Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Bartholomew ached in places he had not known he possessed. He would have sworn that his fingernails hurt, that his hair was bruised, that his very marrow had been smashed. Gaultier had been thorough in his beating, and Bartholomew had been tied down to ensure he could not defend himself.

Had he lost a tooth? All he could taste was blood and his lips were so swollen that he could not tell.

He understood now why Duncan had not been quick on his feet in their departure from Haynesdale. The dungeon was damp and dark, but his one eye was nigh swollen shut. Worst of all, Gaultier had discovered the mark on his chest. If he had not been condemned before, the mark sealed it.

The seed of Nicholas must die.

Bartholomew had been divested of his mail hauberk and aketon, then flung down into the dungeon. He lay on the dirt floor. He fought the desire to moan and could not help wishing that he did not awaken in the morning.

All was lost.

He had failed to fulfill Anna's scheme. He had betrayed his parents' memory. The people of Haynesdale would suffer for his arrival here, and it seemed there was naught of merit to result from his days.

He had many hours to consider his folly in the night, but in the end, he feared the night would be too short. He was to be hung at dawn. This was Royce's justice and his heart ached that the people of Haynesdale would have to endure it forever.

The trap door overhead opened suddenly, loosing a beam of light into the dungeon that stabbed him in the eye. Bartholomew did moan then and rolled toward the darkness. It could not be morning yet, could it?

He moved just in time, for another man was cast down into the dungeon. The body hit the dirt floor hard, but his new companion made no sound of protest.

Was it a corpse?

Bartholomew drew back in disgust, but the rope ladder was suddenly cast down from the opening. He could see a woman descending with purpose and in silence. She gestured to him with a stern finger for silence.

It was Marie's maid.

"Hasten yourselves!" the lady herself hissed from the floor above. She held a lantern so its light shone down into the pit.

Bartholomew sat up with interest. He saw that other man was Gaultier and no longer regretted his fate. That man rolled to his back and stirred, grumbling as he made to open his eyes.

The maid punched him in the face, showing unexpected strength. Her lips were tight and her expression furious. Gaultier fell back with a low moan and she struck him again. Bartholomew heard a bone crack. She then came to Bartholomew and untied his hands. She tugged at the hem of his tabard.

"Take all of it off," she commanded in French. "You will leave this hole as Gaultier."

The ruse was enough to have Bartholomew on his feet, filled with new purpose. He stripped off his tabard and chemise. "But we do not resemble each other that much," he argued quietly.

"You will when we are done," replied the maid. "It has been commanded at the lady's request that the prisoner will be hooded for his execution so none will know until it is too late." She took a steadying breath as she offered him Gaultier's tabard. "And Agnes will be avenged."

Bartholomew was astonished. Gaultier would die instead of him? He did find the notion of Royce executing his own Captain of the Guard most fitting. He would not weep for this man who had so abused Anna and killed Agnes.

In moments, he and Gaultier wore each other's garb. They were of a size, fortunately, for the maid insisted that even their boots be exchanged.

She then seized his chin, turning it toward the light. "His left eye must be pummeled so that it swells like yours. He needs a bruise on his jaw, just so. I would do it myself if I had the strength," she added and Bartholomew did not doubt it. She lifted his hands. "Break these two fingers, as well."

"But he did not break mine, not quite."

"He tried and it will be remembered." The maid was grim. "They document injuries in this place."

"He may protest," Bartholomew noted. "Or cry out for aid."

She chuckled. "He will sleep at least two days, thanks to the potion. It was made for two men, but he drank nigh all of it." Indeed, his tabard smelled of spilled wine. He must have fallen under the influence of the potion when there was still a measure in the cup. His revival in the dungeon must have been his body's last protest against the brew.

Bartholomew nodded, well content with this plan. Indeed, he found it most satisfying to ensure that Gaultier's injuries matched his own.

It was not long before he had climbed the rope ladder to the keep. Lady Marie met him there, her eyes glowing. "So you are the true son of Nicholas!" she breathed. "And rightful Baron of Haynesdale!"

Bartholomew glanced left and right, not wanting to discuss the matter when another might overhear them.

