Conquering the steeply declined path in daylight was proof enough of anyone's mettle. Attempting it by sporadic moonlight, without a torch or the comfort of familiarity to guide each footstep, was sheer and utter madness ... or so Alaric kept shouting, each time his heart was not in his throat and he could be heard over the roar of the waves below.

The Wolf kept a tight rein on his nerves-admittedly not as steely as he would have liked them to be on this wind-ridden night. He forced himself to look at the path not the void beside it. He fought to ignore the constant lurching of his stomach and the feel of cold sweat running in torrents between his shoulder blades. Instead, he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and on trying to remember the exact layout and approach to the eagle's eyrie.

As a reckless young boy, he had taken special pride in exploring every dangerous and forbidden area of the castle grounds: the donjons, the high catwalks surrounding the ramparts, the darkest heart of the forests where pagans worshipped and druids offered sacrifices to Herne the Hunter. The cliffs had been a particularily satisfying challenge, for the only weapon he could use against his fear of the wind and the terrifying height was his own courage.

The eyrie was a fluke of nature, a ripple on the face of the rocks where the path widened briefly to form a large, flat ledge. In poor weather a fire could be built on the eyrie to warn away ships that were straying too close to sh.o.r.e, but in the years since the Dragon had become Master of Blood-moor Keep, no doubt it was considered more profitable to let the ships wander where they may and spew their cargo up on sh.o.r.e. The currents were fierce and ever changing, as able to suck an unsuspecting vessel into the reefs and boulders and reduce it to kindling, as to deliver a boat into the narrow sheltered cove that was tucked like an armpit between the outer reef and sh.o.r.e.

Lifting his face to the gloomy sky, Lucien tasted the strong bite of salt on his lips. The wind was sharp and cold, strong enough to gust against the rocks and s.n.a.t.c.h at the folds of the monk's robes they wore. The ruse had worked once, Alaric had reasoned, and it might make a difference of a few precious seconds while the sentries were deciding whether to fire their crossbows or not. Besides which, the first cart Sir Roger had spied, not fifty yards outside the castle walls, had belonged to a brace of holy brothers who had camped there in the hopes of attending the wedding in the morning.

Precisely why two monks would be found climbing down a perilous path on the side of a cliff in the dead of night, Alaric had not yet fathomed, but if nothing else, the warm woolen garments gave them some protection from the cold and kept their teeth from chattering an alert to the guards ahead. Hopefully the sentries would be too cold and miserable themselves to be watching the path.

Making their way to the gate and bribing their way through it had cost precious time. Sparrow had been the first to disappear into the darkness, having the farthest to go and the most to accomplish before dawn threatened the sky. Sir Roger had thought the business of stealing the cart a tad anticlimactic, but the holy brothers had not been wont to squander their alms on st.u.r.dy wheels, and the route Lucien scratched into the dirt would take several hours to cover. Eduard and Gil had set off cheerily enough for the fishing boats, and it was not until they were long gone that Alaric noticed fresh blood stains in the scuffed prints Eduard had left behind.

Robed and cowled, Friar and the Wolf had followed the base of the castle wall looking and feeling much like two ants crawling around the base of a giant oak. What breath they had left at the end was taken away by the wind and the awesome view of the sea so far below. Black and oily, the surface glistened with pewter-coloured troughs. The moon was two, perhaps three hours above the horizon, and it would travel several more before the two men had finished picking their way down the cliffs. Alaric had stared at the sea, at the ridiculously narrow mouth of the path, and at the tall shadowy figure who stood silently beside him, his hood flown back off his head, his dark hair streaming back in the wind.

"I should have pushed you off then," Alaric shouted, battling a mouthful of woolen cowling, "and jumped after you. This is madness! Utter madness!"

"We have come more than halfway," the Wolf countered. "And if you shout any louder you will have them shooting at us from the castle walls!"

"How much more than halfway?" Alaric asked after a moment.

