his eyes. “Mayhap when I am well and the infidels are crushed beneath my destrier’s feet, we shall have such a contest, eh, Sir Knight?”
“Your Majesty.” Father Roderic’s lips drew tight, as though with a purse string. “A vehement Scot, apathetic to our holy mission, may use such an opportunity to do you harm.” He straightened his shoulders, his hands sliding into their opposite sleeves. He glanced at Annan, eyebrows cocked.
Beneath his pointed beard, Richard’s mouth hardened. “Do not seek to control my actions, Bishop.”
“Of course not, Majesty.” Roderic’s gaze did not leave Annan’s face. “But perhaps we are mistaken in thinking this knight has any interest in plying his sword for a living?”
Annan met his gaze and held it. Something in the way Roderic was asking the question… so unstudied as to be pointed… as if he were here tonight just to ask it.
If Roderic hoped to recruit him for his Holy War, he miscalculated.
“Indeed, I have an interest, Bishop.” He looked back at Richard. “The holy Father speaks the truth, Sire. Any contest between us could end no better than my meetings with Norman jongleurs posing as tourneymen.” He flicked his gaze in Hugh’s direction.
Hugh straightened, and his right hand darted across his body for his sword. His dark eyes flashed, surpassing in venom even the oath upon his lips.
“Have a care, Scot.” Richard’s own eyes narrowed in his wan face. “I would rather have my feet on Normandy soil than on any of your little isles.”
“Then perhaps you should have remained there.”
“By St. George! Is this your accustomed manner of dealing with kings?
Annan held his ground, though he could feel several of the knights behind him take a step forward. He knew Richard would not place him under guard. In affairs of honor, the English king was famous both for his rages and his need for personal retribution.
“Marcus Annan, if you remain in Acre when I have regained my bodily strength, I shall cleave you from skull to foot!”
Hugh’s hand tightened on his sword. “Perhaps I shall save His Majesty the trouble.”
“Or perhaps Heaven shall exact its own penance ,” Roderic said. “Perhaps the Saracens will find him first.” The intense questioning look had not left his face. “Those who have not taken the holy oath have no place in a Crusade—especially if they bear the sins of an assassin .”
The probing tone in his voice was unmistakable. But if Roderic sought to convict Annan as a tourneyer, he was going to be disappointed. Annan answered to no man.
“God’s will be done.” His eyelid twitched. He turned back to the king and bowed from the waist as one knight might bow to another. “I have your leave to go?”
Richard, blue eyes snapping, lay back on his cushions, the whiteness of his skin visible beneath his beard. He said nothing, only waved at the tent flap. The minstrel stepped into the opening to escort Annan back outside.
As they walked into the cool darkness of the antechamber, voices erupted behind them. He had provided enough of a scandal to amuse them for tonight at least, though he would make certain he and Richard never met in the lists . Killing a king or being killed by one—both begot the same outcome. He hadn’t stayed alive this long by throwing himself against opponents who would win no matter how well he fought.
The minstrel stopped at the exit, one hand on the tent flap’s cord. “You are either a brave man, Sir, or a very foolhardy one.”
Annan ducked through the opening. “There is so much difference between them?”
The minstrel snorted and turned back.
High above the horizon, the moon drifted in a clear sky, its rays illuminating the hundreds of canvas tents, like so many white-bellied fish in a black sea. A breeze, cold compared to the afternoon’s stagnant air, tingled through the damp roots of Annan’s hair. Marek—and the shadow he was supposed to have been watching—was nowhere to
“Your Majesty.” Father Roderic’s lips drew tight, as though with a purse string. “A vehement Scot, apathetic to our holy mission, may use such an opportunity to do you harm.” He straightened his shoulders, his hands sliding into their opposite sleeves. He glanced at Annan, eyebrows cocked.
Beneath his pointed beard, Richard’s mouth hardened. “Do not seek to control my actions, Bishop.”
“Of course not, Majesty.” Roderic’s gaze did not leave Annan’s face. “But perhaps we are mistaken in thinking this knight has any interest in plying his sword for a living?”
Annan met his gaze and held it. Something in the way Roderic was asking the question… so unstudied as to be pointed… as if he were here tonight just to ask it.
If Roderic hoped to recruit him for his Holy War, he miscalculated.
“Indeed, I have an interest, Bishop.” He looked back at Richard. “The holy Father speaks the truth, Sire. Any contest between us could end no better than my meetings with Norman jongleurs posing as tourneymen.” He flicked his gaze in Hugh’s direction.
Hugh straightened, and his right hand darted across his body for his sword. His dark eyes flashed, surpassing in venom even the oath upon his lips.
“Have a care, Scot.” Richard’s own eyes narrowed in his wan face. “I would rather have my feet on Normandy soil than on any of your little isles.”
“Then perhaps you should have remained there.”
“By St. George! Is this your accustomed manner of dealing with kings?
Annan held his ground, though he could feel several of the knights behind him take a step forward. He knew Richard would not place him under guard. In affairs of honor, the English king was famous both for his rages and his need for personal retribution.
“Marcus Annan, if you remain in Acre when I have regained my bodily strength, I shall cleave you from skull to foot!”
Hugh’s hand tightened on his sword. “Perhaps I shall save His Majesty the trouble.”
“Or perhaps Heaven shall exact its own penance ,” Roderic said. “Perhaps the Saracens will find him first.” The intense questioning look had not left his face. “Those who have not taken the holy oath have no place in a Crusade—especially if they bear the sins of an assassin .”
The probing tone in his voice was unmistakable. But if Roderic sought to convict Annan as a tourneyer, he was going to be disappointed. Annan answered to no man.
“God’s will be done.” His eyelid twitched. He turned back to the king and bowed from the waist as one knight might bow to another. “I have your leave to go?”
Richard, blue eyes snapping, lay back on his cushions, the whiteness of his skin visible beneath his beard. He said nothing, only waved at the tent flap. The minstrel stepped into the opening to escort Annan back outside.
As they walked into the cool darkness of the antechamber, voices erupted behind them. He had provided enough of a scandal to amuse them for tonight at least, though he would make certain he and Richard never met in the lists . Killing a king or being killed by one—both begot the same outcome. He hadn’t stayed alive this long by throwing himself against opponents who would win no matter how well he fought.
The minstrel stopped at the exit, one hand on the tent flap’s cord. “You are either a brave man, Sir, or a very foolhardy one.”
Annan ducked through the opening. “There is so much difference between them?”
The minstrel snorted and turned back.
High above the horizon, the moon drifted in a clear sky, its rays illuminating the hundreds of canvas tents, like so many white-bellied fish in a black sea. A breeze, cold compared to the afternoon’s stagnant air, tingled through the damp roots of Annan’s hair. Marek—and the shadow he was supposed to have been watching—was nowhere to
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