The king had been effective in keeping the peace, wisely maintaining its preservation by seeing to it his subjects knew how to fight. Though a force of armed men was a good hedge against outside enemies, more often than not they would fall to warring with each other. The tournaments, however, provided the nobles with a means to disburden themselves of tendencies to rowdiness. Here they had the opportunity to display their courage at arms without laying waste to the countryside or one another.

There was profit to be had as well. Richard had ever taken advantage of it when he'd fought on behalf of his father's house. Defeating and capturing a fighter for his gear or ransom was the custom, and an accepted method of enriching one's purse. But some of the noble combatants were wealthy enough to eschew the money altogether. Richard had not been one of them when in Normandy, but that was changed. He now could afford to be generous to those he defeated.

Many in the court had come to follow his example, treating their captives as esteemed guests who had fought with skill and courage, and making a great show of returning the ransoms. It was a game of honor to some; to others it was survival.

To Richard it was practice and a way to judge the worth of a man. How an opponent conducted himself on the field revealed much of his inner face. Was he a thinker or did he let his passions rule? Did he plan his moves or trust in luck?

Did he fight for himself or let others take the brunt first before stepping in? All this was useful to Richard, who might one day have to face any one of these men in earnest battle, whether on the field or across the Round Table in a council session.

Here the squires would also test themselves, close observed by their elders for signs of cowardice. Until they'd been through at least twenty such tourneys, most young men were not considered seasoned enough for a real battle. Broken teeth, broken heads and bloodings were common, as was death, by accident or on purpose if things got out of hand and tempers flared. No blunted or wooden weapons would be used in this combat. This was true training for war.

Yet there was no dearth of participants; too much profit was to be had to discourage anyone.

"I count many more than a hundred men," said Sabra. "Twice more than at the Michaelmas tourney."

"The news traveled far about the prizes and the purse the king offers."

"And about yourself, I'm sure. The bards have been kind in their praise of your battle skill."

"The skill is there, but I've advantages to make a pass of arms unfair to any who would challenge me. You saw to that, my lady."

"You've more strength than any, but take care, for there will be those who will test you on it."

"As I've always been tested. I will win out."

She shot him a look of amused warning.

"I know." No need for her to say aught, he understood well enough. One fault he'd always had difficulty controlling was his damned overconfidence.

Richard watched as two sections in the field were roped off. Tall poles with long streamers proclaimed neutral ground, where the wounded or captured were to take themselves or be taken if they were too injured to walk. Most of the time no one intentionally set out to kill or maim anyone here, but misadventures took place more often than not. It was well to be prepared for the worst. Both healers and priests stood by, ready to receive whichever came their way.

At last the field was cleared and a loud fanfare of horns and drums was struck, signaling the beginning of the tourney. A cheer went up from the watching crowds surrounding the field as the fighters marched past the pavilion where the king sat with his queen. Each man paused to have his name announced by one of the heralds and to bow to the sovereigns. The tourney's host, Pelles Bernard-Elaine's father-sat on the king's right. The old warrior, grim of face, made a particular show of bowing once at Richard, picking him out from all the others in the line for the honor.

He was the King's Champion after all, but it was an unusual enough gesture to raise an eyebrow or two.

Returning the courtesy, Richard bowed back, furiously wondering if Elaine had said anything. It hardly seemed likely for he'd cautioned her to silence before leaving and could trust the efficacy of his influence upon her. Perhaps one of her serving maids had heard or guessed. Household gossip traveled faster than a winter gale and could do more damage.

Bernard bowed again, this time to his youngest son Lavaine, who had placed himself just a few paces down from Richard.

This was bad. If Bernard reserved such a courtesy only to those within his own family...

He did not bow to any of the other nobles.

Elaine sat with a group of ladies at the far end of the pavilion and did not meet Richard's gaze as he passed her. Pale as she was after his feeding, she still managed to raise a blush, showing two fiercely pink spots high on her cheeks. She worked her sweet mouth, as though trying hard to suppress a smile.

