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 having fun putting Richard & Co. (okay, mainly just Richard) through hell. (Yes, a twisted mind DID conceive this story). As usual, I've played a little "loose" with history, so please try to overlook any glaring inaccuracies.

The black stallion gave a soft snort as Richard released the animal to the stable attendant. A plume of warm breath rose from the horse’s nostrils, quickly dissipating in the brisk autumn air. "See he’s properly fed and watered," Richard told the rotund man. "I’ll return in a few hours."

Scraping dirt-encrusted fingers over his grizzled beard, the attendant nodded. "Aye, M’Lord. ‘E’ll be ready fer ye."

With a short pat to the steed’s flank, Richard took his leave. He was tired and sore, coming off a fourteen-hour ride in the saddle. Every muscle in his body ached, and his bones felt bloated with a stigma of age well beyond his twenty-one years. Pressing his hands to the small of his back, he took a moment to stretch the stiffness from his limbs, groaning softly as the pain spread into his ribs. The man he’d met on the road hadn’t helped¾ his meaty fingers all but snapping Richard’s wrist in desperation when he’d caught his arm.

"You must help! There is no one else -- no time. Do you understand?"

Richard hadn’t understood. He still wasn’t certain he did, but he’d done what was expected of him as a Knight of the King’s Realm. Exhaling loudly, he raked a gloved hand through his tangled hair. He was filthy, and needed a bath. The sooner he met Armus and Cedric, the sooner he could head home. The appeal of his cot, with its straw mattress and linen covering was almost as tempting as a mug of dark mead from the local tavern.

Stepping past a huddle of tiny homes with thatched roofs, Richard made his way for the lighted shack at the end of the street. Already twilight had begun to settle, plaiting the ground with pewter mist. Overhead, in a raisin-dark sky, virgin stars appeared among tattered strips of clouds. Drawing his heavy cloak closer about his neck, Richard tried to elude the cold fingers of wind curling about his collar. He felt the tug of that icy breeze in his long hair, scattering the tumbled brown tresses over his brow. Quickening his step, he hurried for the tavern.

He could hear a mesh of voices raised within -- garbled words and laughter drifting through the stout wooden door. A sundry of odors followed¾ the tantalizing aroma of roast mutton, peppered stew and warm bread. Richard’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since late morning. What better way to pass the time waiting for his brothers, then with a full belly and a mug of ale?

"Please, Sir -- I beg ye . . ." The frightened voice cut through Richard’s thoughts, drawing him to an abrupt halt. From the corner of his eye he saw a young woman, snared in the grip of a dark-haired man. Her wrists pinned by the aggressor, the woman was held helpless, her back against the side wall of the tavern. Forsaking the door, Richard sprinted in their direction.

"Unhand her!" he cried, moving smoothly into the shadows. Not waiting for acknowledgement, he drew his sword.

Up close, the dark-haired man was hollow-eyed and slightly stooped. His face was pock-marked, with a jagged scar spanning the swallow skin from left earlobe to nose tip. "There’s a lad," he marveled with a hobgoblin grin. "Come to help the wench now, didcha?"

As he moved deeper into the gloaming, Richard became aware of a rustling behind him. He half turned in the direction of the sound, when something bolted from the shadows on his right. A horrible crushing blow glanced off the side of his head, sending the world into a chaotic spin. The ground lurched beneath him, making him stagger for balance. His blade grew suddenly cumbersome, dragging his swordarm to his side. With frightening alacrity, the rush of vertigo intensified.

Senseless, he stumbled forward into a suffocating maw of darkness.

**********

"Wake ‘im up, damn ye!"

The angry voice was the first thing Richard heard as he struggled back from the charcoal paste of the netherworld. Bleak, gray light knifed beneath his lashes drawing a muted groan from stiff lips. A sharp ache battered the back of his skull, and splintered behind his eyelids. He could feel something sticky and warm clinging to the side of his face and guessed that his head was bleeding. Numbly, he tried to raise a hand to wipe away the clinging wetness. Resistance met the effort and he realized his wrists were bound behind his back. Blinking, he tried to focus on his surroundings.

"There’s a good young master." The voice was coarse and garbled, dripping with scorn. Slowly a face formed in the waning haze of Richard’s vision¾ dull, flint-like eyes, fleshy lips and a blunt nose. The countenance was narrow and long, gouged with shadow at the cheekbones; framed by straw-colored hair at the crown.

Wetting his lips, Richard found his voice. "Who are you?"

There was a snort of laughter and Richard refocused his eyes on his surroundings. He was in a small shack with a low roof and poorly-tended hearth. The narrow-faced stranger wasn’t the only one in the room. Richard could detect four others behind him, including the pockmark-faced man and the woman he’d been accosting. The latter was ginger-haired with saucer-shaped eyes and a sly, silken smile. Obviously acquainted with her attacker, the woman planted a hand on her shapely hip and gave Richard a wink. Realizing the entire scenario had been a ruse, Richard fought to keep the heat rushing to his face.

"I think ‘e knows ‘e’s been set upon, Tad," the woman cooed, sweetly.

Tad¾ the narrow-faced man¾ pressed his lips together. " ‘E don’t cooperate and tell us where the bloody ‘ell it is, ‘e’ll be more than set upon, luv."

Richard’s green eyes returned to Tad. "What do you want?" The room was starting to spin, and although he was sitting on the floor¾ legs spread out before him, back to the wall, he had to fight to keep from toppling sideways. His captors stood about him, gazing down with decidedly unfriendly expressions. Only the woman looked like she might want to know him better¾ and not in any manner he was inclined to welcome.

Tad folded his arms across his chest. "Ye met a man on the road, ‘n ‘e guv ye sumethin.’ Tell us where it is, ‘n we’ll let ye live."

Richard shook his head, immediately regretting the action when the movement sent heated daggers knifing into his temples. "You’re mistaken. I’ve been in the saddle since sunup. I rode straight through from Tresmont. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Fool boy!" A hand cracked sharply across his face, driving his head against the wall. Small pinpricks of light danced before his eyes, sending a flood of nauseating dizziness pulsing through his body. He swallowed hard, forcing down bile.

"Tell me where it is!" Tad roared.

Annoyed, Richard grew impatient. "You’ve got the wrong man, you bloody imbecile. Release me, or go to hell."

Spewing a savage curse, Tad struck him a second time. Richard’s teeth sliced into his bottom lip, sending a heated rush of blood into his mouth. His ears were ringing, making it difficult to concentrate. The blow left his vision unstable. It seesawed precariously, threatening to topple him into permanent darkness.

"You’re gonna send him over the brink, Tad," a new voice warned. The tone was raw, rough-edged, but oddly cultured. The odd lilt settled into Richard’s subconscious. "You hit him too hard when you conked him cold."

Unable to see the speaker, Richard heard Tad grunt. His head rolled to the side as the wave of dizziness intensified. "Ye sure ye checked ‘im?" Tad’s voice floated disembodied from the cold air.

" ‘Unce ‘n agin," another man said. Judging from the sluggish grate of his words, Richard pegged him as the one with the scarred face. "The lass ‘ere dun pawed ‘im every place imaginable. " There followed a soft, lecherous chuckle from the woman, "If ‘e had it, we’d a found it. Could be, we do got the wrong boy."

"Check ‘im again," Tad instructed.

"Lemme," the feminine voice insisted. There followed a grunt of acknowledgement and a rustling of sound. Richard felt a presence by him; the lingering touch of hands on his body. He caught a scent of lye soap and sour wine; felt a heated ribbon of breath against his cheek. "There now," a throaty voice whispered in his ear, as the hands continued to paw him. He tried to move, but the darkness grew thicker, funneling the waking world into a dream-like state. Callused fingers scraped inside his tunic; skimmed over his arms and stomach. " ‘E ain’t got nuthin’, Tad," Richard heard the woman say. Her fingers lingered on his boots, and thighs; coiled with repulsive warmth between his legs. The scent of sour wine grew closer and he felt a brush of chapped lips against his mouth. Twisting his head aside, Richard fought the roiling resurgence of nausea.

There followed a bark of laughter. " ‘E’s too good for the likes a ye, Molly. Best be thankful Bort ain’t ‘ere t’ see ye do that."

The woman swore and drew away. "Arrogant knight. I seen ‘im ‘afore, up in that big castle at Covington Cross. ‘E’s un of Sir Thomas’s whelps."

"Sir Thomas Grey?" A clear lilt of worry invaded Tad’s voice. "Don’t be fools, lads. Leave ‘is sword ‘n coin. Can’t have nuthin’ tracin’ back to us. The Master. "

"The Master ‘ill ‘ave us flayed for flubbin’ the job," the scarred-faced man protested. "Turn ‘im loose, Tad. Sooner or later, ‘e’s gotta have contact wi’ the source. If we wait . . ."

But Richard never heard the rest. Unable to hold the darkness at bay any longer, his fragile hold on the world shattered. Senseless, he tumbled into the enveloping darkness.

**********

" . . . coming to." The voice inserted itself on the edge of Richard’s thoughts, drawing him back to consciousness. The world rematerialized in bleak ribbons of light¾ ebon fading to charcoal, fading to gray, fading to soiled white. With a groan that sent blood rushing to his head, Richard tried to sit forward.

"Stay there." A restricting hand pinned his shoulder in place. He blinked until the murkiness scurried from his vision, and his brother’s features sharpened with startling clarity.

Uncertain of his voice, Richard wet his lips. "Armus?"

The fair-haired giant grinned. "Well, little brother by the looks of it, I’d say you should be thankful for that thick head of yours. Lie still, until you get your bearings."

Richard struggled to focus. Something soft touched his temple and he became aware of Cedric’s presence as well. He was pillowed in his younger brother’s lap, while the other attempted to swab blood from his forehead. Raising his hand, Richard caught the soft cloth, and drew it from the tender spot on his brow. When he attempted to sit up, Cedric aided him.

"What happened?" his younger brother asked, keeping a bracing arm on his shoulders.

Distracted by the spike of pain in his head, Richard ground his teeth together. "Thieves," he muttered shortly.

"Thieves?" Armus’s voice rose in surprise. Spurred by the abruptness of it, Richard glanced up sharply.

"Yes, thieves. You know¾ cut-throats, riff-raff, persons of questionable character." The words tumbled rapid-fire from his lips. Pushing away from Cedric, he thumbed blood from his mouth. "Damn fools jumped me outside the tavern"

There was a moment’s silence as his two siblings exchanged a glance. Alerted by the disconcerting crease in Armus’s brow, Richard frowned. "What is it now?"

Working his shoulders into a shrug, Armus hefted a small bag of coin. "I believe this is yours. We pulled it off you, when we found you . . ." The small pouch dangled, sharp as bait, with Armus’s words. "Very odd -- thieves who don’t confiscate their prize."

Richard’s green eyes lingered on the swaying purse. His captors hadn’t wanted to get caught with the money, he realized, and inadvertently draw attention to their real quest. But why release him? A sliver of uncertainty crossed his face, parting his lips with momentary bewilderment.

"I . . ." As quickly as the confusion surfaced, it passed. Thinly veiled arrogance reclaimed the sculpted lines of his countenance. "I never said they were brilliant," he countered flatly.

"Richard...." Armus attempted.

Ignoring him, the younger man struggled to his feet. Though he experienced a frightening surge of disorientation, the lapse was brief. Beside him, Cedric gripped his elbow, holding him steady as the world settled into routine order. Wincing, Richard pressed three fingers against his temple. Despite the intervening leather of his glove, he could feel the jagged roughness of dried blood beneath his fingertips. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Not far from the tavern," Cedric responded quickly. Through the thickening layers of velvety twilight, Richard could see the anxious concern on his younger brother’s face. Surely when Armus and Cedric had agreed to meet him, after his routine visit to Tresmont, they hadn’t expected to stumble on a conspiracy in the process.

Recalling the vow of silence he’d given to the stranger in the woods, Richard forced a brittle smile. "If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to skip the tavern and head back to Covington Cross."

Armus looked doubtful. "That’s a pretty nasty gash on your head, Brother. Are you sure you can ride?"

"I’ll be fine." The last thing he wanted was to remain in the village, where the men who accosted him might still linger as well. It was imperative he return to Covington Cross with haste. Imperative he carry his burden given to him by the stranger in the woods to immediate safety. Flexing his hand, Richard assured himself the medallion was still tucked safely inside his glove.

"You must tell no one," the stranger had said. "Not father, not brother, not family or friends. For the King, you must keep your silence."

Richard scraped a hand through his long hair. "Can we leave?" he asked impatiently.

Armus pursed his lips. "What about the thieves?"

Seemingly unconcerned, Richard shrugged. "What about them? I doubt they’re waiting around, anxious for congratulatory praise."

"We should report it to the sheriff," Armus persisted. "At the very least, a crime has been committed."

"Attempted," Richard countered sharply. Though his face was haggard, his stare grew pointed. "I’m tired, Armus. Enough debating. If you want to waste time with the sheriff, that’s your prerogative, but the ‘victim’ is heading home. My purse, please."

Exhaling loudly, Armus nodded. He knew his brother had reached that "difficult" point....the moment when his volatile emotions would soon give way to sheer arrogance. Though he respected Richard’s inner confidence, there were times Armus wished it a bit more yielding. In all his years, he had never met anyone so self-assured as his headstrong younger brother. Sometimes that boldness and conviction was a bitter thorn to swallow. Though Armus knew Richard was lying about the attack, he couldn’t pinpoint why. Dropping the coin pouch into Richard’s outstretched palm, he nodded towards the center of the village.

"You’ll need your horse."

"That, at least we agree on," Richard muttered, turning away. Behind him, he knew Armus and Cedric exchanged a glance. It didn’t matter what either of them thought, so long as the medallion was safe. Flexing his hand, he felt the edges of the gilded metal crease his palm beneath the concealing leather of his glove. Anxious to put the village behind him, Richard secured his horse and rejoined his brothers for the ride back to Covington Cross.

Tight-lipped and silent, he maintained a swift, clipped pace through the trees as fast as the darkness would allow. At first, the jarring ride was merely a distraction, but it soon inflamed the ache in his skull, until he found himself choking down nausea. He could feel fresh blood trickling over his cheek, and was thankful for the concealing night. Dizziness threatened to send him tumbling from the saddle more than once, but he tightened his grip on the reins, clinging to coherency until the light-headedness passed. If Armus or Cedric noted his distress they made no comment. By the time they reached Covington Cross, Richard was visibly trembling.

Drawing abreast of the stables, Armus and Cedric dismounted. The courtyard was deserted, almost eerily so....a burning torch bracketed by the entry, the only illumination against an ebon-drenched night. "Here." Passing his younger brother the reins of his horse, Armus nodded towards the livery. "Take care of them, will you?"

Hesitating, Cedric glanced at Richard. His brother had yet to dismount. Hunched slightly forward in the saddle, he’d grown alarmingly quiet. His hands were knotted on the reins with white-knuckle force; pale green eyes pinched to pain-narrowed slits.

"Go on," Armus insisted. Though obviously still doubtful, Cedric complied. Left alone with his younger brother, Armus approached and laid a hand on Richard’s thigh. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the strained quiver of tightly bunched muscle. "Need help?"

Richard ground his teeth together. "I’m fine."

With a soft snort for the other’s innate stubbornness Armus offered his hand. "Sure you are. Now let me help you down."

Closing his eyes, Richard folded an arm across his middle. "G’way," he said thickly.

Alerted by the tone of his voice, Armus raised a hand and gripped his arm. Sensing the increasing tension between the two, Richard’s horse whickered softly and tried to sidestep clear.

"Armus? Richard?" A new voice shattered the stillness, making both men flinch. The abrupt crunch of boots against gravel announced the presence of another. "Cedric? Is that you?"

Richard groaned. "It’s Father. Keep him away!"

"Why?"

"Armus!" There was panic in Richard’s voice now. Tugging on the reins he tried to urge the horse forward, but Armus’s grip and the steed’s own nervousness unseated him. Fatigued, he half-fell from the saddle, snared by Armus’s strong arms when his knees would have buckled. Choking down a ragged gulp of air, Richard pushed free. "Damn it, Armus! Do something useful¾ keep Father away."

Bewildered, the other could only stare. "Why?"

But Richard ignored him, bending forward as a soft moan slipped from his lips. The abruptness of the action made Armus understand. Wrapping an arm around his brother’s trim waist, he struggled to hold the younger man upright. "Cedric!" he hissed. When the other materialized from the gloom, Armus jerked his head in the direction of their father.

"Cedric? Richard?" Even now Sir Thomas’s voice carried on the cool night air with a concerned note of inquiry. The crunch of boots grew closer still.

"Go head him off," Armus whispered harshly.

"But what about¾ ?" Cedric’s worried gaze shifted to Richard.

Clearly annoyed, Armus scowled. "The damn bloody fool’s going to be sick. Serves him right for riding like a demon. Don’t worry, Cedric¾ Richard’s just too proud to let Father see him like this." Swearing softly, Armus hauled his brother away from the stable, moving deeper into the clinging shadows.

Choking, Richard stumbled along in his grip. He’d taken only a few steps when he was unable to bear the acid turmoil in his stomach any longer. Wrenching free, he dropped abruptly to his knees. The tumbled waves of his hair fell forward against his face concealing his features as the first sweaty wave washed over him. Gloved fingers dug into the dirt as his stomach contorted. Richard vomited, forcing air and the remains of a late breakfast up through his throat.

The sound of sickness seemed overly loud in the stillness, and he feared the noise alerting his father. Vaguely aware of Armus’s presence behind him, he thought again of the medallion pressed to his palm. The last thing he needed was a solicitous Armus helping him to his bedchamber, wanting to free him of boots and gloves. Stomach empty, he sagged against the wall.

Crouching at his side, Armus frowned. Even in the darkness Richard could see the hooded anger in his brother’s gaze. Before he could utter a word, Richard cut him short. "I’m not a child, Armus. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a Knight of the King’s Realm, just like you. I don’t need you lurking about playing nursemaid. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Distractedly, he raised a hand and fingered the fresh blood on his temple.

Armus followed the movement with a marked scowl. "I can see that."

Anger taking hold, Richard struggled to rise. "You’ve made your point. Do us both a favor and examine it elsewhere." Clearly unsteady on his feet, Richard braced a hand against the wall. The edge of his arrogance was returning, defined in the tight white line of his mouth, the determined glint of his mint-colored eyes.

Always patient, Armus stood. "You’re being difficult," he attempted evenly.

Unaided, Richard stepped away from the wall. One perfectly shaped brow arched contemptuously into the tangled fringe of his hair. "Piss on you, Saint Armus. I don’t need your help."

