The guests, momentarily too stunned to react, glanced from one end of the list to the other. From his seat on the dais, Friar felt a disturbing p.r.i.c.kle of apprehension chill his flesh. A quick glance around the borders of the field-surely the only pair of eyes not glued to the combatants-confirmed his earlier suspicion that all was not what it should be. There were far too many of De Gournay's guards present, and now, acting on some unseen signal, they were pressing forward, forming a solid wall of steel and bullhide around the field. Here and there a familiar face, paled by indecision, looked to Friar for guidance, but he could only warn them against any rash action with a slight shake of his head.

"Further," the regent continued in his most pompous manner, "it has also come to our attention that this is no mere challenge of valour and skill, but a pitting of one man's honour against another. And since a knight's name and honour are those things which he should value most above all else, it has been agreed by both parties that the winner shall take all: trophies of armour and gear, as well as lands, t.i.tles, and such wealth as both men have acquired through purchase or battle during their lifetimes. Before G.o.d and His witnesses, is it so agreed?"

A flurry of shocked gasps was marked by a general, swirling collapse of delicate figures in the Bower of Beauty.

"I will abide by G.o.d's decision," the Wolf said promptly.

"Or die by it," the Dragon declared, and reached up to drop his slitted visor into place.

The herald, an astonished bystander to this point, looked from one end of the lists to the other as the two knights readied themselves for the final confrontation. He started to raise a hand to signal the trumpeters, but reconsidered the gesture as being too flamboyant. He opened his mouth to call the challengers to horse, but since they were already mounted and armed, he thrust his tongue to the side of his cheek and kept his silence. In the end, he slinked back into the lee of the dais and left it up to Prince John to loose the combatants.

The Dragon adjusted the weight and balance of the long, wickedly barbed steel lance he carried, and a keen eye among the spectators launched a fresh volley of wagering. The Dragon couched the twenty-foot shaft of deadly steel on his right side, directly in line with the approach of the opposing rider. The black knight, it was observed with a cry of amazement, favoured the left, making it necessary to angle the lance over the front of his saddle. A wrong step by his charger, a swerve or a veer at the last moment and the tip of the lance would stray wildly off the course.

The Wolf, seemingly unconcerned over the flurry of new speculation swelling in the bowers, affected a last-minute adjustment to the fit of his mail gauntlets. His armour, like the Dragon's, consisted of many plates of steel linked together over a quilted leather surcoat. This, in turn, was worn over a full hauberk of chain mail, and in combination, was like carrying the additional weight of a slender man on his body. His shoulders were covered by metal spaudlers, his arms were sheathed in a jointed vambrace. Hammered and molded cuisses, poleyns, and greaves shielded his thighs, knees, and lower legs, but even though the armour would deflect most of the potential damage of a combatant's blow, there was nothing but flesh and muscle to absorb the horrendous shock of impact. Ma.s.sive bruising could cripple a man at shoulder, elbow, or knee even through the layers of link, hide, and steel, and if an opponent became aware of the weakness, he could strike again and again at the vulnerable point until his adversary fell.

Both knights waited, planned, calculated. Their chargers were still as statues, their armour and silk trappings glinting in the sunlight.

Prince John stood, the golden arrow raised above his head for all to see. With his black eyes narrowed against the glare of the lowering sun, and his face reflecting avaricious delight, he brought his arm arcing swiftly downward, giving the command for the two destriers to spring into action.

In a matter of a few heartbeats, the two beasts had thundered to the midway point of the lists, their riders leaning forward, intent upon the approaching threat. The unblunted tips of the two lances lifted at precisely the same moment and converged into a single line of unbroken steel for a split second before a tremendous crash and scream of metal sent the horses buckling and the riders staggering to maintain their balance.

The crowd held its breath, then released it in a long, low groan as men and horses separated and galloped to the end of the lists unscathed. Both tossed away broken or splintered lances and called for new ones. Wheeling their destriers around, they set themselves for a second pa.s.s, and this time it was the Dragon who reached the halfway marker first, his lance a notch higher and bolder in its objective to strike for the blackened visor.