Marie kissed his cheek with undisguised satisfaction. "The future is ours, sir. I will ensure it."

Anna's plan came to rights, but Bartholomew felt little joy in the achievement. A future bound to Marie was not one he yearned to have, but it seemed to be the sole way he might survive. He recalled Gaston's diplomacy and said little, making no promises.

This did not seem to trouble Marie.

He was soon in Gaultier's own bed, with that man's cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled over his face. He rolled to face the wall, far more comfortable than he had been in the dungeon. Marie kissed his cheek again, her anticipation clear, and he thanked her gruffly for her aid.

The women swept away, the patter of their footfalls fading quickly. The night watch called the hour, and the sentry's voice echoed through the hall.

Otherwise, all was silent.

Yet Bartholomew was wide awake. The tide was changing and he dared not sleep until all was won.

*

"We have to save him," Anna insisted yet again. She was vexed beyond belief, fearful of Bartholomew's condition and unhappy that there was evidently naught she could do to help him.

"And how do you suggest the feat be accomplished?" Duncan asked one more time, his impatience clear. He reiterated his objections, and it helped little that Anna agreed with all of them. "There is no way into the keep save through the gate. The sewer can only be used for an escape. And no living soul will pass through that gate unseen." He shook his head. "Even with two knights dead and three squires, the keep is yet well armed."

Those in the forest had gathered to confer as soon as Duncan and Anna had returned. They had remained awake all of the night, debating their course. The young boys had immediately gone to the old village to ensure that both Herve and Regan were uninjured, and had helped them to collect the herd of goats again before night had fallen.

"Royce baits a trap for us," Edgar says with surety and not for the first time. "He anticipates that we will try to save the true son and will kill us all for it."

"He will kill Bartholomew first," added Stewart grimly. "Mark my words."

"Unless he kills him slowly," added Edgar, which did little to improve the mood of the company.

Anna swore softly and paced. The snow had melted away in her established path, but still she walked restlessly. "There must be a way. Royce will send the taxes to the king soon, by the word of the guards, and we can ensure that wagon never leaves the forest." She turned to face the others, flinging out her hands. "That coin could pay the escheat!"

"But Bartholomew will be dead by then, unless we contrive a way to save him," Lucan said, his manner sober.

"He might escape!" Percy suggested.

The entire company shook their heads as one. "There is no way out of that dungeon alone, lad," Duncan said, then ruffled the boy's hair. "It is a well-designed prison, to be sure."

"But someone might have aided him," the boy insisted.

"Who in that place would aspire to see justice served?" Edgar demanded. "If there was a man who believed in any thing other than his own survival in that place, he would have defied Sir Royce already."

"And been slaughtered for it already," agreed Stewart.

Anna paced anew, then turned to confront them. "What if one of the guards left the hall? What if he could be captured, and one of us take his place? Then we could aid Bartholomew."

Duncan frowned. "He would not only have to leave the hall, but be out of sight of the sentries." He shook his head. "They will not leave the keep."

"We could draw them out," Anna insisted. "We could set fire to something Royce values."

"The mill?" Stewart suggested.

Edgar winced. "He will not see the blaze until the building is nigh destroyed, for the old village is too far away. I say it is not worth the sacrifice." He raised a finger. "One day, we may have a good baron and be restored to our village, and then we will need the mill." His words fell into silence, for with Bartholomew captive, none had much hope of that good baron appearing.

Anna sat down hard. "We cannot fail. Not now that the true son is returned." The ring on the lace around her neck seemed heavier on this morning.

Father Ignatius cleared his throat. "Where are my keys?"

Duncan reached into his belt and offered them to the priest, his expression revealing that he had forgotten they were in his possession. Bartholomew must have granted them to him.

The priest fingered them, then held up one of the smaller ones. "This unlocks the portal near the chapel."

The others straightened with interest. Perhaps they, like Anna, had forgotten about it.

"But Bartholomew used it. They will watch that path," Anna protested.

The priest squared his shoulders. "I will wager that they will not kill a priest come alone to offer last rites to a condemned prisoner."

All gazes turned to him. Anna bit her lip. "They might only hesitate."