As intended, it took only a moment for Armus’s anger to obliterate his patient concern. Pressing his lips together, he jabbed a thick finger beneath Richard’s nose. "Eight years hasn’t softened your demeanor, Brother. When I left for the crusades, you were an insolent brat. You’ve matured an arrogant fool."

"Better a fool who stands on his own, than a spineless dupe on the arm of another," Richard countered, voice cutting as steel. The pain was thrumming in his head again, reawakening sluggish brambles of acid in his stomach. He didn’t know how much longer he could maintain the charade of strength. If Armus would only lose his composure and retreat. Though it saddened him to provoke his brother, Richard saw no other way if he was to secure the secrecy of the medallion. Narrowing his eyes, he forced the last of the grievous words: "I’ve managed fine without you for eight years. I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now."

Inwardly cringing at the betrayal on his brother’s face, Richard remained outwardly belligerent. His expression never softened, despite the gut-wrenching agony his words inspired. Perhaps the eight year separation had scarred him deeper than he’d thought. For too long he’d been the one carrying the burden of Sir Thomas’s estates, shouldering the responsibility of an eldest son. But he wasn’t the eldest, at least not any longer. Armus’s return had demoted him to the position of second son. Though he still shouldered responsibility, it was now Armus his father relied most heavily on. Armus, who assumed on the role and mantle Richard had worn so well for eight years. Was it possible, he secretly resented his brother for that? Unwillingly to examine his feelings, Richard pressed his lips together and waited.

Armus nodded curtly. "Go to hell, little brother. The company will suit." Spinning on his heel, the normally congenial Armus, stalked briskly away.

Closing his eyes, Richard surrendered to fatigue. A sliver of cold autumn air coiled beneath his collar, stringing a ridge of goosebumps down his spine. Folding an arm across his stomach, he sagged against the wall. He could feel the scrape of jagged stone against his cheek; the wraith-like ripple of wind in his long hair. Despite the chill touch of the breeze, sweat dampened the back of his neck. Dragging a trembling hand across his mouth, he waited for his stomach to settle.

"Richard?" Cedric’s voice was low and hissed. Rounding the corner of the stable, the younger man came to an abrupt halt when he spied Richard slumped against the wall. Immediately, his face underwent transformation¾ shifting from startled curiosity to alarm. Boots crunching against the dry ground, he cautiously approached Richard's side. "Armus told Father you’d already retired to your chambers," he announced guardedly. Blue eyes danced over Richard’s ashen face, worriedly noting the waxy sheen of perspiration on his high cheekbones; the rings of shadows beneath his eyes. "He told me to see you get there."

Richard swore softly. "I don’t need help. I thought I made that clear to Armus."

Disturbed by his hostility, Cedric only stared. Sighing, Richard rubbed gloved fingers against his eyes. "All right. Just help me inside to the stairs. I’ll manage from there." Cedric, at least, would listen. Cedric -- just seventeen -- would be more concerned with slipping down the back hallway to entertain the kitchen maid, then worrying over what Richard had tucked inside his glove. Pushing away from the wall, Richard allowed his brother to catch him beneath the arm. Though slighter of stature and build, Cedric’s grip was surprisingly strong.

Later, when he was alone in his chambers, Richard folded wearily onto his bed. He lay for a moment, staring at the high ceiling, contemplating the murky webs of darkness spinning overhead. Finally, with a groan of effort, he forced himself from the welcoming mattress and stripped off his gloves. The medallion tumbled into his palm¾ burnished edges glinting dimly in the muted candlelight of the room.

It was the king’s crest¾ an insignia he’d seen enough times, to know by heart. In the eight years of Armus’s absence, his father had routinely taken him to court, whenever summoned there himself. Richard had grown accustomed to the ornate trappings and strict protocol of the Great Hall. He’d been in His Majesty’s presence more frequently then in the presence of some of his distant relatives. There was no questioning the medallion he held was authentic.

"Take it!" the stranger in the woods had hissed, eyes darting wildly between the trees. Brutal fingers had coiled about Richard’s wrist in a painful, crushing grip. "If you value the King’s life, you will guard it until summoned." The fingers had tightened, pressing bone, until Richard thought his wrist would snap. "You must tell no one. Not father, not brother, family or friends. For the King, you must keep your silence. There is no one else¾ no time. Do you understand?"

Richard had originally stopped to help the man, who was obviously fatigued, his horse crippled with exhaustion. Finding himself the recipient of the medallion had left him momentarily bewildered as he’d tried to sort through the puzzle. The other¾ an older man with graying hair and red-veined eyes¾ had pushed him back towards his horse. "Go now. Keep the medallion safe, and tell no one. I will contact you. "

"How do you know who I am?" Richard had tried to protest, but the older man was insistent and surprisingly strong for his exhausted state. In the end, Richard had succumbed to his wishes and departed with haste. He had no idea what the medallion signified, or its importance to the king. The attack in the village, however, indicated the lengths others would go to retrieve it.

Frowning, Richard rubbed his thumb over the shiny surface. Why had the men in the village let him go? Oval in shape, the medallion bore the raised relief of a lion and dragon, poised for combat. Both figures were offset with chips of emerald and ruby. Pacing, Richard made a slow circuit of his room. Was it possible the men who accosted him, intended to follow him here to Covington Cross? What’s more, if they knew he had the medallion, did it mean the stranger in the woods was now dead?

Wetting his lips, Richard glanced about for a place to conceal the trinket. Nothing seemed secure enough. He placed it in his desk; then his wardrobe; beneath his mattress; then back in his desk. The ache returned to his head, pounding behind his eyes, making it difficult to concentrate. At last, barely able to focus, he located a loose stone in the corner of the hearth. Edging it free, he slipped the medallion within the slender crevasse. Once the stone was back in place, he collapsed on his bed, not even bothering to remove his boots.

Filthy, tired and sore, he was asleep within mere moments.

**********

Geoffrey Whelan shook his head. "Roger lost the old man in the trees, but he saw the other one -- a son of Sir Thomas Grey, according to Molly -- riding away. He has to have the medallion."

"But it wasn’t on him?" The bristling tone exuded suppressed anger. Knowing he was on dangerous ground, Geoffrey shifted uneasily. Once in the past, he’d seen the Master overcome by blackest rage; it was not a situation he wanted to endure a second time. Even now he could recall the pressure of merciless fingers angrily throttling his neck, pinching short his precious air supply.

"No," Geoffrey admitted hesitantly. "Perhaps he stashed it somewhere, before we apprehended him." He waited, holding his breath, fearing the backlash to follow. The older man turned briefly away, his powerful frame silhouetted by the erratic dance of flames in the open hearth. Despite the fire, it was cold in the room, the drafty inn poorly attended. Geoffrey could feel the icy intrusion of damp night air, slithering beneath the door; whistling through cracks in the dusty windows. He understood the Master’s desire for secrecy of his group --, he was the only one who knew the man’s true identity -- but he fretted the inn was as highly visible as it was poorly tended. Though the hour was late, there’d been enough patrons in the main room to mark Geoffrey’s entrance.

"Which son?" The Master ventured at last. Though the edge lingered in his words, the stone hostility waned slightly in his face.

Sensing a reprieve, Geoffrey licked his lips. "Don’t know his name. He’s tall and thin, with brown hair and a distinct way of speaking. Tad called him pretty. And Molly . . . Molly wanted to...." Flushing, Geoffrey glanced away.

Disgusted, the other gave a short snort. "That would be Richard. Of all Sir Thomas’s brats, he’s the one I’d most like to take down a peg or two. He’s also the one most likely to be difficult. As much as I hate to admit it, Richard isn’t a fool. If the old man gave him the medallion, he’s still got it with him." Striding to the window, the Master stroked his short beard. Unlike his jet-colored hair, the beard had begun to show streaks of gray. The distinguishing marks only added to the sinister aura his presence inspired. "Did he see you?" he asked. "Could he mark you?"

Hesitating, Geoffrey considered. "I don’t believe so, My Lord. Tad hit him pretty hard, and he was only half-coherent. Though he could identify the others, I was hidden in the back."

"At least you managed something salvageable," the Master said tartly. Arriving at a decision, he strode purposefully forward. "Time to play on your Uncle’s good name, Geoffrey. Come morning, you’re going to Covington Cross."

**********

The morning was still gray and pallid when Sir Thomas glanced in his son’s chambers. Armus had told him only that Richard had retired the previous eve, feeling poorly. After a lengthy ride from Tresmont, the explanation was understandable. Though Thomas had allowed his second son to sleep undisturbed through the cold hours of the night, he couldn’t stop himself from checking on him now.

Quietly opening the door, Thomas stepped inside. The fire in the hearth had died to a few sputtering embers, hissing thin ribbons of black smoke up the chimney. Despite the waning flames, the morning’s chill had yet to invade the room. Gray light meshed with the guttering glow of fat candles, creating a pearlized haze, as gloomy as it was diaphanous. Stepping to the hearth, Thomas poked the fire to life, adding a small log to the rekindled blaze.

On the bed, Richard stirred briefly, tossing an arm above his head. Though he failed to awaken, a soft moan slipped from his lips. Concerned, Thomas approached. Immediately, his face contorted as he noticed his son’s disheveled state. Fully clothed, Richard lay on his back; clothing rumpled; face marred by telltale streaks of dirt and blood. The latter crusted the curling waves of his long hair, tingeing the light brown tresses an angry shade of crimson. Though he’d discarded his sword belt, he’d neglected to do the same with the wide leather securing his jerkin. Both the black outer garment and the white tunic beneath, hung open exposing the grime and dirt on his smooth chest. One booted leg dangled over the edge of the cot, the other bent on the mattress, right ankle tucked under left knee.

Concerned, Thomas stooped, extending a hand, then thought better of it. Whatever had occurred with the night, it was probably best to let Richard sleep. He could always inquire of Armus over breakfast. Thomas had a feeling Richard himself would be vague with his replies. Over the years, Thomas had come to recognize that quality in his headstrong second son. Sometimes he felt as though a barrier existed between them, a gulf resurrected between two men oddly alike.

There were times he wished Richard possessed more of Armus’s restraint; even Cedric’s cavalier lightness. Perhaps it had merely been the strain of shouldering the responsibility of eldest while Armus was away in the crusades, these last eight years. In retrospect, Thomas realized he’d placed an awful burden on Richard, when he was just thirteen. Mayhap it was that oppressive responsibility, inherited at such a youthful age, that had made this son damnably over-confident and aloof.

"What have you done now?" Thomas whispered softly. If there was trouble to be had, it was a given his willful heir would find it. Reaching for the sheet tangled at the foot of the bed, he drew it over Richard’s chest. Stirring, the younger man blinked groggily. Extending the touch he’d desired earlier, Thomas leaned forward. "Go back to sleep," he instructed softly, cupping his hand to Richard’s cheek. Lost in the haze of half-slumber, Richard grunted and closed his eyes. Shifting, he rolled onto his side, turning his back on his father.

With a satisfied half-grin, Thomas retreated from the room.

**********

"Thieves?" Thomas set his goblet on the table with a thunk. Incredulous, he glanced at his eldest son. "Richard would have had the money from the steward in Tresmont. Are you telling me he lost it?"

"That’s the odd part," Armus responded, spooning a hefty portion of mortrews into his trencher of day-old bread. Steam from the spiced egg dish rose to warm his face. "Richard had both his sword and his purse when we found him."

Perplexed, Thomas drummed his fingers against the wide base of his goblet. "Don’t you find that odd?"

Still quietly seething over last night’s altercation with his obstinate younger brother, Armus offered an indifferent shrug. "You know how Richard is; he wouldn’t address it, just insisted on coming home."

"Riding like a demon, no less," Cedric inserted from his corner of the table. "You’d think with that gash on his head..."

"Cedric! " Armus warned tightly, cutting the other short.

Sensing what he was about, Thomas waved the interruption aside. "You can abandon the subterfuge, Armus. I’ve already looked in on Richard this morning. I know he was injured."

Sopping up broth with a chunk of black bread, Armus scowled. "He’s as thick-headed as they come," he remarked, not at all kindly. "He’ll be fine."

Noting the marked hostility in the words, Thomas canted his head. "Armus? Is there a problem between you and Richard?"

Armus pressed his lips together, debating the wisdom of a reply. He was spared the decision, by Eleanor’s sudden arrival in the room. Comely features flushed with excitement, his sister approached the table almost breathlessly. "Father, you must come quickly. We’ve a visitor in the main donjon -- Lord Whelan’s nephew."

"Whelan?" Surprised, Thomas’s attention was diverted from Armus. Blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his face broke into a wide grin. "I haven’t heard from that vagrant since he left for France. Don’t tell me his kin’s back in the country?"

"Geoffrey," Eleanor confirmed, and Thomas chuckled warmly. Rising from his chair, he beckoned his daughter next to him and slipped an arm around her slender shoulders. The shimmery fall of her long red hair was loose today, softly brushing his sleeve. "He’d be not much older than you, I’d wager¾ probably William’s age. I’ve not seen the boy in a decade at least. Are you certain it’s Geoffrey?"

"He bears a letter from his Uncle," Eleanor confirmed with her own bright smile. "I believe he wishes to spend some time at Covington Cross before journeying back to France."

"Well by all means have him come here," Thomas said. "He could probably stand with a meal. As early as it is, I doubt the boy’s eaten."

"Yes, Father." Eleanor bobbed her head and retreated from the room. Still grinning, Thomas turned back to the table, conveniently forgetting the conversation, which had proceeded his daughter’s announcement.

**********

The sun had almost reached its zenith when Richard awakened. Glittering ribbons of marigold light poured through the windows, forcing him to squint against the brightness. Moving gingerly, he braced a hand on the back of his cot and pulled himself to a sitting position. A prickly spike of pain knifed through his head, lodging in his stomach. He could smell the sour odor of blood and vomit on him, mingled with the thin reek of sweat. The bitter aftertaste of sickness lingered in his mouth, making him wish for a cooling drink of water. Swinging both legs over the side of the cot, he braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

It was in that position that Cedric found him. Silently slipping into the room, he closed the door behind him. Alerted by the soft click as it fell in place, Richard glanced up.

Taking in his brother’s unkempt appearance, Cedric exhaled sharply. "God, Richard you look like hell."

"What time is it?" the other asked hoarsely, raking a hand through his tangled hair. Dried blood flecked off beneath his fingertips, scattering rust-colored dust on the ivory sheets.

"Almost noon."

Appalled, Richard shoved the blanket aside. "Isn’t Father wondering where I am?"

Cedric rolled his thin shoulders into a shrug. "Actually it was his idea to let you sleep. He asked me to check on you."

Angered without understanding why, Richard pressed his lips together. "Couldn’t do it himself, could he?" Pushing from the bed, he loosened his belt, letting the wide studded band fall to the floor. Shrugging from his jerkin he walked briskly to the washbowl, wincing at the sliver of pain the movement induced behind his eyes.

Propping a shoulder against the wall, Cedric folded his arms over his chest. "Don’t be a sniveler, Richard. Father is with Armus and Eleanor, entertaining our guest."

"Guest?" Richard dumped water into the bowl, sloshing most over the edge. Setting the pitcher down, he struggled to unlace his wrist guards. The first came free without difficulty, but he stumbled over the laces of the second. Wordlessly, Cedric approached and brushed his clumsy fingers aside. Blue eyes lifted speculatively to green. Chagrined by his ineptitude, Richard looked away, passively mute, while his younger brother undid the cuff.

"Lord Whelan’s nephew’s arrived for a visit," Cedric explained when he was through. Turning away, Richard stripped off his tunic. In the bright haze of the room, time-faded scars stood in stark relief against his bare skin. Even routine sword practice bore consequences for the careless, Cedric thought distractedly. And though Richard’s skill with a blade was practically peerless, even he’d experienced the occasional lapse. "You might remember him¾ Geoffrey."

"I barely remember Whelan." Bending over the washbowl, Richard located a block of milled soap, and began vigorously rotating the coarse square between his palms. Beneath his fingers, the water turned dingy and gray. Heedless of the tint, he sluiced water over his face and neck, until his long bangs and the edges of his hair dripped with the excess. "He went to France, didn’t he?" Still scrubbing at the dried blood on his skin, Richard winced slightly as his fingers encountered the tender gash on his temple.

"About five years ago," Cedric supplied, "But Father hasn’t seen Geoffrey in much longer. A pleasant enough sort, I suppose¾ about your age. If I were you...." But he didn’t finish the thought and let the words trail away.

"What?" Richard half-turned, water dripping from his long hair; green eyes fired with muted pain and growing irritation. "If you were me, you’d what?"

Cedric gave a snort of laughter. "No offense, Brother, but you stink. You’d better have the servants draw a bath, because it’s going to take a lot more than a washbasin and a single cake of soap to make you pretty again."

Richard swore softly, and reached for the nearest projectile. Still chuckling, Cedric ducked into the hall.

**********

Thomas glanced up as Richard walked into the room. A crease of concern pinched his face, until he realized the disheveled wraith of early morning, had been replaced by the autocratic young noble he knew so well. Richard didn’t stride so much as saunter, his gait nearly cat-like for its fluid agility. Gone was the bedraggled blood-coated hair, replaced by tumbled waves of brown, the edges still damp from his recent bath. His clothing had undergone a transformation as well. Attired in snug-fitting brown breeches and navy tunic, he’d belted a dark brown jerkin over the latter. Trimmed with layered sleeves and embedded silver studs, the outer garment was cinched by a wide band of tooled leather. The excess length on this dangled free to drape against his thigh.

Rising, Thomas frowned. Unlike Armus and Cedric, who routinely dressed in loose-fitting tunics and soft outer vests, Richard’s clothing usually made him seem imperious. He knew his son didn’t intentionally strive for an outwardly haughty demeanor, but given his marked penchant for inflated self-confidence, Richard often came across as arrogant. It was an impression Thomas had hoped he’d abandon this morning.

"Father." Richard’s eyes shifted from the regal gray-haired man to the youth who sat by the hearth. Cedric was right in judging Geoffrey Whelan near his own age. Thin featured with deep brown eyes and copper-colored hair, he seemed oddly familiar. Dressed remarkably understated for a man of his station, he appeared almost uncomfortable as Richard’s eyes touched his. "Cedric said we had a guest."

"Lord Whelan’s son, Geoffrey," Thomas supplied pleasantly. Moving aside, he allowed Richard a clearer glance of the young man, who rose and extended his hand. Eleanor, who’d been seated beside him, rose also, her face brightened by an enraptured smile. Disturbed by his sister’s uncharacteristic distraction, Richard frowned.

"You seem familiar," he commented as his fingers closed on the other’s.

Geoffrey’s grin was skittish. "I’ve been out of the country a good many years, Richard. It’s unlikely we’ve met."

