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Chapter Seven

Britain, the Beginning, Five Years Later

"King's Champion indeed," said Elaine, rousing from her doze. "I think you've ridden more oft for me."

Richard smiled and shifted his weight from her. "And you've ridden me enough to be the Queen's Champion."

She chuckled softly, moving so he could lie on his back with her cradled in his arms across his chest. Hers was a virgin's narrow bed, but he had no complaint for the warm closeness of it. "The queen would not be pleased to hear that," she said. "All the court knows she loves you."

"But no more than the court does itself," he countered, well aware of his own popularity. "I do not seek her favor."

"Yet she would give her heart to thee as easily as I have, as would the other maids and dames."

" 'Tis none of mine what they would do. Why speak of it?"

"Because, sweet Lancelot, it is my greatest pleasure to know that above all those others I am the one you chose to bed."

In reply Richard brushed his lips against her temple, and kept the truth to himself of just how many of those ladies he'd bedded in the years since his arrival at court. He'd been discreet about his various liaisons, so much so that many thought him more chaste than a monk. For some reason, this distinction made the women all the more fascinated with him.

Elaine was as unaware of his many mistresses as they were of each other. A delicate juggling act, but Richard managed it quite well, perhaps too well. Though a dear girl, Elaine possessed dreams for him of a future with her he could never fulfill. Already she had been hinting about his speaking to her father for her hand as though it was an inevitability.

"In my memory," he finally said, "it was you who chose me."

"What matters so long as we are together?" She sighed with vast contentment, burrowing snugly against him. "What matters so long as it lasts forever?"

That she spoke thus told him he would have to soon conclude things with her. He'd heard such from other girls when he walked in the sun, and with no small chagrin knew it would be so with future lovers. Why did some of them have to make a simple union so much more than it was? Even when they professed their understanding that a tryst was to be no more than a satisfying of mutual desire, they would change their minds afterward. Sabra had troubled to explain all the reasons to him. Several times. Still he was mystified. Sometimes it was just easier to simply pay for a woman's favors—and the blood that he took—than to deal with the complexities of mutual seduction.

He would have to soon supplant his will over Elaine's wishes and make her forget about their stolen nights together. Or at least persuade her from this dream of marrying him. That could never be, and the sooner she accepted it, the better for them both.

Not tonight, though. They'd enjoyed each other thoroughly here in her chamber in her father's keep; no need to vitiate the current good feeling with base practicalities. Richard had gone to some effort to gain entry, hoisting himself up the timbered sides of the building—his vampire's strength making the task easy—to climb through her window. Elaine had enthusiastically welcomed him for some months now, prettily delighting in their secret sport as though she'd never known its like. Well, she'd never known Richard's like, that was a surety.

She slept still in a virgin's bed, but had probably not slept as a virgin since her first moon as a young woman; her skills in love were too certain for him to believe her claim that he alone had received her maidenhead. The only blood he'd seen from her was that which he'd taken from her veins when they loved. As with the others he fed from, he was ever careful to remove that from their recollections. Other memories and intents required more effort and care.

But still . . . Elaine was such a lovely girl, fair of face and with a lushness and grace of form as to stir a statue to life. Even now he felt a decided stirring within from the thought alone . . .

Enough. He would soon have to bring this intimacy to a close before anyone found them out. Elaine herself might let something slip—more likely on purpose than by accident—in an attempt to achieve her fantasy of marriage. Her father would be annoyed at her seeming deflowering by Lancelot, but not so much as to deny himself the status of having the king's rich champion for a son-in-law.

Elaine reached across to the little table by the bed. Richard thought she might thirst, but instead of taking the wine cup, she picked up a small crockery jar.

"What's this?" he asked as she settled back again.

Her bright eyes danced with mischief. "A love potion."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. An old wife at the tourney fair told me that no man could withstand its power."

"And so you wish to test it on me?"

"Indeed. If it gives you no pleasure, then I will know her for a liar."

"Am I to drink it then?"

"Only from my lips." She sipped a little from the jar, then placed her mouth over his. On her tongue he tasted honey and cloves and other rare flavors before she drew away. "Is it working? Are you in love with me yet?"

There was no harm in playing along with her new game. He could always change things later. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you must try again."

Instead of kissing him, she moved farther down his body. "Yes, perhaps I shall." He watched with amused interest as she let fall a fat thread of her potion onto his manhood. She spread the stuff with her fingers, enjoying his swift response to her touch. "The old wife told the truth it seems."