"See there ... where the path widens?"

Alaric craned his neck to see around the Wolf's shoulder without having to lean too far out from the wall. He could see nothing but a black void below them, but he nodded anyway, trusting Lucien's keener eyesight.

"Just around that curve, it widens and flattens into a ledge. Another few minutes we should be able to see a glow from their fire, if they have one. We have made good time, all things considered. It would do no harm to stop here and rest a few minutes."

Alaric sagged gratefully against the wall of rock. But his respite was short-lived, and voluntarily so. Out of the corner of one eye he could see the silhouette of Bloodmoor's ramparts rising black and evil into the night sky above them. Out of the other he could see the face of the Wolf, and for a moment, he did not know which of the two terrified him more.

"We can rest in h.e.l.l, old friend," he said. "Let's go."

Lucien checked the balance of his sword and unsheathed two razor-sharp poniards from his belt, tucking one into each sleeve.

"You had better let me go first here on in," Friar advised. "And for the love of G.o.d, keep your hood up and well forward to shadow your face. The Devil might welcome such grisly fierceness, but I doubt any wary Christians would see comfort there."

Lucien cursed the delay, but drew the hood forward. So far this night, others had done his killing for him, and he was more than ready, willing, and eager to draw blood.

They inched downward another fifty paces in cautious silence, then with a deep breath drawn to stop his pulse from racing away from him, Alaric raised his voice and called for help.

"Ahead! Ahead! G.o.d love us, is there anyone ahead!"

He sc.r.a.ped, stumbled and scuffed his way around the last curve of rock and was not surprised to see several grim-faced guards braced in a crouch, their crossbows armed and aimed at the two monks who came spilling out of the darkness.

"Oh thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d!" Friar cried, moving onto the ledge and hugging the rock as if he had no intentions of letting go ever again. "Holy Father in Heaven, 'tis a wonder, a miracle miracle we are here at last!" we are here at last!"

"By the rood, who are you and where have you come from?" demanded one of the guards.

"Why ... 'tis only me, Brother Benedict, and my companion, Brother Aleward. We have come from the castle on Lord Wardieu's command ... though G.o.d knows how he expected us to bring our souls down this mountain without aid of light or guidance. Oh, we had a torch, but it gave up its life nearer here than the way back and we had no choice but to come ahead ... not that we would have turned back too eagerly in any event. No, no. I should rather have faced any peril than return to the baron without his orders obeyed. Are you all right, Brother Aleward? Dear me, the poor man has no stomach for heights, you see. Twice he lost it on the way down and I dread the thought of having to nurse and coddle him the way up again, but at least it will be dawn soon and we will have G.o.d's light to guide us back."

"Why have you come?" demanded the guard, his eyes slit-ted warily, his hands still taut on the grip of his crossbow.

Lucien kept his face averted, marking the positions of the guards who stood between them and the cell door. There were four sentries all told, two men-at-arms with bows, two mercenaries in mail armour with longswords drawn and ready for trouble.

"In truth," Alaric replied, spreading his hands wide to discourage any hint of a threat. "I did not question Lord Wardieu's command. I merely a.s.sumed, because it is to be his wedding day, he is offering his bride every opportunity to confess whatever sins may be tormenting her soul, and to offer prayer and counsel as a means of redeeming herself in the eyes of the Lord."

The knight who had issued the challenge laughed gruffly and resheathed his sword. "Prayer and counsel? Give us free rein with her and she would be as docile as a lamb. A little worn between the thighs, perhaps, but knowing how to give proper thanks when and where it is due."

The four guards grinned and exchanged a glance between themselves, giving Alaric the distinct impression they had already drawn lots to see who among them would be the first. He knew also, by the sudden stillness of the figure behind him, that Lucien had arrived at the same conclusion.

"A pity," Friar sighed, almost to himself. "We might have been able to spare your lives."