"Be thankful for that," Armus muttered from his chair opposite the fire, and Richard’s attention was suddenly diverted. He had a fleeting glimpse of his brother supporting him last night when his knees would have buckled; a revolting memory of his own vile words . . . I’ve managed fine without you for eight years. I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now.

Richard swallowed. "Good morning, Armus."

"It’s almost noon," the fair-haired man said flatly. If there’d been any doubt of his disposition, it was clarified with those words. Though his face remained oddly impassive, his blue eyes glittered with clear contempt.

Uncertain if he could ever heal the intentional rift he’d created, Richard offered a half-smile. "So it is."

Unwilling to soften, Armus looked away, mouth drawn in a tight line. Sensing the hostility between his two oldest children, Sir Thomas intervened. "I’ve extended Geoffrey the courtesy of remaining with us, until he’s ready to continue his journey to France."

 "To see my uncle," Geoffrey supplied hurriedly.

Richard’s gaze narrowed shrewdly. Something about their visitor’s voice had struck a cord. "Are you certain we haven’t met?"

Laughing to offset his son’s accusatory tone, Thomas clapped a hand on Richard’s back. "Give it a rest, boy. Geoffrey’s been out of the country for nigh on five years." Lifting a finger he motioned to the scrape on Richard’s forehead. "I think that cut has fogged your brains. Did you leave your manners in Tresmont?"

Properly chastised, Richard flushed. Tight-lipped, he inclined his head to Geoffrey. "Pardon my rudeness. I’m not myself today."

The other nodded graciously. "It’s already forgotten."

"Father," Eleanor spoke suddenly from her position next to Geoffrey. "Now that Geoffrey has met the whole family, perhaps he’d like to see the grounds."

"An excellent idea. I have matters to discuss with Richard, but you and your brothers may act as escort."

Prompted by the directive, it took only a moment for the others to file from the room. Left alone with Sir Thomas, Richard grew uncomfortable once again. Though the ache in his head had receded, it was enough to make him irritable without reason. The marked displeasure in his father’s gaze inflamed that irrationality. Inwardly bristling, he paced to the hearth.

"I imagine Armus told you about last evening." Though Richard always spoke distinctly, enunciating each consonant and vowel with precise measure, his words now carried added crispness.

Thomas overlooked the emphasis. "He told me you were set upon by thieves."

"I have the money from the steward, Father. Not a farthing’s been lost."

Striving for patience, Thomas sighed. "I wasn’t concerned for the coin, Richard. My worry is for you. Armus said you were quite out of sorts last night, and when I looked in on you this morning."

"You checked?" Surprised, Richard turned. He didn’t know why the revelation startled him so; couldn’t comprehend why it left a snarled knot in the pit of his stomach. "I...." Biting his lip, he dropped his gaze to the floor.

Moved by the rare display of uncertainty from his overly proud son, Thomas approached and slid a hand onto his shoulder. Richard’s damp hair scraped against his knuckles as he raised his head. Though his son’s expression didn’t change, his eyes were oddly guarded. "I want you to take it easy for the next couple days," Thomas instructed quietly. His fingers tightened on Richard’s shoulder, the possessive grip felt through the heavy suede jerkin. "Summon the healer and have him tend that gash on your head."

"Father, it’s..... "

"Today, Richard." Though the authority in his voice left no room for debate, Thomas’s eyes were deceptively warm. "We’ll talk about the thieves later."

"There’s nothing to discuss," Richard said quickly.

Alerted by the agitated swiftness of his son’s reply, Thomas dropped his arm. His eyes narrowed in marked appraisal. "You didn’t file a report with the Reeve."

Richard shrugged. "It wouldn’t have been much of a report. I didn’t see anyone . . . couldn’t identify anyone. Given the fact I still had the money, the whole thing seemed a waste of time."

"Hmm . . . yes, the money." Unconvinced, Thomas pursed his lips. "Rather odd your attackers didn’t confiscate it."

Maintaining his composure, Richard adopted an air of indifference. "Someone probably scared them away."

"Probably," Thomas agreed, clearly unconvinced. He was silent a moment, weighing whether or not to pursue the matter. Richard had obviously recovered his composure, and was now at his polished best. The hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth relaying breezy confidence. Realizing he would get no further, Thomas strode to the window and stood gazing out on the courtyard. Though he admired his son’s innate self-esteem, he wasn’t above shattering it now and again. "We received word from Lord Brandleford while you were in Tresmont." Though the words were said with conversational nonchalance, he knew their effect was anything but casual. "He should be arriving in a few days for a short visit, on his way to Candlemyre."

As expected, Richard groaned. "He’s not bringing her, is he?"

His back turned, Thomas indulged in a broad smile at his son’s expense. He was thankful the bright wash of outdoor sunlight relegated his reflection in the windowpane to an insubstantial phantom. Biting away the grin, he squared his shoulders and turned. "I can only assume you’re referring to his daughter, Lady Penelope."

Richard rolled his eyes. "God, who else?"

This time, Thomas couldn’t stop the smile. "It’s only a few days, Richard. The girl is enamored of you; do try to be pleasant."

"She’s all of fifteen," Richard said miserably. The precise, cultured edge of his voice slipped into near whine. "And she’s....." Uncomfortable, he glanced away.

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Forward," the younger man spat, thoroughly embarrassed by the admission.

Thomas chuckled. "Well then, it should afford you an opportunity to exercise restraint¾ something, I fear you rarely employ." He paused, his gaze growing pointed. "You will be available to escort Lady Penelope through our holdings. Do I make myself clear?"

Morose, Richard sighed. "Yes, Sir. But I still don’t see why Armus or Cedric can’t! "

"For some incomprehensible reason, Lady Penelope’s flattery extends only to you. Charm is your bane to bear, Richard¾ though if you ask me, it’s often in short supply." A slight smile flitted over Thomas’s lips, easing the sting of the words. "In the meantime, do see if you can unearth some courtesy for Geoffrey. It wouldn’t hurt you to embrace the positive now and again."

Wisely opting for silence, Richard gave a short nod. Though his father’s voice held an undeniably light edge, reprimand lingered in the words. He was thankful when he could escape the confining room and search out the healer.

An appallingly thin man with milky white hair and watery eyes, the healer subjected Richard to a thorough prodding, then dressed the wound with soothing ointment. "The cut’s deep," he announced when through, "But there’s no infection." Pressing a small vial into Richard’s hand, he waved the younger man from the room. "Apply this ointment before you retire each night to ward against abscess. I’ll tell your father how you fared."

For what the visit was worth, it allowed Richard an opportunity to re-examine the events of the previous evening. Though he still had no idea what the medallion signified or what he was to do with it, he felt fairly certain he hadn’t seen the last of the thieves.

That thought resurfaced when he approached the stable to check on his horse and found Geoffrey and Eleanor quietly conversing by the hitching rail. Troubled, his sense of familiarity grew stronger, and for a fleeting moment he had a brief image of Geoffrey standing behind Tad in the ramshackle hut. Unprepared for the abrupt revelation, Richard blanched. Eleanor, doting on their guest, failed to note his sudden distress.

"Geoffrey and I are going for a ride," she announced as he drew abreast.

Recovering quickly, Richard glanced at his sister. Eleanor had the same green eyes as he, though dramatically darker, like their mother. Her gaze while usually candid, was now animated by a fire Richard rarely saw in his sensible sibling. Turning to their guest, he raised a reproachful brow. "I’d avoid the forest. One never knows where they’ll encounter thieves."

Geoffrey stiffened. To his credit, he did not lose poise. "Or boastful fools."

Unflustered by the interplay between her brother and their guest, Eleanor tugged on Geoffrey’s arm. "Come on¾ Richard always has something negative to say. After awhile, you learn to ignore him."

As his sister and her all-too-apparent suitor vanished into the stable, Richard leaned against the hitching post. Bracing his arms on the gnarled wood, he stared vacantly at his surroundings. It was warmer today, the autumn breeze relegated to mere distraction. Dry leaves tumbled over the scaly ground, whispering in brittle voices, where countless hooves had trampled the earth into crumbled dirt. The Avener appeared briefly, rounding the corner with two of his grooms. He acknowledged Richard with a wave, then disappeared into the yawning door of the barn, attentive lackeys trailing behind.

Distracted by his suspicions of Geoffrey, Richard’s answering nod was slight. Irritated at his failure to remember the previous night clearly, he swore softly. There was a crunch of gravel behind him.

"And what unfortunate soul has displeased you now?"

Startled, Richard turned. "Armus! " He practically sputtered the name. There were times when the sheer magnitude of his brother’s size took him by surprise, times when he felt almost inferior by comparison. Straightening to his full height -- still painfully shy of Armus -- Richard offered a hesitant smile. "I thought you’d gone with Geoffrey and Eleanor."

"Cedric and I are going hunting," Armus returned crisply. Though his stance positively bristled, his eyes darted in a worried glance to the gash on Richard’s temple. As fleeting as the moment was, Richard sensed buried concern. Tentatively, he brushed his fingers against the wound.

"The healer says I’ll live."

"Pity."

It was so unlike Armus to be spiteful, Richard could only stare in bewildered shock. A knot contorted his stomach, turning his insides to cold stone. "I know it doesn’t seem it now," he ventured quietly, "But I had my reasons for behaving as I did last night."

The words had little effect. Armus’s features remained set in a callous mask, rigid lines gouging the smooth skin about his mouth. A fawning splinter of breeze rippled his straight hair, lifting the wheat-colored strands from his collar. His gaze never flinched from Richard’s face. "I’ve lost faith in your reasons, Brother, as easily as your character."

Hurt, Richard looked away. "I understand."

There was more to be said, but it fell into thick silence between them. Unwilling to remain, Armus stalked around the corner of the stable, and began trudging up the steep path to the castle.

Disgusted, Richard followed¾ careful to maintain a discreet distance.

**********

In the days that followed, Richard found himself growing more certain that Geoffrey had indeed been among the men who’d attacked him in the village. Though he had no proof, he felt his suspicions were confirmed by the other’s restless anxiety whenever he was near. Fearing his chambers would be searched, Richard moved the medallion yet again, secreting it on the castle grounds. Irritatingly enough, the remainder of his family seemed content to take their guest at face value. Geoffrey inundated himself among the Greys, joining Cedric and Armus for hunting forays; Sir Thomas for tours of his estates; and Eleanor for jaunts in the forest and leisurely hours in the gardens. It was there that Richard found the two as dusk settled, their heads nestled close together, arms intertwined. Standing beneath an arbor of autumn-browned vines, lips lightly touching, it was apparent they were oblivious to their surroundings.

His temper snapping, Richard strode angrily forward and wrenched them apart. "Get your damn hands off her!"

Too stunned to react, Eleanor’s confusion was appallingly brief. "Richard! How dare you!" Green eyes alight with dragon-fire, her features twisted beneath a spreading purple stain. "Of all the . . ." But the words wouldn’t come as she choked short on anger "....you insufferable....audacious....loathsome....contemptible.... worm-ridden toad!

Richard cocked a brow. "Really, Eleanor, toad is beneath me."

"Oooh!" Seething, she struck him. Richard’s head snapped to the side as her long fingers lashed across his face. Shoving past him, she strode angrily from the garden. With a tired exhalation of breath, Richard raised a hand and examined the tender spot on his cheek.

Behind him, Geoffrey bristled with agitation. "You had no right."

Richard tossed him a hostile glance. "I have every right to protect my sister from thieves and undesirables."

Anger pinching his face, Geoffrey rolled his hands into fists. "That is an insult."

"Unlikely your first? "

Injured pride pushing him past the breaking point, Geoffrey released a furious bellow. Heedless of the consequences, he plowed forward, driving his shoulder into Richard’s ribs. The momentum lifted both men off their feet, tumbling them backward onto the dry grass. For a moment they grappled with one another, each trying to gain the upper hand. Richard felt a fist plunder his stomach, and reacted by driving his knee into Geoffrey’s solar plexus. Before he could react further, strong fingers curled about his collar and wrenched him roughly to his feet.

"That’s enough!" Armus snarled.

Chest heaving, Richard looked from his brother to Geoffrey. The latter stood just a hands-span away¾ hair disheveled, eyes blazing hatred. "This doesn’t concern you," Richard snapped at his older sibling.

Moving in front of his brother, Armus plunked a finger against his chest. "I’m warning you, Richard¾ this ends now! Rein in your temper, before I do something I’ll likely regret."

Stepping closer, Richard shoved his arm aside. "The cur was kissing Eleanor!"

Armus felt his patience slipping. Perhaps it was his own anger at Richard -- brewing for days -- that took hold now. "Eleanor’s of age and astute enough to make her own decisions. You’ve insulted a guest in our home! "

"Stick around and I’ll do it again."

"Damn you, Richard!"

"You haven’t the talent, big brother. " The words no sooner left his mouth then Armus’s fist drove into his jaw. Unprepared for the staggering force behind the savage blow, Richard reeled backwards, stumbling to the ground. For a moment he sat stunned, legs before him, bent at the knees; arms locked with hands planted on the ground, bracing his back. Dazed, he shook his head trying to clear the ringing from his ears.

Standing over him, Armus folded his arms across his chest. With a baleful glower for Richard, the fair-haired man addressed Geoffrey. "I think you’d better leave now, Geoffrey. My brother and I need to come to an understanding."

There was a moment’s hesitation, followed by the soft crunch of dry grass as other moved away.

Still not moving, Richard glared at his brother. "You’re as blind as Eleanor is. The man’s a.... "

"A what?" Armus prompted when Richard stopped suddenly.

"Nothing." How could he accuse Geoffrey of being a thief without revealing his own involvement? Dusting clinging bits of grass from his breeches, Richard stood. His anger drained in the face of his brother’s hostility. Had he really provoked even-tempered Armus to reckless abandon? "I’m going inside," he muttered.

As he started past, Armus caught his arm, yanking him to a halt. "I don’t think so, Richard. You’ve been spoiling for a fight since that night in the village. If you think I’m going to let this blow under the rug, like before, you’re sadly mistaken. You’ve not only offended our family, but a guest as well."

Annoyed by his brother’s defense of Geoffrey, Richard felt his anger return. "What are you saying?"

"That you need a lesson in respect and manners."

The tenuous hold Richard kept on his temper slipped from his grasp. "When you find someone capable, I’ll be waiting."

"You complacent little fool." The conflagration of rage in Armus’s eyes told Richard he’d just made a dreadful mistake.

**********

Tipping an open bottle over the washbasin, Armus infused the cold water with a dram of sour wine. Wrapping a soft cloth around his bruised knuckles, he dipped the rag into the ruby-tinged liquid. Even that slight movement inflamed the numerous aches in his body. He sometimes forgot that his trim younger brother was also deceptively muscular. He’d felt the scrape of Richard’s fists more times than he cared to recall tonight.

Sinking into a chair, Armus held the cloth to his cut cheek, wincing slightly at the sting of the astringent. Beyond the windows of the keep, the sky darkened with heavy night, the touch of frosted ebon, conjuring warmth from the dance of firelight within. Regretting his actions in the garden -- he easily made two of Richard -- Armus had somehow managed to circumvent his brother’s wounded pride and drag him to his chambers. Now, wearied by the continual friction between them, he pressed his mouth in a tight, white line. "I’m not going to nursemaid you, Richard. As I recall, you detest that."

Laying face down on his cot, Richard grunted something unintelligible. One arm dangled over the side, blood-spattered knuckles brushing the floor. His face was turned to the lattice-framed back, concealing his features. Only the tangled snarl of his long hair was visible.

For a moment, Armus experienced a twinge of regret. Though he and Richard had experienced their share of altercations growing up, there’d been but few. Richard warred more frequently with his younger brothers who were closer to him in size and age. Though he’d been considerably smaller before leaving for the crusades, the four-year age difference between he and Richard, had always given Armus an unfair advantage. Now, with his brother grown to adulthood, it was Armus’s size that lent him the upper hand. "Do get up and tend to yourself," he urged tiredly.

Stirring, Richard turned around. Moving to the corner of the cot, he pulled his legs up on the mattress. Somehow, despite the wild mop of his hair, he appeared little worse for wear. There was a fresh bruise on his cheek, a second on his chin. A thin cut above his eye left a slender ribbon of blood trickling down his jaw. As though sensing the sticky warmth for the first time, Richard raised a hand and distractedly wiped it away. "After you leave," he said tonelessly.

Having dispensed his anger in the garden, Armus felt only resignation¾ and regret. Was he truly responsible for the ugly blotches shadowing his brother’s elegant features? How could a man so angelic in appearance, behave so hideously? "Richard¾ " he attempted patiently. "You must understand¾ even for you, your behavior’s been erratic of late."

With a short snort of disbelief, Richard glanced aside, his expression brazen. "And yours hasn’t?"

Fearing they tread the same path that had already led to fisticuffs, Armus stood. "I’m going to retire. In the morning perhaps we can think more clearly¾ "

"In the morning I’ll be lucky to get out of bed, thanks to you."

The meaning clear, Armus winced. Though he was sore, he knew Richard had to be hurting considerably worse. Rarely a man to lose his temper, Armus found it inconceivable that his headstrong younger brother had successfully provoked him to physical violence. Though they’d tussled in the past, tonight’s altercation had been unmistakably ugly.

Hating himself for succumbing to impulse, Armus strode briskly from the room.

***********

Immune to the weak puddle of waxy light streaming through the high windows, Richard walked stiffly into the Great Hall. Despite the early hour, his family had already gathered for the morning meal, joined at the long table by Geoffrey Whelan. Conversation ceased at his entrance, then resumed in halting, lowered tones. With a sour glance for Armus, who was hunched over a bowl of spiced porridge, Richard took a seat at the table.

Amused by his awkward gait, Sir Thomas dispensed an ingenuous grin. Like everyone else, he’d learned of his sons’ brawl last evening. From all accounts, the garden was still being restored to order. "If I didn’t know better I’d think I was in the infirmary. I’m not certain who’s moving more slowly this morning, Richard -- you or Armus."

Scowling, Richard buttered a thick slice of bread. If there was any justice at all, his brother would be experiencing at least half the aches and pains currently plaguing his body. He could feel Eleanor’s hostile gaze on him; Cedric’s wide-eyed stare. Only Geoffrey remained disinterested, refusing to so much as glance in his direction.

Thomas, however, was not above minor mischief. "Did we suffer an invasion?" he queried with dramatic innocence.

Richard and Armus exchanged a dark look.

"I fell from my horse," the younger man said at last.

Thomas chuckled. "Yes¾ apparently the same steed Armus plummeted from. We seem to have a rash of careless riders."

