Page 43 of The Champion

Stryder skidded to a halt and turned to look at who had penned them inside.

Rowena strained to see herself and then wished she hadn’t.

There were two shadows who had placed a brace over the door.

Both of them were Saracens.

Seven

Rowena couldn’t breathe as she saw the shadowed pair. The taller one with vibrant green eyes she recalled only too well.‘Tis him,” she whispered to Stryder. “The demon in the orchard.”

Stryder set her on her feet.

Slowly. He put his body between her and the Saracens, then placed one hand on his sword hilt.

“You motherless excuse for a dung dealer,” Stryder snarled. “How dare you show your face here.” Rowena frowned. Both of the Saracens’ faces were covered by an opaque black veil.The Saracen’s eyes darkened. “Careful, infidel, I’ve been known to slice the tongues of your ilk and turn them into harmless asps to be butchered.”

The other Saracen appeared every bit as confused by the exchange as Rowena was.

“I dare you to try it.”

The Saracen arched his brow. “You would challenge me? You who have the stench of a rat and the brains to match?”

Why wasn’t Stryder doing something?

Rowena wasted no time while Stryder approached their enemies slowly. She ran for a pitchfork in one of the stalls.

Grabbing it up, she rushed back toward them.

“Stryder!” the shorter Saracen snapped, startling Rowena.

Stryder spun about and caught her pitchfork from her hands. “Whoa, lady.” He took it from her. “The last thing I would see is my friend skewered by you.”

Rowena widened her eyes. “Friend?”

The taller Saracen pulled the veil from his head. Rowena hesitated. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever beheld. His disheveled, jet-black hair curled becomingly around his face and shoulders. With the veil off, his eyes appeared even greener in contrast to his tawny skin and black brows.

“Nassir,” Stryder explained, using the name of the man he had spoken of earlier. “And his friend, Zenobia.”

The shorter one uncovered her head as well to show Rowena the face of an extremely beautiful woman. Like Nassir, Zenobia wore her hair to her shoulders, but it wasn’t nearly as dark. Instead, it was a rich reddish brown. Her skin was pale olive and she held topaz-colored eyes.

“What are you two doing here?” Stryder asked.

“Hiding from the Abbot,” Zenobia explained. “The man is still part bloodhound. He almost captured Nassir earlier.”

“Hardly,” Nassir snapped as if offended by her implication. “He was nowhere near me, and I won’t reveal myself to him until at least nightfall. Let him chase his tail for a bit.”

Zenobia rolled her eyes. “We intercepted a messenger from Persia who was on his way to England with orders for an assassin.”

Nassir nodded. “We tried to get here before the assassin, but it appears we came too late.”

“You heard about Cyril?” Stryder asked.

Nassir flinched as if the news saddened him. “I thought if we made our presence known to certain people—” his gaze went to Rowena. “That the assassin might think we were sent here as the messenger and make contact with one of us. Instead, your woman called out all of you and, rather than have you waste your time guarding her from me, I thought it best to let you know we’re here.”

“You could have let me know this morning.”

“You haven’t been still at all this morning,” Nassir said, humor evident in his voice. “I particularly find the women in the garden amusing.”