"Easy, Ham," came a smooth-voiced command from the winding corner stairwell. Luke and the hangman both turned to find Alberic, in fur-trimmed silk, leaning carelessly against the wall, two guards towering over him. "There will be plenty of time for this sort of thing after the trial."

Ham grabbed Luke by his tunic and yanked him to his feet. "I'll need plenty of time to do it right."

Alberic chuckled. "Ham displays remarkable enthusiasm for the work, especially for one of his race. The English are a rather uninspired lot when it comes to such matters. When I arrived here, his idea of torture was forcing a prisoner to stay awake all night, or walking him around and around in circles. But he's caught on surprisingly well to our Norman methods... surprisingly well."

"I don't doubt it," said Luke as he watched Ham withdraw another dose of catnip from his pouch.

"Bring him upstairs," Alberic instructed the guards. "We're ready to begin."

By midday, any lingering hope for a fair trial that Luke might have entertained was long gone. For hours he'd stood in the center of Foxhyrst Castle's gloomy hall, flanked by the ma.s.sive guards, his hands still shackled behind him, watching and listening as Alberic went through the motions of "trying" him. Seated at the high table on either side of the sheriff were a dozen soldiers unknown to Luke but owing allegiance to Alberic, his far from impartial jury. Alex, who'd accompanied Luke to Foxhyrst, was nowhere to be seen; presumably he'd been banned from the proceedings. Griswold and his other former mates were likewise absent. And as for Faithe... well, he wouldn't have expected her to come, and in a way he was glad she hadn't. Although he was desperate to see her, this travesty would be all the more humiliating if she were here to witness it.

Charges were read, questions asked, "witnesses" trotted forth. The man who'd found Caedmon's body testified that Caedmon had been beaten to death "over the wh.o.r.e." Other Cottwyk citizens upheld his account and described how they'd come across Helig's body after she'd "run for her life" from the murderer. They all glanced uncomfortably toward Luke, as if they couldn't believe he was the man responsible. Alberic's clerk, who sat next to him and understood the Anglo-Saxon tongue, translated their testimony for his lordship and the jury.

At nones, a guard came into the hall, bowed to Alberic, and murmured something. "Indeed," Alberic said. "Show him in."

Luke turned with the others to find Orrik being led forward, a sealed letter in his hand. The bailiff spared a smug glance for Luke as he approached the high table and handed the missive to Alberic. "A message from my lady Faithe of Hauekleah," he said, without bowing.

A message from Faithe? Suddenly alert, Luke watched with interest as Alberic broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, then handed it to the clerk, a diminutive, tonsured fellow in black robes. He read it with an expression of intense concentration, then leaned over to whisper into Alberic's ear.

The sheriff's frown transformed gradually into a sly smile. Luke felt chilly.

"It seems," Alberic began, glancing around the table, "that Sir Luke's lady wife feels compelled to add certain comments to the proceedings." Meeting Luke's gaze, he said, "'Twould appear that Lady Faithe shares the general consensus regarding her husband's temperament and inclinations. She characterizes him as 'savage,' 'vicious,' and" -he leaned toward the little clerk- "what was that part about being capable of-"

"Capable," the clerk said, reading directly from the letter as he traced the words with a finger, "of acts of the most irredeemable brutality. There is no doubt in my mind that Luke de Perigueux murdered my husband, Caedmon of Hauekleah, with no provocation save his own evil nature. I implore your lordship to find him guilty of the crime of murder, and to punish him as befits such an offense."

Luke shook his head. "Nay..."

"I'm afraid so." Alberic s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from his clerk and held it up. "His own wife condemns him as a murderer. Can we do less?"

The soldiers whispered among themselves.

"Let me see that letter!" Luke said.

Alberic glowered at him. "You are in no position to make demands of this court, Luke de Perigueux."

Luke stepped forward. The guards seized him and yanked him back. "I insist on seeing that letter!"

"Remove him from the hall," Alberic told the guards. "We'll reconvene after dinner."