The Wolf had to think and react quickly as he saw the flash of steel fill his limited field of sight. He raised his own lance at the last possible moment and hooked it to the inside edge of De Gournay's, locking the two shafts together, and creating a fiery shower of sparks from the searing friction. The Dragon had no choice but to release his grip on the lance, or risk having his arm torn away at the shoulder.

Furious and cursing, he rode to the end of the list and screamed for a new weapon. He spurred his horse back into the cloud of hot dust boiling between the palisades, his rage launching him like a bolt of blue and silver thunder, back into the fray. His lance struck a solid blow to the Wolf's shoulder, gouging through the links of his spaudler and ripping away a goodly chunk of leather and cotton padding from the surcoat below. On their next pa.s.s, he aimed for the same spot but missed by several inches, the barbed end of his lance careening wildly off the Wolf's angled shield.

On each successive pa.s.s the crowd cheered louder. Each crash of horseflesh, steel, and raw power sent ribbons of silk waving madly over heads and pale, trembling hands clutching over hearts. The Wolf warded off devastating blows to his chest and shoulders; the Dragon shook off crushing thrusts to ribs, shoulders, and thighs. Neither rode as straight or as steady as they had during the first run, but neither showed signs of conceding. They were tiring, however, and weakening. Even their horses were taking longer strides to turn and recoup for the next charge.

Three ... five ... seven seven pa.s.ses! Unbelievable! The crowd was on its feet, stunned by the display of courage and strength. pa.s.ses! Unbelievable! The crowd was on its feet, stunned by the display of courage and strength.

The horses converged again, their mouths flecked with foam and blood, their eyes round and wild with fighting madness. When the clash came, the lances locked again and the knights were driven together, neither one willing to give ground, not even when the animals beneath them reared and thrashed and pounded the dividing palisade into a heap of split kindling. Shields hammered into one another and the two knights abandoned their saddles, eager to bring the fight to closer contact.

Into the choking dust and flying debris was added the deadly glitter of longswords. Within a grinding maelstrom of screaming, pawing horses, their blades hacked and slashed at vulnerable areas of back, neck, shoulder, arm, and thigh. Links were shattered and rivets torn apart; plates of armour were dented, loosened and sliced away by the fury of killing thrusts. Splashes of sweat and blood began to spatter the ground; a thigh was sliced, an arm cut, shields were thrown away and swords gripped in both hands as an end drew inevitably nearer.

The Dragon took a staggering blow to the side of his helm and felt himself reel sideways into a shifting ma.s.s of horseflesh. The Wolf pursued and was on him in the next instant, throwing the full brunt of his weight into the effort needed to bring his adversary to the ground. With the roar of the crowd's bloodl.u.s.t in his ears, he succeeded. He heard the Dragon's breath wrenched from his lungs on a curse of agony as the two landed solidly on the torn earth, then a further curse of outraged disbelief as the Wolf drove the point of his sword into the narrow gap between the Dragon's helm and gorget.

His chest heaving and his lungs scalded from lack of air, the Wolf exerted enough pressure on his sword to convince his brother to freeze where he lay. His wounds stung and his muscles screamed in pain; the scarred flesh of his shoulder, back, and ribs demanded vengeance, swift and sure. Etienne's visor had been jolted loose in the fall, and the wild, pale blue eyes that stared up at him in disbelieving terror were the same cold blue eyes that had once stared down in triumph at the broken and bleeding body he had left to rot in the desert sun.

"Why?" Lucien demanded. "Just tell me why you did it, Etienne!"

The Dragon's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Forgive me, Lucien. I beg you, forgive me."

"What? What did you say?" What did you say?"

