The Silver Knight Read Free

hid his grin in another sip of ale. If these villagers knew to what faith he belonged, no doubt they'd chase him from the tavern and stake him out for their cursed fiend to feast upon. He drained the tankard with a sigh and signaled for another. “Wouldn't the knight come and save me?”
    The miller's expression clouded. “No. The knight only battles the fiend. He trusts the people of the village to stay safe within their houses. It's not our place to interfere with the order of things. The knight has always fought the fiend and driven it back to its tomb by the third day. If any man, woman, or child happens to be so foolish as to be abroad late at night at this time, they will become the blood-fiend's victim. ‘Tis the way of things.”
    “How long has the knight fought with this creature?”
    The miller sucked in his breath and looked around the tavern as if he could find the answer there. “Years,” he said at last. “Many years. I remember my grandfather talking about the silver knight and the blood-fiend.”
    Sufyan snorted. “Then, with all respect, your knight must be aged and infirm by now. How can an old man fight a monster? You should send your strongest men to help.”
    “No!” The miller paled at the suggestion. “You don't understand. The blood-fiend has a terrible strength. Only the knight can hope to defeat it.”
    “Clearly he does not, if it returns every year. Why not simply exhume the corpse of the fiend during the daylight hours and destroy it?”
    An embarrassed quiet greeted his question. The miller scratched his head and slid his gaze sideways. “You're an outsider, so it's not for you to know these matters. A priest cannot exhume a body without the permission of the bishop, and old Father Thomas is reluctant to bother His Grace with such a wild tale. After all, the bishop lives a long way from here and has more lofty things to think upon. Even if he did hear of our fiend, he might think it a matter for the secular and send soldiers rather than priests. Why bring trouble upon the village?”
    “Why, indeed?” Sufyan reached inside the collar of his tunic and lifted the gold and carnelian seal of the Prince Bishop from beneath the black cloth. He let the torchlight glimmer along its curved edges for a moment, allowing it to dazzle his audience, who looked but did not yet comprehend its meaning, before he dropped it back against his skin.
    “I am His Grace's chief summoner,” Sufyan said, sitting straight as he announced his office and title. “I speak for the Prince Bishop of Durham. His authority rests in me. If you need permission to open the tomb and exhume the body of this blood-fiend, I will grant it.”
    This time, the silence was absolute.
    “Sir,” said the miller, “we would be grateful for your assistance, but no one knows which grave contains the blood-fiend. You see, sir, none from Kirkfield dare to face the fiend. Not these days. The last man to do so, sir... he died. Sucked dry, he was, all the blood drained from him. He had such a look of horror on his face, too. As if he'd been scared to death.”
    * * * *
    The church door closed behind him with a thud that could have tumbled the walls of Jericho. Sufyan looked back at it as if the door had been at fault rather than his careless tug on the latch. As the echo faded around him, he stepped forward to examine his surroundings.
    The nave glimmered in the light of a dozen lamps, their flames dipping and swaying in the draft from the door. A Saxon font carved with crude figures stood in the center of the floor. Sufyan touched the chilled stone, running his fingers over the tiny sculptures worn smooth by time. A wooden lid had been set on top of the font to prevent evil from tainting the holy water. Sufyan wondered what would happen if he dipped his fingers into the font. Would his skin melt down to the bone and reveal him as a heathen, the way the Christian fanatics in Antioch had once declared? He doubted it, but did not try