Ducking his head, Richard trained his attention on his breakfast. In short order his father abandoned the topic and normal conversation resumed around the table. Cedric bemoaned his clerical studies with the usual frustration; Eleanor chatted brightly about the ride she and Geoffrey planned through Tiner Forest.

"Be sure you’re back by early afternoon," Thomas admonished. "Lord Brandleford and his daughter are scheduled to arrive, and I want to be certain the entire family is here to greet them." Blue eyes narrowing, Thomas pinioned his second son with a direct stare. "Especially you, Richard. Baron Stafford has invited Lord Brandleford to a gala tomorrow night, and you are to act as escort for Lady Penelope. I’m certain she’ll want to finalize the arrangements this evening."

Unable to stop himself, Richard groaned. "Father, surely I wouldn’t make a suitable escort in my present condition."

Thomas smiled benignly. "As I recall, you clean up rather well." Canting his head to the side, he pressed the point. "Don’t be late, Richard. This evening’s important."

With marked resignation, Richard exhaled. At least it was Stafford. For sometime, he’d had a passing relationship with the Baron’s daughter, Corinne. "Yes, Father."

Beside him, Cedric chuckled. At least someone was happy, Richard thought miserably.

**********

"I just don’t understand how you can be so . . . believing," Richard said skeptically. When his father had returned to his chambers to muddle through the stack of parchments on his desk, Richard had followed on his heels. With breakfast over, Eleanor and Geoffrey had departed for their ride, while Cedric studied under the Friar, and Armus vanished on the grounds.

Seeing an opportunity to stir suspicion in his father, Richard had pursued Thomas through the corridors, all the while raising questions about Geoffrey’s past. Now, pacing before his father’s massive desk, Richard persisted with the same track. "You haven’t seen him in nearly a decade. All I’m saying is . . . this man could be somebody claiming false identity."

Thomas sighed. Already it was looking to be a trying day. Folding his arms over the various letters and reports strewn across his desk, he calmly regarded his son. "Richard, Geoffrey bore a letter from Lord Whelan! "

"Letters can be forged. "

"What is wrong with you?" Thomas demanded, his patience finally snapping. "Are you so determined to alienate yourself from every person you come in contact with? First you upset your sister, then fight with your brother. Now you’re attempting to discredit a guest whose uncle is a personal family friend." Lurching to his feet, the older man leaned forward, hands splayed flat on the surface of the desk. "I’ve had enough, Richard, do you hear me? I won’t stand for this. If you intend to behave irresponsibly...."

"Irresponsibly?" Richard’s scathing query cut short anything else Thomas may have said. "Are you forgetting I spent eight years at your side, shouldering the duties of an eldest son, while Armus was courting glory in the crusades?" Before he could leash the buried emotion, the crux of his differences with both father and brother came tumbling to the fore. Striding around the desk, Richard confronted his father face-to-face. "I never once asked to leave¾ not even after I was knighted. Not even when William departed. Didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe¾ just bloody maybe¾ I desired that role too. That maybe I stayed because you needed someone to be your right hand, and I didn’t wish to desert you? Damn it, Father! I’ve sacrificed any title I’ll ever have as a knight and you call that irresponsible?"

Richard’s voice shuddered to sudden silence. Stunned, his ears thundering with the echo, Thomas could only stare. He’d never realized the tangled web of resentment buried within Richard. Feeling as though the floor had fallen out from under him, he groped for something to say. "Richard, I never knew! "

"Of course you didn’t! You were too busy letting me run things. Then when Armus returned you were too busy telling him how proud he’d made you." Pained to the core, Richard closed his eyes. "But what about me, Father? Was there nothing I did for the last bloody eight years, that made you proud too?"

A strangled grunt slipped from Thomas’s throat. Raising a hand, he stretched trembling fingers towards his son. Refusing the contact, Richard turned his face away, his jaw tightening in angry rebuttal.

Unable to meet his father’s eyes, Richard shoved past him and fled the room.

**********

Richard took the scrap of paper the groom gave him. The wax seal was unbroken, attesting that no other eyes had beheld the missive before his. Mouth compressing in a tight line, he slipped his finger beneath the edge, folding back the crinkled vellum. Bold lines scrawled across the paper, distinct but unfamiliar: Bring the medallion to Tiner . . . split tree . . . sunset.

Slipping the note inside his tunic, Richard gave the groom two shillings. "The man who delivered it -- what did he look like?"

"I didn’t see ‘im, MiLord. ‘E came up behind me. Told me t’ keep m’ back turned, ‘e did. All I saw t’were his gauntlet when ‘e ‘anded me the parchment¾ t’were black wi’ silver webwork. Mighty fine it was."

Richard nodded. "Thank you." Striding for the stable, he called the attendant to saddle his horse. Heading back to his chambers, he retrieved his broadsword and slipped a dagger into his belt sheath. The room itself seemed different, small items out of place¾ a candlestick edged closer to the lip of his desk; the book he’d been reading turned face down rather than up; the sheets on his mattress tucked loosely at the corner. Someone had obviously searched the chamber while he’d been out. Geoffrey would have had sufficient time after breakfast, before departing with Eleanor.

Thankful he’d moved the medallion when he’d had the chance, Richard grabbed his cloak and headed for the stable. He encountered Armus just outside the livery.

"You aren’t leaving now?" Armus appeared incredulous, noting his brother’s cloak and sword. "Brandleford will be here in a few hours. Father expects you to¾ "

"Father expects a lot of things," Richard snapped. "I don’t have time for this, Armus. Unless you’re planning to physically stop me, I suggest you get out of the way."

The curt reminder of their previous altercation had the desired effect. Believing himself a brute, Armus felt his face crumble. Not only had he acted reprehensibly, he’d taken unfair advantage of Richard who’d been wounded to begin with. Only a monster could behave so hideously¾ a monster who outweighed his slender brother by a good eighty pounds.

Properly chastised, Armus stepped out of the way.

**********

Though Richard rode aimlessly at first, he soon realized wandering about the countryside wasn’t the wisest choice, given his recent penchant for trouble. With hours still remaining till sunset, he headed for the only other place he could conceivably pass the time¾ Lady Elizabeth’s castle.

Leaving his horse with a groom, Richard strode inside, anxious to escape the brisk autumn air. The wind had scattered his long hair across his brow, and teased riotous curls from beneath the collar of his burgundy cloak. Tugging off his gloves, Richard finger-combed his hair, attempting to restore a semblance of order to the snarled mane. Distracted, he spared a brief nod for the Gentleman Usher. "Don’t bother; I’ll announce myself."

"Very good, My Lord." Long familiar with Sir Thomas’s children, the crisply attired man waited while Richard unclasped his cloak, then surrendered the garment. "Her Ladyship is in the solar."

"Thank you." Tucking his gloves inside his belt, Richard strode for the mistress of the castle’s private chambers. Rapping two knuckles against the door he waited until he was bid access.

There followed the briefest delay, then Lady Elizabeth’s muffled voice granted entry. Pushing the door open, Richard stepped into the welcoming room. Draped with colorful tapestries, thick rugs, and decorative paintings, the chamber exuded an aura of warmth. That sheltering comfort was further expounded by the coin-bright glow of rippling firelight in an oversized hearth.

"Richard!" Surprised by his presence in her solar, Lady Elizabeth rose and extended her hands. The embroidery ring she’d been tending, fell forgotten to the floor.

"I hope you don’t mind." Striding forward, Richard clasped her welcoming grip in his wind-chilled fingers. "I told the servants not to bother announcing me. I.... "

"Something’s wrong." Ever astute, she sensed his discomfort immediately.

Stooping to retrieve the hoop, Richard evaded the question. "My sister could use some lessons in this," he said evenly, lashes lowered as he studied the intricate threadwork.

Reclaiming the ring, Lady Elizabeth set it aside. "Should I call for wine?"

Richard shook his head. The crisp autumn air had left the color high on his cheeks, conjuring a bewitching glow in his seawater eyes. He waited until she’d seated herself, then took the chair beside her. Chafing with nervous energy, he sat forward on the edge, the tip of his sheathed broadsword scraping against the floor.

"I understand your father is expecting Lord Brandleford and his daughter this evening," Elizabeth said conversationally. Uncertain what his presence implied, she deemed it best he reveal the reason for his visit, in his own time. Though she was closest to Cedric of all Sir Thomas’s children, she had established a comfortable bond with Richard over the years. Easily the most impassioned of the Greys, she had once considered him arrogant and vain¾ perhaps because her own son, so close to him in age, was terribly docile by comparison.

Distracted, Richard nodded. "Will you be attending Baron Stafford’s dinner tomorrow eve?"

Lady Elizabeth inclined her head. "I have the honor of your father as escort." For the past three years, she’d had none other. If there was any question she desired a more permanent relationship with Sir Thomas Grey, the indecision was not on her part. Though Cedric, Armus and Richard seemed willing enough to accept her as their new mother, Thomas had yet to release Anne, deceased now eight years. And then of course, there was Eleanor, who’d made it all too clear, she had no desire for her mother to be replaced.

Pushing the unsettling thoughts aside, Elizabeth leaned forward and laid a slim hand over Richard’s wrist. "You’ve something on your mind," she prodded at last.

His eyes skidded to the floor, seeking solace among the braided rugs. Tempted to ask him about the bruises on his face, she waited patiently for him to speak. The silence lengthened and grew until at last he dispensed with an aggravated sigh. Stretching his legs before him, he folded into the chair, bracing one elbow on the scrolled arm. Long fingers pressed lightly against his temple as he bowed his head into his hand. "I’ve made a mess of things," he admitted despondently.

Her hand remained on his arm. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the rough leather and thick laces of his wrist guard. "I don’t understand."

Richard frowned. "It’s complicated," he said, the distinct modulation of his voice betraying regret. Slowly his eyes rose to hers. "Could I remain here awhile? I need to meet someone this evening, and I don’t want to spend the intervening hours at Covington Cross."

Unable to hide her surprise, Elizabeth withdrew. "But what about Lord Brandleford? He and his daughter will be arriving shortly¾ "

"A regrettable circumstance. I promise to return to Covington immediately after my rendezvous."

"But won’t your father....?"

Richard’s smile was slight. "My father is already furious with me. My absence tonight will likely inflame that anger, but there’s little I can do. Unfortunately, my business won’t keep until morning. As soon as I’ve resolved it, I’ll return to the castle, and apologize for the delay. I shouldn’t be much past sunset."

Elizabeth tilted her head. For all his extremes of emotion, Richard was sometimes difficult to read. She knew from experience, he frequently bottled problems inside, bristling outwardly for all the wrong reasons. If something was troubling him, he was likely to spit and hiss over minor setbacks, while remaining tight-lipped about the true issue. Something about this evening was not as it should be.

"Perhaps you should have someone accompany you¾ whatever your business tonight."

Moved by her concern, Richard smiled. The warmth of his expression altered the light in his eyes¾ deepening the pale green of his smoked irises to richer moss. "I thank you for your concern, Lady Elizabeth, but I’m quite capable of fending on my own." Claiming her hand, he drew it to his lips, kissing her fingers in elegant fashion. Coupled with the smooth modulation of his voice, Elizabeth thought his manner entirely too courtly. It never failed to amaze her that he could shift persona so easily. Only last week she’d spied him unaware in the village -- clothing rumpled; bits of straw clinging to his long hair --  as he’d stolen kisses from a serving maid behind the stable.

Slipping her fingers free, she nodded. "You’re welcome to stay. Just be certain you don’t disappoint your father this evening."

Richard’s answering grin was tight. He had, of course, disappointed his father for the last eight years.

**********

The sun sank into the ragged cradle of the trees. Wine-red light splintered between gnarled branches, coating the ground with the ruby milk of a false death. Dragon tails of brittle leaves scuttled among roots and rocks, kindled to action by the icy whisper of an easterly breeze. As the last rays of the setting sun speared through Tiner Forest, Richard drew abreast of the stunted tree. Beneath the rugged leather of his gloves, his hands white-knuckled on the reins with exaggerated force. Sensing his anxiety, his horse shifted nervously, sidestepping on the path. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Richard pulled the animal under control.

" ‘E’s punctual, I’ll give ‘im that." Richard recognized the voice long before Tad stepped from the trees. The narrow-faced peasant wasn’t the only one to emerge from the wooded copse. Hand dropping instinctively to his sword hilt, Richard watched as several men materialized from the thicket. Three trained crossbows on him, but it was the fourth who drew his undivided attention.

"Maybe now we can finish what we began in the garden," Geoffrey Whelan intoned coolly.

Richard swore. "Snake!" With a swift kick of his heels to his horse’s sides, he sent the animal barreling forward. When he was still inches from Geoffrey, he launched himself from the saddle, careening through the air, and bearing them both to the ground. The impact jarred him, clacking his teeth together and igniting a jangling echo in his ears. Oblivious to the distractions, Richard drove his fist into Geoffrey’s jaw, spinning his head to the side. Before he could strike a second time, he was grappled from behind and hauled roughly to his feet.

Wiping blood from his mouth, Geoffrey stood. "You insolent little¾ " The insult trailed into a throaty grunt as he drove his fist into Richard’s stomach. Arms pinned behind him, secured by a man on either side, Richard bent forward, gasping for air. "I’d damn well kill you if I could get away with it. Where’s the bloody medallion?"

Chuckling softly, Richard straightened. "Is that desperation I hear, Geoffrey?"

"I’m warning you, Grey! "

"You’re capable of little else." Unable to silence his antagonistic streak, Richard paid the price when Geoffrey pummeled his stomach a second and third time. By now -- his ribs and midsection still sore from his skirmish with Armus -- Richard felt the first flutter of nausea. Grinding his teeth together, he straightened painfully. Sweat dripped from his long bangs despite the frigid temperature of the autumn air.

Folding his arms across his chest, Geoffrey tried another approach. "I can keep this up all night, but you don’t look like you can stand much more. Where’s the medallion, Richard?"

His precise features twisting with disgust, Richard sneered. "You fool. Did you really think I’d bring it on the basis of a scrawled note?"

"What’s ‘e sayin’?" Tad spoke suddenly from the thickening shadows behind Geoffrey. In the dove-gray gloaming, only the glint of his steel-colored eyes was visible. " ‘E don’t have it!"

" ‘E dunno ‘ave it with him," another voice inserted.

Unconvinced, Geoffrey stepped forward and searched his clothing. Richard remained mute through the rough handling, smiling slightly when the search yielded nothing. Incensed, Geoffrey snagged his fingers in the long strands of Richard’s hair, yanking his head to the side. "Times to dispense with these games. I’ll ask you again¾ where’s the medallion?"

"Lemme. I’ll git it outta ‘im." The guttural voice belonged to the man on Richard’s left -- a towering giant, who easily matched Armus for size. There followed a jolting tug on Richard’s arm as the massive villager leaned forward, grinning like a macabre scare-a-crow. Richard caught the stale scent of onions and mead. "I’ll make ‘im talk, Geoffrey. Ye jest let Bort at ‘em, ‘n we’ll ‘ave that ‘ole medallion ‘fore nightfall."

"Leave him," Geoffrey said curtly. His fingers slid from Richard’s hair.

Likewise, the pressure eased on Richard’s arm, the abominable stench of alcohol retreating. "You’re wasting your time," Richard told Geoffrey.

"Take him to the hovel in the forest," a new voice instructed. "I’ll question him there." Richard jerked, startled by the interruption. The man’s voice was crisply refined and oddly familiar. Seeking the source, Richard’s gaze darted through the trees, settling on a figure on horseback. Shrouded by velvety shadow, little of the newcomer was visible. The hooded folds of a richly embroidered cloak concealed his features, but left little question of his rank. Waning light glinted off a heavy broadsword¾ the elaborate sheath inlaid with a fine web-work of silver vines and encrusted gems.

"Pardon, Sir," Geoffrey ventured, "But is that wise?"

Silent, the man on horseback turned away and vanished into the thicket.

**********

Richard’s captors were none too gentle with his transport. Stripping him of sword and knife, they bound his hands behind his back, then jostled him onto his horse. Though another secured the reins, Richard was skilled enough as a rider to maintain his seat through the deliberately jarring ride. The trek wound deeper into Tiner, veering from the broader main paths in favor of lesser trails. Eventually the trees thickened, creating a dense web of interlocking branches. The underbrush grew dense, hobbled by beds of moss-covered rock and spreading roots. Leaf mold and decay permeated the air, pungent as the dank underbelly of a log.

Eventually they came upon a primitive cottage, nestled among hemlocks, oak and spruce. Dragged roughly from his horse, Richard was forced through the low doorway and shoved to his knees. The interior was sparse, furnished only by a small table and three stools.

"Tie him up," Richard heard Geoffrey instruct.

Before he could recover, Bort hooked him beneath the arm and pulled him to the center of the shack. There, a wooden post acted as brace for an overhead beam. Richard felt a knife severe the bindings on his wrists, and immediately lurched forward, thrusting his shoulder against the larger man’s ribs. Grunting, Bort stumbled backwards. Flailing to keep his balance, his meaty fingers coiled over Richard’s collar, wrenching him to a brutal halt.

"Oh, no ye don’t." A massive fist drove into Richard’s stomach, doubling him over. The fingers shifted from his collar to his hair, wrenching him against the post. He felt his head crack the hard surface, releasing a hollow ping in his ears. His knees startled to buckle as beads of darkness fanned across his vision.

Forcing away the fog, Richard blinked. As though from a great distance, he became aware of Geoffrey holding him upright, while Bort bound his hands behind him¾ securing his wrists around the wooden pole. "There, there . . ." Bort leaned close, exposing blackened gums and tobacco-stained teeth in a rancorous smile. "We ain’t through wi’ our vist." Overcome by the sour stench of onions, Richard turned his face away. Roiling pangs of nausea churned acid in his stomach.

Off to the side, Tad snickered. "I don’t think ‘e likes the accommodations, Bort or the bloody chamberlain."

"Enough!" Geoffrey’s perturbed command silenced both men. Pacing to the opposite side of the shack, he nervously toyed with the knife stuck through his belt. "Leave now¾ all of you. The Master will be here shortly."

"Ain’t we never gonna meet the man?" Tad protested.

"Now!" Geoffrey insisted. Reluctantly the others obeyed, grumbling discontentedly as they filed from the shack. Moments later, hoofbeats could be heard fading into the forest.

Claiming a torch from the far wall, Geoffrey kindled the end to life. Amber and topaz flooded the small hovel, chasing serpent-tailed shadows to the corners. Falsely warmed by light, the interior remained frigid. Replacing the brand of burning wood in its bracket, Geoffrey considered his bound prisoner.

Richard’s stare was cold. "Tell me you’re not Whelan’s nephew. I prefer to think my family duped by a common thief."

