Suzanne Barclay - The Champion

“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.”

Durleigh Cathedral, May 10, 1222

He was dying.

The malaise of spirit he could attribute to the loss of his son. But the weakness in his limbs that grew steadily worse, the pain that had built from a grinding ache this winter to a sharp burning, these he could no longer ignore. Impossible as it seemed, given his wealth, his power and his divine connections, he, Thurstan de Lyndhurst, Bishop of Durleigh, was dying.

“Nay.” His anguished cry of anger and denial echoed the length of his withdrawing room. It bounced off the intricately carved wooden beams, slid down the wall hangings embroidered with scenes from the Bible and was swallowed up by the thick carpet covering the floor of his second-story sanctuary.

Fear drove him to clutch the edge of his writing table so hard the knuckles of his long, soft hands turned white. It was an emotion he had felt only once before in his one and fifty years, on the day he’d realized that the love he and the lady Rosalynd had shared would bear fruit.

Simon. A son he could never claim. Dead now, was Simon, a bright, promising light extinguished before it had had a chance to shine. And soon Thurstan would follow the son he’d loved but had never even been allowed to hold.

Thurstan sighed. Little as he wanted to quit this life, at least when he and Simon were reunited in the Promised Land, he could explain why he had done what he had.

A wry smile lifted Thurstan’s lips. That was supposing he went to heaven, which was by no means a sure thing, given the sins he had committed—some in the name of profit, others in retribution. Sins nonetheless, he thought as he slowly stood and crossed to the window. The richly embroidered tunic he had donned in honor of tonight’s dinner weighed down his body as surely as Simon’s death preyed on his conscience.