Midsummer's Knight Brotherhood of the Sword - 1 By Kinley MacGregor Where's My Hero - Anthology CONTENTS | Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Epilogue | Prologue ^ » A tournament in Rouen "S , H !" IMON ELP Simon of Ravenswood looked up from his table inside the blue-and-white striped tent. Through the tent's opening, he saw Christopher of Blackmoor running toward him as fast as he could. Barely three years younger than Simon, Christopher wasn't the kind of man to ever run. He was normally slow to move, reluctant to exert himself, and had never once raised his voice. Some might call him lazy, but Simon knew otherwise. Christopher was a dedicated man, albeit a leisurely one. Christopher's tunic was torn, his face pale. Simon stood up immediately, his letter forgotten as he saw the panic reflected in Christopher's green eyes. The younger man rushed into the tent, straight to him. "What is it, Kit?" Christopher grabbed Simon's arm and pulled him toward the entrance. "Come quickly. Stryder needs aid. He's about to be torn asunder." Simon didn't hesitate. Spinning out of Christopher's grip, he grabbed up his sword from the cot and belted it on as he ran for the list where Stryder had been training. Christopher's elder brother, Stryder, the fourth earl of Blackmoor, was a man of many enemies and one of Simon's closest friends. It wasn't the first time Simon had heard of opponents attacking a man while in the confines of a tournament or practice, but woe to those who would attack Stryder in such a cowardly fashion. No one would ever attack a friend of his with immunity. Simon would have the villains' heads. Or so he thought. He skidded to a halt as he came to the field where Stryder stood in the midst of what appeared to be two score of women. Man-hungry women to be precise, who had a taste for an earl who was still in the prime of his life and fighting prowess. They surrounded Stryder like a sea of sharks hungry for a morsel of flesh. Among other things. A tall, slender blonde shrieked, "Stryder! Take my favor." "I love you, Lord Stryder!" "Move aside, you fat cow." another woman shouted, "I can't see him." "Lord Stryder touched me!" The screams of the women were deafening as they elbowed and shoved one another in an effort to reach the poor man in their center. Stryder was trying desperately to extract himself, but the more he tried to flee, the more the ladies held him fast. Simon burst out laughing at the sight of one of the most powerful men in Christendom being captured and jostled about by mere women. It wasn't often anyone saw uncertainty from Stryder of Blackmoor. And Simon had to admit he enjoyed seeing his friend at a loss for once. It was refreshing to know that Stryder really was human and not the soulless demon of Blackmoor legend. "Stryder?" Simon called, raising his voice to make sure it carried over the women's. "The leech gave me the cream you requested. He said your rash should clear up soon, but in the meantime, 'tis highly contagious." Silence descended on the crowd almost instantly. "What did he say?" one of the women asked. "Rash," another repeated. "I've no wish for another rash," another chimed in, stepping back. "Just how contagious is it?" Stryder asked, his blue eyes dancing with merry mischief as he joined the game. Simon kept his face serious, his tone dire. "Extremely. The leech says you should be quarantined before you spread it about the castle and make everyone ill from it. He said it could cause you to go blind if you're not careful." One woman shrieked and jumped away while the crowd as a whole pulled back only slightly from Stryder. Some of the more intelligent women looked skeptically at Simon. "What sort of rash is this?" a short, dark-haired woman asked. "I've never heard of such and I see no rash on Lord Stryder." Simon dropped his gaze to the area just below the man's belt. "That's because it resides in a most private place." He clucked his tongue at his friend. "Next time I tell you to refrain from houses of ill repute, you'll be listening to me, won't you?" The women made various noises of distress and ran for cover. Stryder eyed him, his face a mixture of mirth and murder. "I'm not sure if I should thank you for that, or beat you." Simon offered him a lopsided grin. "Would you rather I left you to them?" Stryder rubbed the back of his neck and frowned as he saw the blood on his hand where one of the women had scratched him. "Nay, I suppose not, but I wish you could have thought of a better tale." "Very well, then, next time I shall tell them you are betrothed." Stryder laughed openly at that. "Now there's an event that shall never happen. The earth as we know it will perish long before the earl of Blackmoor ever takes a bride." "Never say never, my friend," Simon warned. "Far more stubborn men than you have proclaimed that and fallen to Cupid's bow." "Mayhap, but I'm not like other men." And neither was Simon, but then the two of them had a different calling— one that took both their lives away from the thought of matrimony. Nay, neither he nor Stryder would ever marry. There were too many other lives that depended on both of them. Too many others who looked to them for protection. A wife would never understand