Dark Interlude

by Kate

The following is a work of fanfiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights. No profit is being made from this story. The author is simply continuing the story of the Greys in her own warped way.

Damn!

Richard Grey swore silently as he strode down the long corridor. Oblivious to the heady perfume of early spring filtering through a trio of arched windows, he concentrated on producing a viable excuse for his conduct in the village. Around him, sunlight cast oblong patches on the floor and walls, gilding the bleak stone. I really did try to hold my temper, Father, but the man provoked me beyond measure.

Lifting a hand, Richard applied two fingers to the bruise on his cheek, wincing slightly at the contact. The movement pulled the dried ribbon of blood caked on his ribs. He could feel the draw of stiff linen against torn flesh as his tunic stuck to the wound. If he hoped to be presentable when Lady Elizabeth and her children arrived, Richard knew he’d have to rush his conversation with his father. It was just as well_ he wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation. Once his brother Armus told their father about his involvement in yet another brawl, there would be no softening Sir Thomas’s temper. This was the third incident Richard had initiated in as many weeks.

As he approached his father’s study, Richard could hear muffled voices within. The door was slightly ajar, affording a glimpse of Armus and his father as they conversed over the latter’s massive desk.

" . . . left him stabling his horse. I thought I should come ahead and warn you." Richard caught the tail-end of Armus’s words as he drew abreast of the door. Immediately he could see his father’s face cloud with displeasure.

"Warn me? About what? That’s he’s succeeded in acting like a common ruffian, yet again?" Thomas threw a ledger he’d been holding on the desk. It settled with a whuff of air, scattering the papers beneath it. With a withering glare, the Lord of Covington Cross considered his eldest son. "Face it, Armus_ if I hadn’t sent you to the village to find him, Richard would be embroiled up to his neck in yet another disturbance. I’ve had this dinner engagement with Lady Elizabeth and her children planned for weeks."

"Father, Richard adores Lady Elizabeth. He’d never_ "

"He adores chaos even more." The heavy sarcasm in Thomas’s voice stung Richard clear across the room. Frowning, he watched as his father strode to the edge of the ornate desk. "I’ve never encountered anyone so blatantly willful. He may be twenty-one and grown, but he’s treading a thin line with his defiance. I specifically asked him to remain at Covington Cross today."

Unwilling to take sides, Armus lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "He’s been edgier of late."

"He’s been downright uncivil." Exhaling, Thomas paced to the window. "I don’t understand what’s gotten into him. He’s always been headstrong, but at least in the past I could depend on him. Lately he’s become an embarrassment to my name."

Richard blanched.

For a moment he was certain he had heard wrong. Time hung suspended as he stood rooted to the spot. Though his father had spoken sharply to him in the past when his conduct warranted reprimand, he’d never said anything so dreadful. Mortified that the truth had escaped him, Richard swung away from the door. How could he have been so foolish_ so blind, as to not see the manner in which Sir Thomas viewed him_ not as son or knight, but as an embarrassment.

A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach, pushing razor-edged brambles against his ribs.

Choking down waves of hurt, Richard sprinted from the hall. Behind him he could see his father’s face . . . hear his father’s words. The acid sting of truth echoed over and over in his mind. Since Armus had returned, he’d felt usurped and useless_ a second son demoted to some shadowy corner of his father’s limited favor. Worse was the knowledge that he was even less_ something to be swept under the rug. Something to be hidden.

An embarrassment.

Retrieving his horse from the stable, Richard rode blindly into Tiner Forest.

+++++

Thomas tried to think rationally. Lady Elizabeth had been kind; even forgiving. All in all, the dinner had gone reasonably well. Adam and Lenore, while not of the same temperament as Armus, Eleanor and Cedric, had survived their first meeting with the Grey household. In retrospect, it was perhaps best that Richard_ the brashest of his children_ had not been in attendance. Somehow he couldn’t see his overly confident son, discussing much of anything with the introverted and scholarly Adam. While there was some merit in Richard’s absence, there was also insult.

Pacing in his son’s bedchamber, Thomas struggled to control his escalating temper. It didn’t help to relive the lame excuses he’d prattled like a string of rehearsed tripe. Lady Elizabeth had easily seen through his exaggerated smile, though she refused to make an issue of the situation, due to her own fondness for Richard. If nothing else, Thomas would have thought his son would have appeared for her sake. By flaunting the command to remain at the castle, Richard had effectively snubbed Sir Thomas’s guests_ an incident that could not be allowed to pass without reprimand.

As he waited to confront his wayward son, Thomas felt himself grow increasingly belligerent. The hour slipped past midnight, inching into the heavy, velvet-entombed silence reserved for deepest slumber. Too agitated to even think of rest, Thomas poked irritably at the crackling logs in the hearth. Stirred to sudden wakefulness, the fire hissed threads of smoke up the chimney. Charred ash crumbled from blackened wood, exposing the molten glow of ruby coals beneath. A sticky wash of heat fanned over Thomas’s face. Behind him, the door yawned open, scraping softly across the floor. Alerted by the sound, Thomas turned and snagged Richard by the sleeve, yanking him roughly into the room. "Where have you been?" he demanded. An agitated sweep of his arm sent the door thundering shut.

Caught off guard, Richard was rendered momentarily speechless. By returning at such an ungodly hour, he’d hoped to avoid this confrontation. Though the sting of the comment he’d overheard earlier, still lingered, wine and distance had muddled the pain. "I . . . had . . . I needed . . . some time away_ " he managed at last.

"Time away?" Thomas spat the words as if happening on something distasteful. "I ask you to remain at Covington Cross, and what do you do? First you start a brawl in the village, then rather than face me, you disappear a second time. Have you any measure of dependability left, Richard?"

Stung by the remark, Richard tensed. He pulled his arm free. "Apparently not."

Thomas scowled. He could see the haze of alcohol in his son’s eyes and guessed he’d been to a tavern. His clothing was disheveled, soiled with blood across the ribcage. A dark bruise marred his cheekbone, feathering from purple to puce at the edges. Taking in his unkempt appearance, Thomas felt his irritation grow. It was obvious Richard was not seriously injured. If anything, he’d probably spent the time stealing kisses with the first willing partner he could find. Pacing to the hearth, Thomas planted a hand against the stone. "You disappoint me, Richard."

There came a soft snort behind him. "Something to add to my list of accomplishments."

Incensed by his veiled scorn, Thomas whirled around. "You forget yourself, Richard. You might hold the rank of Knight, but you are still subject to me. I expect you to show the proper respect due me as your father and Lord of this castle."

Chastised, Richard lowered his eyes. Though his gaze was downcast his face remained unrepentant. "That’s not always easy."

Thomas thought he’d heard wrong. Stepping very near, he rolled his hands into fists. His gaze was diamond-hard as he considered his disobedient son. "I beg your pardon?"

Realizing he tread a dangerous line, Richard remained quiet.

Expelling a breath, Thomas came to a hasty decision. Drawing back slightly, he gave the other room. "I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Perekin, to finalize our timber contracts on Chelsea Field with Duke Reynard. Originally, I’d planned for Armus to accompany me, but given your recent penchant for trouble, I’ll rest easier if you’re with me. Instruct the servants what you’ll need and be ready to depart at sunup."

"Perekin?" Richard choked on the word. "That’s six days journey at least."

Thomas gave a short, barbed smile. "I’m glad you remember."

"You’re being unreasonable." Richard chafed at what he considered unfair punishment.

"I don’t think so." Feeling his irritation return, Thomas struggled to remain neutral. "You defied me twice today. That’s not something I’ll quickly forget. The brawl in the village is one matter, but snubbing Lady Elizabeth for an easy drunk and a willing tavern wench_ "

Richard bit down on his tongue. "At least I didn’t have to play host for my favors."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Even as the last syllable left his lips he knew he’d gone too far. He saw the angry streak of disbelief in his father’s eyes, and then Thomas’s hand descended, cracking sharply across his face. Richard felt the raised edge of his father’s signet ring scrap over his cheek, drawing a sliver of blood to the surface. For a moment he was too stunned to speak. His eyes dropped to the floor_ heart pounding, muscles tensed, as he stood wrapped in the pudding-thick silence of the room.

Thomas’s blue eyes blazed with naked contempt_ his anger so tangible that Richard feared he might cuff him a second time. Though his father had disciplined him as a child, he’d never a raised a hand in sheer rage. Crippled by the unexpected pain of that realization, Richard sought comfort in defiance. Stiffening his back, he turned a tight-lipped stare on his father. He could feel the chasm broaden between them_ emotion tumbling into apathy as he struggled to deny the hurt.

Too furious to speak, Thomas turned away. Wordlessly, he left the room, the trail of his anger like shards of broken glass strewn behind him. Richard folded morosely onto the bed, and bowed his face into his hands.

+++++

Armus tried to overlook the bristling agitation of his father. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, watching as Sir Thomas adjusted the cinch on his saddle. A nervous stable attendant hovered nearby, his pinched face oddly spectral in the pallid half-light of early dawn.

"Richard and I will be fine." Thomas gave a crisp wave of his hand, granting leave to the attendant. Only too thankful to be away, the groom scurried for the safety of the livery.

Propping his forearm over the saddle, Armus leaned into the horse. Though Thomas’s face was hidden, his head lowered as he fiddled with the strap, Armus could clearly see the constricted knot of his shoulders. Not even the folds of his richly embroidered cloak could conceal the tension in his body. "I don’t know what’s going on with you and Richard, but you’ve barely spoken a word all morning. It’s obvious the two of you are at odds. Under those circumstances, I don’t think a long journey_ "

"We’re both adults," Thomas returned shortly. "Though he might act the child sometimes, your brother is mature enough to handle awkward situations."

"Have you asked him about the brawl in the village?"

With a sigh of frustration, Thomas turned his full attention on his son. The day had barely begun and already he wearied of its demands. "Why would I do that?"

"Aren’t you curious what started it?"

Brushing his son away from the saddle, Thomas turned back to the horse. He could feel an irate prickle behind his eyes, warning of an oncoming headache. "A brawl is a brawl, Armus. A knight is to be above such pettiness."

"Richard was defending your honor."

Thomas swallowed. Composure suddenly strained, he continued rechecking the trappings on his mount. "Let’s drop this, shall we?" Though his voice was even, there was a tightness to his face, warning Armus silent.

Glancing aside, Armus watched as the groom pulled Richard’s horse from the stable. He could just see the slender silhouette of his brother inside the open doors, his lean frame outlined by the molten yellow glow of a brazier. Realizing he had struck a dead-end, Armus turned his attention to other matters. "There’s been a marked increase in the number of robberies towards Perekin. You’ll be certain to keep an eye out for highwaymen?"

"And bandits and petty thieves," Thomas said patiently. "I have done this before, you know." Relaxing slightly, he grinned. "You’ll probably have more trouble overseeing the tenants, and your brother and sister, than Richard and I are apt to encounter in Perekin. As it stands, we’ll be arriving in time for the May Day festivities. The only thievery we’re likely to see, are higher prices from the Duke’s peddlers."

Armus chuckled shortly. His face relaxed into smooth lines, but his ease was short-lived. Refocusing on his father’s words, he grew troubled. "I’ll do as you ask naturally, but now might be a good time to mention something that’s been bothering me."

Thomas looked doubtful. "Oh?"

Wetting his lips, Armus plowed ahead. "It’s about your estates. I should have told you before, but I don’t feel I’m near as proficient as Richard was in handling your leases. He did it for nearly eight years, Father. Perhaps he should continue to do so."

Mildly perturbed, Thomas grew defensive. "But you are the eldest."

"In years perhaps, but Richard_ "

"_ is a second son, and will handle the responsibilities of a second son. Those do not include managing my estates. True, he did a commendable job while that service was entrusted to him, but your return has changed all that."

"Yes." Armus pressed his lips together. "Have you stopped to consider that might have a lot to do with his attitude lately?"

"Bah!" Thomas dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "Your brother has always been brash and a trifle arrogant. He’s simply added recklessness to that repertoire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Richard and I really do need to get underway."

Before Armus could say another word, Thomas brushed past him. Though he dismissed his son’s observation with little more than casual consideration, inwardly he dwelled on the matter. Richard’s behavior had changed after Armus’s return. Though he did not think Richard resented his older brother, was it possible he felt usurped by Armus’s presence? He had gone from managing Sir Thomas’s estates to little more than a glorified squire at Armus’s beck and call. As proud as Richard was, that had to be a bitter thorn to swallow.

The thought remained with Thomas as he and Richard rode towards Perekin. Day passed into day with little easing of the friction between them. Once or twice Thomas attempted to make conversation with his sullen son, but Richard’s replies were usually nothing more than a short grunt of acknowledgement. It was only on the last evening, before their arrival at the Duke’s hall that Richard chose to speak.

Night had settled on the countryside, shrouding rolling hills and jagged tree-lines with a star-dusted mantle. Camped in a lush hollow, Richard sat wrapped in his cloak, staring forlornly into the fire. "I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you," he said suddenly.