"So far as it goes, yes." He put no credence in love potions, only in Elaine's presence and what she was doing to him.

"Then must I test it a little more." She bent her head, her mouth enclosing him, capturing his full attention. He lay back with an appreciative sigh and gently stroked her hair, his heartbeat quickening as she worked on him.

Some time later she paused to inspect her results. "Indeed, she told the truth. You do love me."

For this night at least, sweet girl, he thought. He sat up and took the jar from her. She sat up in turn, facing him, smiling. He smeared a few drops onto each of her breasts, then did his best to lick and kiss them clean again, until she shivered and moaned in her need for him.

But he held off, knowing that some delays were better for the wait.

They passed the honey concoction back and forth, laughing, each hushing the other lest someone hear. It would not do to have Elaine's father or brothers bursting in upon them.

Richard cherished the taste of her, the salt essence beneath the honey. Her skin was cloud-smooth, her least reaction to his questing fingers adding immeasurably to his own excitement. How precious it was, how rare, and yet so brief.

These fragile children abide with us but a little while and then are gone. 

Sabra's words came to him even as he embraced Elaine. The girl in his arms would die and go to dust while he lived on. He faltered, looking long at her young face, as though to discern if death's shadow already lay upon her.

"What is it, Lord du Lac?"

He shook his head. A thousand words or none were equally inadequate. It was not something she could ever understand. "Time is so short," he murmured. Short for thee, my pretty one. He held her close, as if to keep her mortality at bay by his will alone. Futile gesture, but it made her gasp with joyance for his eagerness.

She will think her potion worked. Perhaps it has, for this night, for this hour. 

When their want became near unbearable, they coupled once more. She wrapped her strong legs around Richard, heels locked at the small of his back, her hips rocking hard against his. He kissed her mouth and her eyes, his hands moving on her until the first shudder of her climax began to take her.

Only then did he bite hard into the firm flesh of her throat.

She started to cry out, but he pressed his palm over her mouth, smothering the sound. Her breath came fast and harsh as he supped, drawing out the red ecstasy of her life even as she took his seed from him. He made it last for them both until she lay half swooning in his arms from sheer exhaustion.

"None," she whispered, her head lolling on his shoulder.

"Mm?" He was fair exhausted himself, but not for long. Eyes shut, he savored the heat of her blood flowing within him, renewing his strength.

"None pleasure me as do you," she murmured.

So far gone was she that she'd forgotten her claim that Richard was her first. He smiled and caressed her thick hair, letting the moment be.

He left a few hours before dawn, dropping to land silent in the dewy turf beneath her window, then looking round to make sure no one had seen. He wore no armor, nothing that would make a noise, but the moon was high. Its silver light could be deceptive to normal human eyes, but would serve to reveal an intruder; he kept to the shadows. To Richard it was like a sunny day, and he made use of his advantage, slipping across to the outer wall, his passage unnoticed by the sleepy sentry watching the gate. It was the work of a moment to take the man from behind and persuade him to blind obedience. Blind insofar as Richard's presence was concerned. The guard would have no recollection of letting anyone out through the small door set in the gate.

Richard could have climbed the keep's curtain wall and thence to the dry moat below, but saw no necessity for the extra effort. His powers to influence were harmless to others and most advantageous when he was on the hunt. Though he could have more safely fed from any number of servant girls, he had yet to tire of the sport of seducing—and being seduced by—their mistresses. Besides, a hasty feeding in some dark corner of a hall with a giggling wench was not nearly as satisfying as a slow loving of a giggling lady. Of course, there had been occasions when he took his time with the wenches as well. . . .

His horse still waited, ground-tied where he'd left it in a hollow just out of sight from the walls. The dogs, Prince and Merlin, kept it company, better guards than the one he'd just influenced to let him out. They yawned hugely, shaking themselves awake for the lope home. He tightened the saddle girth and mounted, kicking the horse to a canter. The clean night air cooled his face and cleansed his spirit. He would sleep until the forenoon, then ready himself for the coming day's tournament.

Light showed in his tent by the lake. Nothing remarkable in that; his people were accustomed to his night rambles, but as he dismounted and gave the reins to a waiting servant, he saw he had company.

Sabra stood holding open the door flap, smiling, her dark brown hair undone and hanging freely to her waist. How he loved to play with it.

