A sudden fire blazed in her eyes and Richard nodded with satisfaction. The wench was powerfully easy to govern, a task made all the more simple by the fact she wasn't aware of him doing it to her. He lifted a single eyebrow in challenge, inclined his head in his most lordly manner, and walked off.

Once he'd reached the barbican of the inner bailey gate, he snatched a wom cloak from one of his guardsmen, wrapped it around him to conceal his armor, and climbed up to the walkway. He meandered down the way, keeping the hood close 'round his face. He stopped just above where Jessica's men rested comfortably and turned just far enough to be able to see and hear what she would do.

Jessica strode over purposefully. He had to admire her carriage. Worthy of any commander, to be sure. She clapped her hands a time or two. "Hear me," she commanded. "I've drawn a deep mark in the dirt where the walls of the great hall will be. I want the ground inside those marks completely free of rocks and debris. And," she added, "this isn't a request."

Her English wasn't good, but Richard knew that was because she was trying to speak a language that had been dead to her for several hundred years. She was understandable; nothing else mattered.

One or two men rose, then saw that their fellows weren't moving and sat back down.

Jessica folded her arms over her chest. Richard almost smiled at that. Then he hastily wiped any trace of expression off his face. No sense in letting anyone see his moment of weakness. He gathered his amusement and admiration for his future woman and held it all inside, where he could enjoy it privately. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough," Jessica said. There was an edge like a steel blade in her voice, sharp and cutting. "I want the ground cleared. Now." "Says who?" a lad asked scornfully. "I am in charge," Jessica said. "I wear my lord de Galtres's ring. That is enough for him; it's enough for YOU."

172.

One of the others guffawed. "Like as no', Vs tumblin' ler," the man said, laughing again. "Are ye good atwix' the sheets, lady?"

Richard took a step forward, then realized he'd fall from the walkway if he moved any farther. The blood thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to listen and remember just who had made the comment. The man wouldn't leave the gates without a token of his displeasure.

Jessica smiled. How she did it, he certainly didn't know, but she managed. "Anyone else agree with him? Yes? Please step forward."

A dozen lads stood up and sauntered over. Richard threw his cloak back off his shoulders and signaled to the score of knights who immediately caught sight of him. If those men took one step closer to her, they'd be dead. A score of crossbows were immediately trained on the bailey.

Jessica gave the men another smile. "The gates are behind me. Walk through them on your way out." "Just a bloody moment-" "Out!" Jessica barked. "I'll speak to His Lordship about this," one of the men snarled. "Give him my regards while you're at it," Jessica said. She waved the men toward the gate, then looked at the remainder of her workers. Richard made sure the louts were leaving before he turned his attentions to the rest of her lads. A score and ten, possibly two score. She'd be lucky to keep half that. "Anyone else feel inclined to forfeit a steady job and excellent pay?"

Twenty men walked away. Richard did a quick count. A score left. That wouldn't build a hall. He'd have to hire more men, but he'd do it gladly. He waited until he saw that the remainder of the laborers were starting to do as Jessica bid them, then ran back along the battlements. He tossed the cloak to its owner and thumped down the stairs.

173.

He strode out to the lists, unsmiling. He had six men to beat the hell out of before he could do any work.

He walked straight up to the man who had insulted her and smashed a fist into his face. The man didn't get up. Richard identified the other five, who had all gone pale, and pointed toward the outer gate in the distance. "Take your fellow and begone. Show your faces inside my gates again and you'll not leave alive. No apologies will be accepted," he added, when one of the men opened his mouth to speak.

Richard turned to the other score. "I've little time. What miserable troubles do you have?" "My lord," one of them began, stepping forward, "the woman, she thinks to give us orders." "Did you not see my fing on her finger?" "Aye, milord, but she's a woman-" "She's building my hall." "But, milord, I can't work for a woman!" "Fine, don't," Richard snapped. " 'Tis less gold out of my coffers if you leave." He turned on his heel and walked away.

The matter was far from his mind, though, and he watched out of the comer of his eye as eighteen of the twenty went back inside the inner bailey. A nod sent a handful of mailed knights striding after them. Richard knew no words were necessary to tell his lads that he expected Jessica to be protected. Every last man in the bloody keep could do little but gape at her when she passed. She'd come to the lists once and only once. Two men with broken bones were enough to convince him she was a distraction none of them needed while training. In truth, having her work on the hall was a perfect way to keep her tucked inside the bailey, though he half suspected she would continually have an abundance of guardsmen she didn't need.