their commitments. Stryder joined him, and they headed back toward the tents. "Just promise me one thing, Simon." "And that is?" "That on the day I pledge my troth to a woman, you'll run me through." Simon laughed at that. "You'd rather be dead than married?" Stryder's face turned deadly serious. "Aye, I would." Simon nodded in understanding. As his mother had, so had Stryder's mother died a violent death during her son's childhood. It had been one of the things that had forged their friendship years ago, a shared tragedy that allowed them to understand each other. Over the years, even more tragedies had bound them closer than brothers. "Very well. But I still say a betrothal is just what you need in order to deal with your legion of rabid admirers. A wife would ease them back and allow you some time to go about your business without ladies throwing themselves at you." The humor returned to Stryder's eyes. "Hmmm, a lady wife. Find me a wench with a level head whom I can be tempted by, Simon, and I might take you up on that." Frankfurt, Germany Three months later T , HE ROAR OF THE CROWD WAS DEAFENING BUT THEN IT ALWAYS WAS WHENEVER Stryder of Blackmoor took the field. Knights were dressed in full tourney armor as they were introduced by the heralds to the eager crowd that had gathered for today's sport. Simon stayed in the background, watching Stryder's back as he always did. It was what he was best at. His brother, Draven, had oft referred to him as his anchor. While others sought glory and fame, Simon sought only to protect those he loved. He had learned long ago that glory and riches meant nothing while standing over the grave of someone who was dear. Neither brought comfort or warmth. Neither brought true happiness. Only friendship and brotherhood did that. And, of course, love. Simon didn't need troubadours to write songs about him. He held no desire to make any woman swoon. Except for one. She whose name he dare not say because she was the one thing he could never have. Long ago, in a barren land, when he'd been nothing more than a starving boy yearning for home, he had made a promise that, so long as he lived, he would spend his life helping others return home to the families that loved them. Home. It was the one thing he'd lacked growing up. Aye, Draven had loved him, but as children they'd had no real home. Ravenswood had been harsh and frightening. Normandy had been endless and unfriendly, and even now he didn't want any thoughts at all of Outremer. The only thing Simon had ever been able to depend upon was the three men whom he considered his family—Draven of Ravenswood, Sin MacAllister and Stryder of Blackmoor. Draven and Sin had allowed him to survive the horrors of his childhood at Ravenswood, and Stryder had been the one who had kept him sane and whole while living in the hell that was a Saracen prison. There was nothing he wouldn't do for them. "Si?" Simon looked to Stryder, who was to his right, mounting his horse. Once settled on his horse, Stryder flashed him a taunting grin. "Are you daydreaming again, man? Pick up your sword and stand ready." Simon scoffed at him. "Daydreaming? Ha! Merely plotting the way I intend to spend my winnings this day when I unhorse you." Stryder laughed aloud at that. He inclined his head toward the red ribbon Simon had tied around his biceps. "Who's the fortunate lady?" "She's no concern of yours." He smiled knowingly. "Mayhap I'll take a bit of pity on you then and let you get in a few blows before I undignify you. With any luck, she might be willing to kiss your injuries." If only Simon could be so lucky. But alas, his lady was far away from him. She would always be so. It wasn't possible for a pebble to touch a star. And she was a star. Bright, shining. Yet so far above him that he dare not even look at her because in the end, he could never lay claim to her. He glanced down at the ribbon and his heart ached. The heralds called them to field, and the day proved to be a long one. How Simon grew weary of the tournament circuit. Unlike Stryder, he saw no use in it. But he stayed out of loyalty—Stryder needed someone to protect him who was beyond bribery. And for the price on Stryder's head, those people were far too few and rare. As the day finally drew to a close, Simon found himself with Stryder and Christopher, walking toward their tents as women tried to grab Stryder and proposition him. "It's a sad sight, isn't it?" Christopher asked wearily. "Methinks I should have the armorer make a larger helm for tomorrow so that it can fit over Stryder's big head." Simon laughed at that. "Indeed, but I fear a shortage in steel might occur if we tried to accommodate his ugly noggin." Stryder scoffed. "You're both just jealous. I have my choice of bedmates, while the two of you sleep alone." Simon passed a knowing look to Christopher. "It seems to me, Kit, that there's only enough room in his bed for him and his ego. It makes one wonder how he ever manages to squeeze a woman in." Christopher laughed. "A pox on both of you," Stryder said. Simon smiled. "And one on your ego." Stryder grunted, walking with his head down as he fumbled with a knotted lace on his cuirass. When they rounded a tent, a shadow caught Simon's eye. He