The Dragon gasped, braced for death. "Forgive me. The truth is ... I am relieved to finally be free of the guilt I have carried with me all these years. Carried it, hated it, loathed the envy and jealousy that drove me to commit such a heinous act. You were my brother, Lucien, and I killed you. I do not blame you for doing this-"

"Blame me?" the Wolf snarled. "Blame "Blame me? I will die a happy man knowing you do not me? I will die a happy man knowing you do not blame blame me, you soulless b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" me, you soulless b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The sword moved forward and Etienne sucked a last breath through his teeth. Their eyes were locked together, blue merging with gray, gray with blue until each became a part of the other. Memories, unbidden and unwanted, struck with the swiftness of a second blade-memories of a lifetime ago, of happy times and shared laughter. For one unsettling moment, the Wolf suffered an image of the two of them practicing at a quintain, their youthful arms barely strong enough to lift a lance let alone aim it at the centre of the fixed target.

"You were my brother and I loved you!" the Wolf cried. "I would have shared it all willingly with you!"

"All but the name, Lucien," the Dragon whispered. "Mine would always have been b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The Wolf's fists trembled, but they could not push the blade of his sword the extra fraction of an inch needed to thrust steel and chain and windpipe into a crush of bloodied tissue and bone. A curse, given on a roar of anguish, saw him lift the sword away and heave it across the shattered wall of the list, a bright, cartwheeling glitter of pitted steel and hollow revenge.

"Before G.o.d, I cannot kill you," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "I cannot forgive you, but I cannot kill you either. It will be enough to have the truth come out at last."

Etienne raised himself on his elbow, then onto his knees. His one hand ma.s.saged the bruised flesh of his throat, his other shuffled through the dust beside him and grasped the hilt of his sword. Drawing on every last ounce of avarice and hatred he possessed, the Dragon brought the sword up over his head, and, with the Wolf already turned to walk away, he brought the heavy blade down solidly across the base of Lucien's skull.

The Wolf pitched forward, his senses erupting in a blinding sheet of pain. His body went completely numb and would not respond to any command, not even when he felt the presence of Etienne looming over him.

"I did not think you could kill a man who begged your forgiveness" he sneered, "regardless of his crime. Coward! Weakling! You do not belong here anymore. Bloodmoor is mine, and I will not share it with a ghost, however n.o.ble he might be."

He lowered the point of his sword, resting the tip just over the steel lip of the Wolf's visor. A brief thrust, a surge of sweet vengeance and it would be over ... but too quick! Too quick Too quick, Etienne told himself. There was still the promise he made Servanne de Briscourt to repay her deceit and treachery. It would would please him to see them die together. To hear their screams. To feel their blood run hot and slick over his hands. please him to see them die together. To hear their screams. To feel their blood run hot and slick over his hands.

A thrill, carnally delicious in intensity, swept through Etienne and he straightened, raising his voice with the triumph of a conqueror.

"Guards! Seize this man! He is a coward and murderer and has come to Bloodmoor under false pretenses!"

"False pretenses?" Prince John was quick to leap to his feet and feign outrage over De Gournay's actions. "What manner of false pretenses could justify the arrest of Sir Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?"

"This man"-the Dragon pointed a contemptuous finger at the dazed, semiconscious knight at his feet-"has committed crimes against the crown-crimes which include the ambush and murder of honest men, and the kidnapping of my own bride. All in the name of the Black Wolf of Lincoln?' the Black Wolf of Lincoln?'

A roar of disbelief swept through the spectators, rumbling down to an angry murmur as the Dragon again held up his hand for silence.

"Further, there is proof he intended harm not only to myself, but to you, my liege!" The piercing blue eyes sought out the prince and demanded corroboration. "I have reason to believe he was sent to England to raise his hand against the very crown itself!"

John gasped, finding it difficult not to applaud the Dragon's performance. "You say you have proof of these charges, Lord Wardieu-where is it?"

"It begins here." With a boldly dramatic flourish, the Dragon leaned over and removed the Wolf's black helm. The crowd gasped, their shock hanging in the air as they recognized the obvious deceit verified by the unscarred, unblemished face that was angled roughly toward them for inspection.

