II

II

He stood upon the ramparts of the castle, staring eastwardly. The dreary rain had at last ceased, and the night breeze lifted his cloak and had whipped it about him.

He was a proud and formidable figure, tall and still in the night. His was a true knight's form, hard and trim from constant battle in his king's behalf.

He might have been a king himself. He was tall enough to stare the Lion-Heart in the eyes. And like the Lion-Heart, he was proven in both tournaments and battle. A more fierce warrior did not exist, nor one with greater cunning and skill. For all his sinewed size, there was a feline grace about him. He could dodge a double-headed ax with ease, leap above the swipe of a sword with the grace of an acrobat. He knew that he was feared and respected, but the knowledge gave him no great pleasure.

No single strength could have changed the tide of war.

He had ridden with Henry for three years. And in that time, he had always matched his voice against the king. He had never backed down, despite the king's famed temper; yet Henry had never banished him from his company, no matter how fierce the argument. It was Henry who had dubbed him the "Black Knight," the Rogue, the Falcon. All in affection, for he had always known his plainspoken and somewhat unorthodox warrior to be completely loyal—to both his king and to his own conscience.

He stared out upon the night now, but without really seeing it. Blue eyes so deep that they often appeared to be indigo or black were even darker still with his brooding. The rain-soaked breeze grew wilder, but he was heedless of the wind. Indeed, it felt good. It seemed to cleanse him.

He had grown so tired of the eternal bloodshed.

And now he was left to wonder: For what?

The king is dead; long live the king. Richard would be crowned King of England. It was right; Richard the Lion-Heart was the legal heir.

There was a movement upon the ramparts, the click of boots against stone. Always a warrior, Bryan Stede spun about, instantly alert, his knife in his hand, poised to parry a blow.

A deep chuckle sounded from the dark pit of the nearest tower, and Bryan relaxed, grinning, as he realized that he was being interrupted by a friend.

"Sheathe your knife, Bryan!" William Marshal said, striding toward him. "God knows, you could be defending your life soon enough."

Bryan slipped the knife back into the strap about his ankle and leaned against the stone of the castle as he watched his friend come closer. There were few men he respected as he did Marshal. Many called him "the Arab," as he was a swarthy man with a thin beak for a nose, but whatever his background, he was an Englishman to the core. He was also one of the best fighters alive; before becoming Henry's right-hand man, Marshal had traveled from province to province, besting anyone who cared to challenge him in a tournament.

"If I am to be defending my life, friend Marshal, so shall you. I met Richard on the battlefield; we came to an impasse, and both bowed out, but you unhorsed him!"

Marshal shrugged. "Who is to say which of us he would rather draw and quarter? 'Tis true I might have killed Richard, but he was unarmed when he charged across that bridge. He met you in fair battle—and could not kill you. It can't do much for that great pride of his to know that either of us might have dealt his deathblow."

Bryan Stede laughed, and the sound was only slightly bitter. "I guess we have to face it, Marshal. Tomorrow we shall see if Richard cares to give his father his last respects. After that, he shall be the king. Lawfully. And we shall be worth less than the ground he walks upon."

Marshal grimaced, then grinned.

"I couldn't have changed a thing, Bryan."

"No, neither could I."

They stared out at the night in companionable silence for a moment. At last Marshal asked, "Are you afraid to face Richard, Bryan?"

"No," Bryan said flatly. "His father was the rightful King of England." He paused a moment, studying the stars that were breaking through the darkness of the night. "It should never have come to warfare between those two, Marshal. It all seems so petty now. But I cannot ask the new king to pardon me for fighting for the old. To my mind, it was right. Richard is welcome to strip me of what little I have, but I will not beg that he forgive me for following my conscience."

"Nor I," said Marshal. Then he laughed softly. "Hell, shall I remind the man that I could have killed him, but instead held my blow."

"And thank God that you did," Bryan muttered, suddenly fierce. "Could you imagine Prince John King of England?"

Marshal sobered hastily. "No, I could not. I still believe that Henry might be with us still had he not seen John's name at the top of the list of traitors who left him at Le Mans."

Again both men were silent, thinking of the dead king. Poor Henry! To lead such an illustrious life and to be brought so low at death, hounded to his grave by his sons.

He had been in such pain at the end. Garrulous and miserable.