Wrenched from his own thoughts, Thomas glanced across the flames at his young son. He’d grown so accustomed to the silence over the last few days, Richard’s voice was startling. "I never said I was disappointed in you," he countered.

Richard smiled resignedly. "I seem to recall differently." In the flickering halo of firelight, his green eyes appeared cat-like and luminous. Thomas noted the bruise on his cheek had faded to a yellowish stain, but the cut from his ring, left a thin, raised line on the bone.

Disturbed by the sight, Thomas shifted. The knowledge that he was responsible for the ugly mark made him feel suddenly sick. He’d never meant to hit Richard; never meant to raise his hand in violent rage. What demon had possessed him to react with such vehemence? "I never said I was disappointed in you," he attempted to clarify. "I said you disappoint me. There’s a difference."

"In your mind perhaps." Turning his back, Richard rolled into his blanket. "Good night."

Alone with his remorse, Thomas struggled to silence the acid churning of his stomach. A wave of guilt washed over him. Sadly he wondered what it would take to bring the two of them together.

+++++

The metallic clang of broadsword against broadsword reverberated through the clearing, silencing the garbled voices of a midsized crowd. Gathered for the May Day festival at Perekin, villagers, noblemen and farmers watched eagerly as two combatants sparred on the tournament field. Only seconds into the match, the larger of the two_ a ruddy complexioned man with buff-colored hair and a goatee_ cleanly disarmed his opponent. A cheer went up from the crowd, rolling over the terrain like undulating waves at sea. Playing to the applause, the winner performed a showy bow.

Amused by the antics of the man on the field, Sir Thomas Grey chuckled appreciatively. "Your son is quite the swordsman," he commented to his host. Seated in a box stand overlooking the tournament area, both men were surrounded by a number of pages and retainers, patiently waiting on their needs. "I believe this last match makes him undefeated in the field."

Motioning for the nearest page to refill his wine cup, Sir Wallace Reynard, the Duke of Hilfinshire, smiled indulgently. Their business concluded the previous evening, Thomas had agreed to remain for the opening session of May Day festivities. Though he was anxious to be away and return to Covington Cross, proper decorum dictated he stay for a brief time at least.

"Terence is virtually without equal," he heard the Duke comment. "There hasn’t been an opponent yet who can best him." Tipping the ornate goblet to his lips, Reynard’s eyes slid across the field. He paused, considering the young man who leaned against the trunk of a spreading elm_ arms folded across his chest as he watched the combatants prepare for the next match. "There’s rumor your own son is expertly skilled with a blade."

"Richard?" Following the Duke’s gaze, Thomas considered his youthful son silently watching the field. Though the last few days had been difficult, he couldn’t deny the surge of sudden pride he felt for Richard’s renown. "I don’t like to brag, but the boy’s taken his share of honors in our local tournaments."

"That’s the key, isn’t it_ local?" Thomas couldn’t miss the veiled insult in the remark. Reynard’s jeweled fingers traced lightly over his gold-plated cup, skimming droplets of liquid from the rim. "Not to diminish his skill, but local talent is local talent. I’d wager he’d struggle just to remain competitive in Hilfinshire."

Perturbed, Thomas shifted in his chair. What had started out as a friendly day at the local faire, felt suddenly combative. While he was above petty rivalry, it irritated him to hear his son’s skill belittled. Over the years Thomas had been part of, and witness to, enough sword skirmishes to know Richard’s proficiency with the broadsword surpassed that of most men twice his age. While some warriors favored the bow, Richard’s innate talent for the sword made his use of the weapon effortless. Struggling to remain neutral, Thomas rolled his shoulders. "If one looks far enough, I suppose there is always someone better."

Casually, Reynard swirled the wine in his cup. "Like my son?"

This time the challenge couldn’t have been plainer. Thomas smiled politely. "That remains to be seen."

"Then perhaps we should put it to the test_ have that young wolf of yours take the field, and cross blades with a champion."

Feeling suddenly trapped, Thomas sat straighter. The last thing he wanted to do was embroil Richard in yet another fight. "Your Grace, we came to finalize the timber rights for Chelsea Field, not to participate in your tournament. As it is, we should have left yesterday."

Reynard puffed air through his lips. "Nonsense! What’s a little friendly rivalry after business? Besides_ I’ve heard enough about your son’s lack of discipline, to hazard he’d welcome the match."

Mouth thinning, Thomas tried to retain his composure. While he might chastise Richard for his oft times rebellious nature, it galled him to hear another take the same liberty. In retrospect, Thomas realized he was partly to blame for his son’s arrogance. By allowing Richard to manage his estates for most of the preceding eight years, he’d set the stage for the boy to become overconfident in his abilities. Receiving the rank of Knight at an inordinately young age had only fueled his conceit. Thomas knew there were few men who possessed the same staggering self-assurance as Richard. He also knew his son would likely chafe at being forced into a duel not of his devising, especially when it was Thomas doing the orchestrating.

"What’s the matter, Thomas?" the Duke prompted when he’d been silent too long. "You aren’t doubting the lad’s abilities are you? If you’d rather not see him humiliated_ "

Holding his rising anger in check, Thomas stood. Though he and Richard were barely on speaking terms, he couldn’t stand to see his proud son so maligned. A brittle inclination of his head indicated acceptance. "Pardon, Your Grace. If you’ll permit me a moment, I’ll inform Richard of the match."

"That’s more like it." With a guttural rumble of laughter, the Duke reclined in his chair. Raising one velvet-draped arm, he summoned the nearest page. "Bring my son," he commanded. "I have news he’ll welcome."

+++++

Inwardly seething, Richard rolled his wrist, deftly maneuvering his broadsword through a quick series of feints. Though his face was impassive, his demeanor exuded leashed agitation. "Why did you volunteer me for this?" He cast a scathing glare at his father.

Pacing at the mouth of the tent where trial participants readied for their turn on the field, Thomas sought to unearth a magical answer. What had goaded him into the match_ the belittling of his son’s skill, or the veiled references to his own shortcomings as a father? "I thought you’d welcome the opportunity to test your mettle."

"I’ve nothing to prove," Richard returned flatly.

Thomas sighed. He was right, of course. They’d come on the simple matter of finalizing secondary timber contracts with the Duke, not participating in a tournament. If it went bad and Richard did lose, he’d likely be unforgiving. Belatedly, Thomas realized he may have made a horrible blunder. While Richard possessed superior skill with a blade, he hadn’t had time to prepare for the tournament_ mentally and physically_ as Terence had. Fighting in battle skirmishes and everyday conflicts was entirely different than the precision techniques required for tournaments. Cursing his own foolish pride, Thomas glanced at his son.

Richard had moved to the edge of the tent, where he retrieved a polishing cloth from a low table. Frowning, he ran the soft rag over his battle-scared blade. Watching the smooth movements of his long-fingered hand, Thomas realized the chasm between them had grown. With a sad thought for the scruffy child who used to listen in rapt fascination to his war stories, Thomas realized he’d lost something precious_ something he might never recover. Had he truly struck this young man just a few short days ago?

"I can attempt to retract your entry," he announced evenly.

"And have me appear a coward?" Richard tossed the cloth aside. A beam of reflected light bounced off the blade and angled across his cheek. With a vague sense of distraction, Thomas noted his hair needed cutting_ the long ends straggling beneath his collar and curling haphazardly across his brow. "What will this do to our timber contracts with the Duke, when I win?"

Thomas silenced the impulsive urge to grin. Richard hadn’t said if I win, but when. The casual indifference of the statement was as staggering as its blatant conviction. What must it be like to be so utterly confident, he wondered_ constantly treading the thin line between arrogance and poise?

"We’ve already finalized arrangements regarding the removal of timber from Chelsea Field. The Duke is simply an envoy for His Majesty. He isn’t going to jeopardize the building of new ships over the outcome of a May Day tournament."

A small smile flitted over Richard’s lips, much too fleeting to warrant true emotion. With a toss of his head to shake the long bangs from his brow, he sheathed his sword. "Then I guess I’d better proceed, hadn’t I? T’isn’t simply my honor at stake, but that of Covington Cross_ and Sir Thomas Grey. I wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment to your name."

Bewildered by the comment, Thomas watched as he stepped from the tent, into the heightened blaze of noonday sun. Richard’s words echoed in his ears_ the precise modulation of his voice making it difficult to tell whether his tone carried conviction or contempt. Either way, Thomas was certain he’d made a dreadful mistake.

+++++

Reclaiming the chair beside the Duke of Hilfinshire, Thomas tried not to appear anxious as his son took the tournament field. The applause Richard received was polite, unlike the thunderous ovation for Terence, who was clearly the local favorite. Both combatants performed the obligatory bow to the Duke and his guests, then saluted one another by raising their swords in the customary tip-to-sky acknowledgement.

Reynard smiled appreciatively as he watched them circle one another. "Your boy is light of foot, but he’s much too slender to hold his own against Terence for long."

Elbow propped on the arm of his chair, Thomas nibbled distractedly on his thumbnail. He’d seen Richard in countless tournaments over the years, why did this one make him so wretchedly nervous? It was true Terence outweighed him by good forty to fifty pounds, but Richard had bested men even larger. Watching him now_ all fluid movement as he effortlessly manipulated his blade_ Thomas thought again about his comment: I wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment to your name.

With a groan of perception, Thomas realized Richard must have overheard his conversation with Armus. No wonder he’d fled the castle and been so belligerent on his return. Thinking himself a cause for shame would surely account for much of his hostile behavior. There could be no worse treatment for a proud son then to think his father regretted their lineage.

As the loud jangle of sword on sword pierced through him, Thomas gripped the arms of his chair. On the field, his son moved expertly, barely winded as he drove his opponent back. Refusing to be bullied, Terence parried each strike. For a time both men exchanged grating blows. Again and again, the swords clanged together, their metallic voices shrieking like a chorus of harpies.

Thomas winced.

Terence Reynard was a large man who clearly placed bone-crushing strength in every blow. The amount of power Richard absorbed with each block he made, had to be as taxing as his forceful counter strikes, if not more so. It was as the Duke had observed_ given time Terence’s greater size would play to his advantage.

As though sensing that truth, Reynard leaned eagerly forward, his face ripe with glee. "A valiant effort, but I fear your son will not hold his own."

Thomas’s fingers white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. He could feel his body tense, each muscle constricting into a corded band. On the field, Richard retreated, driven backwards by a furious onslaught of punishing blows. The sounds of the skirmish knifed through Thomas, making him regret his rash acceptance of the match. Beside him, the Duke laughed delightedly, slopping wine on his shirtfront as he reached for his goblet.

Thomas’s eyes skittered back to the field. He saw Richard slip and drop to one knee. In that split second, Thomas felt his world grind to a screeching halt. His heart lurched to his throat, as he struggled to remain seated and calm. Helplessly he watched as Richard dove to the side. Terence’s blade swooshed in the air above his head. Tucking his shoulder to the ground, Richard rolled beneath the path of the blade and came smoothly to his feet. In one fluid motion he extended his arm, planting the tip of his broadsword against the larger man’s breastbone.

It took a moment for the crowd to realize what had happened. A moment of stunned silence before a garbled mesh of voices rose from the onlookers. A moment in which the Duke’s jaw grew slack with disbelief. Heart swelling with fierce pride, Thomas rose to his feet. On the field, Richard stood straight and tall, his sword arm extended in a rigid line. Chest heaving, Terence held both arms at his side, as he struggled to understand how the match had escaped him.

"The winner_ Richard Grey of Covington Cross." The Tournament Master’s loud voice rolled over the field, drawing scattered applause from the crowd. There followed a muffled wake of voices; a shuffling of feet, as the local residents grappled to understand how their champion had been defeated. Slowly Richard lowered his arm. Sheathing his sword, he extended his right hand to Terence. Even from the box stand, Thomas saw nothing but contempt in the larger man’s face. Though he couldn’t hear what was said, he plainly saw the other spit angry words at Richard.

Turning his back, the Duke’s son strode off the field, his curt dismissal as insulting as a slap in the face.

+++++

"I wish you’d say something." They were two days from Perekin, four days from Covington Cross, and Thomas could stand the silence no longer. He’d led them on a short cut through the thicker parts of Tiner Forest in hopes of shaving off five or six miles of distance. Though the travel was harder, game was plentiful, meaning they’d likely dine on fresh meat for their evening meal. Even so, Thomas found the prospect of further travel under the present circumstances practically unbearable. "Richard you’ve said barely two words to me since the tournament. If you’re still angry I coerced you into it_ "

"I don’t recall you twisting my arm." Flexing his hand, Richard wrapped gloved fingers around the hilt of his broadsword. "My win surely had to create an awkward situation with the Duke. His son plainly vowed I would regret the victory."

"Really?" Shifting, Thomas studied the younger man. He’d been so inadequate lately at reading Richard’s emotions. For some reason Armus had always been easy to judge, and Cedric rarely veered into complexity. Why then couldn’t he grasp the hidden feelings of this son, who oft times remained a mystery? "I wish I’d known he felt that much anger over losing the match."

