Читать книгу The Champion - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 7

England, May 10, 1222

They rode north on the road from York to Durleigh, six Crusader knights in worn gray tabards with a black rose stitched over the heart, a babe scarce a year old and Odetta, a goat that was more trouble than the Saracens they had faced in the East.

Thick gray clouds obscured the noonday sun. The raw breeze that harried their backs carried a hint of rain that discouraged lingering on the trail.

Not that Simon of Blackstone was inclined to linger. He’d set a brisk pace since rousting his comrades from their blanket rolls in the darkness of predawn, and he meant to be in Durleigh by midafternoon. Ignoring the discomfort, as he had so many other unpleasant things life had flung at him, he concentrated on the muddy track ahead. His thoughts, his entire being, were focused on reaching the town a half day’s journey north.

Durleigh, where he’d been fostered and knighted in the household of Lord Edmund de Meresden. Durleigh, seat of the great cathedral presided over by Bishop Thurstan de Lyndhurst.

The man who had sired him.

Simon’s jaw set tighter, and the heat of anger rose to counter the damp chill. Three long years he had waited to confront the priest who had given him life, but never bothered to acknowledge him. Three years of living with the bitter knowledge that his whole life had been a lie.

“We need to call a halt,” muttered Guy de Meresden, riding at Simon’s right.

Stop then, but I will not. Not till I’ve seen the mighty bishop and extracted a penance for his sins.

The words stuck in Simon’s throat. Two hundred men had ridden out from Durleigh four years ago bound for the East. Only six had come back alive, and Simon’s five comrades were as precious to him as the family he never had.

Sighing, Simon glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the troop. Hugh, Bernard, Gervase and Nicholas were veterans of long marches and short rations, but their mounts were beginning to droop and Odetta was wobbling. If the damn thing keeled over, there’d be no milk for wee Maudie’s supper. “I had hope to reach Durleigh today,” Simon muttered.

“As do I, my friend.” Guy smiled, teeth white against bronzed skin that betrayed his mixed heritage. According to Guy’s Saracen mother, he was the legitimate son of Lord Edmund de Meresden, born after his lordship had left Acre for England. “We are equally anxious to confront our sires, if for different reasons. But our horses need rest and water.”

Simon grunted in reluctant agreement and looked over his shoulder again. “We will halt in yon meadow for a bit.”

Nicholas of Hendry grinned. “Better yet, I know of an inn up ahead where the ale’s sweet—”

“And the lasses sweeter, I wager,” Simon grumbled.

Nicholas’s easy smile, the one that charmed every woman he met, faded. “I have put aside the wild ways of my youth.”

“Forgive my sharp tongue,” Simon said, though privately he thought, once a rogue, always a rogue. Living side by side for four years had forged a bond between them, but Simon disliked Nicholas’s easy morals. Who knew how many bastards Nick had spread about the country—and abandoned? Just as Bishop Thurstan had abandoned Simon. “Lead the way to this inn, then.”

“I have changed,” Nicholas said crisply before taking Simon’s customary place at the head of the column.

“He understands why you feel as you do,” said Guy.

“Nay, I do not think anyone does, even you.” Simon cast his mind back three years to when Brother Martin, confessor to their band of Crusaders, had fallen ill. As he lay dying, the priest had revealed a startling secret. Simon was Bishop Thurstan’s son. “At least your father was wed to your mother.”

“Aye, but Lord Edmund vowed he’d return for my mother. He never did,” Guy said softly. “Perhaps he wished to forget he’d wed an infidel…even if she did become a Christian.”

“You knew your mother. She raised you, loved you, and you saw to her welfare when you were older. I do not know what became of my mother.” The pain ripped at Simon’s insides. “He abandoned her and ignored me, though we lived in the same town.”

“Perhaps he had a good reason.”

“Bah! He sought to preserve his reputation, did Bishop Thurstan,” Simon growled. “But I will confront him with his dark deed, and I will have my mother’s name that I may find her.” The thought of her, alone and likely destitute, was nigh intolerable.

“There is the inn,” Nicholas called as they rounded a bend in the road and came upon a small hamlet. They caused quite a stir as they dismounted in the yard of the inn, the horses snorting and tossing their heads, Odetta bleating for all she was worth. Baby Maud awoke with a start and wailed.

“Shh. We’ll be getting some milk.” Hugh of Halewell jiggled Maud. The black-haired imp looked incongruous in his massive arms, but there she had ridden from Acre to England, though she was not Hugh’s child. Maud was the daughter of a prisoner held in the same compound from which the knights had rescued Hugh. With her dying breath, the woman had begged Hugh to save her daughter. It was a charge the knight took most seriously.