Unaffected, Geoffrey merely shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you. Whelan and I are bound by blood, though I haven’t seen him in many years."

"How fortunate for him."

Stalking before his prisoner, the copper-haired man scowled. A pronounced ridge furrowed his brow, twisting his features with contempt. "Don’t mistake my patience for indifference. It’s only the Master’s impending arrival that stays my hand."

His smile goading, Richard chuckled. "Appropriate behavior for a lapdog."

If Geoffrey intended a retort, it was silenced by the inward crash of the door. A draft of cold air scuttled across the dirt floor, announcing the presence of the man on the threshold. Attired in a hooded cloak and shrouded by shadow, his features remained masked in the partial gloaming.

Immediately contrite, Geoffrey bobbed his head in acquiescence. "My Lord."

"Wait for me outside," an imperious voice instructed. Unquestioning, Geoffrey rushed to obey. Alone with Richard, the black-cloaked apparition moved from the threshold, his steps marked by exaggerated slowness. That same precise indolence guided his movement as he unsheathed his sword. Crimson light puddled from the torch, washing over the mirrored blade, feathering the edge with mock blood. "You’ve no idea the pleasure this gives me." Snagging the hood of his cloak, the man drew it from his face, revealing features as chiseled as granite.

Richard blanched. "John Mullens."

The other smiled silkily. "Neighbors should be better acquainted, don’t you think?" Sword poised, he closed the door behind him and eased into the room.

**********

Eleanor slipped from the drum tower, stepping onto the catwalk. The silver mesh of twilight settled at her feet, blending with the jeweled glow of the setting sun. Poppy, magenta and plum riddled the surface of cold gray stone, spreading jagged veins to the ground below.

"Armus!" Eleanor jerked, startled by the tall silhouette of her brother. "Thank heavens! You scared me." Breath whistling through her teeth, she hovered at his side. "What are you doing out here?"

Armus cast her an arch look. "I’m surprised you’d even bother to ask, with Father on the warpath over Richard’s absence. I thought he’d sink through the floor when Brandleford and his daughter showed up, and our dear brother nowhere in sight."

Drawing her cloak about her slim shoulders, Eleanor stepped to the edge of the battlement.

Below, the ground unfurled in undulating hills¾ a vast expanse of autumn-browned grass, receding in the distance before the murky edge of Tiner forest. "Nothing surprises me about Richard anymore," she said tartly. The words hung a moment in the air, before she dismissed them with an agitated shake of her head. "I was hoping Geoffrey would be here to great Lord Brandleford, but he seems to have disappeared. You wouldn’t happen to know where he was headed?"

Armus worked his shoulders into a shrug. "Sorry."

Sensing his distraction, Eleanor tugged on his sleeve. "Stop worrying about Richard. Whatever his reasons for slighting Father, he’s going to have to pay for them eventually." Folding her arms across her chest, she stared out across the open fields. A smug smile curled her lips. "I only hope I’m here to see it."

Armus frowned. Wordlessly, he turned and entered the castle.

**********

John Mullens’ thin smile goaded Richard to rage. "All this time, you’ve been behind this?" Incensed, Richard pulled on the bindings securing his wrists to the wooden pole. The rope held taut, restraining him from movement.

Amused by his defiance, Mullens chuckled. Crossing to the table, he laid his sword over the top, then calmly stripped free his gloves. "You’re over your head in this, Richard. Save yourself a lot of pain and aggravation and tell me where the medallion is hidden."

Disgusted, Richard gave a snort of contempt. "And when I do, you’ll naturally release me and forget I was involved."

His back turned, Mullens shrugged. "Something like that."

"The devil take you!"

"I imagine he will.... eventually." Drawing the dagger from his belt sheath, Mullens examined the narrow blade in the sputtering glow of torchlight. Running a finger along the edge, he wet his lips. "Though I can’t vouch for my men, I might refrain from slitting your throat." Slowly, he turned, a razor-thin curl of his lips, accentuating the reptilian gleam of his eyes. "If you part with the information. You’ve no use for the medallion, boy. "

"And you do?"

Prompted by the note of challenge in Richard’s voice, Mullens approached. His green eyes fired by witch-light, Richard raised his chin in defiance. Matched for height, the two men glared at one another. "You don’t understand what it signifies." With only a hands-span between them, Mullens coiled his fingers into Richard’s jerkin and pulled the garment aside. Slipping the tip of the dagger beneath the criss-crossed laces of the younger man’s tunic, he sliced through the binding, sending the severed cords to the floor. "Do you have any idea who you’re protecting?"

"I know exactly who I’m protecting," Richard replied without hesitation. "And I’ve no doubt your involvement reeks of treason."

Mullens sneered. "You won’t sound so high-handed when I’ve cut you."

"Master!" Geoffrey’s excited voice could be heard through the stout door even before it banged inward. Rushing over the threshold, he came to a sudden halt as he took in the sight of Mullens, his dagger pressed to Richard’s chest. Eyes boggling in his head, Geoffrey swallowed hard and took a nervous step backwards.

"I told you to wait outside," Mullens barked sharply. He’d yet to move¾ his fingers curled possessively into Richard’s jerkin; the tip of his dagger coaxing a sliver of blood to the surface.

"I-It’s the old man," Geoffrey sputtered. "Molly just came to say she’d seen him in the village. If he’s back, he’ll want the medallion himself. He’ll likely send a contact to Covington Cross."

"Yes . . . without answer." Intrigued, Mullens pulled away from Richard. Crossing to the opposite side of the hut, he idly tapped the dagger against his chin. Flecks of blood went unnoticed in his beard. "If the old man’s returned, then the . . . package . . .is likely to follow." Face tightening, Mullens turned a flinty gaze on Geoffrey. "If we can’t discredit the delivery, then we must prevent it completely."

Geoffrey’s eyes skittered to their prisoner. Though he was obviously composed, Richard’s chest heaved with the quickened rush of his breath. A splinter of blood trickled over his skin, soaking into his the frayed edge of his white tunic. "If we had the medallion¾ " Geoffrey ventured.

Mullens snorted. Raising the dagger, his eyes tracked back to Richard. "A few hours of cutting should get it out of him."

Geoffrey caught his arm when he would have started forward. Gulping, the younger man let his grip fall free. "I’ve a better idea. One that’s certain to work." With a glance for Richard, Geoffrey wet his lips. "He’d talk if someone he cared about was threatened¾ like his sister."

"Damn you, no!" Richard lurched against the binding, snapping the hemp taut on his wrists. Blinded by rage, he struggled futilely against the restriction. Through the intervening leather of his gloves, the rope lacerated his skin with open abrasions. "Mullens, leave her be!"

Realizing Geoffrey’s ploy had struck a nerve, Mullens grinned indulgently. Sheathing his dagger, he crossed to Richard’s side. "Gladly." Raising a hand over the younger man’s head, he planted it against the post, leaning into the wood. "Tell me where the medallion is."

Tortured by the conflict, Richard closed his eyes.

"Beautiful Eleanor," Mullens whispered close to his ear. "So young and comely. T’would be a shame to see her disfigured."

"This doesn’t concern her," Richard said bitterly. Gaze shifting to his tormentor, he drew a rattling breath. "If you’ve any decency . . . any at all....you’ll leave her out of this."

Mullens patted his cheek. "You’re almost as pretty as she is. Geoffrey, bring the girl."

"No!" Richard screamed. He felt Mullens’ fingers tighten on his face. And then the world went horrifically black as his tormentor thrust backwards, slamming his head into the post.

************

Thomas drummed his fingers across the surface of his desk. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. In short order the sound grew distracting, forcing a tangled expletive from his lips. Though morning light streamed through the window, edged with the golden lace of a new day, it did little to improve his caustic disposition.

Seated across from him, his breakfast already souring in the pit of his stomach, Armus frowned. "It’s not like Richard to be so irresponsible," he said carefully.

"Irresponsible?" Thomas blanched. It was not a word he cared to dwell on at present. Unbidden, Richard’s clipped voice returned to haunt him: I’ve sacrificed any title I’ll ever have as a knight and you call that irresponsible?

Reorienting on his anger, Thomas shoved the memory aside. " ‘Childish,’ is the term I had in mind," he told Armus tightly. "Your brother and I had a somewhat . . . heated . . . disagreement yesterday, and this, apparently is his means of retaliation."

"Father, I don’t think Richard...."

"Do you realize I had to make excuses to Lord Brandleford and his daughter? Excuses, Armus, as lame as that old mare in the potter’s field. By God, when I get my hands on that boy! "

"Sir Thomas?" He jerked suddenly, angry words tumbling to abrupt silence at the interruption. A laundress hesitated on the threshold of his chambers, her thin face displaying uncertainty. "Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Thomas, but Lady Elizabeth is here to see you. Shall I send her in?"

Recovering quickly, Thomas gave a brief nod. "Please do." Smoothing his voluminous sleeves into place, he tried to salvage a measure of decorum. A moment later as Elizabeth entered the room, Thomas stood and took her hands. "It’s good to see you." Though the words were pleasant, his smile was tight.

Clearly unconvinced, Elizabeth glanced between the silver-haired man and his son. "I wouldn’t wish to debate the matter, but you seem disturbed."

Exhaling sharply, Thomas turned away. Pawing distractedly at his beard he squared his shoulders with feigned nonchalance. "It’s nothing, Elizabeth; trifling family matters."

"Richard?" she guessed.

Surprised, Thomas’s gaze swung back to her. "What makes you say that?"

"Well . . ." Moving to a chair, Elizabeth sat comfortably, crossing her legs and arranging the skirt of her long gown. Folding her hands in her lap, she chose her words delicately. "He came to the castle yesterday and told me you’d had a disagreement. I know he was late getting back for Lord Brandleford, but he did return Thomas and¾ "

"He didn’t," Thomas inserted crisply. "That’s the whole point. The impertinent little fool has vanished."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it. Blue eyes skimming between the two men, she shook her head in bewilderment. "But I don’t understand. Richard assured me he’d return to Covington as soon as he concluded his business."

Armus sat forward. "What business?"

"I-I don’t know. He wouldn’t elaborate. He only said he had something to take care of and would return in the evening."

Thomas gave a short snort of disgust. "Apparently his duplicity now extends to the female gender as well."

"Father, that’s not fair," Armus said quickly. "For all we know something may have happened to Richard.""

"Then by all means go look for him," Thomas snapped. "Yesterday I may have been inclined to understand his anger. Today I find nothing but fault with his actions." Irritated, Thomas returned to his chair, waving him aside. "Please Armus, just go. I don’t care to discuss this any longer; I have Lord Brandleford and his daughter to contend with."

Nodding, Armus pushed from his seat. He recognized the dangerous levels of frustration in his father’s agitated manner. It probably was best that he leave. Like Richard, Thomas had a short fuse. The longer his father dwelled on his second son’s absence, the more incensed he was likely to become.

Striding from the room, Armus gnawed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. For all his faults and his headstrong defiance, Richard was one of the most responsible people he knew. For the last eight years his younger brother had acted as envoy to his father’s estates, sometimes doubling or tripling crop production in areas once considered barren. Though Thomas kept most of the records on his holdings, Armus knew Richard maintained his own ledger, usually updated in his chambers, late at night. It sometimes amazed Armus that his brother could be so arrogantly cavalier and still manage people the way he did. Then again, the manipulative little scamp could be utterly charming when he chose. An artfully engaging smile was likely to get him anything he damn well pleased.

In his chambers Armus quickly located his cloak and sword. Though he knew Richard could stoop to pettiness at times, it seemed unlikely he’d involve his father. Whatever his disagreement with Sir Thomas, Armus couldn’t conceive of Richard deliberately abandoning him to Brandleford. Anxious to depart, Armus hurried from the castle.

**********

"Armus!" Startled, the fair-haired man turned from his horse. The voice that hailed him was sharp, almost saucy. "Are you going looking for Richard?"

"I’m going for a ride," Armus returned carefully, not wishing to imply that his brother had done anything unbecoming. Bracing his forearms on the seat of the saddle, he hesitated, ready to mount. "You look well this morning, Lady Penelope," he offered graciously. It didn’t hurt to have the guests in a good mood, just in case Richard had acted the fool.

Slight of build, with dewy almond-shaped eyes, Lady Penelope would one day grow into a stunning woman. At fifteen, she might have seemed wraith-like, but for a forward manner and somewhat grating voice. Honey gold hair framed a pixyish face, flattering the fine dust of freckles across her upturned nose. "I don’t feel very well," she said pointedly. "I just saw the most dreadful man -- in the company of Eleanor, no less."

Spurred by her directness, Armus raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Geoffrey Whelan." Wrinkling her nose, she stepped to his side. Slim fingers lightly stroked the mane of his nut-brown steed. "I find him thoroughly reprehensible."

A flicker of alarm tickled the back of Armus’s mind. It suddenly occurred to him that Geoffrey had been missing most of the night. "I hadn’t realized he’d returned," Armus said thoughtfully.

Penelope failed to note his distraction. "I just saw him in the outer courtyard, leaving with Eleanor¾ she said they were going riding." A short toss of her head sent her golden hair bouncing against her shoulders. "Why your sister would want to encourage such a loathsome man is beyond me. True he has Whelan’s blood, but he’s as penniless as a pauper."

Glancing at her askance, Armus narrowed his eyes. "How would you know that? He’s been out of the country for years."

Penelope uttered an unlady-like snort of disbelief. "Did the despicable wretch tell you that? I saw him eight months ago in Tydlemere. He doesn't know me, of course, but I recall seeing him in a brawl one evening, as my carriage passed through the village. One of the serfs nearly killed him when it was discovered Geoffrey had stolen food from a sick child. Fortunately the sheriff’s men arrived. I’m certain the only thing that saved him, was his uncle’s name."

Thoroughly unnerved, Armus reached for the reins. How could he have been so utterly blind? Perhaps it was nothing more than Geoffrey wanting to trade on his name for a few handouts and a temporary roof over his head. Still, most knew Sir Thomas would have provided the same, regardless. Why the duplicity? Swinging into the saddle, Armus glanced down at the blond-haired girl. "Penelope, please! I need you to find my father and repeat everything you’ve just told me. Be so kind as to inform him I’ve gone in search of Geoffrey and Eleanor, that I believe I’ll find Richard as well."

Sensing his growing anxiety, Penelope frowned. "I don’t understand."

"And I haven’t time to explain. Just please do as I ask." Pulling on the reins, Armus spurred the horse to flight. The cool mist of early morning veiled his face with moisture, feathering wheat-colored hair from his brow. Billowing behind him, his cloak snapped in the breeze, a sable phantom with a life of its own. Richard had known, he chided silently. From the beginning his brother had been distant, even cold, with their unexpected guest.

"Damn you, little brother. If you knew, then you must have been keeping secrets."

Impelled by the knowledge, Armus left Covington Cross behind.

**********

Richard blinked. Though it was difficult keeping his eyes open, he forced himself to orient on his surroundings. Crippling sensation assaulted him almost immediately. Fiery needles prickled his bound wrists and arms, while a numb tingling spread through his hands. His legs were twisted beneath him, bent at an awkward angle. A harrowing knot of pain shredded his kneecap, making him feel as though the inner ligaments were being wrenched apart. Groaning, Richard straightened his legs, shifting until he was sitting on the floor.

"Awake, are ye? I’ve been right lonesome wi’ no soul t’ talk to."

His senses still fogged with pain, it took a moment for Richard to focus on the voice. Leaning his head against the wooden post, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the bleak half-light of early morning. A torch still sputtered on the wall¾ its withering glow, plaiting the pewter murk with transparent amber. On the edge of the halo, a shadow moved, solidifying into semi-familiar shape.

Richard wet his lips. "I know you."

"Name’s Molly. Ye wanted t’ save me ‘unce." Squatting down beside him, she raised a dirt-veined hand, and pushed the tangled hair from his brow. Richard felt the scrape of callused fingers as her lingering touch slid down his cheek. Though wistful, her expression was underscored by baser desire.

"Maybe I still do." It occurred to him that neither Mullens nor Geoffrey was in sight. Though his head ached horrendously, he tried to string rational thought together. If she was his guard, his chances of escape had just doubled.

Amused by his reply, Molly chortled. "A high ‘n mighty Lord like ye, wi’ the likes o’ me? Ye must think me daft."

"If you’ve seen me in the village, you know I don’t hold much with class distinction," he grinned disarmingly, "especially where women are concerned."

She pursed her lips, considering. "I ain’t never ‘eard a man say his words so prettily." Curling her fingers behind his neck, Molly leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. Richard tried not to think about the needles shooting through his arms, the horrendous cramps in his legs, or the heavy sent of day-old sweat clinging to her body. Opening his mouth, he took control of the kiss, leaning forward as far as his bound wrists would allow. He felt Molly’s hand slide inside his tunic, and moaned softly, hoping to encourage her.

"Untie me," he whispered.

Drawing back, Molly slid both hands into his unkempt hair. "Ye know I can’t do that."

Richard kissed her throat, her cheek. "Dear God woman, don’t you want me to touch you?"

Chuckling, she tilted her neck to better feel the molten fire of his lips. "Now, now M’Lord, I know what yer about, and it ain’t goinna ‘appen. Tad would have me head fer lettin’ ye escape. And Bort -- that’s me man -- he’d like kill us both."

Unwillingly to abandon the ploy, Richard kissed her again, plundering her mouth with his tongue. Curling against him, she whimpered, one hand eagerly seeking the heated warmth between his thighs. The touch jarred him enough to make him break the kiss. "You could come with me," he said, recovering quickly.

Molly shook her head. Withdrawing her hand she traced a dirty finger over his cheek. "Bort’s promised t’ take me t’ France. We’re all goinna be rich when we give the Master the medallion."

Realizing he was fighting a losing battle, Richard attempted another approach. "What does he want it for?"

"Oh, M’Lord, that is pathetic!" Molly crowed with sheer delight. "Trussed up like ye are, ‘n ye dunno even ‘ave an inklin’ what it be about."

Richard pressed his lips together. "At this point, it wouldn’t matter if you told me."

"Maybe." Slipping her hand beneath his tunic, she kissed him again. This time Richard remained unresponsive. "Oh, I see how it’s t’ be," she drawled silkily. "Now that ye know I ain’t like t’ untie ye. "

"What’s Mullens want with the medallion?" Richard snapped irritably.

"Mullens?" Molly’s gaze grew animated. " ‘T’would that be John Mullens, the great Lord? None of us know the identity of the Master, ye see." Growing thoughtful, she claimed a curl of his hair and wound it about her finger. "I suppose it dunno matter now. The medallion is fer the King’s nephew, Frederick. "

"Frederick?" Stunned, Richard balked. "But he died of the plague years ago."