Richard raised a brow. "And what would you have done_ counciled for tolerance?"

Though there was nothing disdainful in Richard’s voice, Thomas felt the sting nonetheless. Wetting his lips, he sought to soften the other’s animosity. "I would have taken responsibility for your entry."

Richard spared a brief smile. "Somehow I don’t think that would have eased the loss."

Raking the hair from his brow, he shifted in the saddle. It was humid in the forest, the weighted spring air dampening the back of his neck with perspiration. Beneath his mud-colored jerkin, he could feel his tunic sticking to his chest. Though the white linen was light, it chafed his skin nonetheless. Mouth thinning, Richard glanced to the surrounding trees. "Did you hear that?"

Still lost in the fractured hub of his thoughts, Thomas appeared distracted. "Hear what?"

"I_ " Richard’s gaze sidled aside to the dense thicket on his left. The filtering hush of the forest created a familiar harmony, skillfully blending the music of wind and leaves. Overhead, the sky darkened with the swollen glut of storm clouds. Shaking his head, Richard drew on the reins. "Nothing. I just_ "

Sound and movement exploded from the dense copse of trees as four hooded riders burst suddenly forth. Wheeling his horse around, Richard instinctively reached for his broadsword. His fingers brushed the hilt even as he heard a hissing tell-tale displacement of air. A startling conflagration of pain ripped through his left side. With a grunt of surprise, Richard folded in half and toppled from his horse, the barbed tip of an arrow embedded in his flesh.

"Richard!" Thomas’s voice cut through the chaos of hooves and men. Lying on his back, senses lost in a garbled swell of sound, Richard watched the sky pitch sickeningly above him. He was vaguely aware of a tremor in the earth as thunderous hooves clattered past his head. Briefly, he glimpsed the raised scrollwork on a worn scabbard, and then the rider was past_ jumbled awareness casting him back into a web of sheer agony. A hot deluge of blood gushed from the hole in his side, soiling the soft leather of his jerkin. A distracted part of his mind registered the violent clang of swords in the distance. With effort, he scrunched back against a tree, blindly groping for the arrow. Hampered by his gloves, his hands grew slippery on the blood-slick shaft. In mere moments, as he struggled to alleviate the pain, the cadence of hooves retreated.

"Richard." Thomas appeared suddenly at his side. Through a punishing haze, Richard registered the older man’s concern. He felt hands close over his, drawing them from the shaft. "Let me," Thomas coaxed.

Struggling to orient, Richard nodded. He braced himself as Thomas gripped the wooden shaft. Even that slight movement jarred the head embedded in his skin, sending ripples of pain waffling from the epicenter of the wound. Biting his lip to stifle a cry, Richard braced himself. "Now," he said tightly.

Thomas pulled.

Grinding his teeth together, Richard twisted his face to the side. Despite the cruel pressure of his father’s hand, the head remained embedded. Panting, Richard dug his fingers into the earth, too proud to ask for a respite. Silently he prayed for an end to the liquid agony. As though in mockery of that plea, the shaft snapped abruptly in two.

"Damn it." Incensed, Thomas cast the broken wood aside. "Richard, I’m sorry." Quickly removing his cloak, he folded it into a square and pillowed it beneath his son’s head. "I’ll get you out of this, I promise."

Richard swallowed. An engulfing wave of heat washed over him. "Horses?"

"Mine only." A distracted glance confirmed Richard’s mount had fled during the attack. Thomas’s stalwart gray stood nearby, unaffected by the skirmish. Unlike his son, the older man had escaped the melee without injury. "My guess is those men were bandits. We’re fortunate they spared our lives."

Richard closed his eyes. The heat was spreading, coursing through his veins like fire. He could feel a prickling in his fingertips; the sudden beading of sweat on his brow. His stomach contorted, driving sickles of pain through his abdomen. Dizziness and nausea washed over him with such ferocity, he groaned. Alarmed by the sound, Thomas tugged off his gloves and laid a hand against his cheek. "Try not to move," he coaxed.

Still uncomfortable over their recent disagreements, Richard twisted face away. With effort, he strove to wedge his elbows beneath him. "Just help me up," he demanded in a strained voice. "I saw a small hut about eight miles back."

Thomas frowned. "You’re not going anywhere until I’ve looked at that wound." Kneeling, he withdrew a short knife from his belt sheath. Though inwardly he chafed at his son’s rebuff, he was determined the younger man’s pride wouldn’t prevent him from administering what aide he could. "I’ll be brief," he promised. Skillfully he cut Richard’s jerkin, drawing the soft leather from the arrow. Blood sluiced between his fingers as he examined the wound. Though the pressure he applied was light, he felt the other flinch.

Crumbling back against the ground, Richard closed his eyes. "Just bandage the blasted thing so I can ride," he said through tightly-clenched teeth. The surge of nausea returned, greater this time, rendering him momentarily speechless. Pain spiked cruelly into his abdomen, causing him to suck down a ragged breath. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to lean on his father and absorb his strength, but pride and anger kept him from accepting the older man’s comfort.

With a worried glance, Thomas shrugged out of his ornate overcoat. Removing his tunic, he sliced it into strips, then wadded three loosely rolled bands of fabric against the arrowhead. Only about an inch of the shaft still protruded from the wound. "Come Richard, I need you to sit up." Slipping an arm behind his son’s back, Thomas guided him forward.

Almost immediately pain tore through Richard’s abdomen. Unprepared for the onslaught, he buried his face against Thomas’s shoulder, choking back a strangled cry.

"Richard_ " The moment he felt the comforting touch of his father’s hand, Richard pulled abruptly free.

Chagrined but unwilling to chastise, Thomas silently wrapped the binding about his son’s waist, tearing the makeshift cloth to allow room for the jagged shaft. Nimbly, he tied off the ends. Though Richard remained quiet through it all, his face was strained with the effort. Damn it! He thinks the world will end if he shows the slightest sign of weakness to me. How did I ever raise such a stubborn fool?

"That should help with the bleeding." Retrieving his overcoat, Thomas pulled it on, belting his sword over the garment. All around him, the anemic touch of sunlight waned as the sky grew overcast with a rag-tag infusion of clouds. Gentle raindrops pelted the earth, warning of a greater deluge to come. With a doubtful glance at Richard, Thomas considered the options. "I could go back to the hut on my own and try to find help."

"No." Head bent, Richard cradled an arm over his middle. Though Thomas couldn’t see his expression, he noted with growing worry the beads of sweat streaking his face.

"It might be the best thing."

"And if there’s no one to help, you’d have to backtrack and lose time. Besides_ there’s always the chance those thieves might return to finish the job." Drawing an uneven breath, Richard glanced at his father. Already his skin had grown waxy; lips thin and bloodless like a cadaver. "Just help me on your horse. Please."

Thomas hesitated. He could see the harsh ravages of pain on his son’s face. A distracted part of his mind found it irritating that Richard remained so rational despite the injury. Like everything else he did, his headstrong son buried discomfort in the acute conviction he needed no one. Damn, bloody fool. Reluctantly, Thomas nodded. Tugging Richard’s left arm across his shoulders, he hooked him about the waist and drew him slowly to his feet.

Richard uttered a sharp, startled cry of pain and crumbled.

"Damn it!" Frightened and angry, Thomas knelt at his side.

On hands and knees, Richard sucked down convulsive gulps of air. "Sorry . . . didn’t expect it to hurt . . . like that."

"You’ll stay here." It was not a question.

"No." Richard turned his face to the sky. A sliver of breeze blew from the east, feathering across his hot skin. He could feel the touch of rain against his cheeks_ cooling and biting at the same time. Summoning the feeble residue of his strength, he waited for his breathing to return to normal. With a sideways glance for his father, he wrapped a quivering arm over his bloody middle. Veiled by lashes, his green eyes were abnormally bright. "I’ll be fine now."

Though he remained unconvinced, Thomas conceded. Helping Richard to his feet, he manuevered him to his horse, where he assisted him into the saddle. Once the younger man was mounted, Thomas swung up behind him, quickly gathering the reins. He could smell the pungent musk of leather and earth on his son’s clothing, underscored by the fainter reek of perspiration. The scent of wind and wood clung to his long hair. Nudging the horse forward, Thomas braced the other’s slighter weight in his arms. "Richard, lean back against me."

Refusing the comfort, Richard gave a terse shake of his head. It was getting so he couldn’t concentrate_ the horrific swells of pain like coldfire glutting his veins. The nausea returned, acidic and bitter. One moment his vision was stable, the next it reeled drunkenly, blurring into distorted whorls at the edges. Through it all, time flowed and ebbed, trapped on the curve of a phantom pendulum. Shuddering, Richard closed his eyes.

Thomas tugged him close. "Stop fighting me," he hissed near his ear.

Pride waning beneath the battering influx of pain, Richard crumbled against him. "I feel . . .

sick . . ." he whispered. Raising a hand, Thomas smoothed it over his forehead, brushing back his long hair. Curling strands clung to his cheeks and brow, trickling beads of salted perspiration down his jaw. Despite that heated distress, Richard’s skin felt doughy and cold.

"Do you need to stop?" Thomas asked, concerned.

Richard shook his head. Tired now, he rested against his father’s shoulder, eyes weighted with fatigue. Unwilling to let him fall asleep with the arrowhead still embedded in his flesh, Thomas grasped at anything to keep him coherent. "Tell me about the brawl in the village."

Stirring to alertness, Richard tensed. Groggily, he oriented on his father’s words. "Why?"

"Armus said it involved me."

Though he wanted to pull away, Richard was too tired to move. The fight in the village seemed a lifetime ago_ a foolish mistake made by someone else. He shifted, vaguely aware of a heated string of blood as it trickled from his side. Absently he watched the pelt of raindrops against his gloved hands. Why was his father torturing him with the inane conversation now, when he wanted only to rest? "I don’t want to talk about this."

Undaunted, Thomas wet his lips. He could feel the tension in Richard’s body. "Because of our argument?"

"Because it requires too much effort." Richard’s voice was thin, lacking strength. For a time Thomas considered pursuing the conversation, but Richard was so obviously exhausted, he let the matter drop. He could hear the hiss and wheeze of his son’s breath as Richard’s head bobbed lower on his shoulder. The labored sound gouged a hole in his stomach, prompting him to send a silent prayer skyward. Whether or not it was wise, he allowed Richard to drift into fitful sleep, grimacing each time the uneven terrain forced a low moan from the younger man.

Eventually he lost track of time and distance; knew only that Richard’s restless stirring grew increasingly agitated. One moment his son’s flesh burned with heat, the next he shivered uncontrollably as though afflicted with cold. In time, even the feeble string anchoring him to coherency abandoned him. Richard moaned in half-sleep, his face cradled against his father’s neck. Hearing the strangled hitch of his breath, Thomas spoke soothingly and quietly, hoping his words penetrated the pain-induced shroud. "Just a little further, Richard. It won’t be long now . . ."

The horse continued its plodding pace. Eventually the rain intensified, driving against the fertile earth with blinding force. Thomas tried to shield his son as best he could, but Richard’s clothing grew soaked despite his efforts. Shivering with alarming frequency, Richard began to mumble incoherently. Though Thomas couldn’t decipher all of his words, he heard references to Armus . . . regrets that he wasn’t more like his older brother . . . remorse for his failures as both knight and son.

"Richard_ ?" Thomas held him tighter, whispering near his ear. His voice had no affect. Lost in a cocoon of self-recrimination, Richard floundered in the grip of pain. Swearing softly, Thomas cursed his own stubbornness. He’d always prided himself on being attentive to his children’s needs. How could he have overlooked Richard’s turmoil, masked so cleverly in arrogance and belligerence? Armus was right_ Richard deserved more recognition than Thomas had given him. For almost eight years his son had held Covington Cross in a state of prosperity. Richard acted as though he knew his place_ that of a second son_ conceding duty and responsibility to Armus on his return, but inwardly the slight had chafed him raw. Thomas groaned, recalling his own harsh words in naming him an embarrassment. "Damn it, where is that blasted hut?" he muttered angrily.

As though in answer to a prayer, the lines of a thatched hut appeared between the trees. A quick-silver surge of relief flooded through Thomas. Grinning, he pressed his cheek to Richard’s temple. The touch of cold skin and rain-soaked hair penetrated his flesh. "You’re going to be fine, Son," he whispered.

+++++

Thomas dismounted and helped his son slide from the horse. Richard’s knees buckled the moment his feet touched the ground. Supporting him about the waist, Thomas half-dragged, half-carried him forward. "Hello_ in the hut_ I need help." A solid kick from his foot sent the door crashing inward. Though deserted the small hut was neatly furnished with a crudely hewn bed, square table and four chairs, and a rectangular workbench thrust against the far wall. This was littered with a variety of items_ edible roots; dried toadstools and mushrooms; wood for kindling; a discarded length of rope; various powders and crushed herbs; even an empty snakeskin. Thomas’s eyes made a quick circuit of the hut then oriented on the bed. The frame was wood with a rope bottom; the mattress straw, underlayed and bound by coarse homespun. Easing Richard onto the lumpy mattress, Thomas immediately bent to the task of examining the wound.