When the silence threatened to linger too long, Nicolaa de la Haye jumped to her feet beside Prince John. She had to lean on the rail for support, for she was experiencing the same erotic throes of pleasure she could see glazing Etienne's features. Her limbs trembled and her belly spasmed. The gratification shivered down her thighs as she raised her fist and incited the crowd to join her screams of: "Treason! Dog! Arrest him!"

Prince John was given no choice but to nod his head in complete agreement. "Arrest him. We shall get to the bottom of this treachery ... one way or another."

The wall of guards surged forward and swarmed over the fallen knight. Still reeling from the blow to his head, the Wolf was dragged from the enclosure and taken away in chains to the castle donjon.

Friar sat in stunned silence, unable to move, hardly able to believe what he had just seen and heard. There had been no time, no chance to react to Etienne Wardieu's charade, and to a man, the Wolf's knights had stood helplessly by and watched their leader carried from the field in chains. Prince John was already embellishing the lies by speculating over political motivations. Alaric only half-listened; to pay full heed might have been temptation enough to a.s.sa.s.sinate the gloating regent himself.

He was more concerned over the whereabouts of Gil, Sparrow, and the others. Sparrow had appeared briefly in front of the Wolf's pavilion, but had successfully vanished in the crowd. Robert the Welshman, normally visible by virtue of his height and bulk alone, had melted back into the ring of spectators and either taken cover in the nearby stables, or had been caught doing something reckless-like attempting to rescue the Wolf singlehandedly-and lay dead somewhere with his good intentions spilling out onto the cobblestones.

Friar was no less rea.s.sured to see a detachment of guards sent at once to reinforce the sentries on the main gates. Was the Dragon a.s.suming his brother had had the foresight to ensure the presence of a few friendly faces in the crowd? Or was he just taking normal precautions against the sympathy of the general rabble? La Seyne Sur Mer, as the dowager's champion, had been the favorite of the commoners. The Black Wolf of Lincoln, brave, bold, and daring in his exploits against the tyranny of De Gournay and the regent's tax collectors, was more simply put, their hero. To have the two legendary rogues revealed as being one and the same man, had brought upwards of two hundred angry, rebellious bodies crushing against the bars of the iron portcullis gates.

Fear they might break in was ludicrous, therefore it must mean the Dragon was wary of anyone else breaking out.

The guests began to disperse from the field. The ladies departed on cushioned litters, returning to the main keep by the same method they had been carried forth. Some of the n.o.bles rode as well-horses or litters-and took away their flocks of servants and retainers in the process. Prince John was among the first group to leave the dais, but delayed his return to the keep long enough to stop at the Dragon's pavilion and offer his congratulations. There, the castle chirurgeon was busy sewing and bandaging the lord's wounds, plucking out pieces of iron link that had become embedded in cut flesh, clucking and frowning over bruises that had turned the underlying pads of muscle into mush. Most of the injuries were slight; only one caused a flurry of clacking tongues and fingers, and a suggestion to attach leeches to drain off any possible threat of infection.

Friar was one of the last to leave the covered dais. He started to walk toward the rows of pavilions and stared, as he did so, at the empty field, now strewn with garbage, debris from the broken palisades, and clods of uprooted gra.s.s and dirt from the horses' churning hooves. He tried to think, tried to place himself inside the Wolf's head to devise a plan for rescuing the captured knight, but nothing crystalized. They were vastly outnumbered. They had been outmaneuvered once and would be again, for without the Wolf's knowledge of the castle grounds, they could search for a week without ever discovering the donjon where he was being held.

And a week was too long by any man's guess.

"My lord bishop-a word with you?"

