The Champion. Suzanne Barclay

who entered the palace this evening,” snapped the archdeacon. “On the morrow, I will personally speak with each one.” He left in a swirl of coarse gray robes.

      The lady Odeline followed directly, leaning heavily on her son’s arm, her face buried in a linen handkerchief. Jevan’s expression was as remote as carved marble, but when he reached the door, he turned back, sweeping the room with avid eyes before exiting with his mother.

      Curious, that, Walter thought as he moved aside so Thurstan’s body could be lifted. Did the boy expect to inherit some of his uncle’s fabled wealth? If so…

      Walter sighed. Dieu, he was as bad as Crispin, seeking to point the finger at everyone he saw. Jevan had been at supper in the dining hall with the others when summoned to hear the dreadful news his uncle had died. And Lady Odeline had no reason to wish her brother ill. Without Thurstan’s support, she and her sullen chick would be cast out into the cold.

      But the fact was that someone within these very walls might have murdered the bishop.

       Chapter Four

       A lady cried out.

       Simon stopped and turned Swaying slightly, a wineskin dangling from his hand, he squinted at the shops and homes lining the street.

       All were dark and deserted, the owners off at the feast hosted by Bishop Thurstan to celebrate the departure of Durleigh’s Crusaders. The roofs of the buildings were silhouetted against the glow of lights from the market square where the festivities were being held How had he wandered so far away? Dimly Simon could hear the hum of voices raised in song and prayer as the folk of Durleigh bid Godspeed to their Crusader band

       A bubble of drunken pride rose in his chest. Tomorrow he would be leaving with them…a knight bound for the Holy Land Stumbling slightly, he started back to the fete.

       The woman cried out again. “Don’t. Please don’t!”

       “Get back here,” roared a male voice.

      Simon whirled toward the sounds and caught a flash of white moving in the alley across the way, followed closely by a large, dark shape. “Bastard.” Throwing the wineskin away, he drew his sword and staggered after them. Down the alley, and through it into the next street, he pursued them, driven by the vows he’d sworn earlier in the evening.

       To uphold justice and protect the downtrodden. The oath burned bright in his heart, like a fever driving out the effects of a day spent drinking. He felt strong and powerful.

       At last, Simon saw them. The wretch had a small figure in white trapped against the side of a building.

       “Unhand her!” Simon roared.

       The assailant whirled, his face a pale blur in the gloom, his sword gleaming as it came up to counter Simon’s lunge. Steel rang on steel as the blades met.

       Simon grunted, pain shuddering up his arm. He had drunk too much. He met his opponent’s flurry of blows cleanly, but slowly. Too slowly. He wondered if the girl had gotten away, but could spare no time to look Then he heard a sound that sent a chill down his sweaty spine.

       “To me! Bardolf, Richie, to me!” the assailant cried

       Simon groaned and redoubled his efforts, knowing he’d never survive a trio of swordsmen. Suddenly a length of cloth flew out of the darkness and settled over the man’s head. While he flailed and cursed, a hand grabbed Simon’s arm.

       “Quick, come this way.” The speaker was a woman. A small hand grabbed his arm and led him down a side alley. It was so dark he could see nothing except the faint blur of her white gown. A few harried steps later, he ran into a wall.

       “Trapped,” Simon whispered.

       “Nay. There’s a door.” Hinges creaked, a draft of air eddied around them, smelling strongly of straw and horses.

       “Stables?” he muttered.

       “Aye. We can hide here.”

       “Knights do not cower in—”

       “Please. You cannot prevail against so many.”

       “But…”

      “I am so afraid.”

      Simon could hear the terror in her voice and feel her trembling, though he could not see her face. “All right.”

      Inside the stable it was pitch-dark. “We’ll be safer up in the loft,” whispered the woman. “There should be a ladder. Ah, here. Let me go first.”

       Simon followed her up, one hand on the hem of her skirts. He reached the top and fell forward into the loft. His body came up against hers as they hit the straw.

       “Thank you. I-if you had not come…” She shuddered

       Simon drew her close. She was small and slender “You should have run off while we were fighting.”

       “I could not leave you, not when he was besting you.”

       “Bah, I could have taken him with a few blows had I not drunk half the ale in Durleigh.”

       “Aye. You are so strong.” Her hands were on his chest, kneading. “Hold me,” she whispered

       “I am.”

       “Tighter. Hold me tighter.” She pressed against him, her breasts teasing him through the layers of their clothes.

       “I will not let anything happen to you,” Simon murmured. Her hair smelled so good, like roses and woman. He buried his face in it and rolled so he covered her with his body. “How perfectly we are matched.”

       “I knew it would be thus.”

       Simon nodded, his mind too dizzy with ale and desire. “I have to touch you.” Her breasts were small and firm; her sigh when he caressed them tore at his control. He could think of only one thing, being inside her. He tore at the laces of his hose and levered himself over her.

       “Simon,” she whispered, drawing him to her.

       He groaned and sank into the most perfect bliss he had ever known, hot and tight and welcoming, her body closed around his. It was like coming home.

      A sharp pounding shattered the dream.

      Simon groaned and sat up, his breathing rough, his body hard as tempered stone.

      “Open, I say.” The coarse voice came from below his window.

      It took Simon a moment to recall he was not in the hayloft with his perfect lover, but in the room he’d taken last night at the Royal Oak. Moaning, he flopped back on the pillow and threw an arm over his eyes.

      The dream again. He had had it the first time on the night before leaving for the Holy Land, waking hot, sweaty and half-dressed in a stable loft. The dream had reoccurred so many times since, that every aspect of it was engraved on his heart. Yet he could not see the woman’s face, or decide whether the encounter had been real or a figment of his alesoaked brain.

      How odd that he, who had ever been cautious in his dealings with women, should dream that he had coupled with her only a short while after meeting her. Odder still, he had spent these past years searching for a flesh and blood woman who matched him as perfectly as his dream lover.