As gently as he could he worked the buckle securing Richard’s sword belt. The touch roused his son, who stirred and drew in a grating breath, flinching from the contact. "It’s all right," Thomas soothed. "Try to lie still." The sword belt fell free, followed by the wide waistband securing Richard’s jerkin. Removing the blood-soaked bandage he’d applied earlier, Thomas drew Richard’s clothing back for a better view of the wound. Biting his lip, he applied gentle fingers to his son’s discolored flesh.

"Ohgod!" The cry burst from Richard’s lips as agony spiked in his head. Arching his back, he gripped the wooden frame of the bed, torrents of pain rippling through him.

"Easy_ I’m sorry_ " Thomas placed both hands on his chest, trying to still him. "Richard, I’m sorry." Twisting his face away, Richard choked back a cry that had as much to do with remorse and frustration as it did with pain. Lifting one hand, he gripped his father’s wrist, the strength and desperation of his hold betraying the inner turmoil he couldn’t voice. Thomas smoothed a palm over his son’s forehead, brushing back his wet hair. "There’s something wrong_ the discoloration on your skin_ "

"Poison, I’d say," a strange voice inserted.

Startled by the voice, Thomas whirled completely around, wrenching his sword from its scabbard.

"Here now, none of that." Framed in the doorway, a tall, thin man bobbed his head in dismay. Dressed in a loose tunic and short pants, he was weaponless but for a knife struck through his rope belt. One hand held the limp bodies of two rabbits, recently secured from a snare trap.

" ‘Tis a nasty greeting for bandits who’ve invaded my home."

"We’re not bandits," Thomas said flatly. Behind him, Richard moaned softly, shifting on the bed. The newcomer’s eyes darted from father to son, taking in the rich cut of their clothing.

"No_ I’d wager not. More like well-to-do-lords_ "

"I’m Sir Thomas Grey of Covington Cross and this is my son Richard."

"Covington Cross, eh?" Closing the door behind him, the man stepped into the hut. Dropping the rabbit carcasses on the floor, he stepped closer to the bed. "If that truly be your son, you’d best get that arrowhead out of him right quick. I kin smell the poison from here. Bandits I’d wager. They like to tip their weapons with widow’s bane."

Thomas blanched. "Damn it man, are you sure?" Sheathing his sword, he bent over the bed. Richard’s chest heaved with the labored force of his breath, each quavering intake constricting the muscles of his flat stomach. A glance at the wound told Thomas something unusual was wrong. The tear continued to leak fluids_ blood and a darker secretion mingled with yellow strings of pus. Torn skin swelled around the arrowhead, mottled purple and black at the edges. The smell of diseased flesh hung over the bed.

"I know widow’s bane," the older man returned. "I was an apothecary before a mishap with Duke Reynard’s son sent me fleeing to the forest. Name’s Phillip Droan."

Thomas glanced at the other’s extended hand. Quickly, he shook it. "I’ll pay you for your services, just help me with my son. Can you remove the arrowhead?"

Droan nodded. "I’ll need to gather some things. Best you prepare the boy, and pray that he faints when I start cutting. T’will be unpleasant for all of us if he doesn’t."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Thomas turned his full attention on Richard. A fleeting image of his son laughing with his brothers, slipped quickly through his mind. Richard had the most beautiful smile_ one that made a dimple sink deep into his cheek, while lighting the depths of his remarkable green eyes. With a sad sense of remorse, Thomas realized his son rarely smiled anymore. He was such a comely young man that lack of levity seemed a disgrace. The somberness aged him beyond his twenty-one years, burdening him with emotions he shouldn’t carry.

Immune to the shuffling of Phillip Droan behind him, Thomas scraped his fingers over Richard’s cheek, wiping away beads of moisture and sweat. Richard’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment his gaze carried clarity, darting around the interior of the small hut before settling almost desperately on Thomas. "Where are we?" he managed in a weak voice.

Thomas curled his fingers into the damp strands of Richard’s hair, then let his hand skim lower, cupping the column of his neck. "The hut in the forest. The man here is an apothecary. Richard_ " Thomas wet his lips. "He’s going to remove the arrowhead. He believes it’s tipped with poison."

Richard made a soft sound of distress and closed his eyes. A bitter smile flickered over his lips. "Terence Reynard . . . must truly hate losing."

Confused, Thomas drew slightly back. "What’s this have to do with Reynard?"

Richard grimaced, battling the onslaught of sudden pain. Involuntarily his hand clamped on Thomas’s wrist, back arching upward. His father’s hand closed over his even as he bit his lip to stifle a cry. In mere seconds the torment was past. Richard folded against the bed, constricted muscle uncoiling like liquid. With effort he focused on Thomas’s pinched, worried face. "I saw the scabbard of the man who shot me. It was . . . the same scabbard Terence used at the tournament."

Appalled, Thomas could only stare. If Richard was correct, then he was indirectly responsible for his son’s present circumstance. If he hadn’t been goaded by the Duke’s insistence that Richard take the field, the incident in the forest would never have occurred. Consumed by sudden guilt, Thomas flinched when Phillip Droan appeared suddenly at his shoulder. The older man spared Richard a wink. "We’ll get you fixed up, lad. Never worry." Tugging on Thomas’s sleeve, he pulled the Lord of Covington Cross aside.

"Take this." Pressing a small flask into his hand, Droan gave a tilt of his head towards the bed. "See if you can get your boy to drink some. It tastes foul, but it might help make him drowsy. He’ll be less inclined to kick when I start on that wound."

Thomas wet his lips. He felt oddly light-headed and distracted, as if the man he spoke to was more phantom them substance. Little more than a week ago, he’d been arguing with Richard about responsible conduct, yet it was his own actions that had endangered his son’s life. "What is it?" he asked Droan, with a glance for the flask.

"An herbal concoction. I wouldn’t worry what’s in it, just concentrate on how much you can get him to swallow." Pausing, Droan shook his head. His eyes skirted aside to the bed. " ‘Tis shameful. He’s right comely, isn’t he? I sense you and he are close."

Thomas gave a sad nod of his head, silently convicted by the wall he’d erected around his young son. Perhaps at one time they’d been close. A time before Thomas had allowed the younger man to grow too confident in his own abilities; a time when he’d appreciated Richard’s worth in its rightful light. Wordlessly, he moved back to the bed, kneeling on the uneven dirt floor. "Richard_ " Thomas slid a hand behind his neck. "Son, I need you to drink this."

Richard stirred, shuddering as a punishing tremor ran through his body. Trusting his father, he gave a brief nod and allowed Sir Thomas to support his head, while tilting the flask to his lips. Richard swallowed with effort, choking down the foul-tasting elixir. A trickle of liquid seeped from the corner of his mouth. Wiping it aside, Thomas gently eased him back to the mattress.

It took only a few moments for the tonic to take effect. Richard’s eyes dipped shut, his rain-tipped lashes, spiking shadows across his cheeks. Slipping an arm behind his back, Thomas pulled him forward, cradling him against his chest as he removed his jerkin and tunic. Thrusting the wet garments aside, Thomas laid him back on the straw bed, then tugged free his gloves.

Phillip Droan delayed a moment longer, waiting for the drug to spread through Richard’s system. Convinced that the elixir had taken effect, he drew the small table next to the bed, securing chairs for himself and Thomas. "You’re going to have to hold him," he instructed the silver-haired man. "The wound’s inflamed. I might be able to cleanse it without him waking, but when I set a knife to his skin, he’s going to fight for all he’s worth."

Thomas nodded, his stomach a knot of worms. On the table, Droan had gathered a basin of water_ secured from the rain barrel beyond the door_ a trio of short knives, and strips of dingy cloth. The latter was ratted and torn_ discarded pieces of homespun that had been used, washed and used again. Thomas wondered if the stained material hadn’t been engaged in moping up Droan’s workbench after he’d finished gutting the small game procured from his snares. Somehow the thought was sickening.

"I’ve got a little wine to purge the wound, and I’ve heated the knives as best I could." Seated in a chair drawn close to the edge of the bed, Phillip Droan retrieved a small flask from the table. His eyes traced across the mattress to the opposite side where Thomas sat near Richard’s head. "He ain’t like to stir too much, but you hold him."

Nodding, Thomas placed both his hands on Richard’s shoulders. He watched as Droan uncorked the flask and dribbled wine over the wound. Richard flinched, twisting his head to the side, but failed to waken. A heavy crease drew the line of his brows into a deep furrow.

"That’s good," Droan muttered. "That’s good." Dipping a cloth strip in water, he wiped aside dried blood and strings of yellowish discharge surrounding the wound. Drawing ever nearer coherency, Richard moved fitfully beneath Thomas’s hands. With what seemed like agonizing slowness to Thomas, Droan set the soiled rag aside and retrieved a knife from the table. Gently, the apothecary slipped the edge beneath a flap of torn skin, lifting it away from the broken shaft. This time Richard gasped, coming fully awake. "Hold him!" Droan hissed and Thomas immediately pressed down on his son’s shoulders.

"Father_ " Richard’s fingers curled over Thomas’s elbow in mute desperation. Wildly, his eyes sought the older man.

"Be still," Thomas admonished softly. Sweat collected in his hair, trickling into his beard. The room was suddenly confining; the air stifling. "It will be over soon, Richard. I promise."

"The head’s not deep . . ." Droan announced, intent on his work. Richard squirmed, the nails of his left hand digging convulsively into Thomas’s flesh. His right curled around the frame of the bed, knuckles whitening beneath the pressure. The examination complete, Droan set aside the knife and retrieved a thicker blade. Splaying his fingers over Richard’s stomach, he set the tip against a peak of swollen flesh. Bracing himself for the harrowing pain certain to follow, Richard choked on a rush of stale air. Unable to meet his father’s eyes, he glanced away, ashamed by his weakness.

"I’m sorry . . ." Thomas barely heard the broken shred of his voice. He wanted to tell him he had nothing to be sorry for; that there was no shame in his actions. Before he could utter a single syllable, Droan cut into Richard’s flesh and he screamed.

"Dear God!" Thomas knew he’d carry the sound of that agonized cry with him forever. It pierced every nerve, plundering him raw. Shaken, he went cold to the bone.

"Damn you man, hold him!" Droan’s sharp command made Thomas focus. Beneath his hands Richard’s shoulder grew slick with sweat. As the apothecary cut deeper, Richard writhed on the bed, his face contorted with agony.

"Father, please . . ." he cried. "Father . . . I can’t . . ."

"Hold him!" Droan shrieked, tangled hair spilling into his eyes, blood-soaked hands wielding the knife like some heinous butcherer.

Standing, Thomas braced his knee across the younger man’s ribs, pinning him to the bed. Grabbing Richard’s arms, he pulled them above his head, holding his wrists securely against the mattress. Strands of sweaty hair fell into his eyes as he gazed down on his stricken son. "Be still," he pleaded, hating himself for the cruel but necessary procedure. At first he heard only the horrid catch of the other’s breath, then a tortured moan slipped from Richard’s throat. Twisting his head to the side, Richard buried his face against his arm, his body wracked by convulsive shudders. With a belated sense of shock Thomas realized he was weeping.

"Bloody hell, Droan, can’t you go any faster?"

"And risk cutting where I shouldn’t? I’m an apothecary, not a surgeon. The damn tip’s barbed."

Thomas swore. His eyes shifted back to his son, noting the wet track of tears on his cheeks. The sight made his stomach constrict bitterly. "Dear God, Richard I’d give my right arm so you wouldn’t have to endure this. Please hold on . . ."

"Almost . . ." Droan mumbled. He tossed aside the blood-stained knife and located the final blade. Thinner then the other two, this one bore a slightly curved tip. In morbid distraction, Thomas watched it sink into his son’s flesh, releasing a fresh glut of blood. Richard bit his lip to keep from crying out, but couldn’t stop a muffled groan. Fearful of damaging his ribs, Thomas tried to ease the pressure on his chest. The moment he did, Droan cut deeper forcing a spasm of reaction through Richard’s taut body. Thomas responded instinctively, pinning him to the bed.

"Father . . . Father, please . . ." Richard writhed beneath the restriction. Not caring now that his tears were seen, he focused on Thomas’s misery-pinched face. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, trailing over the curve of his cheeks. "I can’t_ " The arrow head blundered free with an unexpected deluge of blood. Richard cried aloud, crumbling weakly against the mattress.

"Got it," Droan announced grimly. Thomas spared only a glance for the repulsive piece of iron, stained with his son’s blood. Moving to the head of the bed, he sat on the mattress, wordlessly gathering Richard against his chest. At first Richard remained unresponsive, shoulders quivering with the leashed force of his tears. Then his fingers curled into Thomas’s coat and he buried his face against his father’s chest, clinging to him.