"It might be long enough." Father Ignatius then removed two other keys and tucked them into the small purse that hung from his belt. The ring of keys he carried openly. He glanced down at the ring then blinked with feigned surprise. "The key to the chapel and its treasury appear to have been lost."

Anna bit back a smile. She had not realized the priest could be deceptive.

Nor that he would take such a risk.

"Yours is a doughty wager," Duncan murmured. "I am not certain I would take it."

"But I will," Father Ignatius said with conviction. He straightened, his eyes filled with fire. "I will."

*

The guards tried to rouse Bartholomew, but he grunted in protest and remained rolled in Gaultier's cloak. His face was well hidden, but evidently they were convinced by his garb that he was the other man. There were many jibes and jests, but finally they left him alone.

"He will regret that he does not see this one swing," said one warrior.

"I wager that he regrets the wine yet more," countered another. "Do you not smell it on him?" They laughed together and went to the dungeon to gather the prisoner.

Bartholomew waited until he was alone, then marched to the armory, keeping his hood high. It was just past dawn, the sky growing light with the promise of another fine day. The man on duty at the armory bowed, but did not turn from his post. Bartholomew nodded then strode past him, as if fetching a weapon.

He pivoted in the shadows to watch.

The guard's interest was captured by the sight of the prisoner being urged to the summit of the curtain wall. Gaultier was hooded and staggered, making incoherent protests as they pushed him onward. Evidently the potion still held him in thrall. The guards were rough with him and he was struck repeatedly as he was led to his demise. They mocked him as the son of the true baron and tripped him more than once.

The sentry outside the armory chuckled.

It was almost too easy to assault him from behind when all eyes were on Gaultier. Bartholomew had him trussed and silenced in a heartbeat, then stole his helm and left him hidden in the back of the armory. He took the other man's place and watched with satisfaction as the rope was fitted around Gaultier's neck.

He had taken the man's place not a moment too soon.

Royce appeared in the portal to the hall, sipping from his chalice as he crossed the bailey. A trio of men were loading a wagon with trunks that appeared to be heavy despite their small size. Royce paused to offer advice to the knights wearing his colors, who evidently were going to escort the wagon.

What was it?

Where was it going?

When all was evidently as he desired, Royce strolled to the middle of the bailey. He ensured that he had a fine view when Gaultier was dragged to the summit. That man cried out incoherently, but the baron simply waved a hand. It was a signal, for Gaultier was immediately shoved from the parapet. There was a thump as the Captain of the Guard's body collided with the inside of the curtain wall, and he thrashed at the end of the rope for horrifying moments.

Then he went limp.

Bartholomew saw a trail of blood drip down the wall but could not regret the passing of that villain.

"Display his corpse!" Royce cried. "Be sure the renegades in the forest know that their leader is dead!" He spat into the bailey. "And there is the last of Nicholas' seed."

Royce returned to supervise the loading of the wagon. The body was hauled up again, then cast over the outside of the curtain wall beside the gate, still hanging from that rope. Bartholomew supposed the hanging had been on the inside of the bailey so Royce could witness it.

He was pondering his path when he heard a slight sound behind him. He was alert when someone tried to seize him from behind.

Bartholomew spun and had his blade at the assailant's throat before he realized it was Father Ignatius. The priest had seized a knife in the armory, but he knew little of such fighting. Bartholomew flung the priest aside and out of harm's way, then flipped up the visor of the helm. The priest had made to attack him again, but halted in sudden recognition.

"I thought I had come too late!" he said with pleasure.

Bartholomew had no chance to reply.

"What is amiss there?" Royce cried, having heard the scuffle.

"I must remain hidden," Bartholomew murmured.

"Of course," the priest agreed.

Bartholomew seized Father Ignatius and shoved him into the bailey. "The priest, my lord," he said, trying to imitate Gaultier's voice. He hoped the helm helped disguise the truth.

"How diligent you are, Gaultier," Royce said. "I had thought you would be on the parapet this morn."

"The armory was undefended, my lord," he replied gruffly. He shoved Father Ignatius forward. "Doubtless he came to offer last rites."

"But is too late for such a ritual." The baron strolled closer, still sipping from his chalice, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I thought you had abandoned us, Father."