But Bryan Stede had grown to love his monarch. Henry had been no elegant fop. He had lived in the saddle; he had forged his realm. He had possessed cunning and courage and bold determination until the end. Life had broken him—not death.

"There is one bright spot to all this," Marshal said.

"And that is?"

"Eleanor. I'm willing to bet that Richard's first action will be to order his mother released from her prison."

"That's true," Bryan mused. "Marshal?"

"Aye?"

"What do you think she will be like after fifteen years in prison? God's blood, she must be almost seventy now."

Marshal laughed. "I can tell you what Eleanor will be like. Bright and alert and raring to go. Sorry—despite the fact that he jailed her all those years—that Henry is dead, but grateful that she lived to see Richard king. She'll be his greatest asset, Bryan. She'll rally the people behind him."

Bryan grinned, agreeing with Will Marshal.

He had argued openly with the king about Eleanor, time and time again. And any time that he had been in England, he had made a point of visiting the queen. He had never denied to Henry that he had done so.

"The sad spot is that I shall lose my heiress," Marshal said grimly.

"Isabel de Clare?"

Marshal nodded. "Henry promised her to me in front of witnesses, but I have no claim upon paper. I doubt that it would matter. Richard will be taking from me, not giving." Marshal sighed. "I would have been one of the most powerful landowners in the country."

"I doubt not that I shall lose Gwyneth," Bryan said with far more lightness than he was feeling.

"Perhaps not. Everyone knows that you and the lady . . . have consorted," Marshal consoled his friend. "I have never seen the lady Isabel de Clare."

"Then you are the better off, my friend. I know fully all that I will be losing—the beautiful widow, and all her beautiful land."

"True. Ah, well, we can travel to the tournaments together."

"Yes, I suppose."

The weight of the night seemed to settle over Bryan. There was a dull pain in his heart for Henry, and a dull acceptance of his future. The loss hurt.

He didn't know if he had ever been in love with Gwyneth, but he had enjoyed her cheerful company. He had enjoyed even more the prospects of her land. Marriage was a political affair—and in Henry's arrangements for his chief supporters, Bryan had come out well. Not only would he have become the ruler of a powerful province, but he would have acquired a winsome and attractive bride. And a home.

No man could deny the craving for land, Bryan thought. Only a fool could lose such riches and not be bitter.

No matter what the loss, he would not hang his head before Richard. He had supported Henry because he chose to; that he would never deny.

He might not acquire his lands, but he would maintain his pride, and his own self-esteem.

"I hope that Richard arrives soon," Marshal said dryly. "Then we will be able at last to see the king buried. Our duty will be at an end. And I, for one, will welcome a night of freedom. I intend to consume a gourd of wine, and dive into a real bed with the cleanest young wench I can fmd with a taste for a silver coin."

Bryan Stede idly raised a brow at his friend, then returned his stare to the night beyond the castle.

"You know that you will serve Richard, Marshal, just as you served Henry."

"I'd say the same of you, friend, except that we shan't know much of what the future will bring—until we find out the depths of the grudges Richard bears us. 'Tis more than likely that we shall be sent packing—if we manage to stay alive!"

"I daresay that we will stay alive," Bryan said dryly. "It wouldn't much become our new king to slay—"

He broke off abruptly as an agonized scream pierced through the darkness of the night like the honed edge of a blade. For a bare fraction of a second, the two knights stared at each other in stunned surprise and wonder. Then they moved with toned agility, racing toward the tower from whence the scream had come.

* * *

Elise had truly attempted to pray, but words became a meaningless monologue within her mind. Her pain was a dull pounding that sounded in her ears and seemed to envelop her, leaving her to feel listless and adrift.

But Henry needed prayer so badly! she reminded herself.

She wet her lips to begin again out loud, but she never spoke. A sound had come to her from outside the heavy door; not a loud sound, and nothing that she could instantly place, like the creak of armor or the natural fall of a footstep.

The sound was something quiet and muffled; she would have missed it had she been whispering aloud.

As it was, she felt a chill settle over her, like the coming of a sudden snowstorm. Rivulets of ice seemed to trickle down her spine, and she went dead-still, barely breathing, to listen again.

She bolted to her feet as she heard further, furtive sounds. Sounds of a strangled moan, of... something heavy . . . like a man . . . falling upon the stone floor behind the door.