"Go ahead_ bandage it_ " Thomas instructed the apothecary over his son’s bowed head. Wrapping his arms tightly around Richard’s shoulders, he pressed his cheek to the crown of his hair. "I never meant to put you through this hell," he whispered. "Forgive me, Richard. This is my fault." Gently he wiped the tears from his son’s cheek. The last time he’d seen Richard cry had been at Anne’s funeral, when the grief-stricken thirteen-year-old boy had turned to Armus for comfort. Richard had never been comfortable displaying weakness to his father. That aversion had only increased as he’d matured and his level of confidence grew. The dependency he displayed now was devastating for it’s rarity.

Droan finished his task quickly, cleansing and bandaging the wound. With each touch of his fingers, Thomas felt Richard flinch. When he was through, the apothecary passed Thomas a flask of the elixir he’d supplied earlier. "Have him drink this. It should help him sleep."

Nodding, Thomas held the phial to his son’s mouth. "Richard, drink this for me."

Obediently the younger man complied, swallowing quickly when Thomas poured the loathsome contents between his trembling lips. Shuddering, he rested his head against his father’s chest, fingers still knotted in the embroidered fabric of his coat. "Don’t leave," he pleaded.

Unnerved by Richard’s uncharacteristic reliance, Thomas tugged him closer. "I’m not going anywhere," he promised. With tender sensitivity, he tracked reassuring fingers up Richard’s arm. Feeling the intruder, Phillip Droan retreated to the door. Belatedly Thomas focused on the lank apothecary. "Mister Droan_ Phillip_ " Pausing, he offered a weak, tired smile. Though the light in his eyes was wan, sincerity was plain on his face. "Thank you."

The other nodded shortly, his own smile echoing exhaustion. "Take care of your son," he instructed, quietly vanishing outside.

Thomas closed his eyes. He could hear the ragged catch of Richard’s halting breath as he swallowed down tears. After a time the sound evened into a rhythmic flow, and Richard sagged against him. "Richard?" When there was no response, Thomas slipped from the bed and gently eased him back on the straw mattress. Brushing the tumbled tresses from his brow, Thomas allowed his fingers to linger on the ivory-pale skin. The cut from his ring was still visible on Richard’s cheek_ a scabbed sliver on otherwise flawless flesh. Once again, Thomas felt his stomach constrict at the sight. "Sleep well," he whispered.

+++++

Thomas paced. His back turned, Phillip Droan tended a bubbling pot suspended over a small fire. The hut was permeated by the heady odor of rabbit stew. Though Thomas may have found the aroma tempting another time, it presently made his stomach roil. Lost in sleep, Richard moaned softly, twisting fitfully on the bed, as he had for the last two hours. Beyond the confines of the hut the day lengthened towards evening, slanting long shadows across the ground.

As he’d done earlier, Thomas retrieved a cloth and dipped it in a basin of water placed near the bed. Sitting on the edge of the frame, he gently dabbed the cooling rag over his son’s heated flesh. "The fever’s not going down," he announced worriedly.

" ‘Tis the poison," Droan said. "The elixir should help, but it won’t be an easy battle. Keep tending him with that cloth and force water into him if you must. In a short while, we’ll try some food. He needs the strength."

"Richard_ " Thomas grazed a knuckle down his cheek. "Richard, can you hear me?"

Rolling his head against the mattress, Richard half-roused from the disorienting haze of semi-consciousness. His eyes fluttered, but his gaze remained unfocused. "My fault . . . " he whispered.

"What is? No_ " Thomas tried to soothe him when he grew agitated. Cupping a placating hand against his cheek, he traced his thumb across sweat-slick skin. "Everything’s going to be fine. Nothing is your fault, Richard." Turning back to the basin, he dipped the damp rag into the tepid water. Sweat glistened on Richard’s chest; clung to his shoulders and pooled in the hollow of his throat. With gentle strokes Thomas wiped the wet cloth over his skin. The touch stilled him momentarily and Thomas took the moment to coax water down his throat. A short while later, Droan brought him a trencher of stew and he tried to get Richard to swallow a few mouthfuls.

The moment the scent of cooked meat touched Richard’s nostrils, he grimaced and twisted his face away. Standing at the foot of the bed, Droan scrunched his mouth to the side, his expression thoughtful. "Don’t force him to eat. We’ll give him something else. Something to get rid of the poison."

Thomas spared only a distracted glance as he continued to care for his son. "What do you mean?"

But Droan had already moved away and was shuffling quietly in the background. A short while later he returned, a tiny puce-colored ball in his outstretched palm.

"What is it?" Thomas asked, taking it hesitantly. No larger than a grape, it was almost perfectly round and pliable to the touch.

"Something to purge him of the poison."

Startled, Thomas recoiled. "Are you certain that’s wise? He could start bleeding_ "

"Tomorrow I’ll stitch the wound," Droan inserted smoothly. " ‘Tis better to purge him now, when he isn’t apt to rip open my handiwork. Have him swallow that. The herbs will take affect within the hour."

Still doubtful, Thomas hesitated. "But he hasn’t ingested the widow’s bane."

"It doesn’t matter. It will work into his stomach nonetheless. ‘Tis better to be certain." Frowning, Droan cocked his head. "I can see that you’re having problems with this. You need to set your emotions aside. I realize the boy’s been through a lot, but his fever’s intensifying. If we don’t purge his body he’ll weaken and die. He’s not in a state to think rationally. You need to do that for him."

Thomas flushed. "You’re right, of course." Slipping his arm beneath Richard’s shoulders, he guided him forward. Though he balked at first, Richard swallowed the bitter medicinal concoction when Thomas pressed it to his lips. Through the thick material of his coat, the elder Grey could feel the torrid heat consuming Richard’s body. Droan was right_ they had to do something to bring the fever under control and do it quickly. Even as he reflected on his son’s worsening condition, Richard writhed weakly in his arms. Eyes lowered and heavily lidded, his irises glittered through the slitted veil of his lashes. Moved by impulse, Thomas pressed his lips to his son’s temple, praying for his recovery. Slowly, he laid him back on the bed.

"I’ll fetch a bucket," Droan said and walked from the hut. Moments later, he returned with a wooden pail which he passed to Thomas. The silver-haired man set the container on the floor, then bowed his face into his hands. He was tired and bewildered, snagged on the fringe of a waking nightmare. Silently vowing he would alter his attitude where his second son was concerned, Thomas pledged to make changes at Covington Cross. Prior to this journey he had taken Richard for granted_ enjoying the renown and luxury of his son’s skills when it pleased him; dismissing them out of hand when he preferred to rely on Armus. For twenty-one years he and Richard had managed a comfortable relationship, skirting the edge of their feelings. Over the last eight years he had allowed his son’s outward façade of confidence to blind him to Richard’s unvoiced needs_ for acceptance, trust, esteem and affection. I’m a bloody idiot. I almost lost him.

On the bed, Richard groaned. The sound coursed through Thomas drawing him suddenly alert. "Richard?" Leaning forward, he tracked gentle fingers over his son’s cheek. Grinding his teeth together, Richard groped at his uninjured left side. His breath grew fast and labored, whistling through his clamped teeth. Panting, he rolled onto his side. "I . . . Father, I . . . feel sick . . ."

"It’s all right," Thomas soothed, helping him to lean over the side of the bed. He held the bucket with one hand, while using the other to thread the long bangs from Richard’s brow. He was vaguely aware of Droan in the background, maintaining his distance.

Richard grew close to hyperventilating as the effects of the purging took hold. His stomach contorted with a savage fist of nausea, spiking a prickly wave of heat from temple to toes. Bile surged against the back of his throat, making him gag suddenly. Choking on the acerbic taste, he dug his fingers into the mattress. Cramps plundered his stomach, forcing a rush of fluid through his throat. Though it was over quickly, the short bout exhausted him. Crumbling against the bed, he dragged a trembling hand across his mouth.

Setting the bucket aside, Thomas leaned forward. Richard found his eyes and their gazes locked. The contact was brief, but in that quick-silver moment Thomas glimpsed the physical and emotional pain his son endured. Before he could say a word, Droan appeared by the bed, bearing a small bowl and knife. With an apprehensive glance for the latter, Thomas narrowed his eyes. "What’s that for?"

Setting the vessel on the side of the bed, Droan caught Richard’s right wrist and extended his arm. "His stomach has been purged, but not his blood." In one quick motion he drew the blade across Richard’s exposed forearm, rendering a precise gash across his skin. Moving the bowl beneath his arm, Droan released him and drew back. Already blood welled from the wound, trickling into the wooden vessel. "He needs to bleed," the apothecary informed Thomas.

"But he’s already lost so much blood_ "

"True, but the poison remains. We will try a few minutes and see if that’s enough. Stay with him."

Scrubbing a hand over his beard, Thomas glanced worriedly at his son. He’s so damn young. Sometimes his arrogance makes me overlook his years. He’s got more confidence then men twice his age and he flaunts it well.

Seconds ticked into minutes as Richard succumbed to utter exhaustion. Droan nodded at Thomas, who removed the bowl, then set about bandaging his son’s arm. Throughout, Richard barely stirred, lost in the deep grip of slumber. In time, shadows lengthened and grew within the hut. Droan lit candles against the encroaching night, then settled in a corner to sleep. Thomas dozed fitfully in the chair, senses attuned to his son’s slightest movement. Richard woke only once_ near the gray hours of dawn, complaining of thirst. Supporting his head, Thomas waited as he swallowed a few mouthfuls of water. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the clammy touch of Richard’s flesh. His skin had cooled considerably, prompting minute shivers to riddle his body. Retrieving a blanket from the foot of the bed, Thomas drew it over his shoulders. This time when he fell asleep, he did not awaken for almost forty-eight hours.

+++++

Encouraged by the decline in Richard’s fever, Thomas had eaten and even managed a short nap around midday. Earlier, Droan had left on his daily rounds_ checking snares and collecting water from a nearby stream. Throughout the long hours, Richard slept peacefully, a gradual flush of color returning to his wan cheeks. With the onslaught of evening, Droan carefully stitched the wound, relying on Thomas to restrain Richard should he awaken. Thankfully, he failed to gain consciousness.

Now, with night pressing against the walls of the small hut, Thomas paced restlessly, unable to find solace in slumber. Droan had provided him with a loose tunic, in place of his heavier coat. The material was coarse_ not near as fine as the garments he was accustomed to, but more comfortable than any he’d ever worn. Perhaps it was merely his gratitude for the apothecary’s care of Richard that made Thomas appreciate the gesture so much. As night settled, Droan again retreated to a corner where he curled into a blanket, turning his face to the wall. Minutes ticked into hours.

"Father?"

Richard’s voice, though weak, was wholly unexpected. Thomas practically leapt from his skin at the hesitant splinter of sound. Whirling about, he moved quickly to the side of the bed, then crouched by the frame. Richard was awake, his green eyes jeweled with inner light in the moon-pale shell of his face. Awkwardly, his lashes dipped against his skin.

Thomas swallowed his own unease. His hand itched to touch his son_ to smooth the snarled tresses from his brow, but somehow that contact felt suddenly forbidden. "How do you feel?"

Richard’s hand strayed to the lip of the blanket. Self-consciously he fingered the frayed edge. "Weak. ‘Tis not a feeling I like."

Thomas grinned. "No, I would imagine not." Pulling a chair near the bed, he turned his back on the open room. Slivers of tension snaked from his body, allowing his muscles to uncoil. In his mind he kept seeing Richard’s expression after the purging_ the uncharacteristic vulnerability lying naked in his eyes. Thomas’s throat grew tight. "The man who resides here_ Phillip Droan_ is an apothecary. He . . .removed the arrowhead."

Clearly uncomfortable, Richard wet his lips. "I-I remember."

Thomas stared. I put you through hell, and that’s all you can say_ ’I remember?’ His sense of awkwardness withered beneath the dawning realization that he was again constructing walls_ more than that, he was allowing his son to do the same. "Damn it, Richard," he said so suddenly, so vehemently, the sting of his words surprised even himself. "You almost died!"

Before his son you sputter a word, Thomas gripped him behind the neck and pulled him to his chest, holding him tightly. At first he felt only unyielding tension from Richard, then just as abruptly his son relaxed in his embrace.

Richard buried his face against Thomas’s coarse shirt. "I thought . . . you would be ashamed of me . . . for the way I behaved."

"The way you behaved?" Thomas was incredulous. "Richard you had an arrowhead cut from your flesh. Given the circumstances, you behaved admirably. Why do you insist on adopting a code of conduct that allows no glimmer of weakness_ of human frailty?"

Expelling a breath, Richard let his weight sag in Thomas’s arms. He could feel a niggling stitch of pain in his side, spreading barbed threads across his abdomen. "I’m a knight. I should be above failings."

"They’re not failings and you’re not perfect." Gently, Thomas brushed the tangled hair from Richard’s face. It was odd how simple that gesture was, yet just moments ago he’d been unable to initiate it. "Richard,you must never think I’m ashamed of you_ that you embarrass me."

