Page 17 of The Champion

The look on Stryder’s face clearly contradicted him. “Aye, but it is. Cross me or mine again and it will be the final mistake of your life.”

Rowena watched as Cyril passed an angry glare from Stryder to Kit, whose face was filled with embarrassed shame, and if she didn’t know better...hatred.

Cyril’s eyes widened for a second, then narrowed even more. Turning on his heel, he marched stiffly from the hall.

It was only after he was gone that Rowena realized her uncle was by her side.

“Are you all right, Rowena?” Lionel asked gently.

“Aye,” she breathed, her gaze never wavering from Stryder who frowned at the mention of her name.

“Rowena de Vitry?” he asked, that deep voice sending a shiver through her.

“Aye.”

He looked as ill at the mention of her name as she had felt at his. “So, you’re the ogress who writes those songs.”

She would have felt complimented had he not insulted her first. “You know my work?”

“A plague to all who carry swords and a pox on their apish arms. May they all grow sterile and fat, and perish young. Aye, my lady, my squire informed me earlier this very day of your so-called work.”

She stiffened at his open disdain. He wasn’t the first to hate her or her work, but for some unfathomable reason she felt cut by his glare.

So, she fought back the only way she could...with her words. “As I am aware of yours, milord. They say you have cleaved the head off more than two hundred men and sliced five times as many in twain. I believe the Saracens refer to you as the English Butcher.”

He curled his lip at her. “You have poisoned the mind of my squire.”

She smiled in cold triumph at that. “I have liberated his mind.”

Stryder took a step toward her.

Kit was immediately between them. “Rowena, Stryder…” He forced more distance between them. “Remember yourselves.”

Rowena felt her face flush as she recalled the fact that their “discussion” had an audience of the entire English court.

Stryder’s icy gaze swept the room as well. He lowered his voice and when he spoke that deep voice resonated with powerful anger. “In the future, my lady, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from liberating the mind of my impressionable squire. When someone comes at him with a sword, I would like to believe Druce will raise more than his tongue in defense of himself.”

“If there were no swords about, milord, then he wouldn’t have to live in fear of them and neither would you.”

He snorted at that, “I hold no fear of a sword, only of fools who refuse to see reason.”

The crowd, as a whole, sucked its collective breath in at that.

Rowena had never been angrier in her life. In that moment, she well understood a man’s desire to thrash another, and she hated Stryder for making her feel such.

His gaze went to Kit. “If you have any further need of me, brother, just call.” Those chilly eyes focused on her. “As for you, milady, I liked you much better when I didn’t know who you were.”

He turned and stalked off before she could respond.

The crowd actually applauded.

“Here, here, Stryder,” one man shouted above the others. “You tell her, milord.”

Rowena was horrified by the cheers that went up for Stryder.

How dare they!

But more than that, she was hurt to learn just how many people scorned her feelings. Her beliefs.