Prince and Merlin bounded forward to welcome her, tails fiercely wagging.

"Such good boys," she said, petting them before they knocked her over in their excitement. "Did you care well for your master?"

"You've turned them into lap warmers," said Richard affably, watching as his great and deadly hunters fawned upon her like puppies.

Sabra laughed once and pulled him inside, their kiss of greeting long and warming. The dogs snorted and stretched themselves on the tent's carpeted floor to finish their naps.

"I thought you would yet be with the queen's company," he said.

"She decided to see the tourney after all, and the cortege arrived an hour after dusk. She gave me leave to depart. I was told you'd left before then."

"I hungered."

"Ah. Is it still Elaine, or has another caught your eye?"

"Elaine it is. Do you mind?"

Sabra shook her head, not as a reply, but to express fond patience. "Richard, you know well that I don't. There's no need to ask."

"It concerns me, so I will."

She kissed away his concern. "You'll want sleep. Come to bed." She took his hand, leading him to the broad spread of furs, pillows, and blankets he was accustomed to resting on during the day. Much wider than a normal bed, he could fair sprawl on it, his big frame unencumbered by the limits of an ordinary pallet. Some thought it a sinful excess on his part, having such an extravagance solely for the repose of his body, but he ignored them. He fought hard on behalf of his new king; it was only his just due to have a comfortable place to recover himself.

Sabra put out the oil lamps and helped him undress, her hands lingering familiarly over him. He caught them, bringing them up to kiss.

"I've sorely missed you, my lady." And he wanted her. Always.

"And I, you, but you've much to do on the morrow."

Regrettably, she was right, but the weeks she'd been away traveling with the queen's party had been weary to him for lack of her company. No matter whom he bedded, or how many, none could fill his heart as Sabra did.

"Do you hunger?" he asked, slipping her loose robe from her shoulders and drawing her onto the bed with him. He pulled a coverlet over their nakedness, to protect them from the cool of the late spring night.

She nestled comfortably against him. "I've fed."

"Who was it?"

She chuckled. "In truth, I know not. Some lad whose duty was to fetch water for the horses. On one of his trips he took a little longer than usual to complete his errand, and he will not be able to say why."

"Handsome?"

"Oh, yes, like a young god he was."

"Do you love him?"

"No more than you love Elaine."

He took the gentle point with good grace and kissed her brow. Once upon a time he'd have burned with inner rage, but no more. This was how life was for them, and he'd dealt well with what had been his most difficult adjustment to it, rooting out all jealousy over Sabra having lovers to feed from. Certainly she showed none toward him for his conquests. They did have an unspoken rule, though; both took care to keep out of each other's way when on the hunt. It was one thing to speak of other partners, but quite another to witness the seduction itself.

"What if they were like us?" he asked, staring up at the dim roof of his tent. "Able to live beyond their years, ageless and young forever?"

"What of it?"

"Their lives are short, so we must not love them too strongly, but if they also had the Goddess's Gift, would it make a difference to us?"

"You know it would not."

And she was right. He'd only wanted to hear her say it.

"Were you thinking to share blood with any of them?" There was concern in her tone. They had many freedoms, but bestowing the Gift to anyone they pleased was not one of them. Sabra had made clear to him that doing so was rare; the choosing came from the Goddess herself and no one else.

"No," he quickly assured her. "Nothing like that."

"Why then do you wonder such a thing about them?"

"Because the sadness of it came to me when I was with Elaine. One day she will die. They all will die."

"Ah." Sabra touched her lips to her fingers and placed her hand upon his heart. "Sweet Richard, in that you are not alone."

He took solace in her words and held her more closely.

She murmured and sighed, settling in, but a moment later raised herself on one elbow. "Richard . . . why do you smell of honey?"

He burst forth with a low laugh. "Elaine tried a love potion on me."

"Did she now? Are you enspelled to her, then?" Sabra gave him an arch look, eyes sparkling.

He grinned back. "Oh, yes. I'm quite certain of it."

"How terrible for you. I shall have to break that spell sometime."

"Now would be perfect, before it has a chance to grow in strength." His hand stole around her waist, pulling her back.

"But the tourney . . . you should rest . . ."

"Damn the tourney. I can always sleep." He rolled on top of her, pinning her arms.

She struggled briefly against his play, laughing too much to effectively fight off his kisses. Soon she was returning them. "You taste of honey," she remarked. "All over. Just how did she use this potion?"

