Authors: Kinley MacGregor
“Could you lace my back?” Zenobia asked, turning around.
Rowena quietly assisted her.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Zenobia said while Rowena tied her gown.
“I’m not afraid of you…exactly.”
“You know not what to make of me.”
“You are rather odd.”
Zenobia laughed. “But you appreciate oddity in others.”
“To a degree.”
Zenobia faced her with a smile. Dressed in one of Elizabeth’s gowns, the woman could easily pass for a European, even though she held an exotic look to her.
“You know, milady,” she said as she adjusted her sleeves, “my people believe women are even stronger than men.”
“Really?” Rowena asked, amazed by that fact. She’d always been under the misconception that Arab women were held in even less esteem than their European counterparts.
“Aye. The strongest woman of our tribe is chosen to lead our men into battle. She is called the
Darina
. My mother was
Darina
and had I stayed with our people, I would have taken the place of her successor.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because there is a time for all things. My people, like you, believe in peace. But sometimes, the only way to have peace is to fight for it.”
Rowena shook her head in denial. “The only way to peace is to lay aside weapons.”
“And the bloodiest of wars are often fought not with weapons, but rather with tongues. A man can heal an external wound a thousand times faster than he can heal even a small one dealt to his heart.”
Rowena stood back as Zenobia’s words sank in.
“You are a warrior, milady,” Zenobia spoke softly.
“You just choose a different forum for your battles, but you battle nonetheless. Like the men you hate so much, you hurt and wound. Have you given thought to why you fight the wars you do?”
Before she could answer, Zenobia swept out of the tent and left her there to silently contemplate her words.
It was hours later that Rowena found herself walking through the castle grounds. She looked around at the people who were milling and working. The servants either ignored her, or nodded in courtesy. She knew only a few of them by face. At home in Sussex, she would have known them all by name.
But it was the nobles who glared at her while Zenobia’s words haunted her.
For an obvious reason, Rowena had purposefully surrounded herself only with minstrels who felt as she did. Those who glorified war had been sent packing as soon as they reached her home. The few times a year when she traveled with her uncle, she had noticed the way people mocked her, but paid them little heed.
Now she saw every one of them.
They were people, just as she was. Had she really wounded them with her words?
The thought made her ill.
She wanted to speak with someone she trusted. She’d been to Lord Stryder’s tent only to find it empty. Her maids had all thought her foolish to doubt herself, but as her friends, their loyalty was to her.
She wanted to talk to someone else.
Nay, it was Stryder alone she wished to speak to.
He would be honest with her. But since he was absent, she chose another to confide in.
Heading for the chapel, she decided that the priest would provide good counsel. Yet as she opened the door, she was floored by what she found.
Lord Stryder was there, on his knees before the votive stand, praying. He looked so incredibly sad, as if the full weight of the world rested on his shoulders alone.
Thinking to comfort him, she started for him only to find Kit cutting her off. Silently, he shook his head nay and escorted her back outside.
“I wanted to—”
“I know, Rowena,” Kit said quietly once they were back in the courtyard. “But Stryder is best left alone when he prays like this.”
Understanding dawned on her. “He prays for your mother.”
“Nay,” Kit said, his voice thick with emotion. “He prays for others. A little boy in particular.”
“A boy?” she asked. “A son?”
Kit took a deep, ragged breath as if he felt Stryder’s pain every bit as deeply as the earl did. “Nay, love. Long ago, my brother was held prisoner by the Saracens. While there, he befriended a young boy. Stryder had promised the child every night while the boy wept in hopeless despair that he would get him home, safe and sound. But on the night they escaped, he was told the boy had died earlier that day. ’Tis something that has haunted him since. He blames himself for not saving the boy as he promised. It was on this very day seven years past that the boy perished, so
now my brother prays for the boy’s lost soul and for all the others yet to be freed.” Kit looked back at the chapel. “He never forgets that day. Not even for a moment.”
“Oh, Kit,” she breathed, her heart aching for Stryder.
Kit’s face was every bit as haunted as Stryder’s. “So bother him not, Rowena, about anything trivial.”
She nodded, her throat far too tight to speak.
She left Kit and returned inside where Stryder still prayed. The light of the candles played in his dark hair while he held himself as still as any statue.
She realized as she glanced about that two more of his knights were there praying as well. The only ones missing were Nassir, Zenobia, and Christian.