Sucking down a ragged gulp of air, Richard pulled away. He fell back against the bed, the flush of color on his face having more to do with frustration than returning health. The pain made him catch his breath. "But I heard you_ "

"Yes, I know." Thomas raised a comforting hand and this time Richard flinched away, shunning the touch. Discouraged, Thomas sighed. "I don’t know what possessed me to say that to Armus. It was reprehensible. More than that, it was pride that made me volunteer you for the Duke of Hilfinshire’s tournament. If I hadn’t forced you into that match, none of this would have happened."

Richard swallowed. "You don’t know that."

"It seems rather likely. We’ll wait until we return to Covington Cross before we address the issue of the attack."

"Terence is the Duke’s son. There’s nothing you can do." Fatigued, Richard closed his eyes. A sense of light-headedness washed over him, causing the room to pitch sharply. Twisting his face aside, he bit back a moan. Reflexively he reached for his stomach as pain flared abruptly.

"Richard?" Sensing his duress, Thomas gripped his shoulder.

" . . . hurts . . ." Shifting onto his side, Richard tried to draw his knees to his chest.

Thomas pressed a hand to his forehead checking for fever, thankful when his skin felt cool and dry. "Try to sleep," he coaxed. Up until this point he’d been intent only on having Richard survive the surgery. He hadn’t stopped to consider the resulting discomfort.

Richard’s breath came faster, whistling through his teeth as his body tensed against familiar pain. With no conscious thought for his actions, he gripped Thomas’s forearm, bowing his head against the other’s wrist. His fingers tightened convulsively, until Thomas winced beneath the horrific pressure. Richard remained locked in that position until the spasm slowly faded. Gasping, he rolled onto his back. "I’ve never been . . . afraid . . . like this before . . . "

Thomas knew what the admission cost him. The naked vulnerability was back in his eyes making him appear much younger than his twenty-one years. Gripping his hand, Thomas offered what comfort he could. "I’ll help you. You don’t have to face this alone."

+++++

As the days lengthened and grew, Richard slowly regained his strength. At first he remained distant, but in time accepted Thomas’s help with relative ease. The walls between them crumbled as they became comfortable with one another. Thomas knew his remaining children would likely fret over their lengthy absence, but also knew Richard was in no condition to sit a horse.

"I need to return to Covington Cross," he announced one afternoon, as he and Richard sat outside. Sunlight streamed through the lacy shroud of trees, warming their surroundings to a toasted apricot. A feathering breeze carried the soft melody of birdsong; the hesitant shuffling of a small animal foraging in the underbrush. With a concerned glance for his son, Thomas blocked all else from his mind.

Though Richard had recovered enough to move short distances, he still tired easily. More frequent than not he desired fresh air, and spent much of his time outdoors. Attired in his torn tunic_ blood-stained, though Droan had attempted to wash it_ breeches and boots, he barely looked the part of nobleman’s son. His long hair had grown ragged and unkempt, though he’d taken care to shave. "Armus and the others will worry over our absence. I can return with a wagon, so you can ride comfortably."

Richard nodded. "I’ll be fine with Phillip. You should leave tomorrow."

A slight frown tugged Thomas’s mouth. Richard was right, but he hated to hear the practical side of his son. They’d grown so close over the last two weeks, Thomas was afraid his absence would shatter that fragile trust.

Richard smiled to lighten the mood. "At least you know I can’t start any brawls out here."

Uttering a short snort, Thomas lifted one leg, hooking the ankle over his knee. "Are you ever going to tell me what that fight was about?"

Looking momentarily shame-faced, Richard rolled his shoulders. " ‘Tis silly, really. One of John Mullens’ men was shooting off his mouth. He made a derogatory comment about you."

Thomas cocked a brow, maintaining perfect aplomb. "Oh?"

"He said you were um . . . " Richard stole a quick glance at his father. Thomas smiled benignly and Richard felt heat spread over his face. " . . . a craven half-witted horn-beast_ or something like that."

"Something like that?" Thomas echoed. "Your memory seems fairly precise."

"No_ not horn-beast," Richard returned with all sincerity, looking terribly thoughtful. "Dung-heap. That was it_ " His eyes slewed back to Thomas. "_ a craven half-witted dung-heap." Folding his arms across his chest, he grinned brashly.

Thomas chuckled. It seemed odd to banter so easily with his impetuous second son. More often than not, when he addressed Richard it was over some instance of conflict. Momentarily saddened, Thomas realized he’d rarely spoken with Richard lately, except to reprimand.

"Father?" Sensing the other’s sudden melancholy, Richard lost his playful sense of frivolity. "Is something wrong?"

"Hmm? No_ nothing." Thomas straightened self-consciously. A smile flickered over his lips. "Just thinking how much better I’ll feel when you’re safely home at Covington Cross." Diverting his eyes momentarily, he wet his lips. "Richard_ I don’t always say things when or how I should, but these last few weeks have put a good many matters in perspective for me."

"I don’t understand."

Standing, Thomas inclined his head towards the thatched hut. "Time to go inside. You need to rest."

"You haven’t explained yourself," Richard protested.

Slipping a hand beneath his arm, Thomas helped him to his feet. With gentle guiding force, he started the younger man walking towards the door. "I’d like to work something out between you and Armus_ a division of my holdings. He isn’t comfortable managing the entire estate, and you certainly did a credible job during your tenure_ " With a frown, Thomas caught himself. "_ No, not credible_ extraordinary. You did an extraordinary job during your tenure."

Richard felt himself flush. Ducking his head beneath the doorframe, he stepped within the hut. Smokey shadow and a sundry of odors assaulted him. The burnt redolence of straw twined with woodsmoke and the savory vapor of root stew. "You’re mocking me," he said softly.

Appalled, Thomas shook his head. "Never. I’ve been foolish and short-sighted_ "

With a sheepish grin, Richard allowed the older man to ease him down on the bed. "And I’ve been stubborn and impulsive," he countered. Pulling his legs onto the mattress, he laid back on the pillowing straw, wincing when the movement drew the stitches in his side. "I’ll do whatever you want, ask_ whether it be managing your estates or acting as Armus’s second. Like you, I’ll just be thankful to be home again."

Thomas smiled wanly. His need to have Richard safely back at Covington Cross was so strong, he feared tarrying a moment longer. When evening settled and his son slept peacefully, Thomas broached the subject with Phillip Droan. The apothecary had returned with fresh game birds to compliment his root stew. Thomas had aided with dinner, then waited until Richard slept before telling Droan of his plan.

"Aye." Drawing on the stem of a gnarled pipe, Droan sent a series of smoke rings wafting towards the thatched roof. "The boy will be safe with me. By the time you return, he should be well enough to undergo a journey by wagon."

Doubtful, Thomas cast a glance at his sleeping son. Richard’s face was turned aside, his features webbed with shadow. Stretching forth his hand, Thomas smoothed curling strands of hair from his cheek, noting the healthy flush of color to his skin. Beneath his fingertips he could feel a contradiction of texture_ rough and silken, reminding him that his son’s personality was similarly complex. Reluctantly, he nodded. "I’ll leave in the morning," he said.

+++++

The journey to Covington Cross seemed endless to Thomas, the return trip more so. It wasn’t until Richard was safely ensconced back in the castle, that he allowed exhaustion to creep over him and succumbed to the first restful sleep he’d had in weeks. Phillip Droan was given the position of apothecary_ a post formerly lacking. For a time_ as Richard recovered his strength, and the routine of everyday life grew mundane_ Thomas allowed himself to forget the incident in Tiner Forest. Eventually however, he was forced to address the attack.

"He’ll just say we were set upon by bandits," Richard commented offhand, as he, Armus and Thomas discussed the incident in the relative comfort of the Great Hall. Reclining in a high-backed chair, Richard slouched sideways, one leg draped languidly over the stiff arm. His posture hardly appeared that of a knight, much less a nobleman. Thomas frowned but refrained from comment.

"That part of Tiner Forest is still under the Duke’s protection," Armus countered. "Even if you can’t prove his son was involved, the very fact it occurred within his lands, means he’ll have to investigate."

Richard shrugged. "And come back with nothing. I say we’re wasting our time."

"You seem oddly unaffected by this," Thomas commented. Reaching for the pewter goblet on the table beside him, he sipped thoughtfully at a full-bodied wine. "I recall a time when I would’ve had to physically restrain you from riding to Perekin and confronting Terence personally."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Richard shifted. His gaze sidled away, fixing on the floor. "It’s my word against his. He’s the Duke’s heir and I’m_ "

Thomas and Armus exchanged a glance. "You’re what?" Thomas prompted, when he went no further.

Richard flushed. He had intended to say "a second son" as though the position bore a stigma of shame. Recalling how far he and his father had progressed in the last few weeks made him discard the notion. "_ not likely to be taken seriously," Richard finished somewhat lamely. Leaning forward, he braced his arms across his thighs and laced his hands between his knees. "I can’t prove anything. I didn’t actually see his face, I just saw the scabbard."

Thoughtful, Thomas pursed his lips. "What exactly did he say to you after the tournament?"

"Oh, that." Richard’s mouth slid sideways, curling into a crooked half-smile. " . . . just that I’d pay for the victory with my life."

Armus whistled softly. "A ducal guttersnipe who doesn’t mince words. You certainly know how to pick them, little brother."

Thomas scowled. "Actually I picked him. I’m the one who volunteered Richard for the tournament." With a sigh he set his goblet aside. "I wish I’d bloody never seen that cursed May Day festival. Richard is right_ Terrence commands a lofty pedestal, but perhaps Phillip Droan can help. As I recall, he mentioned crossing paths with the Duke’s son. Whatever misfortune befell him, it’s the reason he was living like a hermit in the forest."

"I don’t see how that can help," Richard countered doubtfully. Slouching back in the chair, he stretched his legs before him, wincing slightly at the unexpected pull to his wounded side. Sometimes the injury made it difficult to find a position of relative comfort. Though he was loathed to admit it, he felt fatigued. Sensing his father’s sharp gaze upon him, he tried to appear at ease.

Thomas stood, pacing idly before the hearth. "It won’t hurt to question our friend the apothecary_ if nothing else, it might give us additional insight into Terrence’s motives."

"I’ve had plenty of insight," Richard scoffed. Tiredly, he rubbed at his eyes. There followed a moment of silence and then the firm tread of Thomas’s boot heels clicked against the flagstone floor. Richard glanced up to find his father standing over him.

"I think you should go to bed_ get some rest," Thomas said evenly. When his son failed to respond but stared at him blankly, he leaned forward, gripping the arms of Richard’s chair. "I’ll send a servant with a message for Phillip. We can discuss this tomorrow."

Richard blinked. Though the summer sky was gray with twilight, wan splinters of light still bled through the narrow windows. The fading trace of daylight made him feel somehow weak for tiring so quickly. Before he could protest, Thomas gripped his shoulder affectionately. A warm smile quirked the corners of his lips. "I don’t want you pushing yourself," he said sincerely. Skimming his fingers beneath the ragged ends of his son’s long hair, Thomas cupped the side of his neck.

Across the room Armus watched the exchange with marked interest. Richard’s face was upturned, his green eyes bare of pretense. Armus could well recall a time when his brash younger sibling would have bristled at such familiar contact_ when his father would have shunned the display in favor of a crisp directive. Whatever had occurred in Tiner Forest, it had effectively altered the way both men interacted with one another.

Briefly, Armus considered whether or not the change was for the better. While he was glad to see Richard responding more openly, he thought his father had been acting unusually over-protective since the incident. Waiting, he watched as Richard relented with a tired grin. Wincing slightly as he pushed from the chair, Richard took his father’s advice and bade the others goodnight.

Thomas’s eyes lingered on the doorway after he’d departed. "He still tires much too easily," he muttered distractedly. A small furrow appeared on his brow as he reached for his wine goblet. "I would have thought he’d have more stamina by now."

"Perhaps he does and you’re just hovering too much."

"I beg your pardon?" Surprised, Thomas glanced sharply at his eldest son. His frown grew to exaggerated proportions, gouging deep crevices on either side of his mouth. "That’s a rather unusual observation, Armus."

"I don’t think so." Standing, Armus paced behind his chair. Bracing his hands against the backrest, he shook his head at the irony of what he was about to say. "You just don’t see it. A few weeks ago I could barely get the two of you to speak civilly to one another. Now, not only do you hover over Richard, you’ve reinstated him to a position of managing your estates."

"At your urging," Thomas protested, befuddled. "I thought that’s what you wanted."

"I did, and I do," Armus attempted to clarify. Exasperated, he stalked around the chair and confronted his father. "But you’re doing it for all the wrong reasons. You might think you’re rewarding his abilities, but the truth is, you simply want to keep him close by. You want to keep him occupied and out of harm’s way."

"That’s not true," Thomas snapped defensively. Turning his back, he paced briskly to the window. His chest rose and fell with the irritated flutter of his breath as he considered the thickening twilight outside. Absently he drummed his fingers against the base of his goblet, but the resulting tap-tap only seemed to frustrate him. "You don’t understand," he said at last. "You weren’t there."