"You really want to know?"

"Oh, yes. Please acquaint me with—"

And so he did. At first he repeated the course he'd taken with Elaine, but Sabra's reactions and wants were different, and his desire for her urgent. He quickly forgot the game, so caught up was he with the loving of her.

"You speak of growing in strength," she said, stroking him. "I had no idea the spell was so potent."

"There's more, much more," he said, and showed her that as well. God, but he'd missed her. The others were nothing, less than nothing, compared to her. He held Sabra like salvation itself, loving her until at last they both lay spent and gasping from the effort of it.

"You seem to have overcome her magic," she murmured sleepily.

"There is no magic for me but yours."

"None?" She unknowingly echoed Elaine, but made a question, not a statement.

"Were they all changed to be as we are, not in a thousand times ten thousand women could I find any like to thee. All that is life to me is the world in your eyes."

"Ah."

"You are my heart, Sabra, my soul, and I love thee more with each breath I take."

At this, Sabra made a small noise in her throat. An instant later he felt a wetness on his chest where she'd lain her head.

"Why do you weep?" he asked.

"For the happiness you give me, my Richard. No one can, has, or ever will move me as do thee. Your love is the breath in my body."

They clung tightly to one another in the darkness.

It was yet dark in the noontime, for the day of the tourney had but a feeble dawn. Gray clouds shrouded the spring sun, and the air was damp and cool, but so far there had been no rain.

"Is that your doing?" Richard asked with a short nod to the ominous sky.

Sabra only smiled.

"Some are taking it as a bad sign, that there will be death on the field ere nightfall."

" 'Tis only a little weather wizardry," she explained. "This is an important tournament for you. It would not do to have the King's Champion blinded by too much light or fainting from sunburn."

"I'd give you a proper thanks for the boon," he glanced sideways at her, "but neither would it do for the King's Champion to be seen kissing one of his squires."

She erupted into giggles, then hastily smothered them, schooling her face to sober lines as befitted a humble servant. Her slim form was such that she could disguise herself in boy's clothing and succeed with the deception. For those seeing through it, she had other ways of making them forget their discovery. She stood at Richard's side, dressed in his colors, her coil of hair hidden beneath a close-tied cap. Her delicate features were overshadowed by a thick cowl. She held one of his swords at ready. Behind them, the other servitors looked after the rest of the weapons. Before them lay the tourney field.

It was a wide span of acreage, surrounded on three sides by tilled fields, the fourth by a lake. Elaine's father owned the land and forbade his people to plant on it, keeping it instead solely for the practice of warfare. It increased his reputation to have so many famous fighters gathering here, all with the king's blessing, of course.

The king had been effective in keeping the peace, wisely maintaining its preservation by seeing to it his subjects knew how to fight. Though a force of armed men was a good hedge against outside enemies, more often than not they would fall to warring with each other. The tournaments, however, provided the nobles with a means to disburden themselves of tendencies to rowdiness. Here they had the opportunity to display their courage at arms without laying waste to the countryside or one another.

There was profit to be had as well. Richard had ever taken advantage of it when he'd fought on behalf of his father's house. Defeating and capturing a fighter for his gear or ransom was the custom, and an accepted method of enriching one's purse. But some of the noble combatants were wealthy enough to eschew the money altogether. Richard had not been one of them when in Normandy, but that was changed. He now could afford to be generous to those he defeated. Many in the court had come to follow his example, treating their captives as esteemed guests who had fought with skill and courage, and making a great show of returning the ransoms. It was a game of honor to some; to others it was survival.

To Richard it was practice and a way to judge the worth of a man. How an opponent conducted himself on the field revealed much of his inner face. Was he a thinker or did he let his passions rule? Did he plan his moves or trust in luck? Did he fight for himself or let others take the brunt first before stepping in? All this was useful to Richard, who might one day have to face any one of these men in earnest battle, whether on the field or across the Round Table in a council session.

Here the squires would also test themselves, close observed by their elders for signs of cowardice. Until they'd been through at least twenty such tourneys, most young men were not considered seasoned enough for a real battle. Broken teeth, broken heads and bloodings were common, as was death, by accident or on purpose if things got out of hand and tempers flared. No blunted or wooden weapons would be used in this combat. This was true training for war.

Yet there was no dearth of participants; too much profit was to be had to discourage anyone.

"I count many more than a hundred men," said Sabra. "Twice more than at the Michaelmas tourney."

