The Silver Knight Read Online Free PDF Page B

crusades. It was said a plague took him before his ship ever reached the Holy Land. The baron and his wife died of heartbreak.”
    The crone had cackled then, displaying blackened gums. “But you know what? The son did not die of plague. He survived and came home to find his parents dead, his servants scattered, and his home in ruins.”
    Sufyan had crouched and taken her hands. “What happened to him?”
    She shrugged. “Who knows? It was a long time ago. Who can remember such things?”
    He'd wanted to ask further questions, but the tavern wench had brought him his ale and told him not to pay attention to anything her mother had said, because the old woman was senile and often confused about events.
    Now, as he sat on the wall and gazed at the smudge of smoke from the chimney of the tavern, Sufyan wondered if Everard was the grandson of the Montparnasse heir who'd returned too late from the crusades. If so, why didn't he claim his demesne and rebuild his manor?
    Sufyan frowned, pondering these thoughts. Perhaps the Montparnasse family had supported the wrong side in the civil war. The Prince Bishop's secular role as Earl Palatine in the borderlands meant he'd disinherited many a noble family in royal revenge as the winds of fortune favored first one claimant to the throne of England and then the other.
    On occasion, His Grace had sent Sufyan to a few of these unfortunate barons to inform them of their reduced status and to take account of their households, which then passed to the Prince Bishop until the King—or Empress—redistributed the lands at whim amongst their own followers.
    With an inward shrug, Sufyan abandoned his thoughts and slid down from the wall. The sun had started to sink toward the horizon, the sky a deepening blue above him. Dusk would soon arrive. He thought of the meat pie and ale and decided to eat before he faced the blood-fiend again.
    As he made his way back to the little clearing, Sufyan caught the scent of wood-smoke and roasted fowl. He picked up his pace, seeing the thin trail of white from the far side of the churchyard wall. In moments, he'd crossed the cemetery and vaulted the wall, landing amidst the wildflowers and bracken.
    “Good afternoon.” Everard lounged beside a small fire, over which a plump pheasant cooked upon a makeshift spit. The meat pie sat warming on a flat stone close to the heat, and the flagon of ale nestled amongst the bracken. Everard's sword was propped against a tree, its tip stained with blood and dotted with feathers.
    Sufyan stared nonplussed, first at the food and then at the knight. His mouth watered, but he didn't know what made him hunger the most—the meat or the man.
    Everard had stripped out of his suit of mail, which lay beside his helm in a gleaming pile of silver links on the edge of the clearing. His surcoat was spread out beneath him on the grass, leaving him dressed only in a pale gray tunic and hose. The tunic was open at the throat, unlaced across his chest to show the slender, toned body beneath, the skin as rich and white as cream. The close-fitting hose clung to long, muscled thighs and strong calves. His feet were bare, his toes wriggling into the grass as he looked up at Sufyan.
    “You've been hunting,” was all Sufyan could think to say. He nodded at the pheasant, adding unnecessarily, “I bought a pie from the tavern. And ale. You're welcome to share with me, if you want.”
    “And you may share the pheasant,” Everard responded. “I tracked down a wild boar piglet, but thought you would not care for pork meat.”
    “No. It is unclean.” Sufyan sat on the grass opposite the knight, unable to look away. He'd known Everard would be beautiful without armor, but to see him in a state of undress like this was a torment. Sufyan's breath caught when Everard leaned forward to turn the bird on the spit. The tunic gaped open, giving Sufyan a brief glimpse of one dusky pink nipple.
    “It's kind of you to think of me,” Sufyan said. His