bed and inclined his head.
Richard’s eyebrows lifted, and the group behind Annan fell silent.
“You do not bow before our sovereign lord?” said the sharp accent of a Norman.
Annan glanced to his right, into the dark, handsome face of Hugh de Guerrant. The man’s lip curled, and his hand clenched his sword. Annan’s encounter with Hugh at a melee tourney in Paris more than a year ago was memorable only in the deep scar Annan still bore on his left hip—a result of the other’s frustrated attempt to revenge his losses after the competition.
Hugh drifted to the foot of the bed. “Arrogance may perhaps be acceptable on the field of a melee, but not here, among your betters.”
“I do not bow before foreign kings.”
Surprised voices murmured behind him, and the king’s chin lifted as he recognized the accent. “Scot.”
“Aye.”
“I have heard much about you.” Richard pursed his lips. “Coming from another man, perhaps your words would find cause for offense. But if the rumors speak the truth, you are an equal to us all in arms if not in rank. Even still, there are those who whisper in my ear that you shouldn’t be drawing a sword in the battle tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to his left, and a colorless man, clad in the red and gold robes of a bishop, stepped from the shadows near the canvas wall.
The bishop’s gray eyes had a cold glint, like the driving winds of a Highland winter. Annan met his gaze unflinching, but in the back of his mind something burned, like the touch of a spark on a bare finger.
And then the bishop spoke, and Annan, shocked despite himself, was driven back sixteen years, the force of the memory like a blow to his chest.
“You, a tourneyer, dare to think yourself worthy of this Holy War?”
Father Roderic … Annan stared, the name rising to the tip of his tongue. He bit down hard. The bishop’s eyes held no recognition—and to change that would be to risk the life Annan had built for himself in those sixteen years.
As if it was worth the saving.
He had promised Marek he had not come to kill. But, at his side, his sword hand trembled, and in the back of his brain, the heat of battle kindled.
Rising from the haze of his mind was St. Dunstan’s and all its dead brethren… Gethin, pale and unconscious, bleeding from wounds too numerous to count… Matthias with that unquenchable conviction blazing in his eyes…
Annan clenched his hand into a fist.
St. Dunstan’s was over, finished—a part of the unredeemable past. He would not resurrect it. He would not . Neither Roderic nor the Baptist nor any other face from that past could force him to do so.
“You do not answer, Master Annan?”
He glanced back at the king. “I did not hear the question.”
“The question,” said Father Roderic, taking another step toward Annan, “is why an unworthy such as yourself dares to take the holy oath of a Crusader?”
Annan filled his lungs and looked the man in the eyes. “I have taken no oath.”
A murmur passed through the knights gathered behind him.
Roderic’s eyebrows lifted, widening the dark sockets of his eyes. A puzzled expression flickered through his stony gaze and then passed.
“You have not taken the oath?” Richard said. “And yet you dare to fight here upon the holy soil of our Lord?”
“I am not here to Crusade against the Evil Prophet.”
“Then why?” Hugh demanded. “There are no tourneys here for you to bare your teeth in.”
“I go where I please, Norman.” The divot made by Hugh’s sword in his hipbone ached with the rising of every morning’s sun, but if Hugh believed that blow had subdued him in any way, he was so much the fool.
Richard lifted a hand from the purple coverlet and waved it in a conciliatory gesture. “Spoken like a man of the sword. And as for the tourneys, I enjoy them greatly myself.” He leaned forward. “I should very much have liked to engage an arm as stout as Master Annan’s.” The torchlight flickered in
Richard’s eyebrows lifted, and the group behind Annan fell silent.
“You do not bow before our sovereign lord?” said the sharp accent of a Norman.
Annan glanced to his right, into the dark, handsome face of Hugh de Guerrant. The man’s lip curled, and his hand clenched his sword. Annan’s encounter with Hugh at a melee tourney in Paris more than a year ago was memorable only in the deep scar Annan still bore on his left hip—a result of the other’s frustrated attempt to revenge his losses after the competition.
Hugh drifted to the foot of the bed. “Arrogance may perhaps be acceptable on the field of a melee, but not here, among your betters.”
“I do not bow before foreign kings.”
Surprised voices murmured behind him, and the king’s chin lifted as he recognized the accent. “Scot.”
“Aye.”
“I have heard much about you.” Richard pursed his lips. “Coming from another man, perhaps your words would find cause for offense. But if the rumors speak the truth, you are an equal to us all in arms if not in rank. Even still, there are those who whisper in my ear that you shouldn’t be drawing a sword in the battle tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to his left, and a colorless man, clad in the red and gold robes of a bishop, stepped from the shadows near the canvas wall.
The bishop’s gray eyes had a cold glint, like the driving winds of a Highland winter. Annan met his gaze unflinching, but in the back of his mind something burned, like the touch of a spark on a bare finger.
And then the bishop spoke, and Annan, shocked despite himself, was driven back sixteen years, the force of the memory like a blow to his chest.
“You, a tourneyer, dare to think yourself worthy of this Holy War?”
Father Roderic … Annan stared, the name rising to the tip of his tongue. He bit down hard. The bishop’s eyes held no recognition—and to change that would be to risk the life Annan had built for himself in those sixteen years.
As if it was worth the saving.
He had promised Marek he had not come to kill. But, at his side, his sword hand trembled, and in the back of his brain, the heat of battle kindled.
Rising from the haze of his mind was St. Dunstan’s and all its dead brethren… Gethin, pale and unconscious, bleeding from wounds too numerous to count… Matthias with that unquenchable conviction blazing in his eyes…
Annan clenched his hand into a fist.
St. Dunstan’s was over, finished—a part of the unredeemable past. He would not resurrect it. He would not . Neither Roderic nor the Baptist nor any other face from that past could force him to do so.
“You do not answer, Master Annan?”
He glanced back at the king. “I did not hear the question.”
“The question,” said Father Roderic, taking another step toward Annan, “is why an unworthy such as yourself dares to take the holy oath of a Crusader?”
Annan filled his lungs and looked the man in the eyes. “I have taken no oath.”
A murmur passed through the knights gathered behind him.
Roderic’s eyebrows lifted, widening the dark sockets of his eyes. A puzzled expression flickered through his stony gaze and then passed.
“You have not taken the oath?” Richard said. “And yet you dare to fight here upon the holy soil of our Lord?”
“I am not here to Crusade against the Evil Prophet.”
“Then why?” Hugh demanded. “There are no tourneys here for you to bare your teeth in.”
“I go where I please, Norman.” The divot made by Hugh’s sword in his hipbone ached with the rising of every morning’s sun, but if Hugh believed that blow had subdued him in any way, he was so much the fool.
Richard lifted a hand from the purple coverlet and waved it in a conciliatory gesture. “Spoken like a man of the sword. And as for the tourneys, I enjoy them greatly myself.” He leaned forward. “I should very much have liked to engage an arm as stout as Master Annan’s.” The torchlight flickered in
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