"I have been ill, no more than that," the priest said. "I would not have put the health of you or Lady Marie in peril."

Royce pursed his lips, his skepticism clear. "Then you know naught of the attempted theft of the reliquary from the chapel?"

"I know that my keys are missing," Father Ignatius said. He lifted the ring hanging now from his belt, and Bartholomew saw that it had only three keys. "I thought I had misplaced them but when I found them again, the keys to both chapel and chapel treasury were missing."

Royce considered this for such a long moment that Bartholomew feared he would not accept the explanation.

What of the key to the portal in the wall?

He held his breath, fearing Father Ignatius would be caught in his lie, but Royce only frowned.

"Let him go, Gaultier," he commanded, then addressed the priest. "My lady wife's maid died yesterday and I am certain she would appreciate your solace. Perhaps you might say a prayer for Agnes."

"It would be my pleasure, sir. If you could unlock the chapel, we might celebrate a mass for her."

Royce nodded and indicated that Father Ignatius should precede him to the chapel. "Watch him," he commanded Bartholomew. "I believe he lies, but it is unwise to be quick to kill a priest."

"True enough, my lord."

"But if he gives you any cause for further suspicion, do not hesitate to act."

Bartholomew bowed agreement. He eyed the men who milled around the cart, waiting while the squires harnessed the horses that would pull it forth.

He had to go with the wagon.

He had to take the place of one of those men.

Royce cleared his throat. "Gaultier?" he said, then gestured to the interior. "I granted you a command! First, you sleep late, then you ignore an order!"

Bartholomew mumbled an apology.

There was naught for it. If he revealed himself in this moment, there were too many men who could defend Royce.

"Of course, my lord." Bartholomew bowed and headed for the chapel. He turned at the threshold to find Royce still watching him, then entered and pulled the door closed behind him.

Father Ignatius began to pray loudly over the coffin at the altar. Bartholomew waited only a moment before he opened the door an increment.

The gates were being opened and Royce stood peering out at the forest beyond. One of the knights by the wagon laughed with his fellows, then strode toward the sewer at the back of the stables, lifting the hem of his tabard as he walked.

Here was his chance.

*

"Nay," Anna whispered when she saw the corpse hanging from Haynesdale's curtain wall. Her throat tightened and her tears rose, for she would have recognized Bartholomew's tabard in any place. He could not be dead!

They could not have arrived too late.

Her heart struggled against the notion that Bartholomew breathed no more. Would she not have known instinctively that he was gone? It seemed impossible that he was no longer of this earth.

Yet the corpse could be naught other than what it was. His tabard and boots were unmistakably his own. She might be a coward but she was glad of the hood, for she did not want to see his face after he had been hanged.

"Aye," Duncan murmured and dropped his brow to his gloved hand.

They were hidden of the undergrowth of the forest opposite the gate of Haynesdale. The sun had barely risen from the horizon, yet Bartholomew had already been executed.

Anna felt the despair of the other villagers behind her and heard Percy sniffle.

The portcullis opened slowly, the rope creaking as the iron gate was drawn up. Anna nestled lower in the snow, wondering what transpired. Royce strode out of the gate and propped his hands upon his hips. He shouted in a booming voice. "Behold Luc Bartholomew, the only son of Baron Nicholas, hung until he was dead for possessing the audacity to assault my lady wife." His voice became louder. "There will be no other Baron of Haynesdale, save me, from this day forward. Do not defy me again, or your lives will become worse than they already are. There will be no more mercy shown to vagabonds and outlaws. Return to the village this day and become loyal villeins—or die!"

He pivoted and returned to the keep as the villagers muttered to each other. "He never had any mercy," Stewart grumbled.

"So, naught has changed," agreed Edgar.

When Anna expected the portcullis to close again, a pair of horses rode beneath it. Knights in Royce's colors rode the two stallions. A pair of palfreys pulled a wagon, one man-at-arms at the reins and two more riding at the back of the wagon. One of them might have been a squire, for he was smaller. Another pair of horses rode behind, warriors mounted on their saddles.

"The taxes," Anna whispered.

Duncan rubbed his mouth. "Is the reliquary dispatched to the king or yet within the walls?" he murmured.