And then the door itself began to creak.

In sudden panic, Elise spun about, searching out a refuge. A group of tapestries hung against the north wall, near the heavy door, and she raced toward the first, diving behind its shelter just as the oak banged hard against stone and a group of dark-clad men rushed into the chamber.

"Hurry!" hissed a rough and grating voice.

"Get the scabbard!" commanded another abrasive tenor. "Look at the jewels in the handle—"

"Gape later, you idiot! Work fast now!"

The order had been issued in the first, gravelly tone. Flattened against the wall, Elise bit down hard upon her lip, torn between terror and fury. How dare they! Henry was dead. Henry the king was dead, and these . . . these . . . filthy dung were daring to rob him in death.

Oh, if he were alive you would not be so bold or so foolish! she thought. He would skewer you, impale your heads upon poles to rot, feed you limb by limb to the wolves. But Henry wasn't alive. And it seemed that these robbers were as free as the wind to defile him as they chose.

How many of them were there? Elise wondered, remembering that she was alive, and dearly wanted to remain so. Inching her slender form carefully, she moved to the edge of the tapestry and peered beyond it. Thank God that the room was shrouded in darkness and shadow, and that only the candles about the bier gave light.

She could not manage a full view of the room, but there were at least four men within the room, possibly five. They were all clothed in dark tunics and dark hose, and they resembled the vultures that they were. As she watched, sickened and angry, they stripped all the finery from the room, casting it into even greater darkness as they knocked over the candles to steal the brass-and-gold-inlaid sconces.

"The body!" someone hissed.

Not even the king's lean and decaying form was to be left sacrosanct. He was tossed and turned about, his crown taken, his boots, his remaining rings, his belt, even his shirt. Elise almost cried out as the thieves finished with their macabre task—and allowed the body to fall upon the floor with a pathetic, dull thud.

"Hurry! Someone is coming!"

"A guard! He must be killed!"

One of the dark-clad figures pulled a knife from his belt and slipped back outside the door. A second later, Elise heard a sharp, anguished scream, one that ended abruptly with death's gurgle.

The door was charged open once more; no more care was being given to quiet or stealth.

"Let's be gone! That knight died like a squealing pig. They'll be on us like a plague of locusts now!" cried the murderer, racing back into the room.

"Move! Grab the tapestries, and we'll be gone!"

The tapestries. Elise heard the words like a death toll. Terror chilled her; she was cold as she had never known cold before. It possessed and constricted her limbs, her heart, her throat . . . as one of the figures began a sure stride straight toward her hiding place.

No! she thought, and to her salvation rose the burning heat of pure fury. Buzzards, vultures, filth, dung! They had ravaged her father's defenseless body; they had murdered honorable and faithful men. They were not going to murder her!

Like lightning she moved, reaching beneath her cloak for the pearl-embedded dagger at her girdle. Her fingers clasped around it, firm and steady, and as the tapestry was ripped from the wall, she was ready.

A scream issued from her throat, not of fear, but of rage. Like a catapult she flew from the wall, hand raised high against the dark form who was stunned from his task of ripping treasure from the wall. He didn't have time to think—in fact, he could have barely had time to realize that a harpy was descending upon him with deadly intent.

Elise hurtled herself and the knife upon him with a furious vengeance. She felt the sickening crunch as her blade found flesh, and she heard the man's astonished bellow. But she couldn't worry about much else. She jerked her knife from his staggering form, aware that he was sorely wounded, but not mortally so. When he finished staggering, he would come for her.

As would the other men. The dark vultures.

She spun about and practically flew toward the door, racing beyond it, and, with a mad burst of strength, slammed it behind her. It would not take them long; at best it would give her a few extra seconds.

She almost tripped over the crumpled form of a dead guard as she started to run again, and as she slowed to watch her footing, her heart seemed to catch in her throat. There were four crumpled heaps upon the stone, massive men, warriors all, murdered by stealth.

The sound of the oak door to the death chamber scraping open once more set Elise to flying once again, running so quickly that her slippered feet barely seemed to touch the floor. The dark corridors, strangely shadowed by low, glowing torches, appeared as if they stretched and curved forever, one mist-shrouded hallway leading to another. Elise's heart took on a thunderous beat; she could hear her own breathing, laborious and shallow.

She had to keep running. There were guards at the castle's entrance. If she could reach them, she would be safe. But when at long last a dark corridor broadened and led to the entrance, there were no guards about—at least, not to be seen immediately.

She stumbled upon their bodies as she spun about in confusion. Not wishing to believe what her eyes told her, she knelt by the man who had challenged her earlier.

"Sir! Good sir!"

She moved him to tap gently at his cheek, praying that he was not dead, but perhaps unconscious.

She recoiled in horror as she saw his eyes. Wide open; death-glazed. The neck and front of his tunic and armor were stained crimson.

His throat had been slit from behind.

"Oh, God, dear God!" Elise exclaimed in horror, springing to her feet. The thieves were truly without mercy. Practitioners of treachery and cowardice, cold-blooded and despicable murderers.

And they would add her to their list of victims if she didn't hurry, she reminded herself as the echo of pounding footsteps followed after her like the deadly snarls of a hungry wolf from the depths of a cavern.

Isabel! she thought in sudden panic and remorse. Where was her companion, her maid? Elise looked beyond the massive bodies of the soldiers so easily crumpled by the slit of a slender vein. Against the cold stone northern wall lay another crumpled form. Small, truly pathetic and . . . broken.

Bile rose in her throat as a sick and heated fury filled her limbs with the strength of rage. How dearly she would love to see the men who killed from behind and slay a woman to meet their just rewards. Burning upon a stake would be far too merciful a death for such as these. They should be hanged until half dead, disemboweled, then drawn and quartered.

"Here! This way!"

The shout, coming so close upon her heels, stunned Elise into rapid movement. She looked out into the night. Her horse, a beautiful Arabian bred from those brought back from the first Crusade, awaited her upon a grass spit before the drawbridge.

Isabel's horse awaited a rider, too.

But there would be no one to mount the gray palfrey. It was a bitter thought to Elise as she raced beneath the moonlight to the animal poised in lovely silhouette. She hiked the skirt of her drab tunic into one hand and clasped the pommel of her saddle with the other, leaping upon the mare with a smooth and supple grace. Shouts were ringing in her ears once more as she balanced upon the awkward sidesaddle and nudged the mare into a startled, full-speed gallop.

"Christ in heaven! Have you ever seen such atrocity!"

Marshal and Bryan had reached the king's chamber; behind them stood the remainder of the king's men.

They all stood in stunned and stricken silence.

Bryan did not reply immediately to his friend's horrified observation. He looked about the room with a quick eye, feeling a heat like a rage of fire grow within him.

Atrocity? Yes. Beyond comprehension, beyond description.

The room had been stripped bare.

As had Henry.

In death, the king had received his greatest indignity.

But Bryan's anger went beyond the irreverent indecency done to his king. It encompassed the horrible waste and total disrespect of human life.

The guards . . .

They had been his friends. Men who had fought valiantly beside him. Proud men, brave men. Men with vast loyalty who had clung to their beliefs and their king despite all odds, with their heads raised high.

"They must be caught."

He spoke so low that his voice shouldn't have been heard, yet it was. Clearly. And the dark and deadly threat within it made even his own men feel as if they had been struck by chills and shivers, and thank God that they were not among the thieves who might receive vengeance at this man's hands.

Having spoken, Bryan spun about sharply upon a heel to shout out orders. "Templer, Hayden—see to the king. Prine, Douglas, Le Clare—comb the ramparts. Norman, arrange a party to comb the castle. Leave no stones unturned. Joshua, take the surrounding fields. Marshal—"

"I'll take the north woods."

"And I the south."

He broke off suddenly, having heard something. "The entry!" he shouted suddenly, and his strides took him from the chamber before the others could think to move.

Bryan heard the echo of his footfalls, eerie against the stone walls of the castle, as he raced along the corridors. The torches set upon the wall did little to ease the somber darkness or the dank chill; they but added to the treacherous shadows along the way. But Bryan gave no thought to a sudden attack. Those responsible for this assault had no stomach to meet a warrior upon even footing; they were like serpents, striking the unwary from the dark. And never, not even in battle, had he felt such a blind fury, such a determination that justice be met, that an enemy should meet the cold steel of his sword.

He paused at the entryway, his outraged fury renewed as he came upon two more bodies. He paused to close the eyes of a young knight, then stood once more, staring out to the night.

Something had alerted him to the entry. Some sound. But now...

It was then that he saw the rider beneath the moonlight, in a clear silhouette, rising in a breakneck gallop from the valley beyond the bridge. He planted his gloved hands upon his hips with a cold and deadly intent. "My destrier!" he roared as men pounded along the corridors behind him.

A second later he heard the clash of his great destrier's hooves upon the stone. He sprang upon the horse and the stallion pranced and clattered to the bridge.

"Sir!" called Jacob Nonnan. "Wait but a moment. We will ride with you!"

Upon his destrier, Bryan could clearly see the hill that rose from the valley beyond the bridge. The rider had halted, and turned back to stare at the castle.

Under the startling glow of the full moon, Bryan thought grimly, it was probably most obvious that he was coming in chase . . .

The distant horse reared and spun, and tore into another gallop up the hill.

"Nay!" Bryan answered his soldier. "I haven't a moment, and I chase but one. Follow the orders I have given. It appears that they have scattered. I want them all!"

With his final commands shouted out over his retreating shoulder, Bryan gave his stallion free rein. The great horse tore over the drawbridge, threatening to render the heavy timbers to splinters beneath its powerful hooves.

The wind whipped around Bryan. The cold of the night embraced him and fed his fury. He had lived half his life in the saddle, and now he was as one with the huge beast bred for courage, speed, and war. He felt as if he flew in the darkness; the great heart of the stallion pounded along with his own, and from the vast ripple of muscle beneath his thighs, he drew strength into his own.

The hooves of the warhorse seemed to consume the valley, tearing up huge chunks of earth as it raced up the hill. Thick forests laced the countryside, with few trails passable for horses. Although the rider had disappeared into the denseness of the dark forest, Bryan had little difficulty following his quarry. The panicked rider had left signs behind: broken branches, ravaged dirt, and brush. In another five minutes of hard riding, Bryan saw the rider again, breaking into a clearing.

"Halt, coward!" he thundered out, his rage exploding with the release of his words. "Halt, you! Desecrater of the dead! I'll slit you throat to belly!"

The superior stamina of his destrier was evident now against the other horse, a smaller animal, but one of great beauty, Bryan noted vaguely. An Arabian mare, if he wasn't mistaken. Probably stolen, taken in a thievery as despicable as this.

Feeling him close, the rider of the Arabian turned in the saddle. Bryan was stunned to see that it was a woman. As fine and graceful as the horse . . .

Despite the ebony of the sky, the rain-cleansed moon gave him a sudden and brilliant picture of the girl. She was swathed in a nondescript cloak, but strands of red and gold hair escaped from the cowl to frame her delicate features like the rays of a magnificent sunset. Her eyes were wide in her face, and for a moment he saw them, too, with a crystal clarity. Not quite blue, not quite green, but a stunning shade of aqua . . . or turquoise, and set beneath high arching brows, brows that were honey-colored, like her eyelashes, lashes that were thick and rich and long, that formed alluring crescents over cheeks that seemed kissed by roses.

With a stern mental jolt he reminded himself that she was a thief—worse than most, she had robbed the dead.

And created more dead. She had probably used her beauty to stun and murder. All the more despicable . . .

Looking at her, they had first been robbed of their senses, and then of their lives. Startled, as he had been, caught off guard, and then slain.

Such beauty, such treachery. But it would not work with him. He could close his eyes easily to her beauty, for beauty was often cheap. And when it encased a black heart, he could be totally cold, and totally impartial. Totally just.

In an icy calm fury, he bore down upon her once more, reaching out to grasp for her arm. She brought a riding whip down upon his hand with an astounding vigor.

"Bitch of Satan!" he growled heatedly, reaching for her again. This time he caught her. She was light for his strength; he was accustomed to unhorsing warriors in full armor. He dragged her without faltering from her mare and tossed her slender form over the pommel of his saddle as he reined in his destrier.

Once the giant horse had come to a halt, he gave her a firm shove, sending her sprawling to the ground. He stared at her with sharp, impassive eyes, then saw that she, even now, breathless and stunned, was trying to escape him, rolling from the still hooves of the destrier, but finding herself entangled in the cape.