Friar's attention was startled away from the field by the sound of a man's gruff voice over his shoulder. He turned and could not completely quell a chill of foreboding as he came face-to-face with an armed knight and three brawny guardsmen. The knight looked vaguely familiar with his long, thin nose, deep-set eyes, and coa.r.s.ely unpleasant features, but for the moment, his blazon of scarlet and yellow eluded ident.i.ty. As casually as he could, Friar clasped his hands together within the voluminous cuffs of his bishop's robes and nodded a formal greeting.

"Do I know you, sir knight?"

"You might. If you were in the forest a sennight ago and part of a band of rogues who ambushed innocent travelers ... you might know me."

Friar's right hand inched toward the dagger he had strapped to the inside of his other wrist. The act was concealed by his sleeves, yet the knight detected the movement and grasped a hand around Friar's wrist, knife and all, effectively spoiling the intent.

"I would have a word with you in private, my lord bishop," said the knight again, his voice a low rumble of authority. "You have nothing to fear from me, unless of course, Mistress Bidwell has been duped out of her senses- which I suspect she has-and has asked me to seek help from the wrong quarter."

"Mistress Bidwell? ... Biddy?" Biddy?"

The knight scowled and squeezed Friar's wrist to the point of making the hand swell and turn bright red before he released it. "I gave her my word to seek you out, and seek you out I have. Now, by G.o.d, you will come with me or you will die here by your own misfortune."

Friar glanced past the knight's shoulder and shook his head quickly at someone who had stepped out from behind a small, straw-filled cart. The knight, sensing the threat, whirled around, as did the three guards, only to find themselves staring down the shaft of a slender ashwood arrow. The "monk" holding the bow was tall and slim; his cowl had slipped back to reveal a shock of bright copper curls and an even more shocking scar down the left side of his face.

The three guards reached instinctively for the hilts of their swords, but a harsh command from the knight stopped them.

"You," he snarled, staring into Gil Golden's amber eyes. "I know you, by G.o.d. You were the one who did this-" Sir Roger de Chesnai smacked his thigh just above the bulge of padding that distorted the fit of his hose. His expression grew blacker as he swept his gaze along the length of Gil's robes. "Aye, 'tis well you hid yourself behind the church's cowl, for I would have scarred the other half of your head for you by now."

"You can still try," Gil said calmly. "Although I stopped your boastings once with ease."

"A lucky shot," De Chesnai growled.

The tip of the steel arrowhead swerved up and held unwaveringly to an imagined target dead centre of De Chesnai's brow. "No luckier than the shot I could use now to send your eyeball out the back of your skull."

"Christ on a cross," Friar muttered. "This is hardly the time for petty vanities. Kill each other later if you have a mind to, but for the moment, could we all set our differences aside and find the answers to some questions? Sir Roger de Chesnai-aye, I have fixed a name to the face-you are one of Sir Hubert's men?"

De Chesnai continued to glower at Gil while he nodded. "Sir Hubert's man, and now the Lady Servanne's."

The feeling of dread that should have dissipated upon identifying Sir Roger had not alleviated in the least, and now Friar knew why.

"Lady Servanne ... has something happened to her?"

"Alaric-" Gil's voice interrupted before the knight could reply. "I tried to reach you before you took your seat on the dais, but you were so close to Prince John, and there were too many people about."

"Has something happened to Lady Servanne?"

"Not here," De Chesnai commanded coldly. "A dozen pairs of eyes could be on us, and an equal number of p.r.i.c.kling ears. And for G.o.d's sake, tell this red-haired b.a.s.t.a.r.d to lower his bow before we are all done for."

"Gil-" Friar signaled her to put up the longbow, and grudgingly she obeyed. On a further thought, she set both bow and arrow aside long enough to shrug out of the monk's robes, which were now a greater hindrance than a disguise.

"The old woman is hidden nearby," said De Chesnai. "It is best you hear all from her. Come. She may be holding on to life by a thread as it is; we can waste no more time."

Alaric hesitated, wary of a trap. There had been no love lost between the old harridan and the Black Wolf; there was certainly no reason to trust Sir Roger de Chesnai, who still walked with a slight limp thanks to Gil's aim. It could be a ruse, designed to catch Friar and lure out of hiding any others who were taking refuge amongst the castle inhabitants.