"Father Ignatius will claim it, I am certain." Anna eased back into the undergrowth, edging away from the road. She knew what she had to do.

"Where do you go?" Edgar asked in an undertone.

She cast him a grim look. "To the bend in the road. That wagon will not arrive at its destination."

"But without Bartholomew, we have no need of coin for the escheat," Duncan protested. "We must find the reliquary."

Anna shook her head. "Royce cares solely for his gold and his taxes. He has taken the one person I loved most, so I shall take what he loves most."

"It would be fitting vengeance," Edgar agreed, then followed Anna.

"I would see him cheated of his desire," Stewart added.

"I would see him discredited before the king," added Lucan. "A baron who does not pay his taxes will not remain baron long."

"It might be our best hope for change!" said Rowe and there was a chorus of assent.

They gathered around Anna, murmuring to each other of their enthusiasm for her ploy. Only Duncan did not move.

"Will you not join us?" Anna asked.

The Scotsman shook his head. "He taunted us," he said softly and the company sobered. "What if it is a trap?"

"Or a feint," Anna agreed, seeing his logic. She crouched down beside the older man. "Let us divide our ranks. Half shall go with me to attack the wagon. The rest shall remain with you, in case there is a second wagon to depart or some opportunity created by Father Ignatius to see Bartholomew avenged."

"I must reclaim the reliquary," Duncan insisted. "It was my responsibility to defend it."

"So, we are agreed, then," Anna said to the others. "The first priority must be to save the reliquary. Beyond that, all damage we can do to Royce is welcome. It will be our vengeance for the death of Bartholomew."

They nodded with resolve, and it was only moments later that she led one band through the forest. Percy remained in Duncan's care. Her company flitted like shadows through the forest, taking a shorter and more direct path, toward the bend in the road.

Anna fully intended that the blow they dealt to Royce was severe.

*

The smell of cedar rose to Father Ignatius' nostrils from the coffin in the chapel. A candle burned on the altar, as if to keep the fallen in the light. He lifted the lid and winced at the injury that had been dealt to the maid who lay there. Even though she had been cleaned for burial, the savagery of the wound could not be disguised.

He felt Lady Marie come to stand beside him. Her maid came to stand on his other side and bumped against him as if she stumbled. He caught her elbow and she bowed her head, weeping. He supposed the two maids must have been close and the death of one would be difficult for the other to bear.

"I tire of living with barbarians," Lady Marie said through her teeth and he saw the tears in her eyes as she surveyed the dead maid. The other maid fell to her knees before the altar. "I will linger in this hole no longer."

The lady was resolute, hatred for her husband shining in her eyes.

"How will you depart? How will you see yourself defended?" Father Ignatius asked and Lady Marie smiled.

"It is best you do not know, Father, for you might be compelled to speak the truth when it is not convenient."

There was merit in that argument.

"Where is the reliquary?" he murmured, his glance darting to the treasury beside the altar. The door to the cabinet hung askew, revealing that the space was empty.

"He means to send it to the king as a gift," she said through her teeth.

The priest took a step toward the portal. "But the taxes are being dispatched to the king. We must hasten to intervene!"

Would Bartholomew discover its presence in time?

Was that why he had left the chapel?

Marie shook her head. "Nay, that wagon is a trick, intended to lure the rebels in the forest so they can be captured. Those trunks are filled with stones. Both taxes and gift will be dispatched only when the road is deemed to be safe."

Father Ignatius feared then for Anna and her fellows.

"But where is the reliquary?"

"He keeps his treasury close, stored in his chamber at the summit of the tower. No man can enter that place without Royce's express permission."

How could Father Ignatius retrieve the reliquary then?

Lady Marie leaned closer. "I would see Royce cheated of all he has stolen and cast out naked in the night, if it is the last deed I do." She raised her gaze to that of Father Ignatius. "This keep was built with my inheritance, a prison wrought for me of my father's coin! I will reclaim my dowry that I might wed the man I desire to father my sons."

"I would ask, my lady, for your aid in ensuring that the reliquary is returned to its custodians. It is not an item that would be wise to mislay."

The lady smiled and parted her robe. Around her waist was slung a round bundle that could only be what he most desired. "Our thoughts are as one, Father. I meant to offer this to you as a gift, in thanks for your silence about my choice."

