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?"