Eighteen men were soon huddled in a group on the side of the field. Richard savored a bit more pleasure as he beckoned to their new leader. The old one had obviously

174.

thought no gold in his pocket to be preferable to working for a woman. Fool.

The new man stopped and made him a hasty bow. "Milord, she won't have us back."

Richard lifted an eyebrow. "Indeed." "Milord, I've a family to feed," the man complained. "I need this work." "You should have thought of that before." "Milord, she's just a woman!" "Never," Richard said quietly, "ever say that about Jessica Blakely. She is not a woman to underestimate."

The man chewed on that one for a moment or two. "Milord, would you speak to her?" He dropped to his knees. "I beseech you." "I'm not the one to be begging to," Richard said, turning his head and spitting, as if he had nothing better to do. "But I'll come along, just for the sport. I've need of a cup of ale anyway."

He led the pitiful group of laborers back up to the bailey. Jessica was knee-deep in giving instructions. When she saw him, and what was behind him, she turned. "Well, buckaroo," he said, hoping she would recognize one of her future words and understand he was trying to send a message with it, "I see you've let these men go.- "I did," she said calmly, clasping her hands behind her back. "I understand they're willing to work now."

She shrugged. "They didn't seem too apologetic, nor very willing to listen. I don't have time for that kind of man."

Richard sighed heavily, as if it truly grieved him. He turned to the men and held up his hands helplessly. "You didn't apologize well. I can't help you."

The leader stepped forward. "But, my lord!" "I have no say in this." The man approached Jessica. "Lady Jessica, we want our jobs."

175.

Jessica looked up from where she was digging a rock out of the ground. "No."

The man gaped. Richard wanted to laugh. "But, my lady, please!" Jessica rose and looked at the man. "Do you have any idea how carefully this project must proceed? A rock laid improperly, a stone set crookedly, and the entire building will be askew. I need men with good eyes and strong backs. And ones brave enough to have a woman lead them. These other lads are courageous. Are you?" "Aye, lady," the man said. He didn't sound too convinced, but Richard knew he'd gain respect for her soon enough. "Then go pick up rocks," Jessica said. She turned back to her digging, dismissing the men, who immediately set to work.

Richard started to walk away but Jessica's calling his name stopped him. "Aye?" he asked.

She smiled and the beauty of that smile smote him in the heart. He had a hard time catching his breath. "Thank you."

He nodded weakly. "Aye." "That's yee-hah. It's what buckaroos say." "Yee-hah," he offered. She laughed. She looked at him and laughed again, then settled back to her work, still chuckling. Richard had no idea what was so damned amusing, but he had the feeling she was laughing at his expense.

He tried to dredge up some foul humor but it wouldn't come.

He was still reeling from the impact of her smile.

177.

18.

Hugh de Galtres stood near the gatehouse, milling about with a handful of his brother's peasants as they prepared to go about their business inside the bailey. Unfortunately, he didn't have much strength to mill about properly. He was using most of it to keep himself from falling down on the spot.

He hadn't expected his unannounced-and clandestine-return home to have affected him so. All he could do was clutch the stone of the wall behind him and gape like a half-witted peasant lad at what he saw.

Or, more to the point, didn't see. Everything was gone. He'd heard rumors of the like, of course, but he'd hardly believed them. Now he knew they were true. Richard had torn down everything, including a good deal of the outer walls. Those had been rebuilt, but the inner buildings were still a fond dream. There were stables, aye, and a poorly constructed garrison hall, but nothing of the splendor Hugh had enjoyed in his youth.

At least he told himself it had been splendid. And he forbade himself yet again to remember how his father had sent him away to live at another keep at such a tender age.

Hugh gave himself a good hard shake and forced himself to look upon his childhood home. The only decent improvement he could see was that the dungeons had been filled in. Hugh had never cared for them. He had suspected that all kinds of creatures dwelt therein, creatures he'd had no desire to come to know better. He'd heard their wails.

