Page 10 of The Champion

He stepped back reluctantly. “This time only, milady. When next we meet, I’ll be expecting a name for you.”

“If that be the case, sir knight, then you shall again be disappointed.”

Something akin to admiration glowed in those deep blue eyes. “Should I warn you, milady, I don’t take disappointment well?”

Rowena smiled in spite of herself. She liked this verbal sparring with him. It wasn’t often she found a man or woman who could match her so effortlessly. “Only if you allow me to warn you that I don’t take warning well.”

This time when she turned, he didn’t try to stop her, but she heard his laughter again.

What a pity he was a knight. With such a voice and manner, he would have made a fine troubadour.

Halfway across the room, Rowena did her best not to yield to a desire to turn around and see if he watched her still. Over and over, she told herself she didn’t care whether he watched her or not.

He was a dreaded, brutal knight.

And, as she reached the side of a fellow minstrel, she did just happen to glance backward. Not that she was looking for him, she assured herself. It was Elizabeth, Bridget or Marian she sought. And yet as her gaze skimmed the occupants and she saw no hint of her knight, she couldn’t suppress her disappointment.

It’s just as well. All a man such as that can offer is early widowhood and a broken heart as he traipses from bed to bed, ever careless of a woman’s feelings.

Those words were ever so true, yet she did wonder at what his name might have been.

What name would fit a man of such charm and beauty? Certainly not Hugh, Henry or Edward. Nay, he would have a name as unique as the man....

Do stop thinking about it!Putting the man out of her mind, she joined her friends and forced herself to enjoy the conversation.

Henry Plantagenet, King of England, ruler of Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine, undisputedly one of the most powerful men in the world, sat in the corner of his withdrawing room holding a cool cloth to his head.

His temples throbbed, his heart raced with fury and he was quite certain that in the next few minutes he might very well die from aggravation.

If one more knight, baron, earl or other came through the doors of his room to beg him to force Stryder of Blackmoor to marry his daughter, he would kill them.

All of them.

He would go mad with anger and descend on the whole of his court like the Grim Reaper, seeking only peace from the locusts who were determined to kill him.

“Here,” his wife Eleanor said as she brought him another cool cloth and placed it to his brow. She was an elegant queen. Tall, slender and blonde, she was the envy of all Christendom, and at times such as this, he remembered why he had married her (aside from the fact that she held control of more French lands than the French king).

Henry handed her the old cloth and grimaced. “What am I to do, Nora?” he asked his wife. “Apparently no lady in the kingdom is willing to wed until Stryder chooses a bride. What foolishness has plagued these women?”

“If you were a woman, Henry, you would have no need to ask that. The man is quite pleasing to the eyes and has more wealth than even you.”

He growled at her.

To his utter horror, another knock sounded. “If ‘tis anyone other than my physician, send him away.”

His guards opened the door to show him Lionel of Sussex. They were about to shove the earl out when Henry stopped them. “Nay, men, he is one of the few people We are ever grateful to see. Unless he says the name Stryder of Blackmoor, that is.”

Lionel frowned at that. He came forward and bowed low, his eyes never wavering from Henry’s head where the cloth resided. “Have you an ache, my liege?”

“Aye, but we are trying to decide which one plagues Us most. The one in Our head or the one in Our-”

“Henry!” Eleanor snapped.

“Neck,” he said gruffly, “I was going to say neck.”

Eleanor gave him a disbelieving stare.

Lionel came forward to kiss the queen’s hand before Eleanor sat down in the chair next to Henry.