"The news traveled far about the prizes and the purse the king offers."

"And about yourself, I'm sure. The bards have been kind in their praise of your battle skill."

"The skill is there, but I've advantages to make a pass of arms unfair to any who would challenge me. You saw to that, my lady."

"You've more strength than any, but take care, for there will be those who will test you on it."

"As I've always been tested. I will win out."

She shot him a look of amused warning.

"I know." No need for her to say aught, he understood well enough. One fault he'd always had difficulty controlling was his damned overconfidence.

Richard watched as two sections in the field were roped off. Tall poles with long streamers proclaimed neutral ground, where the wounded or captured were to take themselves or be taken if they were too injured to walk. Most of the time no one intentionally set out to kill or maim anyone here, but misadventures took place more often than not. It was well to be prepared for the worst. Both healers and priests stood by, ready to receive whichever came their way.

At last the field was cleared and a loud fanfare of horns and drums was struck, signaling the beginning of the tourney. A cheer went up from the watching crowds surrounding the field as the fighters marched past the pavilion where the king sat with his queen. Each man paused to have his name announced by one of the heralds and to bow to the sovereigns. The tourney's host, Pelles Bernard—Elaine's father—sat on the king's right. The old warrior, grim of face, made a particular show of bowing once at Richard, picking him out from all the others in the line for the honor. He was the King's Champion after all, but it was an unusual enough gesture to raise an eyebrow or two.

Returning the courtesy, Richard bowed back, furiously wondering if Elaine had said anything. It hardly seemed likely for he'd cautioned her to silence before leaving and could trust the efficacy of his influence upon her. Perhaps one of her serving maids had heard or guessed. Household gossip traveled faster than a winter gale and could do more damage.

Bernard bowed again, this time to his youngest son Lavaine, who had placed himself just a few paces down from Richard.

This was bad. If Bernard reserved such a courtesy only to those within his own family . . .

He did not bow to any of the other nobles.

Elaine sat with a group of ladies at the far end of the pavilion and did not meet Richard's gaze as he passed her. Pale as she was after his feeding, she still managed to raise a blush, showing two fiercely pink spots high on her cheeks. She worked her sweet mouth, as though trying hard to suppress a smile.

The subtleties of their combined messages were clear enough to those with eyes to see. Certainly the king and queen had noticed something of the byplay.

Damnation! 

"What is it?" Sabra asked, whispering. She trudged next to him over the uneven turf, still carrying his sword. She'd sensed his sudden discomfiture as though he'd spoken it aloud.

"There's mischief afoot with Elaine. I think her father is planning to welcome me to his hearth as his new son."

Sabra made a choking sound and nearly stumbled.

"This is no time for jollity," he snapped. "I've no wish to take the minx for a wife."

But Sabra was too consumed to wholly check her mirth. She pulled her cowl well forward to hide her face and for the most part kept her laughter internal, though she seemed like to burst from it.

Annoyed, Richard held his peace, until she returned to a fit state to speak, which took quite some while. She was nearly recovered as they assumed their place on the far side of the field, waiting for the rest of the men to make their bows to the king.

"What's to be done?" he demanded.

"Nothing for now. For later, we shall both do much. If Bernard asks for a private word with you—and I think he will—then you deal with him. I'll find a way to get to Lavaine, then we can dice to decide who is to speak to the girl."

"This is no little sporting, Sabra," he said, rankled at her levity.

"I know, but we can make it such before the day is done if we hold ourselves strong. Remember who you are and who I am. None may win against us if we so choose. Consider yourself lucky that Bernard did not make a declaration of the bans here and now."

"He's probably waiting to see if I live through the contest," Richard muttered. "Elsewise I might be tempted to forfeit on purpose to avoid marriage."

"Your pride would prevent that," she said, but in a way so as to restore his good spirits. She pushed the cowl back now that they had some distance between themselves and the rest of the field. "Fight as you always do, then—" But the rest went unsaid as she stared across to the pavilion.

"What is it?" He followed her gaze, trying to pick out what had so arrested her. "Is it Bernard? What does he do?"

"Sweet Goddess," she breathed. "Not here."

"Sabra?"

She swayed, dropping his sword and clutching at his arm for support. He caught her, his heart swooping at her abrupt weakness.

"What is it? A vision?" Sometimes they were intense enough to collapse her, but those were rare. What they signaled was always grievous.