No doubt they were off trying to find Cyril’s killer before he could kill again while Raven and Will traveled to forewarn Falsworth.
Rowena offered up her own prayer that they all succeed.
Stryder slowly became aware of someone watching him. He opened his eyes to see Rowena just on the edge of his peripheral vision. His heart heavy over the one promise in his life that he had made and broken, he crossed himself and rose slowly to his feet.
As he approached Rowena, he realized her eyes were filled with unshed tears. “Are you all right, milady?”
To his utter shock, she pulled him into her arms and held him tightly. He felt her tears fall against his neck as she clutched him to her.
Stryder couldn’t have been more stunned had she slapped him. Indeed, that he would have almost expected.
But he needed this warmth from her at the moment. Wrapping his own arms around her, he held her and let the pain inside him lessen a degree.
If he lived an eternity, he would never forget the boy whose face he never saw. He could hear only the child’s voice through the walls of their prison. Hear the sounds of his cries as their captors tormented and abused the boy.
“Swear to me, Widowmaker. Swear you won’t leave me here for them.”
“I swear it. I will get you out of here and take you someplace where no one will ever hurt you again.”
He had missed that promise by one day. One single day. If they had left just one night sooner the child would have lived.
Someone cleared his throat.
Stryder became aware of the fact that he and Rowena were embracing in the midst of a church. Reluctantly, he withdrew from Rowena to see Val indicating a priest who was glaring at them.
Taking her hand, Stryder led her from the chapel, back outside. Val and Swan walked on past them, in the direction of the training list, while he hesitated outside the chapel door with Rowena.
He wiped the cold tears from her cheeks as he watched her closely. “What has you so upset?”
She sniffed delicately. “Nothing. I fear I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
He arched a brow at that.
“I had something in my eye?” she tried again.
Now he frowned.
Rowena rubbed a hand over her brow as if every bit as bemused as he was. “Forget my actions, milord. You just looked as if you needed comfort and I felt the peculiar urge to give it.”
“Do you do this often with men you’ve just met?”
She laughed nervously. “Nay. I’m hardly the sort to do such and yet…I suspect you’re a good man beneath your armor.”
“For a brutal killer, you mean?”
She nodded. “You’ve never really killed in cold blood, have you?”
“Nay, but I have felt the urge a time or two in my life.”
“As have I.” Her confession surprised him. “If ever I found the man who killed my father, I think I could kill him gladly.”
He took her hand into his and studied the delicate bones of it. Her hand was soft, well tapered. The gentle hand of a lady. “It’s not easy to kill someone, Rowena. To stare at them, face to face, that moment when you both realize you’ve dealt them a mortal blow. There is something that passes between you. My father once told me it’s a part of their soul that creeps into you. A part that will haunt you all of your life.”
“And yet you’re a knight.”
“Because I have seen the great evil that is done on this earth to those who can’t fight for themselves. The meek only inherit the grave while the strong go on until someone stronger stops them.”
Rowena had never thought of it that way. “Is that why you fight?”
His eyes turned dark, brooding. “Aye. I fight for the ghost of a boy who cried because he was weak. A ghost I cannot exorcize no matter how hard I try.”
Rowena reached up and touched the scar to the side of his neck where his father had cut him during his last fit of madness. It was only barely visible through his long hair.
Stryder closed his eyes, savoring the comfort of her gentle touch. Unlike other women, she wanted nothing from him. She was merely giving.
And that meant more to him than any amount of words.
Before he could stop himself, he bent his head down and captured her lips with his. The kiss was brief, but so needed that it surprised him more than her acquiescence to it.
He pulled back to watch her stare up at him.
Her smile weakened him instantly. “Careful, milord,” she said quietly, “else I might mistake you for a friend.”
He returned her smile. “I already consider you one, Rowena.”
Rowena felt a strange chill rush over her at those words. “Even though I don’t agree with you?”
“Most of my friends don’t. Indeed, Christian and Nassir have turned arguing with me into an art form.”
Her light smile made his body ache with desire. “Then I shall consider you my friend as well. Even though you find me maddening.”
“Never maddening, milady. Just mad.”
She laughed at his teasing. He took her hand in his and placed a gentle kiss across her knuckles.
She watched as he took his leave of her.
“Lord Stryder?” she called after him.
He turned to look at her and his pose took her breath.