"You have it, my lady."

She surrendered the reliquary to him, pausing to kiss the edge of the bundle. "Perhaps you might request the aid of Saint Euphemia in ensuring the cause of righteousness is served."

"But how shall it be taken from this keep without any noting it?"

Lady Marie dropped her hand to the coffin, her gaze knowing. Father Ignatius might have simply set the prize inside the box, but the lady lifted her dead maid's skirts. She placed the bundle on Agnes' belly, beneath her folded hands. It looked as if she had been with child when she passed away, yet not so far along that the fullness of her kirtle might not have hidden it. "No one truly looks at a maid," Marie murmured and gathered the fabric around Agnes' hips to disguise the bump yet more.

Father Ignatius heard the other maid inhale sharply and guessed that she was offended. The lady did not appear to notice.

She bent and kissed the dead maid's brow. "Still you serve me," she murmured. "Godspeed to you, Agnes."

Father Ignatius gave a blessing and the lid was closed again.

The lady spoke more loudly then. "Emma, we must see that Agnes is laid to her eternal rest. I know that my lord husband has other concerns this day, but would not delay in fulfilling my duty to Agnes. Would you aid me in retrieving her belongings, that they might be distributed to the poor?" She met Father Ignatius' gaze steadily. "Could you give the final blessing at the old cemetery, Father? Perhaps at midday?"

"Of course, my lady." He understood that he was to take the responsibility for smuggling the prize through the gates. The ruse was a good one, and the risk well worth the prize. He had to remind himself of such in an effort to steady the flutter of his heart. Father Ignatius had never been a bold man, but the cause of righteousness demanded that he do as much this time. He prayed for boldness as well as Agnes' soul while the lady turned to leave left the chapel.

"Oh! Have you a key to the chapel, Father?" the lady asked sweetly, turning to face him. "I would see it locked after your departure, the better to ensure that Royce is confounded in his search for it."

"Surely Sir Royce also has a key."

"I will claim that, as well." The lady put out her hand, her manner imperious.

Father Ignatius could only trust her in the details of her scheme. He retrieved the hidden key and granted it to her. She smiled and pivoted, quickly leaving the chapel.

He took a deep breath and eyed the coffin, preparing himself for the bold deed he must do.

But it proved that Father Ignatius had misunderstood the lady's intent.

He heard the key turn in the lock of the portal and spun in dismay. He knocked on the portal, but the lady laughed softly. "No one will ever again cheat me of my due, Father. I may need this prize to negotiate all that I would make my own, and you will not have the chance to take it from me."

Father Ignatius' hand dropped to the ring of keys on his belt out of habit, but it was gone. Too late he recalled that the maid had collided with him. She had stolen his keys!

And Lady Marie had requested the one that was missing from the ring.

He had only the key to the empty sanctuary by the altar.

"My lady!" he protested and tried to force the door. It was of considerable weight and the lock was good.

Father Ignatius bent and peered through the keyhole. He could discern Lady Marie striding away. The maid cast an impish smile over her shoulder and Father Ignatius felt a shadow of dread slide over his heart.

Did Lady Marie mean to betray him?

What was her intent?

He saw the wagon leave the bailey, accompanied by Royce's men. Was Bartholomew amongst them?

He pivoted and leaned against the door, surveying the small windowless chapel with dissatisfaction. What could he do to help?

For once in all his days, Father Ignatius found prayer to be a less than compelling choice.

*

The wagon came around the bend of the road, just as Anna had anticipated. The party did not ride as tightly together as they should have done, which would make matters simpler.

They would be easy to divide. She eased from behind the tree with her loaded crossbow. Edgar did the same, though he was not so good a shot as she. She saw his nod, then Norton and Piers erupted from the forest. The boys leapt for the backs of the horses pulling the wagon even as the men guarding the load cried out.

She and Edgar both let their bolts fly.

Anna's hit the lead knight in the throat. He fell from his steed to bleed in the road and did not rise again. His destrier reared, whinnied in fear, and galloped down the road, his reins trailing. The steed of the other knight ahead of the wagon bolted in terror, despite his rider's efforts to hold him back.