"Aye, a vision . . . Oh, Richard, hold back, do not go forth today."

"Why? What do you see?"

She shook her head, fighting it. "Death. I see death."

"For whom? Me?" But that was nigh impossible. He could get nothing more from her, though. Her eyes had rolled up in their sockets and her body had gone rigid like some poor sufferer from the falling sickness. The nearest of the men drew away and crossed themselves after an uneasy glance at the dark sky; others came forward for a better look. Lavaine was one of them.

"How fares your squire?" he asked, half curiosity, half concern. At least he did not seem to be the outraged kinsman looking to avenge his sister's honor. Not just yet.

" 'Tis nothing toward," Richard replied, searching Sabra's face for distress, but she was gone from this world for the moment. "He has these fits when he gets overexcited. I expect he shall grow out of it once his voice changes."

"We've a healer if you wish one."

"I thank thee, but my people know how to care for him. I'll take him away."

" 'Tis not a task for a noble. My squire will do that for you." Lavaine's was a broad strapping lad who appeared strong enough to carry Richard himself.

"You honor me, but this is my charge. 'Twill be enough if he would guard my sword until my return."

Lavaine nodded and signed to his squire to retrieve the blade. "We'll wait for you."

Richard thanked him, then swept Sabra up, carrying her with long swift strides toward his tent. Before he'd gone a quarter of the way, she began to wake and struggled a little.

"Be still," he said. "Rest first."

"No, I must tell you—"

"Yes, but only where none may hear." They'd garnered enough attention. If word got out that Lancelot's squire was subject to visions, the outcome would mean either sainthood or a public burning.

But she would not be put off and pointed. "Look to the line, Richard. See him!"

He looked. The nobles were nearly through with their march. Last in their number was a man who stood to be more than Richard's match in height and span. He wore familiar colors, so familiar that Richard stopped in his tracks from the shock of it.

"Dear God, he's from Normandy—he's the champion for d'Orleans."

"More than that."

"You don't mean—" Richard now broke off, staring in near disbelief before puffing out a short, bitter laugh. "It is. He's the young bastard who defeated me, the very one. By God, but he's come up in the world."

"Take me from here," Sabra pleaded. "Now."

He shifted his attention to her and quickly finished the journey to the tent, setting her down on the bed. Servants hovered close, but she banished them with a sharp gesture and a sharper word. This was highly unusual behavior on her part; Richard sat next to her as they hurried out.

"What ails thee?" he demanded, worried for her agitation. "What was your vision?"

She put a hand to her temple. "Why did she show me this now? Why not before?" Thus did Sabra refer to the Goddess and her Gift of the Sight.

He held her other hand. "Just tell me. What is it that troubles you? What did the Goddess show you? Death? Death for whom?"

A tear spilled down her cheek. "For him. I saw a glimpse of his doom that day five years past, but clearly now. Too clearly. His fate is set; nothing may change it."

"Why does it affect you so? Men die. 'Tis the way of things." He tried to say it in such a manner as to give her comfort, but it had the opposite effect.

She slammed a fist ineffectually against the giving surface of the bed, snarling frustration. "Because I know now who he is!"

"Who, then?" Though bewildered, he kept himself patient with her.

"It cannot be changed—chance, fortune, and fate brought him here."

"To meet his death?"

She nodded, swiping impatiently at her eyes as more tears streamed forth.

"What of it then? Am I to be the one to kill him?"

"No!" She all but shouted in his face. "That you must not do!" She seized his sword arm, gripping hard even through the mail with a strength to make him wince. "Richard, if you love me, promise you will not go near him. Promise me you will raise no weapon to him even if it costs you your honor and place at the king's side."

"It's that important?"

"Yes!"

"Then I promise. Now tell me why."

She eased her hold and wilted. "I have not the words. The Sight told me all in an instant, but why not earlier? Why did she wait so long to show me?"

"Sabra . . ." His patience had limits.

She swung off the bed, pushing past him to go to the door of the tent. The servants lingering there hastily scattered. He followed, looming over her as she looked across to the king's pavilion. The heavens were darker than before, clouds churning as if in response to Sabra's turmoil. In the still air that preludes a storm they heard the herald's clear call as he presented the bastard to the crowd.

"Michel d'Orleans, champion of the house of Duke Montague d'Orleans of Normandy!" he shouted.

"My father yet lives," Richard murmured. What a terrible old man he must be by now. He'd not thought of the ancient tyrant since leaving home.

