A Dark Champion

by Kinley MacGregor

  Zenobia frowned at his hasty exit. "Why is it he runs every time I draw near?"

  Rowena shrugged. "Kit is rather shy with most people."

  "Hmmm…" Zenobia frowned as she moved to sit in the chair across the desk from Rowena.

  "So how goes the search?"

  Zenobia sighed wearily. "Much like Nassir, 'tis ever frustrating. No one knows anything other than someone wearing a cloak like Stryder's was seen leaving the tent. Again."

  Zenobia stood up and opened one of the drawers on Stryder's desk. "Where is the note you found in Cyril's tent?"

  "The one in Arabic?"

  Zenobia continued to open drawers. "Aye. Stryder had it last night while we were in here speaking of Cyril's death."

  Both women searched the desk, but found nothing.

  "Maybe one of the men took it?" Rowena asked hopefully.

  Zenobia's frown deepened. "Perhaps. But I can't imagine why. I saw Stryder place it in the desk myself just before we took our leave."

  A bad feeling went through Rowena as she remembered Stryder's torn tunic. "Do you think the murderer might have taken it?"

  Zenobia's eyes mirrored the horror Rowena felt.

  "Who is this person?" Rowena asked. "That they would dare come and go from Stryder's tent?"

  "I know not, but we had best find him soon. Otherwise someone else will pay a price most foul for our inadequacy."

  Aquarius paused as he reread the note he'd stolen from Stryder's tent.

  "I am such a fool," he breathed as he studied the script. It was flowing and elegant.

  A woman's hand.

  And all this time, he had assumed the Jackal or the Scorpion, like him, would be a man. He should have known better. Just as he should have recognized her face earlier.

  Though to be fair, their captors hadn't brought them together often. Only at certain banquets and feasts where they were made to perform for the benefit of others…

  His stomach tightened as rage gripped him anew. Somehow he would repay his captors for their cruelty.

  Silently, he made his way across the yard and into the castle with only one destination in mind. He only hoped that the other assassin would be alone so that he could confront her.

  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 another 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. 'Us 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.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Getting 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 a tall 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.