Edgar's bolt struck the driver of the wagon in the shoulder. That man had moved in the last moment, startled by boys' appearance, and he wrestled with the shaft of the bolt even as he tried to hold back the horses. The boys beat the rumps of the horses pulling the wagon and they were only too glad to gallop after their fellows.

Anna saw the larger man from the back of the wagon move forward, undoubtedly to help his companion, just as the remaining warriors charged the forest. Stewart sliced down the first of them with his blade, the other village men dropping from trees and throwing rocks to halt their attack.

Anna fled through the forest, intending to cut off the wagon at the next curve. She burst from the trees just as it was rolling past and leapt on to the wagon. She struck the smaller guard in the back, who was a squire, then kicked him off the wagon. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran back toward the keep, and Anna swore that he was out of her range. She hoped Edgar would stop him.

The guard from the back of the wagon had reached the front. To her astonishment, he seized the reins from the driver, then punched that man in the face.

The driver tumbled into the road.

Anna shot him in the throat before he could get to his feet. She then leapt for the guard who now held the reins and got one arm around his throat.

"Norton and Piers!" he bellowed. "Slow the horses!"

The fiend knew the boys' names! She tipped up his helmet to better slit his throat and he swore when his vision was obscured. The cart began to lurch toward the ditch. She held fast to his neck and reached for her knife. He jabbed her in the ribs, twisting in her grip as he swore with greater vehemence.

"This is not the time, Anna!" he growled and she froze at the familiarity of his voice.

"Bartholomew?" she asked in astonishment. "But you are dead!"

"Not quite yet," that knight muttered. "Though it appears you would see the matter changed." He pulled hard on the reins even as Anna tried to accept this happy news. The horses slowed, but the wagon was too close to the side of the road. It rolled to a halt but one wheel went into the ditch. The wagon tipped so that the trunks in the back slid to one side. The shifting weight made the cart tumble to one side and Anna leapt from it with Bartholomew as the trunks spilled into the dirt.

The others were gone, and she did not doubt that lead knight would return. "Tell me, Anna, what did I do to earn such a greeting?" Bartholomew demanded, that familiar thread of humor in his tone, when they stood in the forest. "I thought you liked me." He winked and soothed the horses.

Anna laughed in her relief, unable to believe her ears. He cast off the helm and smiled at her, his eyes twinkling, and she flung herself into his embrace with relief. "I thought you dead!"

"I have felt more hale in my time, to be sure," he said and kissed her quickly. His eye was blackened and his face was cut, but she thought he looked as rakish and handsome as ever. He broke their kiss all too soon and flicked a glance at the forest. "Where are the others? There were two guards behind and one yet ahead…"

A growl emitted from the undergrowth and they turned as one to see Cenric, his teeth bared and his hackles raised. He looked down the road and Anna spun to see that other lead knight approaching.

She had no more bolts.

Bartholomew had seized the driver's crossbow from the wagon, though, and loaded a bolt from the quiver there. He fired, then pushed her head down. Anna smiled at the sound of the knight falling from his stallion's saddle. The horse trotted toward them, its ears flicking, and at Bartholomew's glance, the boys seized its reins and soothed it to a walk.

"What about the gold?" Norton demanded, reaching for the trunks that had fallen into the dirt.

"There is none, not on this wagon," Bartholomew said. Norton had opened a trunk as Bartholomew replied, revealing a collection of rocks inside. Anna gasped. "Let us find the others before I explain."

With some effort, they got the wagon back on the road. They stacked the trunks much as they had been. Bartholomew turned the wagon around and they soon came upon Edgar and the others. One of Royce's warriors was dead and the surviving man-at-arms was bound. The squire, it seemed, had seized a horse and evaded them all. The group milled around the cart, disappointed at the sight of all the stones.

"Royce sends us an arsenal," Bartholomew said. "And a means to return to the keep."

"Your bold ploy is for naught," the man-at-arms said with a sneer. "Sir Royce is not the fool you believe him to be. He fully expects you to return."

"I have been there already and evaded him," Bartholomew said. "I even spoke to him directly. I think you over-estimate the wit of your lord baron."