“I think she needs to be changed again,” Simon murmured.

Hugh stared ruefully at the wet spot on his tabard, blue eyes twinkling. “‘Tis no wonder my mail is constantly rusty.”

“And we’ve more wash than a whole Crusader camp.” Simon glanced at the nappy tied onto Hugh’s lance tip to dry.

The door to the tavern opened and a burly man peered out.

“See here, what is—” His eyes rounded. “Sir…Sir Nicholas?”

“Aye. I’m pleased you remembered me, Master—”

“Ye’re dead.” The innkeeper crossed himself and backed up.

“Dead?” Simon exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“Killed. Dead.” The innkeeper eyed them warily “King’s messenger brought word last autumn ye were butchered by the infidels. Bishop Thurstan held a special mass in Durleigh.”

Simon’s lip curled. “Likely he was celebrating my demise.”

“What a thing to say!” the innkeeper exclaimed.

“Thanks to my stupidity we were away when our comrades were attacked,” Hugh grumbled. “If I hadn’t gotten myself captured—”

“We would not have gone to Acre to rescue you.” Simon looked at Hugh’s back, remembering the Saracen arrow that had lodged there as they fled. If not for Gervase’s special healing skills, he’d have died in that alley. “I had no idea we had all been reported dead.” He glanced around at his comrades and saw his own speculation mirrored in their faces. What had those they’d left behind thought when they had heard the news? Would the knights be welcomed with rejoicing when each reached his home? Or would there be more challenges to face?

“Well, praise be to God for saving ye.” All smiles, the innkeeper hustled them inside to a table by the hearth and brought a round of ale. A pretty maidservant offered to take Maud above stairs for a change of nappy and a bit of Odetta’s milk. Used to the company of men, Maud clung to Hugh.

“Shh, here, lovey.” Hugh gave her a cup of milk.

Simon settled back in his chair, the cup of ale resting on his lean belly, as he watched the five men who had unexpectedly become his friends. How much they had all changed in four years.

Bernard FitzGibbons had grown the most, under Hugh’s expert guidance, from a bumbling knightling to a seasoned warrior. Fair-haired Gervase of Palgrave had discovered he had a healing touch that defied explanation. Torn between two worlds, Guy had found a haven with the knights of Durleigh and grown especially close to Simon.

“How far we have come,” Simon murmured. “We are different men from when we set out together.”

“Aye.” Nicholas scowled. “I hope I can convince my sire I am now worthy to be his heir, else he’ll make good his threat to cut off that part of me he blames for my mischief.”

Hugh laughed. “Gervase may be able to make it whole again.”

“My healing is not a thing to be used lightly.”

“Oh, I’d not take it lightly,” Nicholas teased.

They grinned at that, but beneath their banter lurked a tension Simon finally put into words. “Being reported dead may have consequences when we reach home.”

Silence fell over the table, each one recalling the troubling circumstances that had led to their taking the cross in the first place. Simon had gone with lofty hopes of saving the Holy Land, but the Crusade had been a bitter, dismal failure. Nicholas had gone to escape a horde of amorous women. Bernard to atone for his overlord’s sins. Gervase because of a vow made on his father’s grave. Hugh as a penance for killing a friend on the tiltyard. In each case, their going had been demanded by Bishop Thurstan as payment for a sin. To Simon, such manipulation was but another crime the bishop had committed.

“No one will be pleased to see me return,” Simon said.

“You may be surprised,” Guy said quietly. “We do not always know whose lives we have touched.”

Simon grunted, drained his cup and stood. “Well, we shall soon find out. I’m for Durleigh.” He turned to Hugh. “Are you certain your brother will welcome wee Maud in his household?”

“Aye. He should be wed by now, and he has a soft heart. If for some reason that is not so, I will raise her myself.”

Simon nodded. “If you cannot, send her to me. I will not stay in Durleigh after I confront the bishop, but I will leave word at the Royal Oak-Inn where I have gone. I would not like to think of her raised without love and caring.” As he had been.

“Rest assured that will not happen,” Hugh replied.

The sun was making a valiant effort to fight off the clouds when they emerged from the tavern. Rested and watered, the horses picked up the pace. Not long now until they parted company, Simon thought unhappily. Nicholas and Guy would ride with him as far as Durleigh. The others would take different paths. Who knew if they would meet again? The sense of loss that filled him was unexpected. He had learned not to need anyone.

Fighting to regain his composure, Simon looked up and noted a flock of birds rising from the trees ahead. “En garde,” he said softly. “It may be someone waits around yon bend.” He gave the orders that sent Bernard and Nicholas off the road and through the trees in a flanking action.