Luke had no idea what the sheriff and his guests dined on. His midday meal, which he didn't eat, consisted of porridge heavily laced with salt and wine that had long since turned to vinegar.

He contemplated the letter from Faithe. Could she have written such things-denounced him so unconditionally? Forcing himself to view the situation from her perspective, he had to concede that it was possible. He'd admitted to killing Caedmon, and never had a chance to explain the circ.u.mstances to her. He'd always admired her strength of will. In all likelihood she was calling on that strength now to put him out of her life for good. It made his soul ache to know that she'd so thoroughly abandoned him.

When the trial resumed in the early afternoon, Luke was asked for his version of the killing, and gave it, after which Alberic described it as "the fabrication of a desperate man." Orrik was called upon to give his predictable account of the Black Dragon's many character flaws-his "infinite capacity for violence." He scoffed at the notion that Caedmon had been mad, or even ill, and insisted that he was incapable of attacking a woman. Other Hauekleah servants were called up, all of whom commended their former master for his agreeable nature and peaceful ways. Through translations by his clerk, Alberic encouraged this praise for Caedmon, which Luke found ironic, considering the sheriff's unreasoning hatred of Saxons. He must be very determined to see Luke hang if he was willing to set that hatred aside, even for a moment.

When all the testimony had been delivered, Alberic asked Luke if he felt any remorse at all for having murdered Caedmon.

"I committed no murder," Luke said.

"That's not a proper answer to my question," Alberic said.

"'Tis the only answer I can give."

Alberic sighed disgustedly. "Take him back to the cellar so I may consult with the jury in private."

Ham took this opportunity to taunt his prisoner with yet more descriptions of the agonies in store for him. Luke tried to be unmoved, reminding himself that escape was impossible now, that all he had left was his dignity. He'd endured pain before, and he'd long ago gotten used to the idea of death. In truth, it was the knowledge that his fragile bond of love with Faithe had been destroyed that truly tormented him. He would go to his death less than whole for having lost that.

The guards came downstairs. "His lordship says they're ready." They escorted Luke back to the hall, where he was made to stand where he'd stood all day, facing the high table. Alberic half hid his smile behind steepled fingers. Orrik, standing off to the side, wore a look of immense self-satisfaction.

Alberic rose. "It is found by the jurors of the shire court of Foxhyrst," he intoned as the clerk took notes, "that the accused Luke de Perigueux did, wrongfully and with malicious intent, slay one Caedmon of Hauekleah in the village of Cottwyk. It is also determined that he did a.s.sail the woman known as Helig, who thereupon fled her home and perished most cruelly by lightning. Therefore the said Luke de Perigueux is condemned to death by hanging at dawn tomorrow, after first suffering such varied punishments as the hangman may see fit, in retribution for his impenitence."

"What cause has he for penitence?" came a woman's breathless cry from behind. Faithe? Luke wheeled around to find her standing in the doorway. "He's done nothing wrong!"

"Guards, eject that woman!" Alberic ordered.

A man grabbed for her arm. "Let go of her!" Luke roared; the guard recoiled and held his hands up placatingly.

"You invited me here, Lord Alberic." Faithe withdrew a letter from beneath her mantle. Her face was flushed, her hair wild, her clothes in disarray; she had never looked more beautiful to him. "You told me I could attend my husband's trial."

"Or send a representative," Alberic said. "You sent your bailiff, bearing your letter to the court."

"My bailiff! I sent another man with that letter." She frowned at Orrik. "What did you do to him?"

"He was needed elsewhere," Orrik said.

"It matters not," Alberic said. "Your letter was delivered. If you now have cause to regret it, 'tis too late. The trial is concluded, and your husband has been convicted of murder."

"My husband," Faithe said, "is innocent of murder." She met Luke's gaze with a brief look of rea.s.surance, then motioned to someone outside, who followed her into the hall-a woman, humbly dressed and wearing a hooded cloak that cast her face in shadow. "This woman can prove it. She's the woman from Ixbridge whom I referred to in my letter."