"Not true." Molly grinned, thoroughly enjoying the upper hand. " ‘Is succession was out o’ favor, so ‘e was sent out o’ the country, in ‘opes ‘un day he could return. Now that Randolph -- the other nephew -- is fallen from favor, ‘Is Majesty ‘as sent for Frederick."

Despite himself, Richard was thunderstruck. "And the medallion is the King’s seal to give Frederick the credibility he needs for support. It’s nothing short of royal acknowledgement." Appalled, Richard glared at the woman. "Why would anyone want to impede his return? Randolph’s under suspicion of treason. Since the king has no son of his own, a line of succession needs to be established. By hindering that...." He stopped suddenly. Preventing a clear succession left the throne unstable and ripe for overthrow. By breeding unrest among the King’s subjects, a manipulative nobleman could likely grab an abundance of land, should there be an invasion. What better opportunity for the restless Scots or French to strike, then when the kingdom was torn from within? As though he’d just discovered something hideous, Richard stared at the peasant woman. "Do you realize you’re leaving England open for war?"

The door banged inward jarring them both. Still curled against Richard, her hand beneath his shirt, Molly gave a startled gasp. "Bort! You weren’t t’ come til later! "

The tail-end of her words vanished beneath the savage bellow which erupted from the big man’s throat. Striding forward he grabbed the woman with a meaty hand and hurled her across the room. Trying to get his feet under him, Richard was still struggling to stand when Bort’s powerful fist caught his jaw and spun his head to the side.

**********

"Wait, Geoffrey." Tugging her bay mare to a halt, Eleanor dismounted. Lifting the left foreleg of the horse, she did a quick inspection. "As I feared, the shoe’s come loose. I’m going to have to go back to the castle."

"What?" Wheeling his own steed around, Geoffrey rode up beside her. A look of bleak consternation crossed his features as he swiftly dismounted and completed his own perusal. "It’ll hold." Dusting his hands together, he glanced through the narrowing corridor of trees. "It’s not much further. I want to show you something over the next ridge. "

"Geoffrey, don’t be silly. I need to go back to the castle. Once I have the shoe fixed we can return and.... "

"No!" The word came out clipped, almost corrosive. Eleanor’s slight hesitation gave way to a disturbed frown. Realizing he’d made a blunder, Geoffrey attempted a placating smile. Reaching for her hand, he took her gloved fingers in his. "It’s just that --- it will be too late then. I need to show you now."

"Show me what?"

Nervously, he wet his lips. He could feel a cold beading of sweat on the back of his neck, warning of increasing anxiety. Fearing his credibility waned, he tried to think rationally. Eleanor had been aloof most of the morning, disturbed by his disappearance last night. Was it possible she’d placed his absence in the same context as her missing brother? If the old man truly had returned to the village, then time was of the essence. If he couldn’t coax the medallion from Richard, he’d not only lose the money Mullens had promised, he’d likely lose his head as well. Tugging gently on her hand, Geoffrey tried to pull Eleanor towards his horse. "You can ride double with me."

Agitated, Eleanor yanked her fingers free. "Geoffrey, you’re being silly. Let me return and tend to the shoe, then we can.... "

"No!" Angry now, realizing he was losing precious moments, Geoffrey felt his composure crumble. "You’ll come now!" Closing his hand over her wrist, he physically yanked her towards the horse.

"Get your hands off me!" Struggling, Eleanor planted her feet against the soil. Geoffrey grabbed her about the waist, tightening his hold, relentlessly pulling forward. Cursing, Eleanor battered him with her fists. "Let go, you obnoxious¾ " The rolling thunder of approaching hoofbeats startled both, causing Geoffrey to grunt and release her. Unprepared for the suddenness of his reaction, Eleanor stumbled¾ her knees banging sharply against the ground as she fell. Swearing angrily, she struggled to her feet. Clawing hair from her face she caught a glimpse of Geoffrey as he hastily mounted his horse and vanished among the trees.

"Eleanor!" Armus appeared at her side, his steed prancing with restrained energy as he gazed down on her. "Eleanor, are you all right?"

"I’m fine." She spat the acknowledgement, as though he were to blame for the sudden turn of events. "Geoffrey just tried . . . oh, I don’t know what he tried!"

"He’s been lying to us," Armus said flatly. Holding the reins in one hand he allowed his horse to sidestep a pace, as he glanced over the horizon. "Not only is he penniless; I don’t believe he’s been to France for years. I’ve a feeling Lord Whelan has little to do with his nephew."

"But why?" Frustrated, Eleanor stalked to her horse. Collecting the reins, she pulled herself into the saddle. With a turn of her head, she silently gauged the condition of the mare, frowning when it favored its leg. "Why would Geoffrey create stories? Why deceive us? Father would have allowed him to stay, if lodging was what he needed."

Armus shook his head. "I fear it goes deeper than that. Whatever his reason for coming to Covington Cross, I think it has to do with Richard."

"Richard?" Eleanor’s head came up with a snap.

"They were both missing last night," Armus explained, "And from the start Richard’s been nothing short of antagonistic towards Geoffrey. I think our brother knows something we don’t."

"We need to tell father," Eleanor decided quickly. Swinging down from her horse, she gazed up at Armus. "My mare has a loose shoe. Can I ride double with you?"

Armus hesitated. "I don’t want to lose Geoffrey’s trail. Go back to the castle and tell father what’s happened. He already knows about Geoffrey¾ or will by the time you get there. With any luck our deceitful guest will lead me to Richard."

Eleanor’s face clouded. "He was right all along," she said, referring to Richard. "I hate to admit it -- arrogant and condescending as he is -- but he was just looking out for me, as a brother should." Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Eleanor leaned forward and gripped Armus by the wrist. "Go swift, Brother. And tell Richard . . . tell him...."

"Somehow I think an apology won’t be as satisfying coming from me." Armus’s lips curled upward in a slow grin. Threading the reins over his thigh, he urged his horse for the trees, following the narrow passage through which Geoffrey had vanished.

**********

A multi-hued conflagration of light exploded behind Richard’s eyes. For a moment the world reeled helter-skelter, causing the floor to tilt at an alarming angle. Stunned, Richard shook his head, trying to clear the numbing effects of Bort’s savage blow. Already cut from his previous altercation in the village, Richard’s bottom lip bled freely, filling his mouth with the acerbic tang of copper.

"Ye peacock-pretty splinter!" Bort drove his fist into Richard’s battered rib cage, doubling him over. "I’ll tear ye apart for touchin’ me woman! I’ll.... "

Richard barely heard the rest. Fleshy fingers closed on his throat, mercilessly wrenching him upright and pinning him to the post. Spittle flecked the oily whiskers of Bort’s beard, his face just inches from Richard’s own. With a guttural growl, the big man tightened his grip, until Richard felt the lack of air build merciless pressure in his lungs. Swirling beads of blackness coalesced in the corners of his eyes. The sound of sand and water clogged his ears, filling his senses with a drone not unlike angry honeybees. Consciousness slipping, Richard’s eyes rolled into his head. As though from a great distance he heard a woman yelling; then the savage voice of a man:

"Hands off him now!" Miraculously the pressure receded. A rush of clean air plundered Richard’s lungs, dragging him back to painful awareness. Choking, he bent double, forcing down the cold sweat of nausea. His throat felt raw and lacerated; blistered on the inside; bruised without.

"Get out of here, Bort!" It was Geoffrey’s voice, as enraged as it was panicked. "I don’t care what he did to Molly. You damn near could have killed him and then where would we be?"

There was a muttered answer -- indistinguishable to Richard’s agonized brain -- and a whimper from the woman. A moment later he heard the door bang shut. Geoffrey paced agitatedly through the small room, casting him a black look with every couple strides. But Richard was too miserable to care, consumed by the lacerating pain in his throat and the roiling misery in his stomach. He wasn’t certain when Geoffrey left, but in due course realized he was alone in the hovel. Senses teetering on a precarious edge, Richard sank to the floor.

Fatigued, half-sick with pain, he began the tedious task of working the rope back and forth over the rough-edged pole. The movement sent new needles of pain shooting through his arms and pinging into his wrists. Grinding his teeth together, he forced himself to continue¾ diligently ignoring the bubbling acid in the back of his throat. Sweat dripped into his eyes and left strands of hair clinging to his cheeks. He’d made little progress when the door inched open, angling a beam of light across the floor. Blinking against the glare, Richard raised his head. "Armus," he breathed.

Wordlessly the fair-haired man strode to his side. Crouching, he drew his knife and slipped it through the binding. Richard bent forward, relishing his freedom. Still knotted about his wrists, the rope chafed through his gloves¾ newly severed ends dangling free. His fingers suddenly clumsy, Richard tried to fumble the binding loose.

"Leave it," Armus said, staying his hand.

The brutal sting of returning circulation sent spears of pain lancing from Richard’s fingertips to his shoulders. Wincing against the discomfort, he drew a ragged breath. "How did you find me?" he rasped.

"Not now." It pained Armus to hear the brittle quality of his brother’s voice. Richard’s words were normally so precisely modulated, his manner of speaking as distinctive as his elfish smile. Attributing his hoarseness to the bruises on his throat, Armus struggled to remain level-headed. His protective nature warred with his need for swift departure. "Can you stand?" he queried, gripping his brother by the arm.

Head lowered, Richard nodded. Armus hauled him to his feet. For a moment the younger man stood swaying, leaning heavily into his larger brother, until the agonizing cramps receded from his legs. Armus hooked an arm around his back. "Come on¾ before Geoffrey returns."

Richard allowed himself to be led outside. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright haze of morning light, he squinted at his surroundings. "There are villagers involved. They might be nearby."

Armus pulled him into the trees, away from the hovel. Richard stumbled along in his grasp, grunting now and again when the jarring movement kindled a new influx of pain. Eventually they came upon Armus’s horse, tethered among a sheltering copse of spruce. Mounting quickly, the larger man lowered his arm, then swung his slighter brother behind him. Richard maintained his seat through the tight winding trails of the hilly forest, despite the agony the ride ignited in his battered ribs. It was only when they had reached the wider paths fording Covington Cross, and he knew they’d placed suitable distance between themselves and his captors, that he asked Armus to halt. Richard pressed the crown of his head to his brother’s broad back. "Stop for awhile, Armus. I need . . . to catch my breath."

Alerted by the shorn quality of his voice, Armus tugged his restless stallion to a halt. Almost immediately Richard slid to the ground. Turning away, he raked a trembling hand through the wild tangle of his hair. "I owe you for this, big brother," he said thickly.

Dismounting, Armus stood behind him. Seeing Richard unnerved was an odd sight. His younger brother exuded confidence in almost everything he did. Fatigued and beaten, he now displayed an edge of vulnerability rarely seen. "Did Geoffrey do this to you?"

Richard snorted. Scathing contempt entered his green eyes as he turned and regarded Armus. "He held an unfair advantage. The villagers and Mul...." Richard stopped suddenly. As much as he wanted to, he knew there was nothing more he could say. Armus’s intervention didn’t alter his vow of secrecy. Dragging a hand over his mouth, he wiped away blood. "It doesn’t matter." Belatedly, he attempted to steer the conversation in another direction. "What made you realize Geoffrey wasn’t quite what he seemed?"

"Lady Penelope. She recognized him from an unfavorable incident eight months ago. And then he tried.... " Armus hesitated, uncomfortable. "Well, he and Eleanor.... "

"Yes, I know about that." Wearily, Richard eased to a seat on the ground. Drawing his knees up, he braced his legs apart, loosely looping his arms around his knees. Distracted, Armus noted the rope still dangling from his wrists. "So Brandleford and his daughter are here. I imagine Father is livid with my absence."

Finally Richard’s voice was returning to normal, the stark rawness fading in favor of his dulcet tones. Ignoring the query, Armus squatted beside him. "You look like hell, Richard."

The other managed a faint grin. "You’ve no better compliment than that?"

Tight-lipped, Armus didn’t reply. Disturbed by the dangling ends of rope still twined about Richard’s wrists, he tugged each cord free. Inwardly trying to silence his rage, Armus tossed the revolting binding aside. The discolored bruises on Richard’s neck drew his eye, instilling a surge of protective anger. "Who did this to you?"

Bowing his head, Richard rubbed gloved fingers over the bridge of his nose. "It doesn’t matter. Could we just return to the castle?"

"I thought you needed to rest?"

"I feel better." The declaration came much too quickly. Perceiving the lie for what it was, Armus frowned thoughtfully. When Richard would have stood, the larger man stayed him with a restraining hand.

"I want to know why Geoffrey had you prisoner."

Clearly distressed, Richard glanced aside. "I can’t tell you."

Armus had expected the answer. He felt a whispering stir of combativeness within, and forced the emotion silent. Perhaps it was the morose expression on his brother’s battered face, but suddenly Armus didn’t have the heart to reprimand. Deep shadows gouged horrific rings beneath Richard’s seawater eyes, intensifying the waxy cast of his skin. Despite the bright drenching of morning light, his pupils were overly large, conferring the appearance of a wounded animal. The sun drew highlights from his tousled hair, plaiting the edges with glimmering threads of walnut, copper and gold. Stray strands clung to his cheeks, held in place by a sticky beading of sweat.

Extending his hand, Armus gently thumbed blood from the corner of his brother’s mouth. Uncomfortable beneath the touch, Richard turned his face away. "I’m sorry about before¾ those things I said to you. I-In the garden . . . and the other night . . ."

Surprised by the turn of events, Armus stared.

Richard’s glance was painfully awkward. "What I said the other night was hurtful. Armus, I do need you. I was irate. I wanted to dissuade you from following me back to my room. I know you’re still angry with me, but.... "

Reaching forward, Armus gripped his chin, forcing their gazes to meet. "We both have apologizing to do. I lost my temper. I never should have...." Armus swallowed. "....beaten you like I did. Richard, if you’re in trouble, you have to tell me." Dropping his arm to his side, Armus stood. Gazing at his brother, he suddenly realized how young Richard appeared. Without the customary edge of his arrogance in place, Richard’s features were oddly ethereal.

"Armus, I.... " Richard stopped, sudden anxiety pinching his face. The sound of hoofbeats rolled over the horizon, drawing a distressed hiss from his lips. Instinctively his hand fell to his empty scabbard. Beside him, Armus drew his blade.

"Give me your knife," Richard said. Before either could react, a lone rider emerged from the sheltering thicket. When his brother would have stepped forward, Richard placed a restraining hand on his wrist. "Wait." Mesmerized, he watched the lone horseman approach. A touch of the familiar skittered up his spine. "I know this man," he whispered.

Though the rider was attired differently than when they’d first met, the curling gray waves of his hair marked him as the man in the woods. Now dressed in the richly tailored robes of high office, his demeanor was intrinsically regal. Prancing his stallion within inches of the motionless brothers, he drew the majestic beast to a halt. Slate-gray eyes beheld Richard’s disheveled appearance, lingering momentarily on the mottled bruises of his face. "Lad, you look worse than I did, when first we met. Have you guarded my possession?"

With a darting glance for Armus, Richard nodded. "Not without difficulty, I fear. Sir if I may be so bold, I have information you require, but I hesitate to speak freely, because of my vow."

The older man laughed softly. "It seems I chose well when I selected you, Sir Richard."

Startled by the use of his title, Richard felt his lips part. He hadn’t even been aware the man knew he who was, let alone that he was knighted. "You have me at a disadvantage, Sir. I never did learn your name."

Beside him, Armus wet his lips. "He’s Lord Malcom Wister, Richard -- the Earl of Sunbury."

Appalled, Richard whirled from his brother to the man on horseback. A constricting tightness wormed into his stomach. He felt as though the ground had just opened beneath him and he teetered on a harrowing precipice. "Dear God, the Earl of Sunbury," he whispered. What little color remained, drained from his face. "The King’s cousin." Dropping quickly to one knee, Richard bowed his head. "Your Grace, forgive me for not recognizing you earlier. I... "

Wister chuckled. "You told me he was overbearing, Armus. If you ask me, the boy’s contrite." Dismounting, the Earl approached and drew Richard to his feet. Up close his eyes were like liquid metal, his features leathered with age. Confused, Richard glanced from the nobleman to his brother.

"We met during the crusades," Wistler explained. Extending his hand, he clasped Armus’s thick palm in a familiar grip. "It’s good to see you again, my friend. You’ll notice I remembered much about your family, including the reliability of your headstrong younger brother. It wasn’t by choice, I assure you, but I recently found it necessary to impress upon his service."

Armus cocked a brow. "Ah, now his behavior begins to make sense."

Wistler turned to the younger man. "It’s time to surrender the medallion, Richard. Even as we speak, the King’s Guard is routing the treasonous contingent that would have prevented me from delivering it to the rightful recipient."

Richard wet his lips. "To Frederick?" he ventured.

Tilting his head to the side, the Earl narrowed his eyes in calculating perusal. "You seem to have acquired additional information since we last parted."

Flushing, Richard ducked his head. "I meant no disrespect, Your Grace."

"And there is none taken. You’ve rendered me a service, and done a great duty for your king. I realize your involvement has not been without duress. I’ve only now come from Covington Cross, having explained the details to your father. I’ve also informed him of Geoffrey Whelan’s involvement in the plot to discredit Frederick."

Richard’s heart was pounding. His father knew? Could the revelation possibly erase all the harsh words between them? He’d made such a mess of things -- with Armus, with Eleanor, but mostly with his father. Irrationality had prompted him to open a wound he’d kept closely guarded since Armus’s return. He wasn’t truly jealous of his brother; he’d just felt suddenly usurped by Sir Thomas’s adoration for his eldest son. Somewhere in the shuffle, Richard felt overshadowed and forgotten. Refocusing his thoughts, he wet his lips. "Do you know about Mullens, Your Grace."

"John Mullens?" The Earl of Sunbury grimaced. "We suspected him long before we knew about the group in the village. Unfortunately, it isn’t as easy to discredit a Baron. The King fears his removal will cause unrest he can ill afford."

"So you’re saying he’s just going to walk away?" A belligerent edge slipped into Richard’s cultured voice. Enraged, he momentarily forgot whom he addressed. "The King’s own nephew is in chains, waiting his turn at the chopping block, and you’re going to let a worm like Mullens slither free?"

"Richard!" Armus warned dangerously.

Wistler held up his hand. "Let him have his say, Armus. From all appearances, the lad’s been through a rough spot. It’s little wonder his manners desert him."