"No, I wasn’t," Armus agreed, lowering his voice. He took a step forward. "Father, there’s nothing wrong with feeling the way you do_ "

"I restrained your brother while Phillip Droan cut him," Thomas said clearly; slowly_ each word clipped with brittle self-loathing. Turning, the older man faced his son. "You have no idea what that was like, Armus. You have no idea the hell I put Richard through."

Armus pressed his lips together. "It wasn’t your fault."

Thomas made a soft sound of dismissal. Raising the goblet, he waived the comment aside. "A man has little use for logic when he sees his son_ his flesh and blood_ torn, and bloodied, weeping with pain. I saw a side of Richard I never want to see again. If I keep him on a short leash as a result, that’s my prerogative."

"It’s not," Armus said curtly. He felt his own frustration grow at finding his normally level-headed father so blindly swayed by emotion. "You can’t protect Richard forever. The only reason he hasn’t chafed at your restrictions, is because he’s still not fully recovered. Do you really think Richard_ brash, arrogant, act-before-he-thinks Richard_ is going to be content playing it safe?"

Unflustered, Thomas grew suddenly cool. "You saw how he reacted about Terence. He’s not the same, Armus."

"You’re mistaken. He’s had a traumatic experience and it’s affected him_ it hasn’t changed him. I’d hate to see him go from not speaking to you, to resenting you." Flushing, Armus rolled his hands into loose fists, and ducked his head. It felt wrong to be addressing his father so sharply_ lecturing him as though he were a mere child. Refocusing on the reasoning for his brief tirade, he softened his voice. "You’ve always had a tumultuous relationship with Richard. Lately, the two of you have grown close. I’d just hate to see that new bond destroyed."

Thomas’s demeanor failed to soften. "I’ll take it under advisement," he returned shortly. Deciding to end the conversation, he strode crisply from the room.

+++++

Trapped by Armus’s observations, Thomas whittled away the hours well into the Queen Mab’s realm. Restless, unable to sleep, he prowled the shadow-darkened corridors like a displaced ghost. Eventually he found himself in Richard’s room, gazing down on his son as he slept. For a time_ staring at the tousled hair and smooth, youthful features of the younger man, he could almost believe the horror in Tiner Forest had never taken place. Richard looked healthy, his skin imbued with the warm flush of sleep. Was he wrong for wanting to keep him that way? How did a man straddle the line between protectiveness and guidance? It used to be so simple. Richard used to be so difficult, there was little to do but reprimand.

With a weary sigh Thomas sank into the bedside chair. Things had been much easier when Richard had shunned affection and help. Though their relationship had been strained, the lines had been clearly defined. Tentatively, Thomas stroked a finger over his son’s jaw. "I made you rely on me, and that’s changed everything, hasn’t it?" he asked softly.

Lost in slumber, Richard shifted, turning his face away. Realizing there were no simple answers to quiet his fears, Thomas rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Perhaps Armus was right. Perhaps he was being too overprotective. The thought no sooner surfaced then unwanted memory returned to haunt him_ Richard weeping, begging an end to the pain; Richard clinging to him; screaming as Droan cut into his flesh.

Overcome, Thomas swore loudly.

"Father_ ?" Richard came awake with a jerk. Sitting up, he scraped a hand through his hair, sweeping the long bangs from his eyes. Disoriented, he focused on Thomas. "What are you doing here?"

Chagrined to be caught, Thomas shook his head. "Nothing. Just checking on you_ "

Bleary-eyed, Richard supressed a yawn. "Why?" He was unaffected, more dazed than annoyed.

Come morning, Thomas guessed the incident would seem like a dream_ images clustered at the peripheral fringe of his memory. Rolling his shoulders, he set his own demons aside. "I couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d_ "

"I’m fine," Richard said before he could finish the statement. Scrunching down on the bed, he rolled onto his side, tucking his left arm beneath the pillow. Though he faced Thomas, his eyes drifted shut with relative ease. "Did I mention you worry too much?" he asked sleepily.

Thomas gave a short, scoffing laugh_ not much more than a snort. Needing the assurance of touch, he slipped his hand into his son’s hair. Already he could hear the even flow of Richard’s breath, growing deeper as he lapsed easily into sleep. Bemused, Thomas wound a strand of flowing hair about his index finger. Unlike Armus, Cedric and William who’d inherited his own straight locks, Richard had his mother’s riotous waves and curls_ a trait that frequently earned him many discreet feminine glances. Coupled with a tall, slender build and expressive green eyes, Richard was more than passing fair. It was as Phillip Droan had remarked_ "He’s right comely, isn’t he?"

A sliver of a smile touched Thomas lips. He’d always known his son was handsome_ a characteristic shared by all his children_ he’d just never realized there were moments such as now, when Richard’s looks transcended mere comeliness. Perhaps it was just his own heightened emotions that made Richard seem empyreal_ more night-phantom and shadow than flesh and blood. Disturbed, Thomas leaned forward_ needing not only to hear the flutter of Richard’s breath, but to feel the warmth of it against his hand. And in that moment_ when buried need became driving force_ when nothing else would suffice but the trickle of Richard’s breath against his trembling fingers_ Thomas knew with gut-wrenching certainty Armus had been right.

Covering his face with his hands, he surrendered to the conflicting tide of emotion that had plagued him since Richard’s attack in the forest. At his side, his son slept undisturbed.

+++++

"I’m not sure I understand." Bracing his arm against the edge of the table, Richard turned his attention from the pear he’d been slicing to his father. "Are you saying Terence Reynard is one of the thieves who’ve been attacking travelers in the forest?"

"Not just one of them," Thomas corrected. "According to Phillip, he’s the leader."

Richard frowned. He had little appetite this morning, attributable to a reoccurring stitch of pain in his side. Each time he thought he’d progressed, something happened to make the injury flare anew. Always trivial, the latest setback had occurred when mounting his horse. Awakening early, plagued by dreams he couldn’t identify, he’d thought to banish the night with a short ride.

Whether he’d moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way, the simple motion of swinging into the saddle had reduced him to gasping. It wasn’t the first time he’d ridden since the injury. This time he’d simply been careless.

Still irritated by the setback, Richard used his dagger to plunder the flesh of the pear. "That doesn’t make sense." Juice trickled over his fingers, dribbling onto his pewter breakfast plate. "Terence is the Duke’s son. He already has inordinate wealth. Why would he risk so much to snatch a few baubles and coins?"

"Maybe it’s got nothing to do with wealth," Armus countered across from him. "From what you’ve told me about Terence, his ethics are far from pure. Some men covet power as much as others covet wealth."

Half-carved pear in one hand, knife in the other, Richard spread his palms wide. "So you’re saying he does this for pure adrenaline?"

"When they attacked us, they didn’t take anything," Thomas reminded him.

"We weren’t run-of-the-mill targets," Richard said shortly. "Terence had a vendetta to settle." Slicing free a chunk of fruit, he used the edge of his knife to guide it between his lips. "When did you find all this out anyway?"

"This morning," Thomas supplied. "Phillip is a very early riser, and since I was rather restless . . ." He trailed off suddenly, sensing Richard’s sidelong glance. Thomas had the distinct impression his son was recalling a nocturnal visit to his bedchamber. Before Richard could broach the subject, Eleanor and Cedric appeared, shuffling tiredly into the room.

"Ah, the dead awaken," Armus greeted with a broad grin. Frowning, Cedric slouched to a seat on the bench beside him, while Eleanor sat more gracefully alongside her curly-haired brother. Though Richard’s lips quirked in a marginal smile, he appeared preoccupied.

"I can’t speak for Eleanor," Cedric mumbled in respond to Armus’s amused stare. "But I had a bit too much wine last night. With Richard incapacitated, someone has to keep the family tradition of tavern visitations alive."

"Excuse me." Abandoning the scant remains of his breakfast, Richard rose suddenly to his feet. Surprised by his abruptness, four pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Swallowing lamely, he wiped his knife across his thigh, then sheathed the blade. There’s something I need to do . . ."

"Richard_ ?" Unnerved by his rapid mood swing, Thomas stood.

Sensing the other’s concern, Richard offered a tentative smile. "I’ll be fine, Father."

Forcing silent his protests, Thomas nodded. With effort he sat, vowing to have a leisurely breakfast with the remainder of his children. Though outwardly calm, a lump rose to his throat, preventing him from swallowing anything of substance. It was still there hours later, when Richard found him roaming restlessly in his study.

"Am I interrupting?" Richard asked, hesitating on the threshold.

Hands clasped behind his back, Thomas turned, his expression neutral. "Of course not. Where have you been?"

Stepping into the room, Richard shrugged. "Talking to Droan . . ." His lashes dipped momentarily, but his abashment was short-lived. Suddenly cheeky, he grinned_ his mouth curling upward in a crooked smile. " . . . and acting on impulse."

Thomas felt a flutter of apprehension_ a niggling twinge of warning that told him his cocky, overly confident son had returned. Hot metal scored his insides as he realized this Richard might not need him_ that whatever fragile footholds they’d made might easily shatter like glass. "I have a feeling I’m not going to like this."

Much too at ease, Richard propped his hip on the edge of Thomas’s desk. His broadsword dangled free, bumping against his thigh. With a distracted glance, Thomas realized it was the first he’d seen his son with the weapon since the incident in Tiner.

"I wanted to talk to Droan myself," Richard explained. Glancing aside, he shuffled some papers to the center of the desk, then perched more comfortably in the space he’d cleared. "I wanted to hear his story . . . why he was living in the forest."

"And he told you he’d been set upon by Terence and some others, while still an apothecary for the Duke?"

"Yes," Richard confirmed. "And when he made the unfortunate mistake of accusing Terence, he was stripped of position and banished to the forest. That was . . ." Appearing thoughtful, Richard glanced at the ceiling. " . . . eight months ago, as I recall."

"His story is consistent," Thomas agreed. "I didn’t realize you doubted him."

"I don’t doubt him," Richard returned quickly. "Not in the least. It’s just in the eyes of Duke Reynard, the second son of a landholder_ titled or not_ isn’t much above the station of a village apothecary. My accusation isn’t going to carry any more weight than Phillip’s did, and I certainly don’t want to end up living in the forest like some wretched hermit."

"Are you saying you want to let this go?"

"No!" Richard pushed from the desk. Striding into the room, he confronted his father face-to-face. A flush of conviction brought high color to his cheeks and an animated spark to his pale green eyes. "If I’m going after Terence, I can’t do it sloppily_ "

"Richard_ "

"The worm has his own set of rules, and I have every intention of making him regret them."

"You keep saying ‘I’," Thomas inserted flatly. A cold snarl of emotions brought marked frost to his eyes. "I thought we’d moved past that. I thought you’d realized there was a place and a time_ even the need for accepting help."

Bewildered, Richard wet his lips. He could sense his father’s growing belligerence, and with it the familiar edge of his own frustration. It would be so easy to slip into the mold of their usual discourse. To allow the misunderstanding to grow and spread into something neither could penetrate.

"You don’t understand." How many times had Richard said those same words in the past? Yet this time was different. This time they were not said in anger or scathing scorn, but a sincere desire to correct the misconception. For this was the man who had held him and comforted him when there was only blackness and pain. When fear was a tangible demon devouring his insides with sadistic glee. Vowing to banish the walls which encroached between them, Richard stepped forward and gripped his father’s arm. "I acted, yes_ impulsively perhaps, but I assumed you and Armus would be there when the time came to proceed. I can’t change my nature, Father, but I have learned to ask for help."

Taken aback by the younger man’s earnestness, Thomas released a pent-up breath. Though part of him took comfort in Richard’s sincerity, the other half feared the foolishness he might have already set in motion. "I may regret asking this, but what have you done?"

The hint of a self-assured smile returned to Richard’s face. Slowly he let his fingers slide free. "I’ve sent a messenger to Terence, informing him I know he was the one who attacked me. I’ve arranged for him to meet me in the forest. He’s conceited enough he’ll want to settle the score permanently."

"Damn it, Richard!" Aggravated, Thomas whirled away from him. "You’re hardly in any condition to handle a sword, let alone against someone like Terence."

"Did I say I was planning a swordfight?" Richard countered testily.

Thomas relented. Hands on hips, he considered his son. "Then what exactly are you planning?"

Richard smiled. "A lot of help."

+++++

Sunlight filtered through the heavy leaf canopy deep in the heart of Tiner Forest, creating a haze like spun gold in the late afternoon air. Pacing restlessly, Richard flexed his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. Beneath the supple brown leather of his glove, his palm grew damp with sweat. Almost two weeks had passed since he’d sent his original missive to Terence. His adversary’s reply had been as terse as his own short message_ Terence would come as agreed, and they’d settle the score between them with no one the wiser.

Though patience was never his strong suit, Richard grew increasingly edgy as the moments lengthened. Part of him desired to resolve the matter as quickly as possible, yet another part grew anxious, unable to banish his memory of pain. Images of the attack flitted through his mind, resurrecting the agonizing feel of cold iron in his flesh; the heated blade of Phillip Droan’s knife, carving the arrowhead from his skin.