“Shall we practice tonight?”
He grimaced. “If you insist on the torture.”
“Indeed, I do.”
He sighed heavily. “Then pick your device well. I shall be waiting on the rack for you just after supper. I will meet you in the hall.”
She inclined her head to him. “Then I shall choose my thumbscrews wisely.”
He turned and left her.
Rowena stood, her gaze never wavering as he walked away.
Lord Stryder was a man to woo a woman’s heart. No wonder the others chased after him….
Rowena hesitated as a realization struck her. The women who chased after him knew nothing of the man—no more than the men who pursued her hand knew of her.
Lord Stryder had very few friends.
And she was one of them.
She shook her head. Friend to a knight. Who would have ever thought such, and yet there was no denying what she felt toward him.
It most certainly wasn’t hatred any longer or contempt.
Nay, she respected him.
“What are you doing, Rowena?” she asked herself aloud. “You want nothing to do with a knight. ’Tis a minstrel you seek.”
Aye, it was true. Lord Stryder might be appealing, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t the kind of man to stay at home while she built her school. He had his own calling in life.
One far nobler than hers.
Leashing her wayward heart, she headed toward the hall, where she hoped to put Stryder out of her thoughts.
But even so, she knew better. A man like him could never be driven out. Especially not by her heart, which couldn’t really deny what she was beginning to feel for him.
I
t was well into the evening before supper began. Rowena sat with Kit at a lower table while the king, queen, and her uncle held court at the high table along with the Lord of Hexham and other prominent nobles.
The true festivities of the tournament were scheduled to begin tomorrow with a squire’s melee and joust.
Those who were to participate wore scarlet tunics emblazoned with their lord’s coat of arms. Druce sat in the midst of the youths who continued to brag that though their lords might not be able to best Lord Stryder, the boys could certainly best his squire.
Rowena felt badly for the boy who was being teased, and she hoped on the morrow Druce trounced them all.
Not that she should have such thoughts. Still, she hated to see the fear and uncertainty on the boy’s handsome face.
“Where is your brother?” she asked Kit. Neither Stryder, his men, nor his “friends” had been there all night.
Kit shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since I left the two of you at the chapel.”
Rowena frowned, wondering what kept the man from eating, while her gaze drifted around the other nobles present. Surely he would be here, and yet as the meal progressed, it became obvious he had no intention of joining her.
As soon as the meals were finished, the tables were cleared and moved for dancing.
Elizabeth and Joanne joined them in one corner, where they waited, but not for long. They quickly went off to find partners for the coming dance.
Still there was no sign of Stryder. Rowena fought down her disappointment.
“He won’t come at this point,” Kit told her as he led her toward the floor so that they could dance. “Once he hears music, he retires for the night.”
“But we were to meet for lessons.”
Kit frowned at that. “I know how much you want your freedom to choose a husband you can tolerate, Rowena, but I beg you not to press him on the issue.”
“I haven’t.”
He nodded in approval as he led her to the center of the room to start a lively dance.
Stryder ground his teeth as he heard the music coming from the hall. He hadn’t meant for his meeting
with Nassir, Christian, and Zenobia to last so long. But he had promised Rowena they could practice.
He had hoped to make it to the hall before the revelry began. How he hated to watch dancers and hear music.
Even now he could hear his mother mocking his father whenever his father was gone.
“The man is as clumsy as a plow. I know not how he can be so uncoordinated off the battlefield while he is so successful on it.”
His father had never known of her mockery and though he hated to dance, his father had done so in hopes of making Stryder’s mother happy.
The only time she’d ever been happy was when she visited Kit’s father.
Banishing the memories, he forced himself into the hall. He had given his word and above all else, he would not breech it. The crowd was thick with nobles surrounding the dancers. Stryder made his way through them, seeking the petite blonde who haunted him.
He froze the instant he saw Rowena in his brother’s arms. Something painful shot through him so unexpectedly that it took his breath.
She was beautiful. Her cheeks reddened by her exercise.
Desire tore through him as he ached with want. The dance ended. She and Kit stayed on the dance floor while the group made ready for the masketelle.
All the women present drew straws to be the first lady to wear the mask. The idea of the dance was for the masked lady to be twirled around and then set free to find her dance partner for the rest of the night.
They would lead the next dance and on the morrow, they would reign as the “king and queen” of the squire’s tournament.