Lucien's hands disappeared into his sleeves for a split second and when they emerged again, there was a flash of steel and the two men-at-arms were doubling over, clutching at the hilts of the poniards jutting from their chests. Friar was on the first mercenary before he was aware of the danger, his blade slashing through the firelit darkness and severing the man's hand from his wrist before his sword was fully drawn. The knight grunted and held out the bleeding stump in disbelief; stunned, he staggered too close to the edge of the promontory and, with a scream that was torn away on a gust of icy wind, vanished into the misty darkness.

Lucien had engaged swords with the other knight, a man whose skill might have been laudable under any other circ.u.mstances. But he was driven by duty, not pa.s.sion, and though he fended off one savage thrust of the Wolf's blade after another, he was clearly outmatched. Fear took him back beneath the overhang of rock, and desperation saw him reach into his baldric and slash out with a shorter, sharper-edged dagger. The Wolf lunged, locking hilts with the guard's sword and pinning it against the stone while his free hand grasped for the knife and twisted it inward, slicing it down across the man's exposed throat and nearly separating the head from the shoulders.

He let the body slump to the ground and reached for the rusted iron bar that was slotted across the door to the cell. The door itself was crudely fit to the shape of the fissure opening, and so low he had to duck to clear the stone arch. Alaric was right behind him, thrusting a lit torch through the entryway.

At first, Lucien saw nothing past the searing flare of burning pitch. The rage boiled over in his blood and he was about to curse his brother's further deceit when a movement in the corner-a pale splash of yellow against the blackened stone -sent his gaze to the deepest recess of the cell.

"Servanne?"

Round, frightened eyes, blinded as much by fear as by the sudden light, lifted to meet his. He pushed back the hood of the monk's robe and saw the terror give way slowly to recognition.

"Lucien?" she gasped. "Is it ... really you?"

"Name another man fool enough to chase after you on a night such as this," he said, his grin belying the pounding pressure in his chest. Dear G.o.d, her face was bruised and swollen, her lip torn and caked with dried blood. Her arms were blue, scratched in too many places to see in one glance, and her gown was torn at the throat, the whiteness of her flesh violated by further bruising and scratches.

"I ... thought you were dead," she whispered. "When no one came ... when I heard nothing ... I thought you were dead."

"Did you think you could be rid of me so easily?"

Her eyes flooded with tears, Servanne flung herself across the width of the cell and felt the long, powerful arms sweep her into a crushing embrace. The blood-slicked poniard dropped forgotten onto the ground and his hands raked into the tangled ma.s.s of her hair, holding her against him, turning her lips up to his for a kiss as pa.s.sionate as life itself.

"Lucien!" Alaric hissed from the doorway. "Can you not celebrate later when we have the time and leisure to do so?"

An oath that was more a promise tore Lucien's lips away from Servanne's, but the taste of her, the feel of her drenched his senses, almost blinding them to the urgency in Alaric's voice.

"My lady," said Friar, his smile shaken as well by the extent of Servanne's bruising. "Are you well enough? Can you walk?"

"I shall run as fast as the wind if need be," she replied without hesitation, her own beautiful smile shining through her tears.

Lucien took her hand and led her out into the brisk night air. Was it only his imagination, or was the sky growing lighter overhead? To be sure, the wind was picking up speed and energy, gleefully plucking at the flimsy silk of Servanne's tunic. Quickly he divested himself of the gray woolen robe and handed it to her.

"Here, put this on. We have a way to go yet, and-"

"Lucien! Come quickly!"

The Wolf ran to where Alaric stood on the lip of the upper path. A grim line of bobbing orange dots could be seen spilling out the postern gate at the base of the castle wall; a dozen guards carrying a dozen torches were making their way down the side of the cliff, lighting the way for a dozen more armed with swords and crossbows.

"Go," Alaric shouted, ridding himself of the bulky robes. "I'll loose a few arrows their way to discourage them long enough for you to get Lady Servanne below."

"There are too many of them!"

