Read The Silver Knight for Free Online

voice emerged sounding scratchy and dry. Feeling parched, he reached for the ale-flagon. He undid the stopper and took a huge gulp before offering it over.
    Everard sat up and took the flagon. Sufyan couldn't watch while the knight drank, knowing he'd find the sight too erotic. Instead, he removed a dagger from the sleeve of his surcoat and busied himself with cutting the pie into equal slices.
    “I find it intriguing that a Saracen should be so far from home and working as a summoner for the Prince Bishop of Durham,” Everard said, putting down the ale-flagon between them.
    “Europe is full of crusaders’ bastards looking for their fathers.” Sufyan took a piece of pie, cradling it in his palm. “Some of us are obliged to take whatever employment is offered, no matter how strange or demeaning.”
    Everard lowered his gaze. “I didn't mean to insult you.”
    “I know, and you didn't. Here, have some pie. It's good.”
    They ate in silence for a while, listening to the crack of the fire and the hiss of burning fat as the pheasant continued to cook. Sufyan watched the wavering flames and tried to think of anything but Everard.
    Conversation seemed the safest option. He took another swig of ale and said, “My mother used to say I inherited my looks from her and my secretive nature from my father. The Bretons are a close-mouthed people. Certainly I was never able to get any answers from them when I went looking for my sire.”
    Everard brushed crumbs from his fingers. “Half Saracen, half Breton! A heady mix indeed. The Bretons are a strange, mysterious people. Magicians, poets, and mercenaries. Which one are you, I wonder?”
    “You don't have to wonder. I'm the mercenary.” Sufyan gave him a curious glance. “You think I'm mysterious?”
    Everard smiled but did not answer. Instead, he asked, “Your father. Did you ever find him?”
    “No.” It still pained Sufyan that his yearlong journey to the wild, northwest quarter of France had ended in such failure, but he'd done his best to find his father and could do no more. He lifted his hands to express his disappointment. “I didn't want anything from him. My mother always spoke of him as a good and kindly man. I just thought it proper to introduce myself. A man should know his sons. But it was not fated to be.”
    “You Saracens place a lot on fate.”
    Sufyan looked at him. It had been a comment, not a criticism. “Yes, we do. Every meeting, good or bad, has been already written into our destiny.”
    Everard smiled. His gaze seemed almost flirtatious. “So we were fated to meet, you and I.”
    “That is correct.” Sufyan tried not to respond in kind. “Just as I was fated to become His Grace's chief summoner.”
    “How did that happen?”
    Sufyan shook his head, reluctant to speak of it.
    “Oh, tell me,” Everard begged, his eyes alight with interest. “Please.”
    “You will think less of me,” Sufyan warned, “but very well, I will tell you. It happened when I was on my way back from Bretagne. I had thought of going to Paris, but found myself delayed in Chartres. One evening, a group of us were playing dice in a tavern. An Englishman joined us, full of his own importance. He drank too much and was careless with his purse. He also had an inflated opinion of his skills at dice.”
    Everard chuckled. “I've met many like him. Go on.”
    “He challenged me to a game and lost. He took it badly and accused me of cheating. I had won fairly and demanded my money. He refused to pay his debt to... what did he call me? ‘A heathen savage who spoke incomprehensible French.'” Sufyan heard his voice tinge with sarcasm. “Apparently, bets made with a half-breed are not worth honoring.”
    Everard sat forward. “You killed him.”
    “I did. But first we fought and drew half the tavern into our brawl, and when he realized I would best him, the Englishman ran away. I was drunk and angry enough to chase him... which I did, all the way to the