The lady chosen would remain the tournament lady until the knights held their tournament, and the victor named the Lady of All Hearts, who would then bestow the prizes on the victors and be the guest of honor at the banquet held on the final night of the tournament. Personally, Stryder thought it a foolish game, but the ladies considered it quite an honor.
Under the supervision of a matron, the straws were quickly drawn and compared. One by one, faces fell as the women realized they weren’t the winner.
Until one face went pale. “Rowena de Vitry is our first queen,” the matron pronounced.
The sudden silence was deafening. Normally when a lady was chosen, a cheer went up for her. There was no such celebration for Rowena.
The black feathered mask was brought forward and secured to Rowena’s head while the minstrels began to play. The women twirled Rowena around.
Custom dictated that the men surround her so that they could elbow and shove for a chance to be picked.
None moved.
Indeed, many stepped back. Rowena stumbled about with her arms held out while the men began to elbow and prod one another.
“You brave her tongue,” one man said to another.
“I can do without a shrew. Not even her lands are worth her prattle.”
Laughter rang out as they took to insulting her.
Rowena froze.
But in her honor, she didn’t cry or run. She merely stood there in the center of their mockery with her head held high.
Kit started forward.
“Aye, you take her, Christopher. She can’t unman you.”
Stryder’s vision turned dark. Deadly.
Rowena wanted to die in shame. It was all she could do not to tear the mask off and run from the hall. But she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Worst of all, she felt for poor Kit, who had tried to help her. The last thing he deserved was to be mocked for his kind heart.
The laughter of the crowd died as she felt someone near her. Expecting it to be Kit, she was completely startled when strong arms pulled her close to a large, hard body.
The minstrels began playing again. There was no sound now from anyone in the hall as her unknown champion led her through a dance. His steps were flawless and commanding.
“Stryder?” she whispered, knowing the feel of him. His warm scent.
“Aye, milady.”
Her heart shattered at the sound of his deep voice. And that succeeded in loosening a single tear from her eye. She was thankful for the mask that absorbed it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He paused in the dance to pull the mask from her. She shivered at the sight of him standing there, look
ing down at her with a passionate gaze that scorched her. “Ever at your service.”
She smiled as he pulled her back into his arms and finished the dance.
Once it was over, he led her toward the door. Stryder paused beside a group of men. Handing her the mask, he turned to one knight and slammed his fist straight into the man’s jaw.
“My brother is ten times the man you are, Hugh,” he snarled at the knight on the ground. “And the next time you question that, I’ll make sure you leave the tournament field with nothing but skin upon your back.”
Turning on his heel, Stryder captured her hand and led her from the hall.
Rowena’s eyes were wide from what he’d just done.
“I know,” Stryder said in a tired tone. “I am ever the barbarian.”
Rowena offered him a chiding smile. “Nay, you are not. I only wish you had punched him harder.”
Stryder arched a brow at her words. “Can it be I am converting you?”
She shrugged. “Mayhap, but then you were the one who just danced with me in a hall full of people.”
He grimaced at that. “Be grateful you wore the mask. This way you weren’t able to witness the horror of my inability.”
She pulled him to a stop. “Why did you come? Kit said you wouldn’t show if you heard music.”
“I made you a promise, Rowena.”
“And so you came for me?”
He nodded.
Rowena bit her lip as she stared up at him. His face was shadowed by rushlights, but still she knew every mark of his features. Every dimple and whisker. “Thank you. I have a feeling that before this month ends I shall owe you more than can ever be repaid.”
“Nay, milady. Think nothing of it. I’ve never been the kind of person to tolerate cruelty of any sort. There’s no need in it. Life is ever hard enough.”
“Aye, it is.”
She took his hand into hers and noted the blood on his knuckles. “You’re hurt!”
He shrugged it off. “Hugh has a hard head.”
She frowned at his light tone. “Come, this needs be tended.”
Stryder led her back to his tent, where he kept his supplies. He pulled out the small chest that contained bandages and salves for his injuries.
Rowena took it from his hand and made him sit in a chair so that she could tend his bleeding hand.
He watched as she gathered his wash basin, pitcher and ale skin. “I’m still confused by your acceptance of my actions when I know how much you loathe violence.”
Rowena paused. In truth, she was as well. But for some reason she couldn’t find anything appalling about his behavior tonight. For once, she did feel it was justified.