Alaric fetched the crossbows and quivers of bolts from the dead guards. "You said yourself, a man with a ready supply of arrows could hold off an army until h.e.l.l froze."

Lucien hesitated, the desire for blood and revenge warring with his need to see Servanne to safety.

"In G.o.d's name"-Alaric had to shout to be heard over the roaring of the waves and the rising winds-"we have not come this far to lose to them now! Go! I will join you in a trice. Have no fear-I have no more intention of perishing on this G.o.dforsaken eyrie than I have intentions of walking the way back to Lincoln!"

Knowing there was no time to argue, Lucien grabbed Servanne's hand again and picked up the path on the other side of the ledge. It was no less steep and treacherous than the upper half of the descent; if anything, the closer it came to the sea, the more the path degenerated to a mere lip of crumbling stone. They were forced to walk singly and to keep one arm and hip pressed painfully against the rough stone. Servanne's boast of being able to run like the wind was mocked at every gap and broken toehold that reduced their pace to a snail's crawl. Her one slipperless foot seemed to find every sharp needle of rock on the path. The monk's robe weighed her down, snagging on brambles and crevices, twice jerking her back and needing to be torn from the grasp of the greedy talons of rock.

The moon was well behind the ma.s.s of the cliffs, casting a dull glow over the surface of the water, but sparing nothing for the path. Lucien seemed to be guided by instinct and, on those occasions when the blackness erased all trace of solid footing, prayer.

Back at the eagle's eyrie, Alaric waited patiently for the lead guard to come within crossbow range before he leveled the bow and released the trigger, loosing a bolt with a resounding thw.a.n.g. thw.a.n.g. He struck his target dead centre of the De Gournay blazon, sending the wearer into an almost graceful arc out over the lip of the cliff and into the foaming wash of the sea below. He fired the second weapon, already armed and waiting by his side, killing the next man in line while he was gaping after his fallen comrade. He struck his target dead centre of the De Gournay blazon, sending the wearer into an almost graceful arc out over the lip of the cliff and into the foaming wash of the sea below. He fired the second weapon, already armed and waiting by his side, killing the next man in line while he was gaping after his fallen comrade.

Calmly, Friar braced the heavy bow nose down while he loaded another quarrel onto the firing shaft. He drew back the string to arm it, raised the ungainly weapon to chest level to fire ... and saw that De Gournay's men had already begun a hasty scramble back up the cliff. There was no return fire. Not even a testy challenge by a guard farther along in the rear.

It had almost been too easy.

Alaric rubbed the skin at the back of his neck and glanced upward at the silhouette of the castle, its shape growing more distinct as the false dawn gave way to the spreading stain of pale gray along the horizon. Even in this uncertain light and at this considerable distance, he could see the heads of the guards patrolling high up on the battlements. If he could see them ...

Alaric straightened and whirled around to stare at where the path resumed on the far side of the ledge. There was only the one way down, only one place to go, and, if the Dragon had been alerted to their presence on the cliff, what could be easier than to set a trap at the bottom and simply wait for the Wolf to walk into it? The Wolf, Servanne, Gil, Eduard ... !

"Christ!" he swore and ran for the path. Without the need to guide and steady a frightened woman behind him, he moved much faster than the Wolf and Servanne, arriving at breakneck speed at the base of the cliff just in time to catch a glimpse of their two shadowy figures rounding the last curve in the rocks.

The fleeing pair was soaked in sea spray when they finally stumbled down onto the beach. There, to Servanne's surprise and relief, she could see the glittering swath of a small bay. Though the air continued to vibrate with the thundering roar and crash of the sea, the inlet was nestled behind a breaker of huge boulders and the water was calm enough for a small boat to have maneuvered to within twenty feet of the sh.o.r.e.