But Sabra took no notice of his observation, her gaze fixed on the young man. "Look to him, Richard, and remember your promise. I know not why she held this truth from us."

"Can you speak it?"

Her shoulders drooped. "Aye, and the words burn my tongue. This Michel d'Orleans . . ."

He'd never seen her waver so. "Tell me. Sabra?"

"He's—he is your son. Your bastard son, bred before your change."

What? He gaped, staring across the field. "What . . . what say you?"

"You heard. And it is the truth."

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. Her expression told all, but he could not bring himself to take it in. Blood pounded behind his eyes like a club.

"Richard—"

"No . . . oh, it cannot be. I'd have known. That day in Normandy, seeing him then—when we fought—I'd have known."

She puffed a little, hopeless laugh. "With all my gifts, only this moment did I realize it, only when I was shown . . ."

"This cannot be. I'd have felt something from him, seen my blood in him, and if not that, then his mother would have sought me out while he was yet in her womb."

"Perhaps. If she knew you to be the father. You had many women in your youth in the sun. 'Tis like that they in turn had other lovers than yourself."

"Yes, but . . ." Indeed, he'd enjoyed the company of dozens of wenches in those days. Any one of them could have mothered a babe and not been able to name its father. "Know you his history? Who she might have been?" Richard wanted—needed—to remember. Which, if any, of those girls had kept his seed and made a child?

Sabra shook her head, helpless. "But you've only to look at him—his face and form tell all."

Richard looked and saw his younger self mirrored there. Michel was now a strong young man of one and twenty perhaps, with a proud carriage beyond his rank, and those eyes . . . like chips of winter blue ice. They stared over the short distance, meeting Richard's gaze, challenging, arrogant.

Dear God. He caught hold of a tent pole to steady himself. "I've no words. No thoughts." Only feelings, a terrible roiling mix of them. "What am I to do?"

"Nothing."

"But you said he's to die this day?" He spoke less to Sabra than to himself, his voice so thin he did not recognize it. "Why?"

She spread her hands, still helpless.

"Why tell me now? Is this some cruel joke?" He could scarce believe the Goddess would be so petty.

Sabra shut her eyes, as though to look inward for an answer. After a moment, she took a deep breath, like a swimmer starved for air. "To spare you. The Goddess would spare you."

"From what? From ever knowing I had an heir of my body?"

"From . . . from being the one who kills him."

He released Sabra, falling back a step. "What mean you?"

"If you'd gone on the field in ignorance . . . There are two paths for him; both lead to death. Richard, one of them led to you. You would have been the one to kill him."

"Where leads the other path? Name me that man!"

"I cannot—she denies it to me. This is his fate. I know not why it must be so; she has reasons beyond our wisdom."

"That shall not be."

"It shall, Richard. There's naught to be done to save him."

"Fate be damned," he snapped, and set off. Sabra cried his name—his real name—out once in anguish, then he heard no more.

Michel d'Orleans squared himself as Richard approached. The young man's expression was guarded yet amused. "Come for a second trial at arms?" he asked, impolitely speaking first. He made no bow.

Richard stopped before him, searching this stranger's face for signs of recognition. "Michel . . . do you know who I am?"

"I know who you were. You've made a good place for yourself since that day you yielded all to me. Defeat served you well in the end."

"But do you know me?"

He shrugged. "You are the King's Champion here, by another name than your own. Many hold you in high esteem. I'm not one of them."

Now was not the time to reveal his paternity. He would not be believed. "How came you here?"

"The duke sent me. When news of this tourney came to the keep, I asked his leave to champion him. He granted it. He warned me that I might meet you again. He knows what you've been up to all these years."

That was a surprise. "He cares what I do?"

"He cares to keep watch over his enemies, and he gave me enjoinment on what to do should we meet."

"Which is . . . ?"

Michel smiled unpleasantly, hand straying to the sword on his hip. It had once been Richard's own blade. "You can answer that for yourself . . . old man."

The jibe held no sting for him now; it inspired only desperation. "You may kill me as we stand here, Michel, I care not, only please, listen to me."

"What trickery is this?"

"None. I bear you no malice over that day, boy. The past is gone; the present is all, and you must listen to me . . ." Richard put forth his will, pouring it out like a river. "Hear my words . . . and obey them, Michel."

Above them, thunder crackled threateningly. The Goddess was not pleased. Then damnation to her. He could not stand idle.

