The Last Knight

by Candice Proctor

  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her head falling back as she stared up into his shadowed eyes. She heard in the distance the clip-clop of hooves and the gentle purring coo Sergei used to talk to the horses. But she could not tear her stricken gaze away from de Jarnac's cold, cruel face. Every muscle in her body seemed stretched taut, as tense as the air that shimmered between them.

  He held her gaze for another endless moment. Then she saw his lips twist into a chilling smile as he said, “And you have my word on that.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The last of the light leached from the sky, turning it first to pink, then pale gold, and finally a somber bluish gray that was not so much any particular hue as a simple absence of color, a harbinger of the darkness to come. And still they rode on.

  Once more in the saddle, Attica hunched her shoulders and tried not to shiver, for the heat of the day had disappeared with the sun and a bitter wind kicked up. In her exhaustion, the cold seemed even greater than she knew it really was, became one more enemy to be borne, like the scream in her back and the ache in her legs. She clutched with numb fingers at the wooden pommel before her, afraid that she might slip unknowingly into sleep and tumble from the saddle, but even more afraid that her endurance would crack and she would open her mouth and beg de Jarnac to stop for the night.

  She pressed her lips together and rode on.

  “You're very quiet,” he said, his voice coming to her out of the wind-tossed darkness, and she realized he must have reined in to allow her to catch up with him.

  She felt her body tense with strain and anger and something else she couldn't even begin to identify. “What do you expect?” she snapped, weariness and simmering fury both sharpening her voice. The roan would have paused, but she kneed it determinedly forward without even glancing at the man beside her.

  The soft huff of his laugh curled toward her through the night. “You're still angry with me,” he said, and brought his horse in beside hers.

  “Did you think I would not be?” She turned to look at him. To her eyes, he was little more than a shadow in the moonlight, a dark silhouette of broad shoulders and lean, athletic grace. Yet she was intensely aware of him beside her, of the sheer energy of his being and the dangerous power of his masculinity. Riding through the cool, starlit night, with the wind blowing her hair about her face and this man by her side and only the faint following patter of Sergei leading the spare horses, she felt again that sensation of dislocation, as if she were someone else, not herself at all.

  She looked away from him to the distant, gently rounded hills glowing dimly in the moonlight. “My mother tells me I have an unforgiving nature,” she said. “But I doubt even she would expect me to forgive too quickly someone who held a naked sword to my … chest.” She only just managed to catch herself before she said “breast.”

  “Huh. If you're going to move through the world of men, lordling, you must expect to be treated accordingly.” The clatter of their horses’ hooves filled a slight pause before he added, “Or would you rather I had taken my belt to your noble backside?”

  His words sent such a wave of heat blazing through her that she was thankful for the darkness hiding her face from his gaze. “The world of men?” she said, imbuing her voice with all the scorn she could muster. “Is it a manly thing, then, to draw steel upon an unarmed … boy?”

  He let out a sharp laugh. “You think it feminine, do you?”

  She slewed around in the saddle to face him. “What I think it, is unchivalrous. I would expect you, as a knight, not to take unfair advantage of one in no position to defend himself.”

  She couldn't see his features, but she could hear the hardness beneath the heavy mockery in his voice as he said, “Now, whatever made you expect such a foolish thing as that?”

  “There are codes—”

  “I don't follow them.” The Arab snorted and tossed its dark head with a jangle of its bridle as he abruptly drew rein and turned to her. “What do you think? That because I am a knight, I live my life by some idealistic code of chivalry articulated by fat old priests, who tell me that I must be not only brave, strong, and true but also generous to the weak and an unthinking, unquestioning servant to the Holy Church?”

  She stared at him. “You would question the teachings of the Holy Church?”

  “When I've seen countless thousands of Saracen women, children, and old men put to the sword by the unthinking and unquestioning servants of that Holy Church—the same Holy Church, mind you, that teaches its adherents that Thou shalt not kill—then, yes, I question it.”

