Free The Silver Knight by Kate Cotoner Page A

snap if the knight tried to wield it in battle. Sufyan moved his right hand to touch the cross-belts over his chest in a gesture calculated to draw the knight's attention to the two curved scimitars he wore strapped to his back, Saracen-style. Now these were weapons, pure silvered steel honed to perfection and with a taste for Frankish blood. Sufyan was confident his blades were more than a match for the knight's straight, cruciform sword.
    He walked his horse toward the knight, keeping his pace slow and measured. The black destrier stood as solid and silent as a rock. The knight's helm was lowered, features hidden from view. Sufyan liked to look into the eyes of any potential enemy. Denied the chance, he cast his gaze instead over the silver armor as he approached, looking for a heraldic device that might identify the stranger.
    He was no more than six feet away from the knight when he heard a noise behind him, a shrill, unearthly cry that made his horse jerk sideways in response. Sufyan turned, momentarily distracted. The sound came again, sharp and terrifying. He couldn't tell whether it belonged to a human or an animal. His first instinct was to go and help; his second, more measured reaction was to look toward the knight.
    Except the knight and his destrier had vanished.
    * * * *
    The village of Kirkfield lay southwest of the woodland. A small place with a mill and a tavern, it seemed unexceptional, akin to many other settlements Sufyan had passed through on his journeys. The village green, now devoid of life, showed the hoof prints of pigs and sheep. On the millpond, a swan glided back and forth, its neck arched with elegant disdain. Somewhere, a rooster crowed against the evening. Lights showed through shuttered windows and beneath doors, but no human stirred outside even though dusk had only just wrapped the world in ashy gray.
    Sufyan dismounted from the chestnut gelding and led it into the tavern yard. When no one ventured out of the kitchen or stable-loft to take the animal from him, he chose a stall at random and tended his horse. He found a pitchfork and heaped in some fresh hay, checked the trough for water, and then sauntered across the yard and entered the tavern.
    His appearance caused a flutter of panic, quickly muted, as every head turned in his direction. Then came a silence that spread through the tavern's inhabitants like ripples in the wake of the swan on the millpond.
    He'd expected nothing less. Sufyan took a seat farthest from the hearth and stretched out, aware of the interest of the locals. Some peeked surreptitiously. Others, less cautious, stared with open curiosity. He put his feet up on the opposite bench and examined the shine of his boots, pretending ignorance.
    He'd been stared at before, in courts and alehouses right across Europe. It didn't bother him now. In his younger days, he'd been too quick to take offense and had cried insult from more men than he'd had hot meals. The last time he'd challenged a man, he'd been obliged to take this job as a penance.
    In London and Winchester, he could pass on the streets as unremarkable. This far north, the golden color of his skin, the gloss of black hair, and the gleam of dark eyes marked him out as worthy of attention. Some days, Sufyan passed himself off as the by-blow of a French lord, which was at least a half-truth. When it suited his purpose, he would reveal the whole truth—that he was half Saracen and half French, the son of a market-trader in Antioch and a Breton knight.
    He tapped his fingers on the table and waited. A young woman came forward, her eyes round as she looked him up and down. Black boots, black hose, black tunic, covered with a surcoat of black leather and velvet slashed at the sleeves to show a lining of crimson satin. Costly items, all of them, and Sufyan knew he wore his clothes to good effect. Vanity was a sin, according to his ecclesiastical master, but Sufyan tended to pay little attention to the bishop's admonishing