"The boy will warn him," Edgar said, his manner dour.

"What of the reliquary?" Anna demanded of the man-at-arms.

"Safe from your kind," that warrior replied and spat on the ground.

Edgar pulled his knife and slit the man's throat, casting his body aside. "Safe from your kind, more like." He shoved the man into the ditch, then granted Bartholomew a rueful glance. "Such men do not deserve to live."

"Nay," Bartholomew agreed. "But our task is only half complete."

"We need the gold!"

"We need the reliquary!"

"Strip them of their tabards?" Anna asked, fully anticipating his reply.

"Hide the bodies and take their places," Bartholomew agreed, then gestured to them all. "Then bind these prisoners, these outcasts from the village who live in the forest."

Edgar looked between them in confusion. "We are going into the keep? As prisoners? Have you changed your thinking, sir?"

"It is the best way to see this matter resolved," Bartholomew said. "Royce expects his men to return from this feint with prisoners. We shall give every appearance of taking him some." Then he smiled, the twinkle in his eye reassuring Anna that it would be Royce who was surprised.

"They do not know the tale," Anna reminded him and he nodded.

"This cart is a trick," Bartholomew informed the villagers. "I had thought it carried the taxes to the king, so ensured I was among its guards, but they talked on the way of their true quest. The plan was that they would draw you out of the forest, capture you all and return to the keep. The real treasure will leave after this wagon arrives at the keep."

"With prisoners," Edgar said with understanding.

"And what of the reliquary?" Stewart demanded.

"It must be in Royce's treasury or his chambers." Bartholomew paused and Anna knew he did not want to endanger the group unnecessarily. "I would suggest we return to the keep, with all of you apparently taken captive, then reclaim the treasure from inside. We will overwhelm them, and seize as much as we can of Royce's prizes."

"It will be risky," Stewart said.

"But it is the sole way to see our ends achieved," Anna replied.

Bartholomew surveyed the villagers. "I would not compel you to take such a risk. If you wish to forgo this quest, the choice is yours."

Anna looked over the company and saw that there was no doubt.

"We are with you!" she declared, smiling at the chorus of agreement that followed her words.

"We should make haste, for the squire did manage to ride back that way," Edgar noted. "He might well warn them."

"Or Duncan might ensure he does not arrive," Anna said, telling Bartholomew how they had divided their forces.

"A fine scheme," Bartholomew said with approval. "Hide the fallen men in the forest, but bring their tabards. Make haste!"

Edgar pulled one such over his head, then donned that man's helm. He cast an eye over the company and granted tabards to those villagers who looked to be of similar size to the fallen men. Meanwhile, Bartholomew bade the boys to tether the horses to the back of the wagon. He unfurled a length of rope, and Lucan showed the villagers a knot that looked doughty but could easily be slipped. Within moments, a trail of villagers was apparently bound to the back of the wagon, but they could easily free themselves. Anna had ensured that there were no signs of the scuffle remaining on the road, and had gathered a few bolts to be re-used.

"I count four knights yet at the keep," Bartholomew said tersely. "Six men-at-arms, though I left two bound in the armory."

"They might have been freed," Anna said and he nodded.

"Then there is the one squire that fled back from here."

"As well as the other squires," Anna reminded him. "The place is thick with them."

"They will be armed and trained," Bartholomew said to the villagers who nodded understanding. "And there will be servants in the hall, as well. We cannot guess their alliances."

"Send one of the boys to the old village," Edgar suggested. "Herve will be glad to take vengeance upon those who stole his goats, and the others will try to be of aid."

Bartholomew agreed and Piers was dispatched on that errand. The boy disappeared quickly into the shadows of the forest.

"Father Ignatius might yet be in the keep," Anna reminded to Bartholomew. "He went in search of the reliquary. We cannot abandon him."

"And we will not," he said, placing her crossbow on the back of the wagon, where she could readily grab it. "Once inside, all of you will contrive to steal the other wagon and get clear of the keep as soon as possible. Anna will fetch Father Ignatius from the chapel if we do not see him. Duncan and I will climb to Royce's chamber, as if to report on our mission, and not leave without the reliquary."

Anna was more than ready to see this matter resolved.