  “But a knight's honor—”

  “Honor?” He let out a harsh laugh. “Believe me, the thought of young men dying needlessly because of their allegiance to some abstract concept of honor and loyalty might be noble. But I decided a long time ago that when it comes down to a choice between me fighting fairly and dying or me gaining an unfair advantage over my opponent by stabbing him in the back first, the dagger in the back wins every time.”

  “You're just saying that,” she whispered.

  He leaned closer, close enough for the faint moonlight to show her the stark planes of his sun-darkened face, close enough that she could see the faint flutter of his black hair as it moved against his strong throat in the night wind. “Don't you believe it. You'd best get this straight right now, lordling: I am loyal to no one but myself, and the only code I follow is my own.” He urged his horse forward and left her there to follow or not, as she pleased.

  She sat staring after him, the reins slack in her hands, a strange, lonely ache burning fiercely in her chest—an ache that was part sorrow, part yearning for some nameless thing she could not grasp. She didn't know how long she would have sat there, lost to exhaustion and her own private, suffocating wants and confusion, if Sergei hadn't come up beside her. The roan began to move of its own accord, following the other horses down the pale ribbon of road.

  “Why are we stopping?” Attica asked, lifting her head to glance about in sudden confusion.

  She realized she must have dozed, because to her surprise she found herself staring at the timber and wattle and daub facade of an inn that stood at a crossroads just outside the dark wooden palisade of some town. The gates of the town itself had long since been shut and barred against the night. But welcoming light and the enticing scent of roasting meat and good soup spilled from the inn's open door. Attica's stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her just how long it had been since she'd last eaten.

  “Smells good, doesn't it?” Sergei said, from so close beside her that she realized he must have been pacing her, watching carefully, ready to catch her if she started to slip from the saddle.

  She turned her head to smile at him. “Yes, except …” Her gaze traveled beyond the squire to de Jarnac, who slid out of his saddle with an enviable ease that told her he could have ridden through the night without pause. “Why have we stopped here?” she asked as the knight came at her out of the darkness.

  “Because you look as if you're about ready to topple off that horse,” he said dryly. “Let me give you a hand down.”

  He started to reach for her, but she touched her heel to the roan's side to send it dancing away. “I can keep going,” she insisted.

  She heard his grunt of disbelief. “I doubt it,” he said, stepping back to plant his hands on his hips in that way he had that caught strangely at her breath. “Besides, I lied. We're here because the horses need a rest and I'm hungry. Now get down.”

  He would have turned away then, but she stopped him by saying hotly, “We can't stop; you know that. I must reach Laval in time to send a warning on to my brother.”

  De Jarnac swung to face her again, his head tipping back as he grinned up at her. “Sweet Jesus. You're as worrisome as a woman. I've more than enough time to reach La Ferté-Bernard before anything happens. And I'll be of far more use to Henry when I get there if I haven't half killed myself on the road.”

  She stared at him. �
��You? You are going to La Ferté-Bernard?”

  “I told you I'd see your warning delivered. But right now I'm going to have myself a good supper and drink a horn of wine in a gesture of thanks to poor old Sir Odo, who is probably camped at this very moment in some damp meadow full of quarrelsome Spanish merchants and dreaming wistfully of milk-fed lamb and big-titted whores.”

  Attica had never heard of Sir Odo, but the casual reference to whores conjured up alarmingly lurid images that caused her to sit bolt upright in the saddle. “Whores?” she said with a gasp. “Whores? I … I do not think I wish to stay at this inn.”

  De Jarnac was already turning away from her, his gaze scanning the upstairs windows as he said, “Stop fretting, lordling. The inn might be full, but I ought to be able to get a private chamber for us. I won't make you sleep in the attics with the riffraff.”

  At the words private chamber, Attica's stomach did a curious flip-flop. She threw herself off the roan so fast, her wobbly legs almost collapsed beneath her. “No, wait,” she cried.

  But he had already disappeared through the door of the inn.

