Page 45 of The Champion

“Rowena, would you have anything she could borrow?”

She nodded. Zenobia was a full head and shoulders taller than her, but then, so was Elizabeth. She doubted if her friend would mind loaning out a few gowns to Zenobia.

“Thank you,” Stryder said. “You collect her clothes, while the two of us make our way back to my tent unseen. Would you meet us there as soon as possible?”

“Aye.” Rowena watched as they headed out and hoped that no one saw them. It would truly bode evil for Stryder if he were caught dressed like that, when half the court still suspected him of Cyril’s murder.

But what she admired most was the way he moved like a silent wind. Quickly. Surely. All man, and yet, he was something more.

Something that made her feel a tenderness for him that she didn’t want to feel. Lord Stryder would be an easy man to love. Unfortunately, he would never be an easy man to tame.

Ganymede watched from the shadows as the two Saracens made their way from the stable.

They had come for him, just as they had promised.

Kill or be killed.

It was the one promise his captors had made to him when they had allowed him to go free. They had given him two years to complete his task. If all the men on his arm were dead within that time, they would allow him to live.

If not, another would be sent to kill him.

His two-year time had ended a month past, and since then, there had been no sign of them.

Ganymede had thought he would be safe. No one knew he’d ever been in Outremer. No one could get close to him.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Unlike the others, he knew the Saracens hadn’t killed Cyril. But, they would kill him.

There was no place to hide from such devils. They would find him.

Panic swelled inside his heart. There was no one he could trust. No one who could help him. If any of the Brotherhood learned of his presence, they would kill him just as quickly as the assassins.

And if Henry ever learned of the men he’d killed...

No one would care that those men had deserved their fate. Ganymede had killed in cold blood. That was all that would matter. His own degradations at their hands would be dismissed.

Worse, he would be exposed again.

Nay, he refused to suffer any more humiliation.

His only choice would be to expose the Saracens before they found him, or, to complete the murders he was assigned.

There was only one name left on his arm.

Just one...

The Widowmaker.

Stryder cursed as he entered his tent and ducked the sword stroke aimed for his head.

Spinning around, Stryder caught his young assailant about his middle.

“Halt, Raven,” he snarled as his knight went to attack him again. “‘Tis I.”

Raven hesitated. “Stryder?”

Zenobia laughed from behind him. “Little Raven? Is that you?”