Chastised, Richard felt the heat rush to his face. Closing his eyes, he attempted to regain his composure. "I only meant¾ "

"I know what you meant," the Earl interrupted smoothly. "Unfortunately political alliances aren’t always as cut and dry as they appear. Though of unquestionably higher rank, Randolph’s supporters have abandoned him. The same doesn’t hold true for Mullens. To site him for treason without irrefutable proof.... "

"I was there!" Richard insisted, unwisely cutting the other man short. Dismayed, Armus nudged him in the ribs. Heedless of the warning, Richard continued hotly: "He was ready to torture me for the whereabouts of the medallion. When intimidation didn’t work, he was going to have Eleanor abducted, in hopes that threatening her would loosen my tongue. Is that not proof enough?"

"He is high-ranked, Richard, but not untouchable." The Earl’s gaze was frigid, warning that Richard grew dangerously close to overstepping the line. "The Crown is not blind to his duplicity. He will be closely watched and heavily taxed. For the moment, such measures must suffice."

"And the peasants?" Richard persisted. "Like Randolph they have no supporters, so you’ll hang them. Geoffrey too, if I have my guess."

Wistler positively bristled. "You are a knight, sworn to serve your king. Do you think treason deserves anything less?"

Unwillingly to answer, Richard lowered his eyes. With a snort of contempt, the Earl swung back to his horse. "You told me he was willful, Armus, but you failed to mention insolent. ‘Tis a fine line, is it not? The boy should have a strap taken to him. Kindly mount -- both of you -- and lead me to the medallion. The company grows wearisome."

"Of course, Your Grace." Armus spoke quickly, before Richard could reply. Snagging his younger brother by the arm he yanked him roughly towards their horse. Voice pitched low, Armus hissed angry words into Richard’s ear. "I don’t know what you’re involved in, little brother, but keep a damn leash on your temper. Whatever service you’ve rendered the Earl, it’s not sufficient to keep your head off the block, if he’s inclined to place it there."

Inwardly trembling with rage, Richard remained silent.

*********

The Earl of Sunbury did not hesitate to depart once he’d secured the medallion from Richard. As promised, the villagers had been routed by the King’s Guards and were secured in chains by late afternoon. Only Geoffrey and Bort managed to escape the armored sentries, their whereabouts presently unknown. Armus and Richard returned to Covington Cross in silence, each wrapped in the divergent habitation of their thoughts. While Richard warred with brittle fatigue and anger, Armus struggled to make sense of his brother’s disquieting mood shifts. Leaving their horses with the groom, both men trudged wearily up the steep incline to the castle.

Halfway up the path, Eleanor suddenly appeared. Brilliant red hair fanned out behind her as she rushed towards them. "Thank God, Richard!" Never halting her stride she threw herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. "I was so worried . . . can you ever forgive me for being such a fool?"

Holding her tightly, Richard bowed his face into her hair. She smelled of rosewater and autumn-browned grasses¾ a combination not unlike her own unique tangle of femininity and independence. "It’s all right, Eleanor; I could have behaved more civilly." Feeling the luxuriant warmth of her body in his arms, Richard suppressed a shudder. The thought of Mullens harming her left his stomach cold with acid. Gently, he pressed his lips to her temple. The hint of a familiar elfish smile teased his mouth when he drew back. "I guess this means you shouldn’t be so quick to discard everything I say."

Slipping her arm about his waist, Eleanor leaned against him. "Hmm . . . for a while, at least." Her smile chased away his memories of Mullens. "Enjoy it while you can, Richard; I’m so rarely ever wrong."

On the opposite side, Armus snorted. "Isn’t it enough we have one egotist in the family?"

Richard chuckled softly. "Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brother." With his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders he began walking again. The closer he got to the castle the more he realized he was dreading facing his father. With any luck he’d be able to reach his chambers before Sir Thomas knew of his return. Hesitating outside the main gate, he glanced across the courtyard beyond the garden. "You two go on," he told Armus and Eleanor. "I think I’ll use the servant’s entrance."

Bewildered, Eleanor glanced at Armus. The fair-haired man gave a slight shake of his head. "Richard, you can’t avoid father forever. He told me about your . . . disagreement."

Mortified to think his brother knew of his buried jealousy, Richard blanched. "He told you what we argued about?"

"No . . . just that you’d bickered. Using the back entrance.... "

"I want to clean up first," Richard said swiftly; lamely. "You wouldn’t want Lord Brandleford or Lady Penelope to see me like this, would you?" Before either of his siblings could protest, he turned and sprinted across the courtyard. The fleetness of movement agitated the murderous pain in his ribs, but he ground his teeth against the discomfort, determined not to let Armus catch and sway him. Cool blue shadow fell across his face as he moved into the towering embrace of the high castle walls. Despite the icy air which made his breath plume with vaporous mist, Richard was sweating.

Slipping indoors, he avoided the servant’s quarters and took the back stairwell to the third level. Striding determinedly towards his room, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. With a vocal sigh of relief, Richard leaned against the door, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Fatigued to the point of exhaustion, he closed his eyes and let the weakness he’d been denying sweep over him.

"I thought I might find you here."

Startled from his reverie, Richard physically jerked. The smooth intrusion of his father’s voice sliced through him like a knife. Stepping from the smoky shadows in the far corner of the room, Thomas moved into the light. Hands clasped rigidly behind his back, he appeared oddly ill at ease¾ a characteristic rarely manifest in the sovereign Lord of Covington Cross. His gaze swept over Richard, noting the angry bruises on his face and neck; the dry, cracked splinter of blood etched across his chest.

"Come sit down." Thomas briefly indicated Richard’s lattice-framed cot, but the younger man gave a clipped shake of his head. Uncertain if it was hostility or apprehension he sensed from his son, Thomas strode forward. Confronting Richard face to face, he tried to ease the friction between them. "Richard, the Earl of Sunbury was here. He told me about the medallion and the service you did for him. In retrospect, I realize much of your recent behavior can be attributed to this incident. His Grace also told me about Geoffrey Whelan." Thomas wet his lips. "I was wrong, Richard. You were right to be suspicious. I should have listened to you."

Richard could feel his heart thrumming against his chest. He didn’t know why, but his father’s opinion of him mattered more than all the torturous aches and pains in his body. A fire crackled in the hearth, infusing the room with delicious warmth. He could feel the liquid edges of intruding heat as it seeped beneath his skin, gently loosening the corded muscles in his body. A faint hum tickled his ears, gradually intensifying as the warmth spread from fingertips to toes. "He was one of the men who attacked me that first night in the village," Richard explained quietly. He hadn’t moved from his position by the door, fingers looped on the handle behind him, as though preparing to flee. "I-I couldn’t tell you without betraying the Earl’s secret."

"I’m proud of you." Hesitantly, Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder. When Richard made no move to pull away, he tightened the grip. "You rendered an important service to the Crown, fulfilling your duties as a knight responsibly, and with no regard for your personal safety. No King could ask any more of his subjects. No father could be any prouder of his son."

Richard lowered his gaze, veiling his eyes with lashes. The humming in his ears had transformed to a ringing, leaving him oddly hollow and light-headed. "I’m afraid on better acquaintance, the Earl has changed his opinion of me."

Chuckling, Thomas tugged him from the door. Looping an arm around his shoulders, he steered him towards the cot. "And it’s usually first impressions that are your worst," he said lightly. "Richard, please sit down before you keel over. I’ll send for the healer."

"No." Gratefully sinking onto the soft mattress, Richard leaned back against the frame. "Later, Father. I just want to rest."

Thomas nodded. Looping an arm under his son’s knees he pulled Richard’s legs onto the mattress. Without protest, the younger man lay back against the pillow. Slowly his eyes drifted shut. "I wouldn’t have left, you know, for the Crusades." His voice grew thready and thin, as the haze of sheer exhaustion wrapped him in a velvety cocoon. "No matter what I said, I wouldn’t have left."

"Go to sleep." Thomas stroked a soothing hand across his brow. A knot constricted his throat as he thought of the words they’d exchanged earlier. "I was never disappointed in you, Richard. I might not show it, but I’ve always been proud. I couldn’t have managed these last eight years without you."

With a soft grunt Richard rolled onto his side, tucking a hand beneath his pillow. At first, Thomas wasn’t certain he’d heard the words, then a slight smile touched his lips. "Stay," he said sleepily. "At least for awhile."

Thomas swallowed. It wasn’t often his thoroughly self-reliant son asked for anything that might be conceived as a weakness. Thus, Richard’s simple request was all the more meaningful for its rarity. "I’ll stay as long as you want."

But Richard had already fallen asleep. He never realized his father maintained a silent vigil throughout the night.

**********

Lady Penelope canted her head to the side as she studied the brown-haired man silently polishing his sword. Seated before the desk in his chambers, Richard ran a soft cloth over the scarred blade. Though he’d lost his favorite sword to Geoffrey, the balance on this weapon made it a close second.

"Fortunate for you Baron Stafford postponed his dinner party until this evening." Penelope intoned, moving to the corner of his desk. Bracing her hands behind her, she pulled herself up on the edge, allowing her legs to dangle free. One slippered foot tapped a soft cadence against the wood. "I would have been furious with you if I’d had to attend alone."

Sparing only a glance, Richard trained his attention on the sword. "Pen, a lady shouldn’t sit so."

The lady in question snorted. "Don’t be such a boor, Richard. And do pay attention; I’m more important than a sword."

Exhaling to hold his frustration in check, Richard set the weapon down. He’d awakened to an infinite number of aches in the morning, barely able to move from the bed. Slumped in a nearby chair, Sir Thomas looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Both men spent the morning working the stiffness from their muscles. A trip to the healer had helped Richard, who'd departed with bound ribs. Though the bruises on his face had feathered to yellow, those on his neck deepened into raisin-dark blotches, starkly visible against his whey-colored skin. His mobility wasn’t much better than it had been the previous eve.

As though sensing his physical discomfort, Penelope arched a needle-thin brow. "You will be able to dance with me this evening, won’t you? I was the one who told Armus about Geoffrey. If anyone deserves a ‘thank you’ I believe it’s me. And please do wear a scarf this evening to cover those horrible bruises. Baron Stafford will think you uncouth otherwise."

Pressing his lips together, Richard offered a tart smile. "Thank you."

The girl frowned. "Is that all? Any gentleman of breeding would recognize the need for a kiss."

Concerned, Richard grew suddenly preoccupied with the polishing instruments on his desk. It never failed to amaze him that he could wrap most women around his little finger, and yet this fifteen-year-old girl unnerved him to the core. "Don’t you have something to do?"

Like the spoiled child she was, Penelope grinned brashly. "I’m waiting."

"Oh, very well," Richard snapped, knowing he would have no peace otherwise. Pushing from the chair, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "There¾ " But as he started to draw away she snagged his shoulders, holding him in place, brazenly pressing her mouth against his. Startled, he had enough presence of mind to keep his lips tightly closed. Giggling, Penelope released him.

Richard felt the heat rise to his face. Bristling, he straightened to his full height "Dear God, you’re fifteen years old! Would you stop acting like a.... "

"Be careful, My Lord." Penelope wagged a reproachful finger. "As deliciously handsome as you are, I’ll brook no insults."

"Richard?" Cedric appeared in the doorway saving him from further embarrassment. His younger brother appeared oddly excited, the flush of color high on his face. "Richard, come quick. Father wants you in the Great Hall."

Alarmed, by the tone of his voice, Richard felt his own anxiety grow. "Why? What’s wrong?"

"Just come! Now!" Cedric said, and disappeared from the room. Exchanging a puzzled glance with Penelope, Richard extended his hand and led Lord Brandleford’s daughter from the room.

As reported, his father waited in the Great Hall. Armus and Eleanor were present, along with Lord Brandleford and the newly returned Cedric. Leading Lady Penelope into the throng, Richard released her to her father’s side. With a questioning glance for Sir Thomas, Richard turned his attention on the remaining two men in the hall.

The Earl of Sunbury had returned, along with another. Although Wistler appeared as dark and glowering as when they’d parted, the man beside him was decidedly cordial. Tall and thin, with a light-complexion and cinnamon-colored hair, he looked almost familiar. Disturbed by the awareness of features he couldn’t place, Richard wet his lips. The man -- not much older than him -- was modestly dressed in black breeches and jerkin, with a blue linen undershirt. Though unpretentious, the cut of the garments was clearly at a premium cost. A belt of black leather held a sheathed sword at his side; the detailing on the pommel marking it as a well-crafted blade.

Sensing Richard’s bewilderment, Thomas stepped to his side. "May I present my son Richard, Your Highness."

"Highness?" Richard choked. Realizing at last whom he was addressing, Richard dropped obediently to one knee. Bracing an arm across his leg, he bowed his head. "I’m sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t realize.... "

"And how would you, as we’ve never met?" His Royal Highness, Frederick Uther Ives Chadwyk, extended his hand. "Rise, Sir Richard. ‘Tis I who should pay acquiescence to you." Reaching inside his tunic, he withdrew a gold chain bearing the medallion. "Had you not kept this safe, at cost of your own life, England would lack clear succession to the throne. When Malcom told me how he’d pressed you into service, I insisted on meeting you and relaying my gratitude in person."

Standing, Richard inclined his head. "I’m honored to have been of assistance, Your Highness."

Green eyes flickered to the Earl, as he tried to judge the other’s mood. Richard felt oddly detached from the circumstances. He’d never imagined his chance encounter with Wistler would produce such far-reaching ramifications.

Frederick unbuckled his sword. "Please accept this with my sincerest gratitude, Richard -- a mere token for the service you’ve rendered me -- along with the vow that you shall always have a friend near the throne."

Mouth suddenly dry, words failing him, Richard stared. For the first time in his life, his confidence utterly deserted him. Standing behind his shoulder, Thomas gave him an unobtrusive nudge forward. Immediately, the touch restored his poise. Extending his hands, Richard accepted the sword. "You bestow too great an honor, Your Highness. I remain your true and faithful servant."

Obviously impressed by his decorum, the Earl of Sunbury arched a brow. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Richard Grey."

After the final pleasantries were exchanged and the royal party had departed, Richard gratefully slouched into a high-backed chair. Releasing a pent-up breath, he swung one leg over the scrolled arm, quietly marveling at the gift he’d been granted.

"Well don’t just stare at it; unsheath the bloody thing," Armus insisted. Glancing up, Richard found his older brother standing before him, thick hands planted on his hips. With a sheepish grin, Richard complied.

Thomas and Cedric moved within range as he pulled the weapon free. "Not very fancy, is it?" Cedric remarked with obvious disappointment.

Thomas scowled at his youngest. "It’s not a ceremonial blade, Cedric."

"No, it’s serviceable," Richard agreed. Though the hilt bore exquisite detailing, the blade was clearly meant for battle. Fine nicks scored the edges, attesting to the use it had already seen. Standing, Richard tested the balance, deftly rolling his wrist as he worked the sword through a quick series of feints and thrusts. "I’d rather a blade I can use, than a gift to collect dust on the wall."

Relenting, Cedric rolled his shoulders. "It does seem well made in your hands."

"That’s the touch of an expert swordsman," Thomas remarked. There was pride in his voice as he gazed at Richard.

Behind him, Lord Brandleford chuckled. "Your son is quite the hero, Thomas."

"Yes, he is, isn’t he?" Penelope gushed. Aware of her adoring stare, Richard swallowed uneasily. From the corner of his eye he saw Armus bite away a grin. Even Sir Thomas appeared vaguely amused. Fighting to temper his annoyance, Richard sheathed the sword. He could feel himself growing defensive.

"I think the hero needs some rest if he’s going to escort a young lady to Baron Stafford’s this evening," Thomas intervened before any further sport could be made of his mercurial son. "Excuse us, please." Snagging Richard by the arm, Thomas pulled him from the room. Hooking an arm around his son shoulders, he kept pace at his side as they proceeded down the hall. "You are too easily rattled, Richard. The girl is infatuated with you. She’ll outgrow it as she matures, and you’ll no doubt miss the attention."

Richard’s disbelieving gaze sidled to his father. "Not bloody likely."

"Then pretend." Thomas drew his son to a halt. "I want you to be the perfect gentleman tonight. See that Lady Penelope has an enjoyable time. She and her father will be leaving tomorrow afternoon, so you only need to get through this evening. Surely that’s not asking too much of a hero?"

"You’re making sport of me," Richard said, but he grinned. "Very well, Sir; I’ll make the evening memorable."

***********

Baron Stafford was a pudding-faced man with fleshy jowls and long-lashed blue eyes. Inherently jovial, he had a breezy manner that effortlessly put the staunchest of nobles at ease. Though Richard usually enjoyed his visits to the Baron’s sprawling castle, he was much too preoccupied this evening to relax. Penelope clung possessively to his arm, chatting incessantly about everything from the price of turnips to Lady Theresa’s beaded headdress. After a time, Richard managed to tune out the constant drone, nodding appropriately when Penelope paused for air, or offering an occasional smile as encouragement. As she demanded most of his time, Richard had little opportunity to speak with the other guests.

He had dressed carefully this evening, forsaking his usual leathers in favor of refined silk. Dressed in black breeches and boots, he wore an emerald tunic, threaded with gold on the collar and cuffs. The dusky hue of the richly tailored shirt deepened the green of his eyes to moss. A black scarf, artfully tucked within the tunic, concealed the bruises on his neck while remaining fashionable. By contrast Penelope wore a becoming gown of silver-blue, her blonde hair secured on the top of her head with a delicate garland of intertwining ribbon. The gown hugged her slender body, clearly chosen to accentuate budding curves. Richard felt sick for even noticing.

"Let me get you something to drink," he said to Penelope, mainly because he needed a moment of freedom. They’d been at the dinner party a few hours now. The surrounding tables were laden with food, everything from venison to mutton; capons to broiled fish and roast chicken. An abundance of vegetables and fruit complimented pastries, cheeses, cakes and wafers. Pages scurried back and forth, ensuring no one went with an empty cup, while minstrels struck up a tune for dancing.

"Just summon a page," Penelope said.

Gently Richard disentangled his arm. "I don’t mind -- really." His skin felt hot from the possessive permanence of her grip. Before she could protest, he slipped into the crowd, distractedly looking for the wine barrels.

"Good evening, My Lord," a smooth voice intoned at his shoulder. With a flutter of anticipation, Richard turned to find Baron Stafford’s daughter watching him expectantly. It suddenly occurred to him what he most enjoyed about his visits to the ornate castle.

A brash smile quirked his lips. "Lady Corinne. You look...." he paused, taking in her low cut gown and tight, beaded bodice. "¾ utterly fetching." Catching her hand, he brought her fingertips to his lips.

Corinne was two years younger with rich auburn hair and smoke gray eyes. Arching one finely shaped brow, she canted her head to the side. "Who is that dreadful girl, who’s been monopolizing your time all evening?"

Richard lowered his arm, but did not release her hand. His expression neutral, he tracked his thumb slowly over her knuckles. "I’m surprised you don’t know; t’was your father who invited her."