  Some quarter of an hour later, Attica stood rooted to the doorway of the private chamber, the dead courtier's saddlebags clutched to her bound breasts like a shield as she let her gaze drift around the low-ceilinged room with its freshly whitewashed walls, its close-shuttered window, its glowing charcoal brazier adding a warm red hue to the golden flickering light of the cressets.

  “Not a palace, I admit,” said de Jarnac, kicking off his boots. “But at least it's surprisingly clean.” He unbuckled his sword and tossed it onto the bed while Attica made an incoherent gurgling sound in her throat.

  Oak framed and hung with crimson-dyed linen, the bed was wide—wide enough to sleep five, which it doubtlessly often did. She knew she should consider herself lucky to be given even this limited amount of privacy. After all, she could have found herself sleeping on a pallet in the loft along with the assorted book peddlers, cock masters, tinsmiths, jongleurs, and pilgrims who seemed to make up the majority of their fellow guests for the evening. Or she could have been expected to bed down in the hay of the stables with Sergei and the other guests’ grooms and squires. But those alternatives, which had once loomed frighteningly, now seemed oddly preferable to this … this … intimacy with this man.

  “Stop dawdling and close the door,” said de Jarnac, pulling his tunic off over his head. “The landlord's boy should be here soon with my water, and you're letting in the cold.”

  His hands dropped to the laces of his braies. Attica turned in a barely disguised panic and fled.

  She washed as best she could at the well in the yard. The water was shudderingly cold and the night air chilled by the gusting breeze, and she had to be careful not to wet her hair, in case the dye she'd rubbed into it after leaving Châteauhaut should come off. Quickly drying her face and hands on a length of linen from the courtier's bags, all she could think about was how she longed to strip off her dusty clothes, as de Jarnac had doubtlessly done, and wash the dirt and sweat from her body with a basin of warm water. Or better yet, sink into a deep, sweetly scented, steaming bath.

  Sighing, she bent to tuck the towel back into the satchel. The light from the torch near the stable flared, catching on the edge of what looked like a book. Curious, she pulled it out, oddly affected to find herself staring at a small, plain breviary. So this is what Olivier de Harcourt was asking for, she thought sadly. With an unexpected twinge of sadness, she thrust the book back into the satchel and buckled it closed.

  Tossing the bags over her shoulder, she crossed the manure-strewn yard toward the noise of the common room. At the bottom of the inn steps she paused, one hand on the railing, to stare uncertainly at the muted golden light that glowed through the cracks around the shuttered windows.

  When the comtesse d'Alérion traveled, she stopped the night at abbeys or in the manor houses and castles of her class, where beds were always made available to noble travelers. Never in her life had Attica sat down to eat in the common room of an inn. On those rare occasions when Blanche did have need to pause at such a place, the comtesse would remain in her litter, resting in the shade of a tree, while servants were sent running to bring any required refreshment out to the yard.

  Attica herself was too much the daughter of Robert d'Alérion—a rough, hard-drinking, loud-mouthed Norman knight—to have grown up to share her mother's haughty arrogance. Yet there was no denying that the room before her was an alien world, and the thought of having to keep up this wearing pretense of maleness in front of so many people—so many men—made her heart sink.

  Before she could give way to the cowardly impulse to retreat without supper to her bed, Attica ran up the three shallow steps to the door and pushed it open. A blast of warm, noisy air slammed into her with an impact that was almost physical. She found herself confronting a strange, dimly lit masculine world, murky with smoke from the torches and thick with the smells of damp wool and male sweat and the fumes of spilt wine and ale. A confusing medley of rough voices and ribald laughter and one uninhibited, high-pitched feminine squeal swirled around her. She pushed herself forward, searching the room for a familiar pair of broad shoulders and a darkly handsome face amongst the unkempt heads and huddled forms of the strangers who jostled one another on the rough benches.