Hugh could imagine how the keep would look when it was finished and how fine the outbuildings would be. Richard had been long on the continent and had gold enough to see to luxuries Hugh could only dream of. 'Twould be a fine place indeed.

Hugh could only gape. Aye, Richard could aid him and never feel the pain of it.

He was tempted to ask it right then, but two things stopped him: the faery was building Richard's hall, and Richard's guard was clustered nearby.

Hugh gave the latter his attentions. Never mind that they were bowing and weaving like drunken hens. Hugh had seen the lads a time or two and was well acquainted with their skills. If nothing else, the last one he wanted to encounter was that bastard from Scalebro. Sir Godwin likely still carried about his person an implement or two from his fonner employment as castle torturer. And the man's reputation for patience and skill was legendary.

Hugh folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, trying to still his racing heart with a few calming thoughts. He would seek shelter outside the walls, then decide the best way to approach his brother. Aye, that was the most sensible plan.

Hugh turned and left the inner bailey. He had time. After all, Richard would likely live a very long life, what with the way he never partook of strong drink and seem- ingly didn't ease himself with whatever woman passed by him. Hugh shook his head. Sober and free of disease. He couldn't imagine the like.

178.

Hugh stumbled over an animal at the entrance to the outer-bailey barbican. His first instinct was to boot the beast as far as he could, then he realized it was a feline. For all he knew, it was a witch's familiar-and the saints only knew where abusing the beast might lead him.

He froze until the cat wandered off, apparently in search of other, more foolish victims. He quickly made a few of his favorite signs to ward off evil, then hurried from the keep. He had seen enough for that day.

Seeing the cat, however, had led him to another conclusion. There wasn't a faery in the inner bailey, there was a witch. The cat was her familiar. The more Hugh thought on it, the more sense it made to him.

And if there was a witch in the keep, it was very possible that Richard might find himself enspelled. And if he were under some foul spell, he might be less than eager to help Hugh.

And that would be a terrible thing indeed. Hugh would have to see to the witch. Richard would live to thank him for it.

Jessica closed up shop at dusk and sent her weary hired hands home. After making sure Richard was going to be in the gathering hall for a bit, she took a quick bath and relaxed. Things were going well. It had been a week since she'd begun work on the hall. With any luck, the stone for the floor would be cut and laid within the next week. After that, the walls could go up while the timber for the roof was being prepared. She didn't consider herself much of a general contractor but she'd had the good fortune of finding a man on her crew who was a master organizer and didn't seem to have a problem working with a woman. He'd taken one look at her plans and his eyes had lit up. They'd spent much of the afternoon discussing strategy. Jessica was immensely grateful for his help.

Someone had unearthed a set of iron manacles and something that looked remarkably like a branding iron. Richard had wandered by as the discovery had been shown to her. She'd almost asked him if his father had ever branded his horses, but she'd stopped short at the look on his face. The absolute terror in his eyes had made her hastily step in front of the man and give Richard a fake smile. She'd bid him a good evening, then waited

180.

until he'd stumbled away before she'd turned on the man and told him to come with her to the blacksmith's shop.

The blacksmith had been ready to take his supper but Jessica had convinced him, perhaps a bit ungently, that what he really wanted to do was melt that metal down immediately. His remark that those were the second pair of irons he'd seen in a month had stuck with her. She didn't want to jump to unfounded conclusions, but wondered if Richard had seen the first pair, too. Farfetched though it might have been, she suspected it might have been the day he'd gotten drunk.

But why would the sight of that bother him so? She had no doubts his father bad beaten him, but had he done more than that? John had reluctantly revealed that the first thing Richard had done was to fill in the dungeons. A new cellar for wine and food had been dug, but no dungeon. Had he seen prisoners chained there?

Had he been chained there? She pushed that thought away as she sat before the fire and dried her hair. It was too awful to contemplate. She was certain Richard had been a sweet, beautiful, loving child. No parent could have been that sick. But it was also true that something dreadful must have happened to him to have made him become so hard. People didn't turn inward without a reason.

She smiled at Richard as he came into the room, hoping her thoughts weren't reflected in her eyes. Richard looked tired. "How was your day, honey?" she asked. "Do not tell me 'honey' is another of your teasing words," he said, casting himself down into his chair. "It's much nicer." She flipped her head over to the side to let the fire dry the strands underneath. "Good day in the lists?"