"Your letter made no mention of a woman," Alberic sputtered.

"Of course it did. I wrote of the woman Matfrid, from Ixbridge." Faithe nodded toward her companion, who reached up slowly and lowered her hood. She was young and black-haired, and might have been pretty were it not for a knife scar along one cheek and another across her forehead. They looked like the kind of scars that might all but disappear in time; but for now, they were still angry and disfiguring slashes.

Luke saw Orrik's eyes light with recognition when he got a good look at her face. He grimaced, clearly displeased to see her here.

"Matfrid," Faithe said, guiding the young woman by her arm into the hall, "is the woman who... who Caedmon attacked in Ixbridge while he was awaiting battle. I described the incident in my letter."

Alberic addressed his clerk. "Brother Damian, was there anything in that letter about a woman from-"

"Nay, milord!" The little man produced the letter in question. "I swear it!"

"Aye, 'tis all there," Faithe insisted.

"What Saxon trickery is this?" Alberic muttered.

"Watch your tongue when you speak to my wife," Luke growled. He swore Alberic shrank back, despite the fact that Luke was in manacles and surrounded by guards.

"Matfrid," Faithe said in English, urging the girl forward, "tell his lordship what happened. Go ahead, it's all right."

Matfrid stared into the rushes and spoke-so softly that a great quiet descended over the hall. Every man there strained to hear her halting words, although most of them could understand only the clerk's French translation. "'Twas last autumn. September, it was. They came to the inn where I worked-the one they called Caedmon, and that one" -she nodded hesitantly toward Orrik- "and three or four others. Lord Caedmon, he" -she twisted her skirt in her hands- "he paid me tuppence to... well... he had a room upstairs, and..."

"Yes, go on," Alberic said shortly.

"Well, we... he done what he paid me for." Some of the soldiers snickered, but fell silent when Alberic glared at them.

Faithe lifted her chin gamely. "Tell him about... the knife," she prompted gently.

"He pulled out this knife," Matfrid said. "I didn't expect it. I mean, he'd been actin'... well... a bit off. Wrong. But I didn't think much of it. Then out comes this knife. I tried to get him to put it away. Then he starts hollerin' at me. And I see his arm goin' back and forth, and these flashes, like..." Her hand drifted up to touch her scars. "I didn't even feel it at first. I saw the blood on him, and thought he was cutting himself. Then I realized he was cutting me, and I started screaming."

The hall was filled with the low buzz of conversation.

"They pulled him off me," Matfrid said, "and gave me two shillings, and left. I never seen any of them again." She glanced toward Orrik. "Till now."

"My husband is telling the truth about what happened in Cottwyk," Faithe said. "He was trying to protect that woman from Lord Caedmon-nothing more. Caedmon wasn't evil. He'd been very ill, and his illness affected his mind. I explained all of that in my letter."

Alberic whipped the sheet of parchment from his clerk's hand and held it out to Faithe. "This is the only letter from you that we received today-the one in which you denounce Sir Luke as-"

"Denounce him!" Crossing the hall swiftly, Faithe s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from Alberic and stared at it in outrage. "I didn't write this. I never would have written this."

She looked toward Orrik; so did Alberic and the soldiers who comprised the jury.

Orrik pressed himself against the stone wall and licked his lips nervously. "I did it for you, Faithe."

"You wrote this and pretended it came from me?"

"I did it for you! For you!"

Faithe shook her head. "Oh, Orrik."

"Am I to understand," Alberic ground out, "that this man" -he pointed to Orrik- "forged that letter and presented it to the court as genuine?"

Orrik needed no translator to comprehend the sheriff's rage. "'Twas the only way!" he insisted, moving sideways along the wall toward the door. "The only way! I had to protect her! 'Twas up to me!"