"All right," Friar said. "Lead the way. But be advised there are more than a few steady hands pulling back on bowstrings as we wend our way through the shadows."

De Chesnai's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He beckoned his three men to fall into step behind him and started walking swiftly toward the castle's cramped streets of smoky workshops. He followed a twisted route into the heart of the noisy, crowded labyrinth until they arrived at the start of armourers' alley.

As hectic a place as it had been the previous nights, it was all but deserted now. The forges were cold in the smithies, the men all off somewhere celebrating their craftsmanship and skill. De Chesnai headed for one particularly dismal-looking bothy and again Friar paused, acutely conscious of how conspicuous he appeared in his black and crimson robes.

On a command from De Chesnai, the three guards dispersed, strolling casually to take up positions overlooking the approaches to the bothy. Gil had melted into one of the snickleways long ago, but reappeared now to give Friar a rea.s.suring nod.

"There are no eyes but our own watching us," she announced, and smugly arched her brow in De Chesnai's direction.

Bristling at the insult to his integrity, the knight thrust aside the ragged bit of canvas that served as a door. "Inside, the pair of you. And there had best be no tricks, or I will be the first to twist a knife in your gizzards."

Friar ducked through the doorway, followed by Gil and Sir Roger. The bothy was windowless and airless, the stench of raw bog iron nearly as overpowering to their throat and eyes as the tang of animal urine in the filthy straw. What light there was came through gaps in the thatched roof and holes in the canvas door.

Biddy was lying on a pallet in the corner, and at first glance, she was so pale and still, Alaric thought she was dead.

"Biddy?" He dropped down onto a knee beside her and took up one of her ice cold hands in his. "Mistress Bidwell? Can you hear me?"

Biddy cracked open an eyelid. It took a moment for her to bring Friar's face into focus, but when she did, she squeezed his hand with more strength than he would have supposed she possessed.

"What happened to you, Biddy?"

"Not important," she said, straining to form each word. "My lamb is all that matters now. You must find her and take her away from this terrible place."

"Find her? The lady is not in her chambers?"

"I was trying to tell you-" Gil blurted out, halted mid-sentence by the combined persuasion of De Chesnai's grip on her arm and the glowering warning in his eyes.

"The baron's men," Biddy gasped. "They took her away. Dragged her from the tower. He ... hurt her dreadfully. He ... struck her ... again and again!"

Biddy's eyes rolled upward so that only the whites showed from between her shivering lashes. Her breathing was raspy and uneven, and Alaric, at a loss what to do to ease her pain, held her hand as tightly as he dared and suffered silently through the spasm with her.

"She managed somehow to crawl down from the tower and find me where I waited by a postern gate," De Chesnai explained in a murmur. "The effort cost her dearly, but she was determined not to die until I brought her to La Seyne Sur Mer."

"La Seyne?" Alaric looked up.

"Indeed. My men and I barely managed to bring her this far before the talebearers were blazing through the castle grounds with the news of De Gournay's victory. Since her first choice was obviously out of reach, she insisted upon you."

Friar glanced back down at Biddy. Her eyes were open and clear, save for the tears that flowed in a fat stream down her temples.

"He will kill her, Friar," she cried. "He means to torment her first, then kill her; I know he does. The same for poor Eduard-oh, the brave, brave lad! He tried to help, but he was no match for the Dragon. And because he is the Wolf's son, you can imagine how much pleasure it will give the baron to hurt him." A great shuddering sob racked Biddy's body before she added, "I dread to think how much more it will delight him to torture my poor lamb."

Friar shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. "Did you say ... the Wolf's son?" son?"

"Eduard. Young Eduard ... the Dragon's squire. He has been taken away as well but wounded so mortally, I fear he cannot have lived out the hour."

"Do you know where he was taken? Do you know where the Lady Servanne was taken?"