He jerked suddenly, wrenched from his thoughts by the approaching rumble of hoofbeats. Moving away from the sheltering trees, Richard stepped into a small circular clearing. Immediately four riders thronged him, their faces concealed within the hooded cowls of flowing cloaks. Richard waited until the hoods were lowered and Terence’s sharp features were revealed. "I thought this was between you and I," he said evenly.

With cocky ease, Terence swung down from his horse. Removing his cloak, he draped it over the saddle. "Surely you haven’t forgotten I like an audience." Stepping away from the stallion, he drew his sword. Behind him, his men had dismounted, retreating a short distance where they waited with his horse.

Richard remained still, allowing the other to approach. Though Terence’s blade glinted brightly in the reflected sunlight, Richard made no move to draw his own. "Then you admit to attacking me in the forest?"

Terence chuckled. "I’m only sorry my aim was off. That arrow was meant to kill, not to maim. Still, I’m still not sure how you survived. I coated the tip in widow’s bane."

Terence’s voice was unmistakably smug. Though inwardly incensed, Richard appeared calm. "I might have died if not for Phillip Droan," he said smoothly.

"The apothecary?" Momentarily flustered, Reynard scowled.

It was Richard’s turn to gloat. "You remember him_ the man who accused you of thieving_ ?"

"I had him banished to the forest," Terence interrupted sharply, his face pinched with acute displeasure. Stepping forward, he raised his sword, allowing the tip to hover a few inches shy of Richard’s breastbone. "That worthless old fool never should have opened his mouth. My father may be able to overlook most of my vices, but robbery isn’t one of them. Ironically, I could care less about the spoils. It’s the crime itself I savor_ " A malevolent smile lifted the corners of his mouth, twisting his face like a freshly carved jack-o-lantern. "_ a dark interlude in an otherwise placid life."

Satisfied, Richard folded his arms across his chest. "You may find your life not so placid any longer."

Abruptly suspicious, Terence studied him narrowly. "What does that mean?"

Before Richard could formulate an answer, the trees erupted with sudden movement. A throng of armed riders quickly surrounded Terence’s men, effectively subduing and disarming them. Stunned, the duke’s son gaped as familiar adversaries emerged from the sheltering concealment_ Thomas, Armus, Phillip Droan, and the local Sheriff. Realizing he’d been set up, Reynard cursed. His eyes bore into Thomas as the older man approached. "You_ My Lord_ " he spat the title contemptuously. "_ will rue the day your son crossed paths with me_ "

"Give up your blade," the Sheriff interrupted curtly. A balding man with a potbelly, he was nonetheless imposing. "And I suggest you do it quietly."

Seething, Reynard’s eyes slewed aside to Richard. "Damn you," he hissed. The blade made a clean swipe through the air. Propelled by instinct, Richard dove beneath the sword, using a maneuver similar to the one he’d employed on the tournament field. Clearing the blade, he caught Terence by the wrist, forcing his hand backwards until the bone threatened to snap. With a savage curse, Reynard dropped the weapon. Before any of the stunned onlookers could intervene, he snatched a dagger from his belt with his free hand.

"Richard, look out!" Thomas cried.

For one agonizing second the dagger hung suspended in the air, then plunged viciously downward, sinking into Richard’s shoulder. Recoiling from the blow, he cried aloud. Almost simultaneously he heard a gasp from Terence, like a soft hiss of air whistling through brittle swamp rushes. The knife blundered free, gouging across Richard’s shoulder_ propelling him to the side, as he sought to escape the pain.

Reynard stumbled backwards.

Grinding his teeth together, Richard clamped a hand over his lacerated skin, vainly attempting to halt the heated rush of blood between his gloved fingers. Dazed, his eyes tracked aside to Terence. Only then did he see the blood-soaked hole in his side; the stunned, glazed expression of his lizard-like eyes bloated to twice their normal size. Even as he watched, Terence pitched forward on his knees then crumbled lifelessly to the ground.

Bewildered, Richard glanced up at the crunch of gravel at his side. Thomas gripped him beneath the arm. "Come let me look at the shoulder," he instructed quietly. His own sword was still naked and unsheathed, the razor edge dripping with Terence’s blood.

Stunned, Richard wet his lips. He’d never even seen his father make that strike; was rattled by the other’s calm acceptance of Reynard’s death no matter how deserving his passing. Richard swallowed. There was an odd tinniness to his surroundings and his mouth was suddenly dry. Though the situation dictated grave seriousness, he fell back on flippancy in an effort to collar his emotions. "I guess it’s a good thing I brought you along," he told Thomas, with a glance for the bloody sword. The hint of a smile flitted over his lips. "_ My Lord." Though he inclined his head in a slight bow, his father’s grip prevented him from feigning subservience.

Thomas’s fingers tightened, his grip conveying affection, relief and just a trace of annoyance.

With a sharp tug he pulled Richard to his side, then leaned close to his ear. "I’ll overlook it because you’re hurt, but if you ‘My Lord’ me again, you’ll find the repercussions decidedly unpleasant."

Chuckling, Richard relaxed. The Sheriff and his men were already moving Terence’s body into the trees. Richard found if he didn’t look at their progress, he could almost believe the incident had ended without bloodshed. Though his shoulder throbbed from the cruel intrusion of the knife, the wound was minute compared to what he’d already suffered. He allowed Thomas to lead him to a fallen tree, where he sat while his father and the apothecary tended the wound. When the ministrations grew lengthy Richard began to fidget. Admonishing him to sit still, Phillip Droan completed his work then withdrew.

Hovering in the background, Armus was torn between amusement over his brother’s restless muttering and concern for his health. "It would have been easier if you’d just managed to dodge the blow."

Richard glared at him. "How remiss of me."

"Enough you two," Thomas inserted before the conversation could continue further. Standing to the side and slightly behind Richard, he slid his hand companionably onto his son’s back. "We still have the Duke to contend with, and although the Sheriff is witness to all that’s transpired, I warrant the confrontation will not be pleasant." Blue eyes lowered to catch Richard’s upturned gaze. "I’m thankful you included us in this scheme. It may have gone very bad for you otherwise."

"The idea was to get Terence to confess_ " Richard clarified. "_ to the robberies and the attack. I never meant to cross blades with him."

Armus gave a soft grunt. "For once you were using your head, little brother, but I think Terence was determined to settle the score permanently."

Frowning, Richard shook his head. "It’s hard to believe he’d want to kill me simply for besting him in a tournament."

"Some people have extremely fragile egos," Thomas countered. Drawing a breath, he addressed the matter at hand. "If you think you can ride, Richard, we need to visit the Duke."

Nodding, Richard pressed a hand to his wounded shoulder and stood. There was a hollow in the pit of his stomach, making him wish the moment had passed. Thomas was right_ the confrontation was certain to be ugly.

How did one tell a blood relative of the King that his son had died a common highwayman?

+++++

In the weeks that followed Richard tried to forget the incident with Terence Reynard. Confronted with irrefutable proof regarding the crimes of his son, the Duke of Hilfinshire responded first with rage, then sorrow, and finally bitter reproach. Terence’s name was struck from the family lineage. Once the Champion of Perekin, his memory was scorned in the province_ his name uttered as a curse, but never within the Duke’s hearing.

Phillip Droan settled comfortably into the position of apothecary for Covington Cross and the adjacent village. Though Richard visited him frequently, he never managed to completely silence the nightmarish memories, conjured by the other’s presence. Though he found Droan to be kind-hearted and amiable, a part of him would always view the apothecary as a man who inflicted pain. As a result, he was never able to completely relax around Phillip despite his admiration. When a recent visit left him rattled with unwanted memories, Richard headed to the tavern, deciding to silence them with ale.

The hour was early enough in the evening that there were few people about. Wondrous odors of stew and mutton wafted from the interior of the thatched hut, beckoning Richard indoors. Deciding he was as hungry as he was thirsty, Richard ordered a bowl of stew with a tankard of ale. The warmth of food and liquid in his stomach banished the filmy cobweb of memories clinging to his thoughts. When the food was gone, he ordered a second tankard, then sat back, enjoying the seclusion of the sparsely populated tavern.

Eventually more villagers arrived, a few waving in greeting as they took seats nearby. The air grew pungent with the scent of pipe tobacco and sweat. Wreaths of blue smoke hung suspended in the air like wraiths above the tabletops. An escalating drone of voices vied with the clatter of tankards and bowls against hard wood. Tuning out the din, Richard stared into his half-empty mug. Though the injury to his side had healed completely, his shoulder still required ginger handling. The impairment made him increasingly restless, as his level of confidence grew.

Actively involved in the managing of his father’s estates, Richard found himself reverting to cocky self-assurance in the familiar role. Though his relationship with Sir Thomas continued to evolve, Richard never lost the arrogant over-confidence that propelled him so readily in the past.

The only difference was, he no longer separated himself from those he cared about with unscalable walls.

Richard glanced up, alerted by an unnatural hush that had fallen over the crowd. Following the eyes of the other patrons, he focused on the reason for the awed silence. Startled, he half rose to his feet, certain he was dreaming. The Lord of Covington Cross stood framed in the doorway.

Thomas smiled benignly, as though it were an everyday occurrence for him to visit the village tavern. "Don’t mind me," he instructed with a wave for the other patrons as he moved to his son’s table.

Sputtering, Richard fell back on his stool. "F-father_ what are you doing here?"

"Hmm?" Unruffled Thomas sat across from him and motioned to the serving wench for a tankard of ale. Stripping off his gloves, he laid them on the table, then did a quick, measuring sweep of the room with his eyes. "So this is where you vanish to when you want to escape the castle."

"Father, what are you doing here?" Richard persisted. His voice was low and hissed as though the other man had committed some heinous crime.

" ‘Ere ye be, M’lord." The serving wench arrived, sliding a battered tankard onto the table with a small courtesy. Lifting the mug, Thomas smiled pleasantly, causing the girl to blush and quickly withdraw. Though the flagon had obviously seen better days, Richard didn’t doubt it was the best in the house, second only to his. Uncertain if he was amused or irritated, he watched Sir Thomas take a swallow of the bitter ale. Admittedly, the sight of his father in the local drinking establishment was comical.

Richard cocked a brow. "Aren’t you a trifle far from the Great Hall?"

Returning the mug to the table, Thomas wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. "What’s the matter?" he asked, cocking his head. "Do you think this is the first tavern I’ve ever visited?"

Richard snorted. "I’m not that naïve." As the din of voices gradually increased to normal level, he felt himself relax. Retrieving his own mug, he turned it between his hands. "I’m just not sure what you’re doing in this one."

Thomas shrugged. "Having a drink with my son." Though he said the words without thought, almost reflexively, he knew it went deeper than that. Over the last few weeks he’d noted the return of Richard’s familiar self-confidence. And while that characteristic had yet to infringe on their new relationship, Thomas had been forced to relinquish his protective hand. He knew any attempt to place restraints on Richard at this juncture would only result in strife. Exhaling, he conceded his own foolishness. "Very well_ truth be told, I’m just unwilling for things to go back to the way they were. I thought maybe if I talked with you_ here seemed as good a place as any . . ."

Confused, Richard shook his head. "I don’t understand."

Thomas took another gulp of ale, trying to find strength in the astringent brew. Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on the table. "You’re um . . . feeling pretty good now, and that means your temper is going to be back on that short string." Uncomfortable, Thomas glanced at the scarred surface of the table before reorienting on his son’s perplexed gaze. "Trouble has a way of finding you, Richard_ "

"I don’t look for misfortunate, Father."

"I know you don’t," Thomas said quickly, hearing the edge slip into his son’s cultured voice. "And this last mess was completely my doing. But you are impulsive and you’re headstrong. It’s likely you and I are going to be at odds some time in the future." Thomas faltered, uncertain how to continue. Finally he pushed the mug away and sat back on the rickety stool. "I just don’t want things getting out of hand like they did before. I don’t want us so angry at one another we can’t speak civilly."

Disturbed, Richard stared at his father. A part of him thought the whole conversation foolish, yet another part found his father’s regard poignant. The Lord of Covington Cross was not one to waste sentiment on emotion. Though affectionate with his children, he oft times had problems expressing himself_ especially where Richard was concerned. The very fact he’d come into the tavern at all was notable, but the extent of his words made Richard realize how fragile Thomas thought their relationship. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to raise my voice to you again." Quirking a grin, Richard cast aside the staid seriousness of the air.

Raising a hand, he absently threaded the hair from his collar as he eyed the contents of his cup. "Of course, if you make a habit of visiting the tavern I’ll have to reconsider."

Thomas chuckled. Hoisting his flagon, he waited for his son to do the same. "Until our next argument," he offered.

Richard clacked his tankard against Thomas’s. "Until tomorrow," he countered, and grinned. Surely even he could stay out of trouble for a mere twenty-four hours. That was when he saw John Mullens’ man-at-arms step through the doorway and glance in his direction.

"Um . . . Father . . . any chance you’d like to meet the man who called you a half-witted hornbeast?"

***The End***

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