The subtleties of their combined messages were clear enough to those with eyes to see. Certainly the king and queen had noticed something of the byplay.

Damnation!

"What is it?" Sabra asked, whispering. She trudged next to him over the uneven turf, still carrying his sword. She'd sensed his sudden discomfiture as though he'd spoken it aloud.

"There's mischief afoot with Elaine. I think her father is planning to welcome me to his hearth as his new son."

Sabra made a choking sound and nearly stumbled.

"This is no time for jollity," he snapped. "I've no wish to take the minx for a wife."

But Sabra was too consumed to wholly check her mirth. She pulled her cowl well forward to hide her face and for the most part kept her laughter internal, though she seemed like to burst from it.

Annoyed, Richard held his peace, until she returned to a fit state to speak, which took quite some while. She was nearly recovered as they assumed their place on the far side of the field, waiting for the rest of the men to make their bows to the king.

"What's to be done?" he demanded.

"Nothing for now. For later, we shall both do much. If Bernard asks for a private word with you-and I think he will-then you deal with him. I'll find a way to get to Lavaine, then we can dice to decide who is to speak to the girl."

"This is no little sporting, Sabra," he said, rankled at her levity.

"I know, but we can make it such before the day is done if we hold ourselves strong. Remember who you are and who I am. None may win against us if we so choose. Consider yourself lucky that Bernard did not make a declaration of the bans here and now."

"He's probably waiting to see if I live through the contest," Richard muttered. "Elsewise I might be tempted to forfeit on purpose to avoid marriage."

"Your pride would prevent that," she said, but in a way so as to restore his good spirits. She pushed the cowl back now that they had some distance between themselves and the rest of the field. "Fight as you always do, then-" But the rest went unsaid as she stared across to the pavilion.

"What is it?" He followed her gaze, trying to pick out what had so arrested her. "Is it Bernard? What does he do?"

"Sweet Goddess," she breathed. "Not here."

"Sabra?"

She swayed, dropping his sword and clutching at his arm for support. He caught her, his heart swooping at her abrupt weakness.

"What is it? A vision?" Sometimes they were intense enough to collapse her, but those were rare. What they signaled was always grievous.

"Aye, a vision... Oh, Richard, hold back, do not go forth today."

"Why? What do you see?"

She shook her head, fighting it. "Death. I see death."

"For whom? Me?" But that was nigh impossible. He could get nothing more from her, though. Her eyes had rolled up in their sockets and her body had gone rigid like some poor sufferer from the falling sickness. The nearest of the men drew away and crossed themselves after an uneasy glance at the dark sky; others came forward for a better look.

Lavaine was one of them.

"How fares your squire?" he asked, half curiosity, half concern. At least he did not seem to be the outraged kinsman looking to avenge his sister's honor. Not just yet.

" 'Tis nothing toward," Richard replied, searching Sabra's face for distress, but she was gone from this world for the moment. "He has these fits when he gets overexcited. I expect he shall grow out of it once his voice changes."

"We've a healer if you wish one."

"I thank thee, but my people know how to care for him. I'll take him away."

" 'Tis not a task for a noble. My squire will do that for you." Lavaine's was a broad strapping lad who appeared strong enough to carry Richard himself.

"You honor me, but this is my charge. 'Twill be enough if he would guard my sword until my return."

Lavaine nodded and signed to his squire to retrieve the blade. "We'll wait for you."

Richard thanked him, then swept Sabra up, carrying her with long swift strides toward his tent. Before he'd gone a quarter of the way, she began to wake and struggled a little.

"Be still," he said. "Rest first."

"No, I must tell you-"

"Yes, but only where none may hear." They'd garnered enough attention. If word got out that Lancelot's squire was subject to visions, the outcome would mean either sainthood or a public burning.

But she would not be put off and pointed. "Look to the line, Richard. See him!"

He looked. The nobles were nearly through with their march. Last in their number was a man who stood to be more than Richard's match in height and span. He wore familiar colors, so familiar that Richard stopped in his tracks from the shock of it.