"Guards." Alberic pointed to Orrik. His men leapt on the bailiff, pinioning his hands behind him. "I knew you Saxons were a devious lot, but this is outrageous. You've made a fool out of me and a mockery of this court, and I intend to see that you pay with your life."

"Please," Faithe implored the sheriff, "he thought he was helping me. I beg you to be merciful."

"Mercy in this case," Alberic said, "would be a swift execution, with no preliminaries. That is the most generous punishment I feel disposed to mete out."

Faithe looked stricken. "Could you not perhaps... imprison him, or-"

"I'd rather hang than putrefy in some Norman prison!" Orrik declared.

Shaking her head slowly, Faithe took a step toward the man who'd been, for most of her life, like a father to her. "Why, Orrik?" she said, her voice quavering with emotion. "Why did you force me to choose between you and my husband? I begged you not to. I loved you. I didn't want this to happen, but you doomed yourself."

"'Twas these greedy, murdering Norman b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who doomed me," he spat out. "These wh.o.r.esons have doomed all of us. They seized our country and ravished it, and that was bad enough, but when they took you, my little girl, my wee Faithe, and gave you to that bloodthirsty son of a-"

"That's enough, Saxon!" Alberic interjected. "If you want a quick death, you'll hold your tongue." His attention turned to Luke. For a long moment the two men regarded each other in eloquent silence.

Luke had been vindicated, thanks to Faithe. There was nothing to be done now but release him. The sheriff's dark gaze and clenched fists attested to his displeasure at that prospect, but in the end he simply turned to his guards and muttered, "Remove Sir Luke's restraints. He's free to go."

One of the guards produced a key and unlocked Luke's manacles. "Don't let him go!" Orrik exclaimed as the guards dragged him toward the cellar. "Are you mad?"

Flinging the shackles aside, Luke crossed to Faithe and gathered her in his arms, murmuring her name and kissing her hair.

"I did it for you!" Orrik screamed to Faithe as he was wrestled into the stairwell. "Did you want to be bound in marriage to the Black Dragon?"

"The Black Dragon doesn't exist," she replied. "My husband is Luke of Hauekleah, and I'm taking him home now."

Epilogue.

May 1068: Hauekleah.

"This way," Luke whispered, guiding Faithe by her hand through the darkened woods.

"Why are you whispering?" Faithe asked. "Everyone's gone home by now.

It was almost dawn; the last of the May Day celebrants had long since retired for the night. Luke had insisted on waiting until the woods were empty before bringing Faithe out here. Nevertheless, he'd been surprisingly eager to do so; in fact, it had been his idea.

"This is it." He led her into a small clearing, silvery with moonlight and the faint, luminous promise of daybreak. New gra.s.s and spring wildflowers scented the air. Birds chattered raucously all around them.

Luke unpinned his mantle and spread it on the gra.s.s, then urged her to lie down with him. Gathering her in his arms, he kissed her deeply; she returned the kiss with joyous pa.s.sion. He caressed her with unhurried hands, moving her wrapper aside to cup a breast through her shift. She glided her hands beneath his shirt, reveling in his warmth and strength, so familiar to her now, yet still so intoxicating. Had it only been a year since he'd come to Hauekleah-the victorious invader claiming his war prize?

The Black Dragon was gone, along with Caedmon. The past, with all its pain and sorrow, lay dead and buried. The future was curled up in Faithe's belly, waiting to be born.

She gasped and pressed his palm to her stomach, just beginning to swell with their child. Another faint kick thudded against his hand. He gasped, and then laughed delightedly, along with her.

Closing a hand around his neck to draw him nearer, she kissed him, then reached down to untie his chausses.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "What of the baby? Now that I've felt him move, I can't help but think we'd be disturbing him if we-"

"The baby," she replied as she pulled him down on top of her, "had better get used to this. Because I have no intention of giving it up. I'll never stop loving you... with my body or with my heart."

"Nay," he murmured as they joined together, moving as one to a rhythm as ancient as time itself, "don't ever stop. And neither will I."