He shrugged. "Horse is finally putting weight on his foreleg. At least there is hope he may heal." "Oh, Richard," she said, relieved, "that's wonderful." "I was a fool to use him ill." "It wasn't your fault."

181.

Richard rose abruptly and walked to the window. Jessica listened to him throw open the shutters and mentally bit her tongue. So, conversation wasn't going to work very well. Maybe discussing the hall would go better.

She waited until he'd gotten enough sea air and come to sit again before she pulled her sketch of the hall off the chair behind her. "Are you sure about the windows?" she asked. "They aren't too big?"

He shrugged, as if he couldn't care less. "They'll warm the hall in the summer, when the sun shines, but probably make things pretty chilly in the winter. I was thinking of maybe hanging tapestries over them then.",She looked up at him. "What do you think?" "Do as you see fit."

Jessica sighed and fingered her drawing. "I wish I had something to color them with. Just to see how they'd look. "

Richard was up again, more slowly this time, but still up. Jessica gave up and put the drawing on her chair. She turned to the fire and flipped her hair over her head. Maybe he was getting tired of listening to her babble all the time.

She heard the scrape of the table being dragged over, then heard Richard setting something on it. She flipped her hair back over, then looked up. When she saw something that could have been mistaken for a paintbrush, she jumped up so fast, her head swam. She looked at Richard in disbelief. "You paint?" "Too lofty a term for it," he said. He sat down, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Well, there are your colors. That is the extent of my chivalry today." "You don't need any more," she said, reaching out and touching the brushes reverently. "And it's too bad I couldn't paint my way out of a paper bag. Guess we'll never know how the windows could have looked."

Richard was squirming. Jessica tried to look casual.

182.

"Don't suppose you'd want to do it," she said, hoping she sounded as casual as she looked.

Richard reached out and toyed with a quill. He even went so far as to stretch out a piece of blank parchment and anchor it down with four chess pieces.

Jessica didn't need to hear a request. She simply unrolled her drawing and anchored it with a queen and three knights. Richard continued to stall. "You know," she said, yawning suddenly, "I'm so tired. Would you be offended if I just curled up here in front of the fire and took a nap? You build such a great fire, Richard. Seems a shame not to enjoy it."

He waved her away benevolently with his quill. Jessica stretched out on the tapestry she had appropriated for a rug, having found that fur tended to get stuck in her hair, and pulled a blanket over her. She breathed normally for a bit, yawned, then did her best to pretend she was asleep. After a few minutes she heard the soft scratching of the quill.

The next thing she knew, she was waking because of a crick in her neck. The scratching was still going on. Jessica rose, then walked around the back of Richard's chair. She gasped when she saw what he'd done.

Painting was no term at all for his artistry. The world had indeed lost a marvelous craftsman when Fate had decreed that he be a warlord. "Richard, it's beautiful," she exclaimed softly. She put her hands on his shoulders. "I can't believe I let you see mine! " " 'Tis nothing." His shoulders were stiff under her hands. "But, of course it is. You've created something very beautiful and delicate."

He barked out a laugh. "Beautiful? Nay, lady, that would be impossible." He pulled away from her and stood, facing the fire. She watched him rub his wrists. "Nothing beautiful could ever come from me. It was leeched out of me long ago."

183.

"But. . ." she protested. He swiped up the sheaf and shook it at her. "This? This is foolishness. There is no beauty in my soul, no purity, no joy." He crumpled up the finished line drawing and threw it into the fire. "That," he said bitterly, pointing to the fire, "is the destiny of not only myself, but everything I create." "Richard, how could you!" she gasped, aghast. "It was so wonderful, so lovely."

He wore the same look he'd worn in the bailey when he'd seen the fetters, only the horror in his eyes was dimmed by the hardness. "Take it as a warning," he said flatly. He pushed past her and banged out of the room.

Jessica walked over to the shutters, threw them open, and burst into tears. It would have been nice to blame it on her period, but she'd had that the week before. No, this had everything to do with what she considered to be a pointed rejection and with the fact that a beautiful young man had been ruined by forces outside of his control.

And if that wasn't enough to make a woman weep, she didn't know what was.