The Last Knight by Candice Proctor Page B

table in the far corner, his back to the wall, the flare of a nearby rushlight glazing his high forehead and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. In place of his leather broigne , he wore a dark wool tunic that molded itself to his broad chest. As she watched, he lifted his cup and tilted back his head to drink. She saw his jaw bulge and the muscles of his tanned throat move as he swallowed. Then he lowered his head and his gaze met hers across the length of the room.
She watched his face break into a lazy, welcoming smile that was a wonder to her. Looking at him now, she thought, no one would ever suspect that only an hour or so ago he had held his naked sword pointed at her breast and threatened to kill her. She had always known men for strange, incomprehensible creatures. But as she wove her way toward him through the crowded trestle tables, Attica decided that a woman needed to dress as a man and go among them as one of their own for at least a day in order to truly understand just how illogical and absurd men really were.
“There you are, lordling,” he said, his gaze flicking overthe dark water stains on her velvet surcoat, his senses doubtlessly noting the cold night air that clung about her still. “I was beginning to wonder if I should ask the innkeeper to drag his well. Best take a seat before they run out of food. There's a full house tonight.”
Suppressing another craven impulse to flee, Attica dropped her bags to the floor and gripped the edge of the table. Threading one foot in between board and bench, she swung the other leg over and sat down opposite him. It was an amazingly easy movement, without the hampering encumbrance of long skirts, and it occurred to her that, in some ways, at least, she could almost begin to enjoy this disguise.
“Where is Sergei?” she asked, her gaze sweeping both sides of the board and finding only strangers, several of them other knights.
“In the small chapel near the base of the town walls,” said de Jarnac, raising his cup and taking a slow, deep swallow.
“In the chapel?” she repeated. “Now? Whatever for?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Praying, one presumes. For the souls of the day's dead, both those dispatched by my own sword and some others we came across in a burned village this morning.”
“I saw them,” Attica said, her voice hushed as she remembered the crackle of the flames, the smell of burning wood and freshly spilled blood. She had seen the dead and been troubled by them. Yet it hadn't occurred to her to pray for them. And she certainly felt no compulsion to pray for the souls of the dead routiers .
“He is unusual, your squire.” She accepted a cup of wine from a buxom, red-headed young woman who gave hera beckoning smile that had Attica looking away quickly.
“Where did you find him?”
“Sergei? At a slave market in Acre.”
Caught in the act of swallowing a mouthful of wine, Attica choked and fell to coughing. “You bought him?” she said when she was able.
He had his attention focused on a juicy pork joint he was selecting. “I bought his mother. The boy came with her. He was only about six at the time.”
“He is Saracen, then?”
“No. He's from a place known as Kiev. He and his mother were taken by nomads who raided their town and sold them down the Dnieper to some Byzantine traders.” De Jarnac glanced up, his lips twisting into a cynical smile at the sight of Attica's horror. “Did you think only Muslims were killed and enslaved in Outremer? Believe me, we're not particular.”
Attica took another quick swallow of wine. “Why did you buy her, this woman from Kiev?”
De Jarnac's grin broadened in a way that made Attica's heart begin to beat in odd, unsteady lurches. “Why do you think, lordling? She was a very beautiful woman.”
As he spoke, his voice softened and his eyes darkened, as with old, sweet memories. Attica watched him take another long drink from his cup, the red wine wetting his lips, and she found she had to drop her gaze from his face. Only then she