes and don your crown, Your Highness, you may taunt me on that front. Until then, I know you for the coward you are as well."
Christian's eyes danced with mischief. "Women do make cowards of us all."
Kit opened his mouth to say something, then must have rethought it. Grabbing a shield, he headed for the door. "If I don't return by night's fall, please make sure I am buried on home soil."
Stryder shook his head at his brother's play, but then again…
Nay. None of the women would really hurt Kit.
As soon as they were alone, Stryder washed his face and chest in the wash basin, then toweled himself dry.
"How is it after all we have been through together that I never even knew you had a brother?" Christian asked as Stryder draped the towel over his shoulder and moved forward to pour himself a goblet of wine.
Stryder squelched the pain that innocent question conjured. Though he had shared much of his life with Christian, there were many things he had not shared with anyone. Things he would never share with anyone. "We are half brothers who grew up apart."
"Ah," Christian said as he watched his friend take a seat across from him.
Stryder looked tired. His blue eyes were troubled, but then Stryder had never been light of heart. His friend, much like him, had always been overly earnest.
Simon of Ravenswood used to refer to them as the Doomsday Duo. But then they had all seen far too much of the darker side of man's cruelty.
It had a way of robbing them of their optimism.
"Have you seen the Scot lately?" Stryder asked.
"It will be a year ago September."
"How does he?"
Christian sighed as he remembered their companion who had chosen to hide himself in the country of England as opposed to going home to his family in Scotland. "Same as before. He is reclusive and refuses to let any see his face. He barely spoke to me while I was there."
Stryder looked away, his brow even more troubled. Christian knew he blamed himself for what had happened to the Scot during their captivity. "It wasn't your fault."
Christian referred to the incident when one of their group had tried to escape. Barely ten-and-six in age, the boy's escape route had been discovered before any of them had had a chance to use it.
When the Saracens came for one of them to punish for it, the Scot had stepped forward to take the blame, knowing the one responsible would never have survived the punishment.
Their captors had tortured the Scot for a full fortnight. When he was returned to their cell, his eye had been taken and the man had been left horribly scarred.
The Scot had never been the same, and Stryder blamed himself to this day for not taking the blame himself.
"You can't carry the ills for the entire world, Stryder. Some things are just meant to be."
Stryder took a deep draught of wine, but said nothing.
He didn't have to. The two of them had known each other so long that Christian knew what was on his mind.
What they did was hard and never ending. They had more commitments than they could meet and both of them felt responsible for every member of their guard.
Theirs was a lonely life.
Aye, they could have any wench who took their fancy, maiden or experienced, but then what?
Neither of them needed or wanted the burden of a wife who would demand even more of their precious time.
Christian had the burden of a kingdom waiting one day to claim him, but Stryder… He had demons who commanded him. Demons that wouldn't give him peace.
Ever.
Christian only hoped that in the end, they wouldn't drive his friend mad the way they had driven Stryder's father insane.
It was well known by all that Geoffrey of Blackmoor had died by his own hand.
But not before he had tried to kill his own son.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"You should have been there, Rowena."
Rowena de Vitry plastered a patient smile on her face as her lady-in-waiting, Elizabeth, rambled on while their maids prepared their hair and veils for the coming supper. They each sat on wooden chairs before an open window.
"Lord Stryder just popped out of his tent as we headed for the castle. Barely three feet away from us, he hardly had a stitch on." Elizabeth sighed dreamily as she propped her elbow on the dressing table and stared into space.
Rowena did her best not to roll her eyes at her friend's adolescent behavior. She held little doubt that if left alone, Elizabeth would spend the next sennight doing nothing more than staring out her bower window, mooning over the earl.
"You've never seen a man so well shaped. His jet-black hair was wet and dripping down his muscles and…"
Elizabeth broke off into another sigh. "You should see his chest. I declare but you can see every tiny muscle flex when he breathes."
Rowena could feel her smile slipping away. "Yea, and I'm sure they flex well as they drive a sword into a man to take his life."
"Of course," Elizabeth agreed, sitting up straighter so that her maid could coil her braids about her head and pin them. "By all accounts he is the fiercest knight in all Christendom. Why else would he be named the king's champion?"
"Why else, indeed," Rowena whispered, then clenched her teeth. Knights. How she despised them and all they signified. To her, there was nothing glorious about battle or death.
What real man could take pride in spreading misery and heartache?
Ever since she had received news at age eleven that her beloved father had fallen in battle, she had despised war and those who took part in it. Unlike her friends, she didn't swoon when she confronted a purveyor of death. Nay, she gave them a wide berth.
And she wished a pox on them all.
In her heart, it was a gentle man she sought. One who was kind to others and who could be compassionate without fear of it weakening him.
"Find the man who will love you, bit. One who is worthy of your devotion. Let no man have you because you are landed. Better I should give up all to Henry than have my girl miserable. Life's too short for all of us, and I want you to enjoy every day of yours."
Her father's words still echoed in her mind and, most importantly, in her heart. He had been a good man, and it was one such as he that she sought for husband.
Unfortunately, she had yet to find anyone even close to his decency. Instead, she was courted by men who saw nothing but lands and wealth whenever they looked at her.
At age ten-and-five, she had once come to sup at banquet dressed as a gold nugget and caused quite a stir amongst the nobles. Her unamused uncle had taken a strap to her and quickly forced her to change her clothes.
Though she had never repeated that experience, Rowena was still the same. She would never have a man who saw her as a means to an end. She would only marry a man who saw her as a woman.
"Do you think Lord Stryder might choose me as the Lady of All Hearts?"
Elizabeth prattled on. "I know he'll be the knight who wins the tourney, and I should like so much to be picked." A blush crept over Elizabeth's cheeks. "I left him my handkerchief as a token when he helped us bring Joanne inside. Do you think he kept it?"
Rowena gave Elizabeth a genuine smile. Her friend couldn't help her infatuation for a barbarian. And though it pained her to listen to it, she loved Elizabeth enough not to crush her dreams. If being tossed over a man's shoulder and being treated like a possession made her friend happy, and it did, then Rowena wished her friend well and all the barbarians her friend could handle. "Why would he not keep a token from someone as beautiful as you?"
Elizabeth smiled. "You're so kind, Rowena. I hope you fill the hall at your recital."
Rowena glanced to her lute, which rested on the window sill. Music and poetry were her life. And it was the only life she wanted, if the truth were told. While her ladies-in-waiting dreamed of husbands, children, and titles, she dreamed of traveling from castle to castle, singing for her supper and seeing the world, or at the very least, opening a school so that she could train others to cherish music as much as she did.
But unlike her male minstrel counterparts, who wrote songs that glorified war and knights, she wrote only of love.
Her stance against the order of knighthood was often mocked by other troubadours and nobles who thought her foolish. However, she didn't care. She'd won enough awards and contests with her words of love that she didn't need the approval of the more traditional minstrels. She had faith in her music.
If only her father had lived to see her success…
Rowena blinked away the mist in her eyes. Even after all this time, her heart still ached for the father she'd loved so dearly. But it wasn't in her nature to let others see her pain. She was a quiet sort who kept her feelings close to her breast.
As she turned her attention back to Elizabeth, a knock sounded on the door.
At Elizabeth's bidding, Joanne stuck her blond head in, slightly dislodging her yellow veil in the process. She wore a gown of watchet, and her green eyes twinkled merrily. Joanne was one of four ladies-in-waiting who were fostering in Rowena's household and who had come with her to Hexham for the tournament. "Are you two not ready?"