The last stretch of their flight was made over a bed of sharp, cutting shale. Lucien, hearing Servanne's involuntary cry as the first steps drove a shard of gla.s.slike stone into the pad of her bare foot, swept her into his arms and, without missing a step, plunged into the knee-deep water. A shout and the sound of a second pair of boots crunching across the shale brought the wolfish grin back to Lucien's lips as he turned and saw Alaric swerving away from the sh.o.r.eline to follow them into the surf. He was shouting something, both to Lucien and to the occupants of the small boat, and Lucien's smile vanished. Dawn was in full bloom, the orange and red flare of the verging sun caught and reflected in the glint of conical steel helmets lined along the sh.o.r.e.

They were trapped! The Dragon's men had been waiting on the beach; they had allowed the boat to enter the bay unmolested and they had bided their time until their quarry had run straight into the ambush!

Water began to plop and spout on all sides as a hail of crossbow bolts arced out over the beach. Lucien commanded every ounce of strength he possessed into his legs, but the water, now waist deep, hampered him, and even though the breaker of rocks helped to cut the force of the sea, there was still a wicked undercurrent that pulled and shifted the sand beneath every footstep.

Less than ten yards from the longboat they went down under a slapping wall of silvery water. Coughing and sputtering oaths, Lucien struggled upright again, managing to maintain his grip on Servanne, sodden clothes and all.

Eduard, ignoring Gil's cry, vaulted over the gunwale and began plowing through the waves in an effort to reach the labouring couple. Gil, an arrow clenched between her teeth and another already nocked to her bow, began to return the fire of the guardsmen, who were now running in the open, in a parallel line along the sh.o.r.e. As they knelt to fire and rearm their heavy weapons, Gil was able to pick her targets carefully and with startling accuracy. Many of them heard the singsong hiss of arrows streaking out of the darkness toward them and did not rise from the shale again. Others ran back into the cover of the nearby rocks and dove behind them, a.s.suming-and rightly so-the supply of steel-tipped arrows was not endless. But they were still well within the ideal range for firing their own weapons, and they did so continually, their rage fueling and improving their aim.

Servanne heard a cry and glanced over Lucien's shoulder in time to see Alaric careen sideways into the water, an iron quarrel embedded in his upper chest. Lucien shouted and released her, shoving her toward Eduard before he turned and started running back to where he had seen Alaric go under. Servanne's scream of warning went unheeded. A mercenary running along the sh.o.r.e took aim with his bow and fired, the bolt flying straight and true, tearing a ribbon of flesh from Lucien's temple.

Stunned, the Wolf heeled to one side, the pain and blood blinding him even as his legs continued to churn toward Alaric. The knight armed his weapon a second time, but before he could sight along the shaft, he heard a graceful hiss and felt a punch of steel and ashwood pierce cleanly through his leather breastplate.

The dead knight was no sooner swept into the foaming wash of the surf than another took his place, seeming to rise like a golden-haired Goliath out of the receding fingers of mist.

Servanne screamed again, this time to beat away the determined arm that had snaked around her waist and was dragging her toward the longboat.

"No! No, let me go! Let me go to him! Lucien! Lucien!" Lucien!"

Eduard's arm remained like iron around her waist even though she kicked and writhed and fought to be set free. Salt water was in her eyes, blurring her vision, her hair was a drenched, tangled ma.s.s wrapped around her throat, choking her. Her hands, flailing wildly around, tried to strike away the force that was carrying her away from her love, her life, and smashed instead into something solid and wooden-the boat! A streak of white-hot pain lanced up her arm, causing her to temporarily cease her struggling and go limp in Eduard's arms.

He strained against the current and the violently rocking boat to try to lift her over the side. His leg was crushed against the keel by the undertow and he grunted in pain, feeling his wound reopen to the searing fire of salt water. Servanne felt his grip falter, saw him claw desperately for a hold on the gunwale ... lose it, and begin to slide under the rolling waves. Instinctively she reached out to help him ... and screamed again.