“We are friends,” she said as she held his hand in hers and poured water over the cut. “Is that not what you said?”
“Aye.”
“Well then, friends accept each other’s shortcomings and their differences of opinions. Tonight, however, our differences were not as wide as they would have been yesterday.”
He chuckled at that.
Rowena swallowed at the sensation of his hand in hers. His fingers were lean and dark compared to hers. Strong. She poured ale over them to cleanse the wound. Stryder hissed.
“Don’t be a baby,” she chided.
He took it good-naturedly.
Rowena reached for a small pot of white salve to rub over the injury. “Why do the men mock Kit so?” she asked. “He’s not the only minstrel who doesn’t fight.”
Stryder looked away from her. “There are some who think he is more woman than man.”
Rowena scoffed at what he was implying. “Kit is certainly not the kind of man inclined to be with other men.”
“I agree, but he has never been found in the company of a woman, if you understand what I mean. Nor does he make it his habit to seek out any woman other than you. But he is often found in the company of men. I personally don’t care what his tastes are. We are brothers and no man living will ever hurt him without answering to me for it.”
Without thought, Rowena reached out and touched Stryder’s face. “They should make more brothers such as you.”
To her surprise, he turned his face into her hand and kissed her lightly on the palm.
Rowena’s entire body grew warm. But what disturbed her most was the tenderness she felt toward him. The tenderness she saw in him. He was such an unexpected treasure.
Stryder watched her carefully. What he wanted more than anything was to pull her against him and taste the sweetness of her mouth. But if he did that, he doubted he would be able to let her go, and the last thing either of them needed was a tryst in his tent.
Not to mention he had a bad feeling that one taste of her would never sate him. Rather it would only whet his appetite for more of her.
She stepped back and wrapped his hand carefully. This was such an odd moment. He’d had women aplenty who had volunteered to see to his wounds, but none of them had made him feel the way Rowena did.
“Thank you, milady,” he said as she tucked the edges of the cloth in, then set about returning his items to their box.
“My pleasure.” As she returned the box to its case, she paused. “I didn’t bring my lute.”
Stryder’s gaze drifted to the large trunk by his bed. It was where he kept his personal items and inside, tucked away in its case, was the lute he hadn’t seen since the death of his mother.
It had been silenced the same day she had.
“I have one.” The words were out before he could stop them.
Rowena’s face showed the same surprise he felt. He didn’t know why he had offered her his mother’s most treasured prize.
Stryder got up slowly and walked to his trunk. He
opened the lid to find his family sword, his clothes, and other items he touched almost every day.
But the case in the bottom…
It was still as pristine as the day he had placed it there, where it was shielded by his clothes.
Rowena came forward and watched Stryder closely. There was such an air of sadness around him as he pulled a shiny black case from the bottom of his trunk.
In an instant, she understood. “It’s your mother’s?”
He only nodded.
“I can go get mine. It’ll only—”
“Nay, Rowena. We all have to face our pasts at some point. If I am forced to conjure up her ghost, then let us not shirk.”
She frowned, not sure of what he meant.
He took a deep breath as he opened the case to display one of the finest crafted lutes she had ever beheld. “’Tis beautiful.”
Stryder nodded. “My father’s gift to her when she told him she was pregnant with me. He sent to Paris for it.”
To her amazement, Stryder handed it to her. Rowena held it with respect. There was no single scratch or mar on its surface. It was obvious his mother had treasured it greatly.
“Why do you keep it with you?”
“It and her ring are all I have of her. She might not have been a good wife, but she was a wonderful mother. A beautiful lady who believed in the love poetry of Eleanor’s court that says true love can never be found inside of marriage.”
His gaze met hers and the coldness there sent a shiver over her.
“I don’t believe that,” she said honestly. “I think love is found where we least expect it. My father’s greatest wish was for me to only marry the man I loved. He oft said that no marriage should ever be made for any other reason. Indeed, Andre the Chaplain, who sometimes travels with Eleanor, says the same. He believes that love should only be within the confines of marriage.”
“Do your songs say as much?”
“Aye. I write of people who come together against great odds so that they can live their lives out in bliss.”
“Then sing to me, Rowena. Let me hear a song of a happy couple who live within the confines of their vows. I want nothing of deceit or treachery.”
Stryder spoke from his heart and it touched hers in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible.