Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

T he mist had lifted by the time they reached Lynn, at least for the most part. There were patches lingering over the fields, but it made for a scenic ride.

Vulcan and Cort had their moments. Vulcan was very strong, and very stubborn, and he and Cort wrestled nearly the entire way to Lynn but as they drew closer to the town, the horse seemed to settle down admirably with a steady, heavy hand. All Cort knew was that he was exhausted by the time they reached Lynn, but there was no way he was going to admit it. He truly had no idea how young, relatively weak and skinny Damien had ridden the horse for as long as he had.

The lad had hidden strength.

At this hour, the large village of Lynn was already bustling. Dillon took them to one of the larger liveries in town where they dropped off the horses and the thirty men-at-arms who had come with them. As the men settled in for the wait and the blacksmith at the livery inspected Vulcan's shoes per Dillon's request, the five of them headed out into the city.

Mostly, it was the men following the women because Dera and Arabella knew where they wanted to go. They headed towards the town center where people were going about their morning business. There were vendors of all sorts, including farmers selling their produce. Given the time of year, there was a good deal of fruits and vegetables to be sold, and there were several livestock merchants.

Cort learned that every Tuesday, Lynn had its big market, and every Tuesday is when Dera and Arabella wanted to come to town. The women held hands as they pushed between the crowds, followed by three big knights as they headed to the merchant stall near the end of the marketplace.

Tables were set out with piles of fabric on them. There were other tables with scarfs, and then one with more combs than Cort had ever seen. He spent a good deal of time in London and what he was seeing before him rivaled anything he'd seen there. The stall drew women to it like a moth to flame and there were already several women crowded into it by the time Dera and Arabella arrived.

They headed straight for the merchant himself.

"Lord Ender," Arabella greeted. "What new and wonderful things do you have for us today?"

Ender Uger was a big man with an impossibly long beard. He was dressed in exquisite robes, advertising his products, and he greeted Arabella and Dera as if they were his long-lost daughters. Careful not to touch them, however, as that was forbidden in his religion, he gestured to a table that was at the rear of the stall, but he waved his arms as if he were herding sheep.

"This way, hanimlar ," he said amiably, using the term for "lady" in his language. "I am so happy to see you today. I have very special things my brother has sent all the way from Constantinople. I have saved them especially for you!"

Dera and Arabella flocked to the table where Ender's daughter was wearing several of the beautiful scarves from the table. The woman was about the same age as Dera and Arabella, with alabaster skin and dark green eyes. She was an exquisite beauty, a sweet smile on her lips, until she opened her mouth and displayed big, rotting teeth.

In fact, Cort had been enjoying the view very much of the woman with the long, dark hair until she smiled. He couldn't stop himself from wincing, looking to Brend and seeing that the man was silently far gone with laughter. They'd both been inspecting the beauty when they'd gotten a shock. Cort had to turn away so the young woman couldn't catch a hint of his smile.

"If she keeps her mouth shut, she is magnificent," he muttered.

Brend nodded. "I thought that the first time I saw her, too," he said. "Ender says she is betrothed to a man in his country and is soon to return."

Cort lifted his eyebrows. "Pity," he said. "If not for the teeth, she would make this town much more tolerable."

Brend wasn't hard pressed to agree. "Indeed."

Making sure the smirk was off his face, Cort returned his attention to Dera and Arabella, now pouring over the jewelry that the merchant was displaying for them. As he turned around, he saw Dera admiring beautiful golden cross earrings that were inlaid with pieces of colored glass. He watched her for a moment, seeing the joy on her face. Everything about her seemed to glow.

"Speaking of betrothal," he said. "Why is your sister not already married? She is old enough. Almost past being old enough, in fact."

Brend shook his head. "I do not know," he said. "I have been in England and removed from my family for many years, so I do not know why she remains unmarried. She has a mind of her own and my father respects that, I think. If she does not wish to marry a man, he is not going to force her."

"So she intends to remain a spinster all her life?"

"I really do not know. But she'll not find a husband in England."

Cort debated just how much to push the subject. Brend was so very English on the outside, but he was still concerned for the man's Irish blood. He could deny it all he wanted, but the truth was that he was born in Ireland. Surely he had Irish sympathies. But Cort was more concerned about the sympathies of the Irish sister. He had to get her alone, eventually.

He had an idea.

"And it is a pity you'll not find a wife in England, either," he said after a moment. "Brend, you and I have been friends for years, have we not?"

Brend eyed him, smiling. "As much as I am ashamed to admit it to others, we have been."

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life, Cort. Why do you ask?"

Cort's gaze moved to the two women excitedly looking over the jewelry. "Because I have seen the way Bella looks at you," he said. "I deduced that something is going on between you two and Dillon confirmed it. Have no fear; your secret is safe with me but I cannot imagine the turmoil you have been going through. Truly, you have my pity. I just wanted you to know."

Brend stiffed ever-so-slightly, his gaze moving to Arabella as she admired a broach that Ender was showing her. The longer he looked at her, the more pained his expression became.

"I suppose I've not been very good at keeping my composure when she comes near," he said softly. "I try, but it is increasingly difficult."

Cort wasn't unsympathetic. "Far be it from me to tell you how to conduct yourself, but the next person that catches on might not be so… understanding."

Brend nodded, his expression unusually serious. "One has to ask oneself if love is worth the risk," he muttered. "I am still asking myself that, Cort. I have worked hard my entire life to become an elite knight. I hold a position of honor with the house of de Winter, something the firstborn men in my family have been holding for two hundred years. You cannot imagine what a burden that is. I do not want to be the one that fails in that task."

Cort grunted. "Well do I know that feeling," he said. "I am the son of the Dark Knight, the man who turned the tides at the Battle of Bosworth in favor of Henry Tudor. That is an awesome and heavy cross to bear, and in me more than my other brothers, I suppose, because I am the firstborn son of my parents. My father had my brother Trenton with his first wife and my mother had my brother Dane with her first husband. After they married, I was their first son. I understand the fear of not wanting to be the son who fails his father."

Brend looked at him, feeling his kindred spirit. "I will be honest when I tell you that I do not know what to do," he said. "Some days, I want to run away with Bella. Some days, I cannot even look at her and force myself to focus on my duties. It is enough to drive a man to drink."

"You haven't started, have you?"

Brend grinned. "Not heavily, anyway."

Cort laughed softly. "Do not start, not yet," he said. "There has to be a way for you and Bella to be together and not suffer the consequences of it."

Brend's jaw ticked faintly as he pondered the emotional situation. "If there is, I have not come across it," he said. "Cort, I am as English as you are, only I was born in Ireland. My heart and soul are English. But my blood is Irish. I am looked down upon, like I am inferior to the English simply because I was born at Mount Wrath. I am not inferior; I am a man, just like you are. I am as good, if not better, than most. Frankly, I find this whole thing infuriating. I am good enough to die for the House of de Winter, but I am not good enough to marry into it?"

Cort put a hand on Brend's shoulder because he was becoming agitated and he wanted to soothe the man before Dera and Arabella caught on. "Have you approached Denys?"

Brend shook his head. "Why? He must follow the law and the law says that a woman of English birth cannot marry a man of Irish birth."

"Aye, but that law only applies in England."

Brend looked at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Cort probably shouldn't be making suggestions like this. Truth be told, he was doing it because he really did care for Brend, but also because he wanted to endear himself to the man to see if he would be willing to tell him more about Dera and her activities in Ireland. He was trying to deepen the relationship. Brend trusted him, that was true, but he wanted more.

He wanted Brend to have little reservation when speaking to him about Dera.

Perhaps it was a dirty trick, but Cort had a task to complete.

"I mean that you could take her to Scotland and marry her," he said quietly. "Or take her to France or Spain. De Winter has properties near Bordeaux, on the Garonne River. Mayhap you can marry her in France and remain there as a garrison commander for de Winter. If all else fails, my father's family holds ancient properties in Flanders. I am sure my father would be open to your plight and mayhap helping you. He had quite a plight of his own with my mother, once."

Brend was actually listening. "I will admit I had thought of going to France but I'd not thought of asking anyone for help. I do not want my friends to be complicit in my actions."

Cort grinned. "So find an old English lord somewhere who is willing to adopt you," he said. "If he legally adopts you, then you are English."

Brend's eyebrows lifted. "Do you know of any?"

Cort started to laugh, shaking his head. He slapped him on the arm. "I do not," he said. "But if I hear anything, I will let you know. But I do not want to talk about you anymore. I want to talk about your sister."

"What about her?"

Cort leaned into him. "I have heard rumor that she's a warrior woman," he said. "I will admit, she does not look like a warrior woman to me. Is it true?"

Brend's gaze moved to his sister, who was looking at fine silk scarves in brilliant colors. "My father seems to think that she is," he said. "I told you that I believe de Winter brought her here as a hostage, but my father was more than willing to send her, which seems strange."

"Why?"

"Because she would be a hostage to ensure that the House of MacRohan did not join the rebellion," he said. "That would mean my father would be forced into compliance. But my father gave her over most willingly. Almost…"

"Almost what?"

"Almost as if he wanted to be rid of her."

"Get her out of Ireland?"

Brend nodded reluctantly, having no idea that he was giving Cort the information he sought. It wasn't as if Cort were going to betray the man, but for his own information, he wanted to know.

Whether or not he told Henry about it was a different matter.

"She looks harmless to me," Cort said. "But still, I'd like to take her to Deverill along with Bella to see Gilliana. You know how protective my father is over her. She does not get out much."

Gilliana de Russe was a fragile flower, an absolutely beautiful young woman who had been born hard of hearing. She could hear nothing out of one ear and very little out of the other, which is why she'd never been sent away to foster. Gaston and Remington's protective instincts were voracious when it came to their youngest, and the result was that she didn't go very many places or meet very many people.

"Hopefully, Denys will allow it," Brend said. "You must ask him when we return to Narborough. And… mayhap I can ride escort."

"I will make a point of asking."

Brend smiled weakly, the familiar sadness swamping him when it came to Arabella. So close, but yet so far.

"Brend," Cort said after a moment. "What happens when Denys finds a husband for Bella? Have you thought of that? I only say that because I have two younger brothers who aren't spoken for. It might plant a seed in Denys' mind if Dera and Bella travel to Deverill and… well, I was just thinking out loud."

Brend looked at him pointedly. "First, I will kill the brother that Denys has chosen," he said. "Then, Bella and I really will flee to Scotland or France, or wherever we have to because the House of de Russe will be in pursuit."

He meant it half-jest, half-not. Cort could see how tormented he was. "So it will take a betrothal to push you into doing what your heart dictates?" he asked.

Brend lifted his big shoulders, unable to articulate what, exactly, he was feeling. There was so very much at stake, straddling two worlds as he was. Cort patted the man on the shoulder.

"I did not mean to upset you," he said. "In fact, let me take your sister out of the way and you can have some time with Bella. Go, now; pretend she is your lady and you are here to purchase something lovely for her."

Cort was finally making his move to get Dera alone. He'd interrogated Brend enough for one day. He walked away from the man, heading over to Dera as Brend summoned his courage to go to Arabella.

"My lady," Cort said as he moved in behind her. "There is an astonishingly good baker around the corner and I am rather famished. Would you honor me with your company?"

Dera had been looking at a beautiful yellow scarf, but she turned to him in surprise when he spoke. "Me?"

"You."

She appeared uncertain, turning to look at Arabella, who was in a huddle with Brend as they pretended to look at the scarves, too. Seeing that her brother and Arabella were occupied, Dera returned her attention to Cort.

"Very well," she said. "I accept."

He flashed her one of those devastating smiles, the ones that usually got him anything he wanted. Extending an elbow to her, he escorted her out of the stall and into the street beyond.

It was a busy Market Tuesday in Lynn. The mists had lifted completely, revealing a bright day as Cort led Dera to the Street of the Bakers. The street was full of women going about their shopping, purchasing specialty bread that they would not perhaps bake at home, or purchasing sweets and other items. Some of them were even bringing their roasts and fowl, utilizing the big baker ovens to cook their food for a small fee.

"Well?" Dera said as they strolled along. "Where is this miraculous place?"

Cort pointed up ahead. "There," he said. "The place with the brick arch. See it?"

Dera nodded. "What's so marvelous about it?"

"It gives us something to do while your brother and Arabella spend time together. Alone."

Dera looked at him. "You know about that?"

"Do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Good. I was hoping I hadn't just given your brother away."

Dera shook her head. "Nay," she said. "I saw it when I first arrived at Narborough. It is very romantic, but… sad."

Cort didn't reply to that. He didn't want to delve into a potentially depressing subject when he very much wanted to make this little venture to the bake shop something fun and flirtatious. He was supposed to seduce the woman, after all.

He'd better get on with it.

"I'm sure all things will happen the way they should," he said. "If it is true love, they will find a way. Now, may we speak on something happier? What is to your liking, my lady? Are you hungry or would you just like some sweets?"

Dera smiled at him, rather coyly. "Will you choose for me, my lord?"

Cort grinned. "I may not choose something you like."

"Then again, you may."

"Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

He snorted. "That may be your grave mistake," he said. "I may choose eyeball pie and a coffin of brains."

She looked at him in horror, breaking into giggles. "If you ate it first, then I would follow suit."

"You would?"

"Of course. Show me your bravery and I shall show you mine."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you challenging me?"

She put her hand over her mouth, hiding her grin. "Mayhap."

Cort kept his eyes narrowed, but there was a smile on his lips and a mischievous one at that.

The flirtation had begun.

"Come with me," he said.

Dera kept her hand looped through his elbow possessively as he took her through the Street of the Bakers where it turned into another avenue. There were butchers here and as the street curved south, it had the smell of blood. In fact, it was running in the gutters, black and congealed. The sweet smells from the bakers so recently experienced were no longer so sweet on this part of the road.

"And where are you taking me?" she asked. "I thought we were going to get bread and other delights."

He cast her a sidelong glance. "You challenged me," he said. "Did you not think I would accept?"

Dera was as stubborn as he was. "Then do your worst. If you eat it first, I shall also."

He bit his lip to keep from laughing because he was about to do something quite dastardly. They came to a stone stall that had a low-ceilinged room when first entered, but the back was open into a small yard. There were animals in back, living and dead, and as men butchered in the rear, two women were working in the room, stewing and cooking and packaging.

There were consumers inside, purchasing beef and pork and whatever else the women were selling. There was a big hearth that had several pots cooking over it, sending steam into the air. As Cort walked up to one of the red-faced women, she barked at him.

"What's wanting?" she said.

"Garbage," he replied.

The woman nodded. She was in mid-transaction with someone who had purchased a big piece of meat, so she sent them off before she turned to one of the massive copper pots that was boiling over the fire.

"All pieces, please," Cort told the woman.

The woman produced a trencher, but this one was a stale, carved-out round loaf of bread. It wasn't flat. She ladled soup into it from the steaming pot, at least what Dera thought was soup, and stuck a big, metal spoon in it that she expected returned. Cort handed her a pence and she handed him the bowl. Taking Dera's hand, he led her out of the stall.

Because there were several stalls that sold food on this small stretch of avenue, there were benches and upturned logs to sit on in a small area across the street. A yew tree grew up there, the branches hanging over the avenue, as Cort led her to a small stone bench. He politely set her down first before sitting next to her.

Dera eyed both him and the bread bowl.

"You told that woman you wanted garbage," she said. "I'm afraid to ask what it is."

He grinned. "You said you had courage."

"I do. What is it?"

He looked down at the bowl and started stirring it. "Just what it sounds like," he said. "It's soup made from the parts of the animals that no one wants. Heads, feet, tails, tongues, and so forth. The butcher boils them all together and makes a very good broth that has cinnamon and vinegar and pepper in it. Usually, people just ask for the hot broth, but if you ask for the pieces, they'll give you those, too."

Dera's eyes widened as he stirred up the soup and lifted the spoon. The first thing he came away with was a cock's comb and a chicken foot. He picked up the foot, sucked off the skin and cartilage, and threw away the nails and bones. Then, he slurped the cock's comb right down.

Dera swallowed hard.

"Are you… enjoying that?" she asked, aghast.

Cort was trying very hard not to laugh. "Why not? It is exceptionally spiced and tasty."

She watched him for a moment, trying not to show how horrified she was, before taking the bowl from him and stirring it up. Pieces of undetermined organ came up, along with more than one chicken's foot. There was the head that was missing the cock's comb he'd just eaten, with a white eye staring back at her. There were pieces of things she didn't recognize but she knew they weren't something she wanted to eat.

However, she'd told him she was brave. She couldn't back out now.

Without hesitation, she spooned a hearty spoonful of mixed organ pieces into her mouth, swallowing it down and keeping a brave face. Just for good measure, she took a second spoonful to show him just how courageous she was, and the cock's head came up again. It wasn't very big, so she picked it off the spoon, broke it open, and sucked the brain out. Tossing it aside, she handed him back the bowl.

"Now it's your turn," she said.

Cort was doing all he could to hold back the laughter. The woman was turning shades of green and trying desperately to pretend she wasn't. As far as he was concerned, she'd proven her bravery and he was impressed. He wouldn't torture her.

He set the bowl aside.

"You are indeed as brave as I am, my lady," he said. "I bow to your courage."

Dera smiled wanly. "Is that all? We will not continue with the challenge?"

He shook his head. "I have had enough of cock's combs," he said, backing down like a gentleman because he had a feeling she would go until she vomited. "You are victorious in this instance."

Her smile turned genuine as he stood up, reaching down to take her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He led her back onto the avenue, heading back towards the Street of the Bakers and wondering how far he was going to get before she vomited.

"Tell me something," he said as they headed towards a large bake stall that was full of fruit pies. "How did a lady like you become so courageous?"

"I have older brothers who have challenged me on more than one occasion," she said. "I've learned to stand up for myself. They aren't nearly as chivalrous as you are."

"I just made you eat a chicken brain."

"But you are making it up to me by treating me to a fruit pie."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

" Isn't it?"

He chuckled. "Right again, my lady. Your powers of deductive reasoning are astounding."

"As is my taste in companionship."

He dipped his head, appreciating the compliment. "Thank you," he said. His gaze lingered on her a moment. "I do apologize for the chicken brain. I honestly didn't think you would eat it."

She eyed him. "Never challenge me if you don't expect me to follow through."

"I've learned my lesson," he said. "In fact, I am glad we've had this time together. I've known your brother for years, so I already feel as if I am part of the family."

She pulled her hand from his elbow. "If that is the case, then I'd better stop flirting with you. I don't make it a habit of flirting with family members."

A sly smile crept over his lips. Reaching out, he took her hand again, gently, and put it back on his arm. " Honorary member," he clarified softly. "Now, what kind of pie would you like?"

They were standing in front of the racks that were set out on tables. The pies, or coffins, were lined up– blackberry, quince, and apple. The aroma was heavenly. Dera looked up at him, her eyes warm and glimmering.

"You choose," she said.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned to the baker and ordered two blackberry coffins. The baker handed them over, Cort paid him, and he and Dera walked away with their sweets.

But the morning was about to take on a slightly different path than chicken brains and blackberry pies.

Dera was about to take the offensive.

*

Sweet Mary, this day hadn't gone as she'd planned.

Since departing Ender's stall, Dera had a chance to flirt with Cort, to charm him, and instead she'd eaten garbage just to impress him. It still wasn't sitting well and she was hoping the blackberry pie would lay on top of the chicken brains and keep them from coming up. The last thing she wanted was to throw up her innards in front of Cort de Russe.

It was shame she would never live down.

In fact, this entire trip into Lynn had been a grand opportunity for her to probe the man, but she hadn't taken that chance yet. Maybe meeting his challenge had been a mistake; she suspected that men like Cort tended to like the frail, helpless females, which Dera was not. She was quite self-sufficient in most things. She'd never been frail in her life. As she took bites out of her pie and tried not to smear blackberries on her face, she thought to take a softer approach with him, hoping he'd think she was a little more ladylike than she'd proven thus far.

That he wasn't charming a rebel in disguise.

It was time to take action.

"As an honorary member of my family, I feel as if I have the right to ask you anything," she said. "You said yourself that you are one of the family, did you not?"

He was almost finished with his pie already. "Ask what you will," he said. "My life is an open book."

"Very well," she said. "How old are you?"

He looked at her in surprise. "How old are you ?"

"I asked you first."

He laughed softly. It seemed that Cort always had a ready smile or ready laughter on his lips.

"I have seen thirty-three summers," he said.

She looked at him curiously. "And you've not married?"

He shook his head. "I will tell you what I've told my mother– I've not yet found the right woman."

"Surely you must have your pick," she said.

"Of course I do," he said. "And they are the cream of the crop. But no one has yet captured my sincere interest. What about you? Why aren't young men beating down de Winter's door to get at you?"

She looked away coyly. "What makes you think they aren't?"

He appeared thoughtful before he suddenly nodded. "So that's who I passed on the road before I got to Narborough," he said. "All of those young men, weeping and crushed because you had turned them away."

Dera started laughing. "Aye, that was them," she said. "They come in gangs, as if someone opened the gates of a prison somewhere and they all rushed in my direction."

It was Cort's turn to laugh. "You attract convicts? Bloody Christ, woman, what must you do in order to invite the dregs of society?"

"Apparently very little. In England, that seems to be most of the population."

That comment changed everything.

Unbeknownst to Dera, Cort was chuckling on the outside, but inside, he knew his country had just been slandered. It hadn't been deliberate, however. It had come naturally to her; she didn't have to think about it at all before it just slipped out.

That told Cort the rebel inside of her was alive and well.

"Mayhap," he said without missing a beat. "It has been my experience that the Irish don't necessarily come out smelling like a rose, either, unless your name happens to be MacRohan."

She shrugged. "I suppose no country is perfect."

"I suppose so."

"This is a dangerous topic, isn't it?"

He grinned. "Possibly. You're loyal to your country and I am loyal to mine. But that does not mean we cannot be friends."

"I hope so."

He leaned into her, a flirtatious gesture. "Remember, I'm an honorary MacRohan."

She giggled, finishing the rest of her pie and licking the blackberry off her fingers. "Indeed, you are," she said. "Given that you are, you should know something about our country."

"I would like to."

Her smile faded as she looked at him, an expression of sincerity taking hold. "Truly? Would you?"

He nodded, swallowing the last of his pie and wiping the crumbs from his mouth. He could see that she was taking his response seriously. When one is hunting a rebel, it is important to use the right bait.

With Dera, it could very well be interest in Ireland's people, something she knew very well.

He was about to find out.

"Will you tell me?" he asked.

She nodded, but she was looking at him in a way that seemed dubious. As if she didn't believe his sincerity but wanted to.

"I will," she said. "What would you like to know?"

His smile never left his lips. "Whatever you would like to tell me," he said. "Tell me what you…"

He suddenly trailed off, catching sight of something over the top of her head. Sensing an immediate change in his mood, Dera turned around to see four big knights coming down the Street of the Bakers. They were on horseback on a street where most people were walking, shoving people out of the way, generally creating a nuisance. Dressed in heavy weaponry, pieces of plate armor, and bearing black tunics with a white fleur de lis on the front, they were seasoned and intimidating men.

"Do you know them?" Dera asked.

Gone was Cort's smile, the warmth in his eyes. In fact, his entire face had changed. It was now hard and focused.

Deadly.

"Aye," he said after a moment. "Knights from the House of de Corlet, of Northbeck Castle in Lincolnshire."

"Allies?"

"Most definitely not," he said. "I would like to know what they are doing in Lynn."

Dera could see that he was tensed up about their arrival. In fact, he rose to his feet and took her hand, leading her away from their little bench and into an alley off of the road where he could watch them and not be seen.

Just as he moved her off the road, however, he could see Brend and Dillon, with Arabella between them, entering the avenue behind the de Corlet knights. Now, unfriendly knights were between Cord and Dera, and Brend and Dillon.

Unfortunately, one of the de Corlet knights saw Dillon.

As Cort and Dera watched, the four knights turned to Brend and Dillon. From Cort's vantage point, he could see that they were addressing his friends but he couldn't hear what they were saying. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it wasn't very good because he saw when Dillon muttered something to Arabella and she quickly ducked into one of the baker's stalls.

That left Dillon and Brend against four knights.

People on the avenue, sensing something bad was about to happen, began to clear out. When that started happening, Cort knew he had to take action.

"I want you to remain here," he told Dera calmly. "Whatever happens, get to Arabella and the two of you stay together. Get back to the horses and remain in the stable. One of us will come for you."

Dera opened her mouth to reply but he was already out in the street, already heading towards the knights who were moving closer to Dillon and Brend. Cort was fully armed, however. In an effort to get the attention of the de Corlet knights, he bent over and picked up a rock, hurling it at the butt of one of the big warhorses. The animal would have bolted had it not been for the quick reflexes of his owner, and the four knights struggled with the panicking horses, noting that another knight was coming up behind them on foot.

But not just any knight.

Cort was wearing the de Russe big-tusk boar on his tunic, the symbol of the Duke of Warminster.

"De Russe knight," one of the men finally hissed. "You're far from Warminster."

Cort smiled without humor. "And you are far from Northbeck," he said. "You are in de Winter territory. Did you not realize that?"

The knights were becoming aware that they were being boxed in by three powerful knights. When it had only been two, they had the advantage, but now…

"We realized it," the knight said. "We're simply passing through to London. We're not causing any trouble."

Cort's smile broadened. "Not yet, anyway," he said. "But you were about to. I will tell you that I am not the only de Russe in this city, but I am the one you should fear most. Go back the way you came and take another route into London. You do not belong here."

"Says who?" the knight said. "You? You are not de Winter. You cannot command us to leave."

"I can," Dillon said. "I am the heir to Narborough Castle. This is my father's demesne, so I can and will order you to leave. Get out of the city and I will not see you here again."

The four knights were looking at Dillon now. It was a tense moment. Would they go? Would they defend their right to remain?

Their answer was long in coming.

"I choose my own way," the knight in the lead finally said. "We're not causing any trouble and you have no right to make us leave. We'll pass through and leave this filthy town behind."

Cort didn't move. They would have to go through him in order to continue their journey and he wasn't moving.

"That was not what you were told to do," he said. "Turn around and go back the way you came. If you think to run me over, think long and hard about that decision. It would bring Warminster and her allies down upon Northbeck, which could not survive such an attack, and my father in particular would be targeting you. You would not survive him, in any case."

"Who is your father?"

"Gaston de Russe, Duke of Warminster. Who did you think it was?"

That brought pause from the four knights. A de Russe knight serving Warminster was one thing, but the duke's son was entirely another. Still, pride was involved and that made it a difficult situation.

"No matter," the knight said. "We'll continue through town and be on our way."

"You'll go back the way you came and get out."

The knights on horseback unsheathed their broadswords and Cort, Dillon, and Brend unsheathed theirs a split-second later. Cort didn't wait for the advance; he walked right up to the knight nearest him, slapped the horse in the face, and watched it rear up and panic. The knight was dumped to the ground.

The fight was on.