The Champion

Suzanne Barclay

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To the talented ladies who created the Knights of the Black Rose:

Shari Anton, Laurie Grant, Sharon Schulze, Ana Seymour and Lyn Stone.

What fun we had brainstorming this terrific series. Let’s do it again sometime.

Prologue (#ulink_4e551408-8e70-53ae-a763-1fdfd0c1dd55)

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.”