  She saw an aging knight, his tunic tattered and shiny, his dark beard threaded with gray, and a ruined monk, his black hair bristly and stiff over the relic of his tonsure. Then a man's laugh rang out, deep and clear and blessedly familiar. She felt a flood of warm relief and turned.

  De Jarnac sat at the table in the far corner, his back to the wall, the flare of a nearby rushlight glazing his high forehead and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. In place of his leather broigne, he wore a dark wool tunic that molded itself to his broad chest. As she watched, he lifted his cup and tilted back his head to drink. She saw his jaw bulge and the muscles of his tanned throat move as he swallowed. Then he lowered his head and his gaze met hers across the length of the room.

  She watched his face break into a lazy, welcoming smile that was a wonder to her. Looking at him now, she thought, no one would ever suspect that only an hour or so ago he had held his naked sword pointed at her breast and threatened to kill her. She had always known men for strange, incomprehensible creatures. But as she wove her way toward him through the crowded trestle tables, Attica decided that a woman needed to dress as a man and go among them as one of their own for at least a day in order to truly understand just how illogical and absurd men really were.

  “There you are, lordling,” he said, his gaze flicking over the dark water stains on her velvet surcoat, his senses doubtlessly noting the cold night air that clung about her still. “I was beginning to wonder if I should ask the innkeeper to drag his well. Best take a seat before they run out of food. There's a full house tonight.”

  Suppressing another craven impulse to flee, Attica dropped her bags to the floor and gripped the edge of the table. Threading one foot in between board and bench, she swung the other leg over and sat down opposite him. It was an amazingly easy movement, without the hampering encumbrance of long skirts, and it occurred to her that, in some ways, at least, she could almost begin to enjoy this disguise.

  “Where is Sergei?” she asked, her gaze sweeping both sides of the board and finding only strangers, several of them other knights.

  “In the small chapel near the base of the town walls,” said de Jarnac, raising his cup and taking a slow, deep swallow.

  “In the chapel?” she repeated. “Now? Whatever for?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Praying, one presumes. For the souls of the day's dead, both those dispatched by my own sword and some others we came across in a burned village this morning.”

  “I saw them,” Attica said, her voice hushed as she remembered the crackle of the flames, the smell of burning wood and freshly spilled blood. She had seen the dead and been troubled by them. Yet it hadn't occ
urred to her to pray for them. And she certainly felt no compulsion to pray for the souls of the dead routiers.

  “He is unusual, your squire.” She accepted a cup of wine from a buxom, red-headed young woman who gave her a beckoning smile that had Attica looking away quickly.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Sergei? At a slave market in Acre.”

  Caught in the act of swallowing a mouthful of wine, Attica choked and fell to coughing. “You bought him?” she said when she was able.

  He had his attention focused on a juicy pork joint he was selecting. “I bought his mother. The boy came with her. He was only about six at the time.”

  “He is Saracen, then?”

  “No. He's from a place known as Kiev. He and his mother were taken by nomads who raided their town and sold them down the Dnieper to some Byzantine traders.” De Jarnac glanced up, his lips twisting into a cynical smile at the sight of Attica's horror. “Did you think only Muslims were killed and enslaved in Outremer? Believe me, we're not particular.”

  Attica took another quick swallow of wine. “Why did you buy her, this woman from Kiev?”

  De Jarnac's grin broadened in a way that made Attica's heart begin to beat in odd, unsteady lurches. “Why do you think, lordling? She was a very beautiful woman.”

  As he spoke, his voice softened and his eyes darkened, as with old, sweet memories. Attica watched him take another long drink from his cup, the red wine wetting his lips, and she found she had to drop her gaze from his face. Only then she found herself staring instead at his strong brown fingers, curved around the base of his cup.

  She realized that she was suddenly intensely aware of him as a man. A man who had fought and killed beneath a scorching foreign sun. A man who had once bought a beautiful woman in a noisy Eastern slave market and laid down with her beneath a hot, star-brightened desert sky.

  “Was?” Attica said, her voice husky.

  This time he was the one who looked away. “She died of a fever in Egypt.”