It had not been the side of the boat her hand had struck. Rather, she was the one who had been struck, and not by a wooden plank but by a twelve-inch-long crossbow bolt. The iron head had split through the padding of flesh between her thumb and forefinger and buried itself in the wood planking, pinning her helplessly to the boat.

A wave washed over her head, filling her eyes, nose, and mouth with salt water. Without the strength or ability to resist, she was carried along with the tiny vessel as it was pushed relentlessly toward the waiting danger on the sh.o.r.e. The sandy bottom fell out from beneath her feet and she was dragged down by the current, down into a void of muted sound and roiling darkness.

Nicolaa de la Haye was a few short paces behind Etienne Wardieu when he stepped out from behind the shield of rocks, and she raised her voice with his in calling for the guards to put up their bows and swords. The trap had worked perfectly. The wolf was caught in the snare and it only remained for the Dragon to have the pleasure of dealing the killing stroke himself.

Nicolaa's excitement had been growing to a fever pitch from the moment the sentries had confirmed seeing two men on the cliff. She had insisted on accompanying Etienne and his guard to the beach and she had spurred her horse with equal vehemence, carving up the shale and sand, galloping through still tidal pools with the fury of vengeance shooting plumes of spray ten feet in their wake.

Within a hundred yards of the sheltered cove, he had reined in his horse and positioned his men among the rocks and boulders lining the beach. They had not had long to test their patience before the low, black shape of a longboat had slid around the reef and sidled into the shallower water. Recognizing Eduard on the oars had only reinforced the Dragon's rage and hatred; hearing the boy cry out and dive heedlessly into the surf to meet his father had altered the Dragon's face into a mask of murderous malevolence.

Nicolaa could have laughed out loud at the ludicrous attempt Lucien Wardieu had made to outwit her glorious Dragon knight. The girl was drowning, the other two would-be rescuers were going nowhere fast. The Wolf had struggled to his feet in the knee-deep water and now stood facing his brother, their two profiles etched in black against the blood-red sky. The fifth partic.i.p.ant in this most enjoyable farce was floundering against the force of the waves, fighting the pain and nausea to reach one of the dead guards whose sword lay temptingly within his grasp.

Striding toward him, Nicolaa drew her own short falchion and arched a raven brow in mild surprise.

"Well, well, well. Bishop Gautier ... we were wondering what had become of you."

Gil Golden knew she had no time to waste on subtlety. Servanne was helpless, pinned to the side of the boat, and Eduard was using all of his remaining strength just to keep his nose and mouth above water. With her lips moving around a silent apology, Gil reached over the gunwale and took hold of the end of the crossbow bolt. She snapped off the feather fletching and, praying the salt water had already numbed the wound beyond any additional agony, she jerked Servanne's hand back, sliding it off the broken end of the shaft.

The boat lurched onto a sandbar, stranding the three in shallow water as the wave receded. It was then, as Gil braced herself to keep from falling headlong into the surf herself, that she saw Nicolaa de la Haye stalking Alaric. He had managed to crawl to a dead guard and had retrieved the man's sword, but as he started to haul himself upright, Nicolaa kicked his legs out from beneath him and he went down hard. He clutched his upper shoulder as he rolled with the pain, his fingers splayed on either side of the protruding arrow shaft.

Gil stared long and hard at the woman she had loathed with every breath of her being for the past five years. Nicolaa and one of her lovers had been attending the Lincoln Fair, where Gil's father-an expert bowyer and fletcher-had set up a booth to display his wares. Because Gil had looked pretty enough to earn a wink from the handsome soldier, Nicolaa had ordered her arrested and accused her of thievery. Gil's father had come to her defense, and for his trouble, had been slain on the spot. Gil's mother and two sisters-the latter barely in their tenth and eleventh years-had been taken to the guards' barracks for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the sodomizing b.a.s.t.a.r.ds until none had had the strength or will left to plead for mercy.