Corinne smiled tartly. "The infamously outspoken Lady Penelope."

Richard scowled. He really did not care to discuss Penelope. Though it had been weeks since he’d last seen Corinne, the feel of her fingers twined with his, awakened a restless desire for intimacy. The very touch of her hand, made him yearn to reaffirm their mutual affection.

A quick glance over his shoulder, revealed they stood on the edge of shadowed alcove. A few simple steps would easily conceal them from the throng in the outer hall. Acting quickly,

Richard tugged his frequent romantic partner into the corridor. Once they’d rounded the corner, he pulled her into the alcove, pressing her back to the wall. "I’ve missed you," he whispered, as his mouth descended on hers. Responsive at first, Corinne grew rigid and turned her face away.

"You’ve no right to behave so familiarly when you haven’t seen me in weeks. Have you no shame, Richard?"

Unaccustomed to her rebuff, he frowned. "I was in Tresmont."

"Stealing kisses from a dairy maid, no doubt."

Chuckling softly, Richard stroked her cheek. "What’s this? My fiery Corinne displaying claws?" Coiling his fingers behind her neck, he gently claimed her lips in a tentative kiss. "You’d have us argue when my time is limited. Lady Penelope will be hunting me like a hound on the chase."

"You are despicable," Corinne returned, but there was no malice in the rebuttal. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she opened her mouth beneath his. Richard tugged her tightly against him, molding her body close. His injuries seemed trifling when she lowered her hands to thoroughly explore the tight planes of his battered chest and ribs. Encouraged by her willingness, Richard cupped her breast, lightly feathering his thumb across the nipple.

Corinne pulled away. "Not here," she whispered huskily. Claiming his wrist, she tugged him from the alcove. "Come with me! "

"Corinne. " Richard gave a short laugh. "There’s no time for any greater acquaintance."

"Please, My Lord," she persisted, suddenly coy. Unable to resist the allure of her staged surrender, Richard allowed her to lead him into the lower levels of the keep.

**********

"Penelope you look upset. Is there anything I can do?" Stopping by the bench where the blonde-haired girl sat with two other women he didn’t know, Armus tried to appear helpful. He’d seen the irritable look in her eyes enough times to recognize it for the danger it was.

Folding her arms across her chest, Penelope glared at Armus. "It’s that brother of yours. He left to get me wine ages ago, and hasn’t returned. If I didn’t know better I’d think he were.... "

Armus held up his hand to stop any off-color thoughts. Only recently he’d learned about Richard’s frequent visits to the Baron’s daughter. It didn’t take a genius to decipher where his philandering brother might be.

"Don’t worry, Penelope; I’ll find him." The vow made, Armus disappeared into the crowd.

***********

"Corinne, I don’t know that this is such a good idea."

"Ssh . . . everyone’s at the gala. Even the servants are at the castle." Pushing her sometimes lover into the stable, Corinne backed him into a bed of warm straw. The outside air was frigid, making her breath plume in the air. No longer protesting, Richard kneeled in the hay, drawing her down beside him. Her fingers fumbled with the sash of his tunic, tugging the black silk free. "You know, Richard, this arrangement of ours has gone on much too long." Only half listening, Richard trailed kisses over her neck. "I would have thought you’d asked to marry me by now."

"Marry?" As though doused with icy water, Richard wrenched backwards. Every passionate instinct he’d had, withered into dust. "Corinne, Love¾ " Gently he touched her cheek. "Think of what you’re saying."

"Oh, I have." Uncoiling the scarf from his neck, she let it trail from her fingers. Even in the murky dark of the stable, the bruises on his skin were visible. "The truth is, I’m the daughter of a Baron, destined to wed ranking nobility. You are the second son of a landholder, unlikely to inherit the sum of my dowry."

Richard shrugged. "Exactly. So why would we marry?" Gripping her shoulders, he smiled disarmingly. "I thought you’d brought me here for pleasure, not words."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "How can you be so utterly blind? Don’t you understand that I love you? That I would have given anything for you, except this rejection?"

"Rejection?" Confused, Richard sat back on his haunches. Somehow the situation had gone from playful to serious. "Corinne, even from the beginning, there was never any promise between us."

"No," she agreed bitterly. "And yet, I am the gossip of servants and squires, who say you betray me with common wenches. Me! The daughter of a Baron, whom you would carelessly toss aside for any chambermaid willing to spread her legs."

"Corinne!" Shocked by her crudeness, Richard rose to his feet. He’d never seen her like this. Though she looked beautiful, staring up at him with wide eyes and tumbled hair, he suddenly thought her abhorrently ugly. "You’ve lost your composure, Lady. I suggest you find it, before you address me again."

"No, no," a coarse voice insisted. "Let me.... "

Before Richard could turn, he was grabbed from behind. A foul-smelling cloth descended over his mouth and nose. Raising his hands, he tugged at the massive forearms pinning him in a crushing embrace. A sickening scent filled his head¾ a tangled mixture of earth worms, hot metal and decay.

All too quickly the world faded to black.

***********

"Come on, come on."

Richard groaned as the clipped voice dragged him back to consciousness. Gradually, he became aware of a presence hovering over him. A disembodied face floated in the darkness, solidifying into a ragged beard, sunken cheeks and close-set eyes.

"Didn’t like me balm, did ye?" The voice grated through Richard’s mind like a saw-toothed dagger. Realizing whom it was that loomed over him, Richard tried to recoil. Belatedly, he realized he was lying on his back in the mound of straw, hands bound behind him with his own scarf. In similar fashion, his ankles were secured by his sash, the restrictive binding, making movement almost impossible. A torch sputtered on one wall, casting a wane halo of flickering light over the hay-littered floor. With a start, Richard realized Corinne was nowhere in sight. Fearing for her safety, he tried to squirm free.

Grinning, Bort placed a massive knee over his thighs, pinning him in place. "We never did finish our conversation." Thick fingers twined cruelly around Richard’s neck, reawakening a panicked memory of depleting air. Heart pounding, the younger man tried to think rationally.

"The King’s Guard is looking for you, Bort. By lingering here, you’re risking capture."

"I need money to get out o’ the country," the other returned with perfect aplomb. Little by little his fingers tightened, until Richard was left gasping for air. "That lass you deserted shy o’ the marriage bed, ‘as been friendly wi’ Geoffrey. She’s taken ‘er father’s money ‘n the two ‘o them are leavin.’ A portion o’ that purse ‘is mine! " Bort’s thick lips stretched in a wolfish grin. "After I kill ye. Seems the lass can ‘old a grudge, eh?"

Corinne had betrayed him! The thought mocked him even as he struggled for air. Twisting futility beneath the larger man, Richard realized he hadn’t the strength or mobility to overpower Bort. Splintered beads of blackness danced before his eyes as torturous pressure built in his chest. He heard the rasp and wheeze of his escaping breath; felt the molten edge of a phantom knife as it lacerated the inside of his throat. Slowly, the world began to slip away.

"Get off him, you bastard!"

The furious room marked Armus entrance into the stable. The fair-haired giant stepped through the low doorway in time to see his younger brother pinned to the straw. Richard’s arms were bound behind him, his head thrown back in the moldy bed of hay. He twisted futility, grimacing, as he tried to escape the ogre-sized villager gleefully throttling his neck. Incensed beyond reason, Armus grabbed the repulsive man by his collar and propelled him across the barn.

Freed, Richard rolled onto his side and vomited.

"Damn it." Kneeling in the hay, Armus tentatively touched his brother’s forehead. Richard uttered a dry, croaked sound, all the warning Armus had before Bort’s shadow fell across him. Consumed with murderous rage, Armus rose to the attack. He moved swiftly, despite his cumbersome size, driving his stone-solid fist into Bort’s fleshy stomach. Even as the repugnant man doubled over, Armus snagged his tunic, and wrenched him upright. His knuckles cracked against the villager’s jaw, spinning his head to the side. "I should kill you for what you’ve done to him." Though Bort stumbled, Armus refused to let go. He struck again and again, consumed by near-berserker rage, until the black-bearded man fell senseless at his feet. Chest heaving, Armus stood staring down at him, blue eyes blazing hatred and anger. Only then did he think to glance at Richard.

Stomach empty, his younger brother had recovered. Somehow Richard had managed to free his wrists. Sitting upright, long hair tumbled over his brow, he applied numb fingers to the binding on his ankles. Bits of straw clung to his clothing and hung snarled in the unkempt waves of his hair. Dropping to his knees, Armus brushed his hands aside, and bent his own fingers to the sash.

Richard’s eyes tracked to the unconscious Bort, noting the bloody cuts on his face. Biting his lip, Richard studied his brother’s bowed head. "Thanks for the intervention. Do me a favor and remind me not to upset you." Though the words were meant to be light, the shorn quality of his voice made Armus grimace. Reaching forward, Richard gripped his brother’s shoulder and used him as a brace as he pushed to his feet.

"I’ve got to go after Geoffrey and Corinne."

Bewildered, Armus rose. "Corinne?"

Lacing a hand through his unruly hair, Richard shook his head. He could taste the sour aftertang of bile in his mouth; feel the inflamed tissue of his raw throat. "It’s too complicated to explain. Did you bring a sword?"

"On my horse." The words had no sooner left his lips then Armus regretted them. Abruptly realizing what his brother intended, Armus trailed on Richard’s heels as he moved towards an open stall. With a settling pat for Armus’s steed, Richard unhooked a belted scabbard from the saddle horn. Drawing the blade, he let his eyes skim over the surface. The weapon felt heavy and cumbersome in his hand, balanced for his much larger brother.

"This will have to do." Buckling the sword over his slim hips, Richard started past his brother. He was halfway from the stall when Armus snagged his arm, pulling him to a halt.

"Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough punishment for awhile? Let me go."

"It’s my problem," Richard said flatly. Turning his head, he indicated the unconscious Bort. "You need to restrain him in Stafford’s dungeon until the King’s Guard can be summoned. While you’re doing that, you can explain my absence to father and Lady Penelope."

Unconvinced, Armus hesitated. "Give me a few moments while I summon a page."

"Armus, Geoffrey is my concern!" The finality of Richard’s words rang through the stable, shuddering to stillness. Reluctantly, the fair-haired man nodded. Experience had taught him there’d be no bartering with Richard once the younger man had set his mind. Realizing the situation with Geoffrey had grown too personal, Armus moved out of the way. He watched silently as Richard swung into the saddle. The painful inflexibility of his brother’s movements was so unlike his normal agility, it left Armus woefully uneasy.

"Do take care," he said softly. And then Richard was past him, urging his horse into the thick ebon folds of the autumn night.

***********

"Where is the money?" Geoffrey demanded of Corinne. Heedless of her pain, he pinned her back to a tree, merciless fingers crushing the delicate bones in her wrist. Nearby, the horses that had brought them to the fawning copse of sycamore, stood placid -- oblivious to the savage interplay between copper-haired man and frightened woman. "Answer me!" Geoffrey hissed. Gripping Corinne’s shoulders, he shook her roughly. When a terrified gasp was her only reply, he struck her across the face.

Sobbing, Corinne hung her head. "I hate you. You promised to marry me. You said you were wealthy, but all you ever really wanted was my dowry."

"Give me the coin, Corinne."

"Let her go," Richard said flatly, emerging suddenly from the sheltering ring of trees. His unexpected presence startled both. Silvered by the onion-pale light of a sickle moon, he appeared almost insubstantial, a wraith lingering in the half glow of celestial dust and shadow.

Tears bright on her cheeks, Corinne begged his aide. "Richard, please help me."

His expression stony, Richard glanced in her direction. "A knight is required to protect all life, no matter how worthless or abhorrent it might be." Releasing his reins, he dismounted and drew his sword. "We have unfinished business, Geoffrey; begun long ago in a garden." Though his voice was rasp, the hard edge of his glittering eyes conveyed clear contempt.

Sneering, the copper-haired man shoved Corinne aside. Unsheathing his blade, he performed a mock bow. "I’m no knight, but I’ve still the skill to outstrip a sapling like you."

Taunts ceased as Geoffrey moved forward. Raising Armus’s cumbersome blade, Richard initiated the first clang of metal on metal. The swords clattered together then grated apart, as each man moved warily around the other. Adrenaline masking the numerous aches in his body, Richard rose his arm to strike again. Unaccustomed to the balance of Armus’s sword and hampered by its excessive weight, he misjudged the thrust and the blow fell wide. Emboldened by the victory, Geoffrey danced free.

It soon grew apparent, what the copper-haired lacked in skill, he compensated for in audacity. Leaving himself momentarily exposed, Geoffrey whirled to the side, raising his sword in a double-fisted grip. As the blade angled down, Richard felt a whoosh of air fan across his cheek. Twisting clear, he barely escaped the cutting edge of the beaten blade as it arced within inches of his throat.

Cursing the failure, Geoffrey struck again. As the minutes lapsed, his blows became frenzied; strung in rapid succession. Breathing heavily -- the rush of cold air sadistic torture to his bruised throat -- Richard fought to hold Armus’s heavy sword aloft. The sheer magnitude of the massive weapon tore at his muscles, depleting his fragile stamina.

Realizing he couldn’t last much longer, Richard pressed the attack. Moonlight glinted off his sword as he hefted the weapon in a glittering arc. The weighted edge crashed against Geoffrey’s weapon with staggering intensity. There followed a grating rasp of metal on metal, and then the lighter blade buckled beneath the force. Cleanly and efficiently, Richard extended his arm and thrust deeply into Geoffrey’s side.

For a moment there was only silence, and then the white shell of Geoffrey’s face crumbled inward. Still impaled on Richard’s disemboweling blade, Geoffrey screamed.

Wrenching the sword free, Richard stepped backwards. A heated shower of blood spewed from the hole in Geoffrey’s side, sluicing through the folds of his tattered jerkin. Eyes boggling in his head, the copper-haired man blindly groped at the gaping wound. His mouth pumped soundlessly, lips translucent and gray, like the underbelly of a fish. Within mere moments, death veiled his eyes, toppling him still and broken to the ground.

With a whimper of terror, Corinne bolted for her horse.

"I’m afraid not, My Lady." Richard snagged her wrist before she had taken three steps. Terrified, her eyes tracked from his face to the blood-drenched sword in his hand. With an ironic twist of his lips, Richard gave a slight shake of his head. "Women don’t die by the sword, Corinne. The block is for those who aid enemies of the Crown." Roughly he pulled her towards his horse. "If you’ve any thought at all for your father, you’ll ride back with dignity. Don’t make me take that from you too."

Bowing her head, softly weeping, Corinne nodded. Richard sheathed his sword and moved to collect the horses.

Behind him -- shrouded in the pale haze of moonlight -- Geoffrey Whelan’s body served as a bitter reminder of the high cost of treason.

**********

Tight-lipped and sullen, Lady Penelope kept pace at Richard’s side. Though the afternoon sun was bright and golden, buttering the ground with yellow warmth, Richard thought his companion excessively frigid. She’d spoken barely two words to him since he’d deserted her the previous evening at Baron Stafford’s soiree. Though Bort and Corinne had been remanded to the company of the King’s Guard, and Geoffrey’s body retrieved, Richard still felt unsettled. Perhaps it was the oddly distressing feeling that his actions might have indirectly hurt Penelope. Even now, her carriage waited in the outer courtyard, ready to escort her and her father to their home in Faglemoore. In a last ditch effort to ease the tension between them, Richard reached for her hand.

"Penelope, how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?"

Unappeased, she snatched her fingers away. "That depends; how many kisses did you share with that puffed-up tart who betrayed the King?"

Richard sighed. Though he’d long grown accustomed to her brashness, her words rattled him nonetheless. They were terribly out of place on the tongue of a spindly child. "Doesn’t it matter to you that I was almost killed? Twice!"

She uttered a soft snort of derision. "By a brainless peasant, and that pompous ass, Geoffrey Whelan? I’d expect no less from any man with even a shred of competence. Fortunately for you I haven’t a sword, or you’d be facing a third."

Richard pressed his lips together. "You really shouldn’t talk so."

"About asses or killing?"

"That’s it!" Catching her arm, Richard drew her to an abrupt halt. They’d yet to reach the edge of the inner courtyard, and already Richard could feel his patience slipping. It probably was best that she boarded her carriage and left as soon as possible -- before he was tempted to strangle her. "If you’d stop trying to shock me with your crassness, and tried behaving like a lady. "

"How can I, when you keep reminding me I’m a child?"

"Pen, you’re all of fifteen."

Definitely, she raised her chin. "My sister knew the marriage bed at thirteen. That makes me practically ancient. Aside from which, I will be sixteen in two weeks. And you, My Lord, will not be invited to the festivities if you persist in acting like a boor."

"Vow of honor?"

"Richard!"

Chuckling, he let go of her arm. There was something almost appealing about the flush of anger on her face. Feeling suddenly selfish for abandoning her the previous night, Richard touched her chin. "I’m sorry for letting my . . . passions . . . get the better of me yesterday. I really had hoped to make your time at the Baron’s gala enjoyable. I’m not as reprehensible as you may think."

Penelope didn’t soften. "You’ve yet to redeem yourself."

"Perhaps this will." Leaning forward, Richard claimed her lips in a soft kiss. Though neither intimate nor chaste, the exchange was sweet. When he drew back, she was smiling, a warm flush of color brightening her cheeks.

Somewhat mischievously, Penelope dipped her lashes. "My mistake. I imagine you’ll receive an invitation, after all."

***********

With a last wave for the departing carriage, Richard turned towards Sir Thomas. "Please, Father, no more visitors for awhile."

Feigning confusion, Thomas glanced at his three other children, who were gathered nearby. Even the friar had shown to bid Lord Brandleford and his daughter farewell. "I don’t understand Richard. Are you implying you didn’t have an enjoyable few days with Lady Penelope?"

"Father." Richard’s glance was barbed. "The word ‘enjoyable’ is an implausibility when placed in the same context as Lady Penelope. I just want to forget this last week ever happened."

Thomas coughed lightly into his hand. "She was indirectly responsible for saving your life, you know."

"And she didn’t lose her temper when she’d discovered you deserted her in favor of Lady Corinne," Armus inserted.

"And she behaved admirably when Lord Darton asked what became of her escort," Cedric concurred.

"And " Eleanor attempted.

"All right!" Holding up both hands, Richard backed away. "I admit it; I’m a hopelessly despicable cad with a tarnished sense of honor where women are concerned -- at least that woman."

Eleanor raised her brows. "I thought she was a girl."

"Leave me alone." Turning about, Richard stalked across the courtyard.

Chuckling, Thomas watched him depart. "Do you think I should tell him Lord Brandleford expects us in two weeks?"

Armus grinned. "Judging by his reaction, I’d hazard he already knows."

*****End*****

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