The Silver Knight Read Free Page B

eyelashes as long and thick as those of a pretty Greek boy-whore, and a pout that sent Sufyan's thoughts in a direction even more inappropriate.
    So much for the belief that the silver knight was aged and infirm! Surely he could be no older than twenty-five. Sufyan adjusted his reasoning. Maybe this young man was the descendant of the silver knight the miller's grandfather had seen. Blood feuds could last for generations in Syria. He supposed a duty could last just as long in England.
    The knight turned his head and looked directly at Sufyan.
    Sufyan gazed back, unabashed at being caught staring. He let out a breath of appreciation for the man kneeling before him. The knight's eyes were wide and dark, their expression deep and cryptic. Sufyan thought he would be glad to unlock such a lovely mystery. He felt himself grin foolishly, his body responding to the blatant, measuring gaze.
    He'd always found the Normans rather reserved, preferring to take his pleasures amongst the blond, blunt-spoken Saxons. His current employment meant such pleasures were snatched only briefly, stolen moments on the road far from the critical eye of the Prince Bishop. But the silver knight gazed at him with a shining expression and parted lips, looking for all the world as wantonly joyful as a courtesan, bought and paid for and lying in Sufyan's bed.
    Sufyan forgot the blood-fiend, the idea of the smuggler's ring, and the cold of the church. He stared at the knight, so captivated he believed he could even forget his own name. The knight looked like an angel. Not the flaxen-haired, winged creatures the Christians depicted in their art, but the fierce angels of Islam, beings of light and fire and beauty.
    The silver knight got to his feet. Upright, he stood only a few inches shorter than Sufyan. The knight tilted back his head to continue looking at him. Sufyan stared at the line of his throat and imagined how it would feel to kiss such pale skin.
    “Ah,” said the knight, breaking the silence between them, “I saw you on the road today. You are the summoner. And a Saracen, too, if I am not mistaken.”
    He spoke English, his accent touched with the lilt of Norman French. His voice was soft, like velvet nap, and Sufyan leaned forward to hear more of it. “You have me at an advantage, my lord,” Sufyan prompted, “for I do not know you or your name.”
    The knight lowered his eyes, and a small smile touched his lips. “My name is Everard de Montparnasse.” He bent to pick up his helm, which he tucked under his arm, and walked toward the font.
    Sufyan trailed after him. “Why were you following me?”
    Everard gave him a coquettish glance over his shoulder. “You think too highly of yourself, summoner. I was not following you. Our paths led in the same direction. I take it you have heard of the blood-fiend that haunts this place?” Delicate winged brows lifted as he posed the question, but he did not wait for an answer. “It is my duty to destroy the fiend. Each year, it rises again; each year, I do battle with it.”
    They stood on either side of the font, eyeing one another across the wooden lid. Everard set his helm on top of the font. Sufyan dragged his gaze from the knight's beautiful face and looked instead at the helm. An old-fashioned thing, its visor was a slit rather than the contemporary design that reminded him of oiled traps closed together. It had no plumes or decoration save for scratches and dents where swords and clubs had battered the metal. The armor belonged to the First Crusade, if Sufyan was any judge. Everard's grandfather could well have worn this in Syria.
    “You can't be a very good knight if the fiend crawls out of its tomb time and again,” Sufyan said, returning his attention to their conversation. “You should kill it properly, not let it retreat to its lair to revive the next year.”
    Everard smiled. “Ah, but how does one kill what is already dead?”
    “One exhumes the body and makes certain it cannot