"Dear God, he's from Normandy-he's the champion for d'Orleans."

"More than that."

"You don't mean-" Richard now broke off, staring in near disbelief before puffing out a short, bitter laugh. "It is.

He's the young bastard who defeated me, the very one. By God, but he's come up in the world."

"Take me from here," Sabra pleaded. "Now."

He shifted his attention to her and quickly finished the journey to the tent, setting her down on the bed. Servants hovered close, but she banished them with a sharp gesture and a sharper word. This was highly unusual behavior on her part; Richard sat next to her as they hurried out.

"What ails thee?" he demanded, worried for her agitation. "What was your vision?"

She put a hand to her temple. "Why did she show me this now? Why not before?" Thus did Sabra refer to the Goddess and her Gift of the Sight.

He held her other hand. "Just tell me. What is it that troubles you? What did the Goddess show you? Death? Death for whom?"

A tear spilled down her cheek. "For him. I saw a glimpse of his doom that day five years past, but clearly now. Too clearly. His fate is set; nothing may change it."

"Why does it affect you so? Men die. 'Tis the way of things." He tried to say it in such a manner as to give her comfort, but it had the opposite effect.

She slammed a fist ineffectually against the giving surface of the bed, snarling frustration. "Because I know now who he is!"

"Who, then?" Though bewildered, he kept himself patient with her.

"It cannot be changed-chance, fortune, and fate brought him here."

"To meet his death?"

She nodded, swiping impatiently at her eyes as more tears streamed forth. "What of it then? Am I to be the one to kill him?"

"No!" She all but shouted in his face. "That you must not do!" She seized his sword arm, gripping hard even through the mail with a strength to make him wince. "Richard, if you love me, promise you will not go near him.

Promise me you will raise no weapon to him even if it costs you your honor and place at the king's side."

"It's that important?"

"Yes!"

"Then I promise. Now tell me why."

She eased her hold and wilted. "I have not the words. The Sight told me all in an instant, but why not earlier? Why did she wait so long to show me?"

"Sabra..." His patience had limits.

She swung off the bed, pushing past him to go to the door of the tent. The servants lingering there hastily scattered. He followed, looming over her as she looked across to the king's pavilion. The heavens were darker than before, clouds churning as if in response to Sabra's turmoil. In the still air that preludes a storm they heard the herald's clear call as he presented the bastard to the crowd.

"Michel d'Orleans, champion of the house of Duke Montague d'Orleans of Normandy!" he shouted.

"My father yet lives," Richard murmured. What a terrible old man he must be by now. He'd not thought of the ancient tyrant since leaving home.

But Sabra took no notice of his observation, her gaze fixed on the young man. "Look to him, Richard, and remember your promise. I know not why she held this truth from us."

"Can you speak it?"

Her shoulders drooped. "Aye, and the words burn my tongue. This Michel d'Orleans..."

He'd never seen her waver so. "Tell me. Sabra?"

"He's-he is your son. Your bastard son, bred before your change."

What? He gaped, staring across the field. "What... what say you?"

"You heard. And it is the truth."

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. Her expression told all, but he could not bring himself to take it in. Blood pounded behind his eyes like a club.

"Richard-"

"No... oh, it cannot be. I'd have known. That day in Normandy, seeing him then-when we fought-I'd have known."

She puffed a little, hopeless laugh. "With all my gifts, only this moment did I realize it, only when I was shown..."

"This cannot be. I'd have felt something from him, seen my blood in him, and if not that, then his mother would have sought me out while he was yet in her womb."

"Perhaps. If she knew you to be the father. You had many women in your youth in the sun. 'Tis like that they in turn had other lovers than yourself."

"Yes, but..." Indeed, he'd enjoyed the company of dozens of wenches in those days. Any one of them could have mothered a babe and not been able to name its father. "Know you his history? Who she might have been?" Richard wanted-needed-to remember. Which, if any, of those girls had kept his seed and made a child?