Page 6 of The Champion

“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.”

It’d been no one’s fault. Desperate and barely more than ten-and-six in age, one of their members had dug an escape tunnel. Sadly, it’d been discovered before any of them 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.

They had tortured the Scot for a full fortnight. When he was returned to their cell, his eye had been taken and he’d been left horribly scarred.

The Scot had never been the same and Stryder blamed himself to this day for not taking the punishment 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 obligation of a wife. It wouldn’t be fair to any woman to have to compete with the guilt that never abated or gave them peace.

Not to mention, Christian had the burden of a kingdom waiting to one day 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...

Two

“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.

“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 sat up straighter so that her maid could coil her braids about her head and pin them in place. “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 seven 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.