barely had time to react as a man came rushing at Stryder with a drawn dagger. Before the assassin could reach his friend, Simon grabbed him and, after a brief struggle, threw the man to the ground. Simon disarmed him quickly and held him pinned by his neck. Stryder curled his lip in disgust. "These attempts on my life are becoming quite monotonous." Simon looked at him drolly. "Pray they don't become successful." Stryder nodded as he pulled the assassin up. "Thank you, Simon. Christopher and I will see him to the guards. Would you care to join us in the hall?" Simon went to touch the ribbon on his arm, only to realize it had been torn off during the struggle. His stomach shrank. "Nay, I have something I need to do." "Not another letter." Christopher moaned. "I swear, Simon, you've gotten to where you write more than I do, and I'm a minstrel." Simon didn't say anything as they left him alone. Instead, he searched the ground until he found the tattered pieces of his ribbon. Instantly relieved, he clutched them in his hand and pulled the letter out of his tunic, where he had laced it tightly against his chest. It had been delivered just this morn as he'd been donning his armor for the tourney. He broke the Scottish seal, and as he opened the letter, he found a tiny lock of brown hair. Her hair. He held it tightly in his hand, not wanting to let it go. Lifting it to his face, he smelled the faintest trace of her scent. Simon smiled. Then he eagerly read her feminine script. My Dearest Warrior, I hope this finds you well and unhurt. I fear the last messenger you sent will never be bribed to carry another of your letters to me. It appears I rather damaged him a bit in my enthusiasm to relieve him of his vellum burden. I only hope his ankle heals soon. Your words touched me deeply, and I am truly sorry that you are Your words touched me deeply, and I am truly sorry that you are homesick. I was going to send you a bit of soil, but thought it might be rather ridiculous to burden you with such. Not to mention that dirt is rather the same, isn't it? And if you dropped it, you wouldn't be able to reclaim it. So I thought perhaps my hair might bring some comfort to you. I hope you won't notice the bit of singing around the ends of it. I fear I learned a valuable lesson the day before yesterday. While daydreaming of you and your last letter, I became distracted in the kitchen and wasn't paying attention to where I set down the candle. But I discovered something most important. Larders catch fire rather easily. And once burned, sandstone is impossible to clean. The cook has banned me eternally from the kitchen and at first forbade me ever to partake of her services again. After some consoling, she has at last granted me the right to eat, but only so long as I swear never again to enter her domain. I miss you, my dearest. Know that wherever you are tonight, my thoughts and heart are with you. Please take care of yourself and may God grant you peace and health until you find yourself home again with those who love you. Ever yours, K Simon held her letter to his heart. How he wanted this woman. Needed her. If only he were Stryder. Then he could court her. Propose to her. But as Simon of Ravenswood, he could do nothing more than pine away for his star, knowing that the day would never come when they could be together. He had found her only so that he could lose her. Fate was often unmerciful. Sighing, he took his letter and headed for his tent. At least there, for a little while, he could pretend to be someone else. Someone who could offer his troth to his lady love. Chapter 1 « ^ » England Eleven months later "C , L S . I ONGRATULATIONS ORD TRYDER NEVER THOUGHT TO SEE THE DAY WHEN YOU would take a bride." Stryder looked up as the older nobleman's words rang in his ears. He'd just sat down no more than five minutes before to break his fast after a morning spent training in the list. He was hot and sweaty, and not quite sure he had heard the man correctly. "A bride?" Stryder repeated skeptically. The old man's wizened face beamed at him, and his faded brown eyes were bright with well wishes. "And a Scots heiress, no less. A fine match you've made, my boy. Fine indeed." He clapped Stryder on the back and ambled off. Stupefied, Stryder frowned and returned to his food. No doubt the nobleman had gone daft with his old age. Or so he thought. That was the first of several such encounters, and as the morning wore on while he went about his duties, Stryder could think of only one person who would spread such unfounded gossip regarding him. Simon of Ravenswood. He smiled to himself. Simon had promised him peace while they were in England for the yearly show of arms at Stantington. Every nobleman in England, as well as the king, was here for the event. Along with the men had come their numerous unmarried daughters who were all eagerly seeking husbands with rich purses. In other words, they were all seeking him. Normally, he would have been hounded and mobbed by the wealth-hungry women who coveted his lands, his prowess in bed, and his body. In that order. Simon had promised him that if he would return home for this spectacle, Simon would keep the women and their scheming mothers far away.