Nicolaa had saved Gil to the end, teasing her just enough with the hot irons to know that when the screams of her mother and sisters stopped, hers would begin in earnest. By sheer luck, one of the dungeon guards had been a friend to Gil's father. He bore the screams of the women as long as he could, then one night, after another poor red-haired la.s.s was dragged dead from the barracks, the old man had put the body in Gil's cell and had whisked her out in an empty ale barrel.

Gil had survived, but she could hear her sisters screaming still, in her nightmares, just as she could hear Nicolaa de la Haye laughing and goading the guards to another round ... and another ...

"No," she gasped, seeing Nicolaa raise her sword above Alaric's head. "No! "No! By G.o.d, you will not take the life of anyone else I love!" By G.o.d, you will not take the life of anyone else I love!"

She jumped out of the boat and screamed Nicolaa's name. Too late, she realized she had set aside her longbow to pull Servanne's hand free, and, for lack of any better weapon to use against the falchion that turned eagerly in her direction, Gil paused to scoop up a fallen crossbow. She released the trigger only to hear a wet snap as the string refused to respond. Nicolaa's fleeting moment of panic gave way to grinning delight and as the slender, red-haired archer ran closer, she clasped her shortsword in both hands and drew it back for the killing stroke.

Something black, salty, and gritty struck her stingingly across the face. The muck was in her eyes and in her mouth, and Nicolaa was repulsed into breaking her stance as well as her grip on the hilt of the sword. Alaric threw another handful of wet sand, but by then she had turned away, cursing and sc.r.a.ping the stuff from her face in time to see the blurred fury that was Gil Golden slam into her chest and send them both crashing into the surf.

Alaric doubled over onto his elbows and knees, his head bowed forward with the pain. Gil and Nicolaa became a rolling, thrashing ma.s.s of arms and legs beside him; Lucien and Etienne stood a dozen paces away, their swords unsheathed, their footsteps bringing them together in an ever-decreasing circle of crouched wariness. Nicolaa's falchion lay in an inch of water, a body length away, but before Alaric could drag himself over to it, a mail-clad boot kicked it a hopeless distance away. Almost too weary to expend the energy to do so, Alaric looked up, seeing his death in the eyes of the mercenary who braced himself to deliver a hacking blow across the back of Alaric's neck.

Fff-thunck!

The mercenary stiffened, his back arched against the brutal force of a six-inch arrow fired from an odd, harp-shaped arblaster. Two longer, thinner ashwood arrows, tipped in steel, fired simultaneously from raised longbows, thudded into the guard's back and shoulder, skewering through leather armour and Damascan chain mail as if it was soft cheese. The knight toppled forward, his arms spread wide, his sword splashing harmlessly into the shallow water beside Alaric.

Sparrow's gleeful cry brought a wall of black and gold clad knights surging out from behind the tumble of boulders. Calmly, coolly, half of them dispatched a spray of arrows into the ranks of De Gournay's surprised mercenaries; the rest, led by Sir Roger de Chesnai and Sir Richard of Rouen, poured out onto the beach, their throats roaring an unmistakable challenge.

The Dragon saw his men falling back, retreating under the onslaught of flashing swords.

The Wolf smiled and felt a resurgence of energy burn away the fatigue and despair that had nearly claimed him.

"And so, it comes down to just you and me, Etienne," he said in a low, controlled voice. "With honour as our judge and G.o.d our witness."

Etienne's blue eyes glittered his response and, in ankle-deep water, the Wolf and the Dragon brought their blades slashing together. Lucien, his black shirt and leggings shading him like a dark wraith against the sparkle of the sea, lunged and spun away, his hair shedding bright droplets of salt water into the breaking sunlight. Etienne blocked the thrust and countered with a strength-shattering one of his own, the muscles across his back and arms bulging beneath the quilted blue silk of his surcoat. Steel bit into steel, the swords screaming as loudly as the gulls who spiraled down from the roosts on the cliffs, attracted by the fresh scent of blood.