Hugh handed the dozing Maud to Gervase. “Guard her.”

“With my life.” Gervase withdrew into the brush.

Simon pulled the sword from his scabbard, laid it across his thighs and lowered his visor. “Ready?”

“Aye,” Hugh and Guy replied as one. They cut in behind Simon and rode warily down the road.

The forest seemed to close in on the trail, dark and sinister. Senses alert, Simon scanned the area ahead, probing each leaf and branch for some sign. “There! To the right,” he whispered, muscles tensing. “Behind the rocks.”

Just as they came abreast of the rocks, the woods were suddenly alive with men. Screaming like banshees, they streamed onto the road, led by a slender man with a mask over his face.

Simon counted ten bandits as he brought his sword up to counter a stinging attack from the largest of the men. They were armed with swords and axes but wore only leather vests and caps for armor. Nor were they battle trained, Simon thought as he made short work of his first opponent. He had no time to savor the victory, for two more men challenged him.

Behind him, Hugh roared his battle cry, wielding his great sword like a Viking berserker while Guy swung his own wicked blade in a deadly, killing arch. But what they lacked in fighting finesse, the men made up for in sheer numbers. Simon could feel himself faltering under the withering attack of three men. Dieu, where the hell was Nicholas?

“For the Black Rose!” Nicholas shouted, charging out of the woods with Bernard at his side.

“Just like old times!” Hugh screamed, and fought harder.

Simon grinned grimly and took one opponent down with a single stroke and turned on the other two, dimly conscious of other battles raging around him. The clash of steel, the grunts of straining men and the screams of the vanquished ones.

In minutes, it was over.

Breathing harshly, Simon turned away from his last opponent and scanned the road. The only men left standing were his and they were clustered around a rock where Bernard sat. Simon sprinted to them. “Is anyone hurt?”

“My leg.” Bernard grimaced. “We killed all except for that cur.” He glared at a man sprawled on the ground a few feet away. “I disarmed him, but he picked up a boulder and mashed my leg.”

“The leader.” Simon hunkered down and tugged off the mask.

The outlaw’s eyes flew open, then widened with shock and horror. “Simon of Blackstone? Ye’re dead.”

As Simon stared at the narrow face with its sly eyes and grim mouth, a memory stirred. “I have seen you before….”

The villain shot up from the ground as though launched from a catapult and dashed into the trees with Simon in swift pursuit. But he was not quick enough, and the brigand obviously knew these woods, for he disappeared as though swallowed up.

Simon gave up and stalked back to the battlefield.

“Find him?” Nicholas asked.

“Nay.” Simon kicked at a clump of dirt. “Bernard?”

“Gervase thinks his leg is broken,” said Hugh. “He knows of an abbey close by and wants to take him there. I will go, too.”

Simon nodded and stared at the woods. “I have seen that man before. At Durleigh Cathedral.”

“Simon, do not leap to conclusions,” Nicholas said. “The bishop could not have sent this thug to kill you. He did not know we were alive, much less likely to come this way.”

“Perhaps, but it makes me wonder what evils I will find in Durleigh,” Simon murmured.

Rob FitzHugh kept running until he reached the little hut where he and his band had sheltered. Panting, one hand pressed to the burning wound in his shoulder, he pushed open the flimsy door and halted. “What are you doing here?”

Jevan le Coyte rose from the stool by the hearth. The coarse clerical robe he wore emphasized his lean, lanky frame. “I need money.” His handsome features twisted with distaste. “Though from the looks of you, the raid did not prosper.”

“Prosper!” Rob cried. Kicking the door shut, he stumbled to the hearth and drank from the flagon beside it. The sour ale eased his parched throat but did not wash away the taste of defeat. “We were routed. Everyone’s dead but me!”

“You took no coin, then?” Jevan asked coolly.

“Nay, what we took was steel.” Rob moved his bloody hand to display the nasty wound, but the youth who was the mastermind behind their little scheme merely shrugged. “They were knights, dammit, five of them, not helpless merchants.”

“Five against your ten.” Jevan snorted derisively.

“Five Knights of the Black Rose. Led by Simon of Blackstone.”

Jevan’s jaw dropped. “He is dead.”

“It was him…no mistaking. And he recognized me.”

“Nay!” The usually cool Jevan shoved both hands into his silky black hair and screamed, “Not now! Not when Thurstan’s fortune is within my grasp. I will not lose. I will not.” His eyes were as wild as a mad dog’s.

Rob backed toward the door. “What will you do?”

“I will not lose.” Teeth set in a furious grimace, Jevan pushed past Rob and out of the hut. “Come, we’ve work to do.”