Bryan threw his right leg over the horse and leaped to the ground, pouncing upon her before she could gain her footing. He straddled over her form and secured her flailing arms. She sank her teeth into his arm; he barely felt the pain, but he jerked her hands higher above her head to avoid her vengeful bite.

"Where are your accomplices, bitch?" he grated out. "Tell me now, or as God is my witness, I will strip the flesh from your body inch by inch until you do!"

She was still struggling against him, a tempest of fury and energy. "I have no accomplices!" she spat out. "And I am no thief! You are the thief! You are the murderer! Let me go, whoreson. Help! Help! Oh, help me, someone! Help . . ."

Bryan felt as if, somewhere deep inside his heart, something broke. Something that cried out in anguish and fury against the treachery and pain of the night. Her cry made him feel as if his blood burned within his veins. She cried for help, she cried for mercy—and she had given none.

He clasped her wrists with one hand, and drew the back of the other hard across her cheek.

"You robbed the dead!" He hissed coldly as her stunned eyes met his. "Henry of England! You were seen!"

"No!"

"Then I shall find nothing of his upon you?"

"No! I am not a thief, I'm—" She stopped suddenly, then continued. "Can't you see, fool? I carry nothing of the king's—"

Her voice broke suddenly once again, and a look of alarm flashed through her turquoise eyes, and her lashes fell like lush fans to cover them for a second. When they opened, they were clear again, bright with indignity and anger.

A consummate actress, Bryan thought. Quickly disguising true emotion with a fine show of outrage. But she hadn't been quite quick enough. Before the treacherous shade of her lashes had fallen, he had seen the truth in her eyes. He had frightened her. It was probable that she did hold some property of the king's upon her.

Her eyes fell closed once more; her body was stiff beneath his.

Bryan's lips curved in a grim semblance of a smile.

"We shall see, madam," he hissed, his voice even more of a threat than his tense grip upon her, "if you can prove your innocence."

Her brilliant eyes flew open to challenge his. "I am the Duchess of Montoui! And I demand that you let me up this instant!"

Montoui? He'd never heard of it. Yet no duchess went around as poorly clothed as his captive—not that it mattered at the moment who she was. Had the Virgin Mary perpetrated the deeds at the castle, his fury could not have been abated.

"I don't care if you're the Queen of France! I intend to discover what you have done with your booty."

Her body went more rigid beneath his; he felt her attempt to curl her nails to gouge his hand.

"Touch me, and I'll see your head on the block!"

"I doubt that . . . Duchess," he mocked, fighting hard to control his temper against her imperious tone. It was very difficult to remind himself that he was a knight, and not a judge and jury. If Henry had accomplished anything, it was to give law to England. He was not an executioner. Had she been a man, he could challenge and fight, he could have slain her. But as it was, she deserved the death sentence. But he had no right to decree it.

He released her wrist and crossed his arms over his chest, staring harshly upon her as his thighs continued to imprison her to the ground. "We're going back to the castle," he told her. "I suggest you be ready to talk by the time we reach it."

Swiftly, contemptuously, he rose, striding to retrieve the reins of his destrier.

He turned back to her. She still lay upon the ground, just as he had left her, except that she had her arms hugged about her chest.

"Up, Duchess," he said.

Her eyes met his, wide and shadowed and suddenly . . . hurt? Or perhaps frightened?

"I'm winded," she murmured, "and I'm caught in my cloak. If you would help me?"

Impatiently, Bryan reached down to drag her to her feet. But once he had clasped her left hand, she sprang to her feet with an astounding ease, raising her right hand high into the air. The moonlight caught and reflected the shiny blade of her dagger just as it caught and reflected the hatred and venom in her now crystal clear and sharply narrowed eyes.

She wasn't frightened at all; she was in a murderous rage.

And she encompassed surprising strength and expertise in her deceptively slender form.

Only his greater strength and war-trained reflexes saved him from the well-directed blow of her dagger. His arm bolted upward to capture hers, forcing her to drop the dagger. She cried out in startled pain as he jerked her hand, twisting her arm behind her back.

He couldn't help but delight in her shiver when he whispered against the nape of her neck, "No, Duchess of thieves and murderers, I will not be your next victim. But if harlots and thieves believe in God, I suggest you start praying. For, at the castle, I guarantee that you will be my victim—and that you will pay dearly for this night."