"Obey you?" Michel questioned, fighting off his influence. "I have my liege-lord. You are nothing to me."

"I am your way to life; hear me out!"

Michel glared at him, sullen. His face was flushed. There was wine on his breath. Had he had too much to be susceptible?

Richard focused hard. "There is a seeress here, a prophet. All that she says comes true. The king himself will swear to it. She foretold that your path on this field goes straight to your death."

That took him aback, but he quickly recovered. "You lie. You just don't want to meet defeat again from me."

"By Jesu's wounds I am charged to keep you alive!"

Despite the force behind the words, Michel held to a stubborn face.

Dear God, he is my son. How could I have not seen? Richard tried a different tack. "I ask—ask—that you simply not fight me this day, just this one day. In return, you will have all that is mine as your prize." He gestured at his tent, far richer than the one Michel had originally taken from him. "Everything is yours, horses, weapons, all, if you retire now. I will vouch for you and say you took sick. None will question your honor or my word."

His gaze strayed to the tent, but Michel caught himself. "You mock me. I owe fealty to my lord Montague—this is some ruse to insult him and disgrace me."

"Not a ruse! Run me through now if it will please you and Montague, only promise you will not fight this day. Should you wish it we can make a test of arms later, but—"

Michel snorted. "You're bewitched! The duke warned me you'd been enspelled into madness by the lady of the lake. Seeress! Sorceress more like. I'll not be caught in her web—"

Enough was enough. He'd sworn to Sabra not to raise a weapon to Michel, but had made no promise concerning his fists. He clouted the younger man solidly on the jaw, knocking him flat. Michel lay like a stone and would stay that way for some time to come.

Their exchange was seen by many, and now the herald hurried over. Several others came with him.

"What means this, Lord Lancelot?" He was highly offended at such a gross breach of conduct, but restrained himself before the King's Champion.

" 'Twas a private quarrel, nothing of import."

"It is here, before this throng. What am I to say to the king?"

"Whatever you please. I'll speak to him later on it." Richard walked away quickly, leaving the man and his foolish questions behind.

In the tent he found Sabra slumped on the bed, still in her squire's clothing. She raised up when he came in. Her eyes were red with spilled sorrow. "He did not hear you," she stated.

His mouth twitched. "Yet I made him listen."

"Richard . . ."

"No! Not one more word. I have obeyed the Goddess in all things, but not this. She asks too much."

"There are destinies even she cannot command. This is one of them."

"Who commands is nothing to me. The boy will be spared this day, I pledge my life on that."

She went bone white. "Take care, Richard." There was fear in her whisper.

Thunder. A deafening roar and crack of it, that made them both flinch.

Richard looked up, as though to see the sky through the tent's ceiling, as though to see the face of the Goddess herself. "Be angry with me as you will," he shouted. "Strike me down if you must, but let him live."

You don't even know him.

The voice was unexpected. His heart faltered at the sound. It was in his head, like a whisper of doom.

From Sabra's stricken look, she'd also heard.

He mustered himself, bolstered by righteous anger. "I don't have to know him! What do you expect of me? Did you think I would do less? If so, then you know me not at all!"

The thunder without rumbled, going on and on, yet no rain fell. Eventually, the noise faded. The air grew thick and hard to breathe.

"Has she more to say?" he asked Sabra.

"I don't know."

"None of this is your fault," he declared. "I hope she understands that."

"Nor is it yours. You are who you are, Richard."

"You may have to explain that to her. I must go now."

"Godspeed," she blurted, as he reached the tent flap.

He turned and came back, just long enough to frame her face with his hands, then kiss her. He wiped her tears away with his fingers, touching the salt wetness to his lips. "Here do I wear thy tokens, Lady du Lac," he said, then left.

He fought as one struck mad, as Lancelot had never been seen to fight before.

Gone was consideration of his opponents' moves, gone was planning; he fought recklessly, taking sword blows like fly swats, beating down all who dared to test him. The crowds cheered him, but he heard them not. One after another, he disarmed or knocked them unconscious or wounded the warriors in his frenzy. The fallen were taken away to the safe areas cordoned off between the flags. He fought on.

He was dimly aware of Lavaine sometimes being at his side, sometimes at his back. Richard was neither thankful for the alliance, nor against it; it was simply part of the day's ordeal. All he wanted was to end the melee quickly. If Michel recovered himself too soon . . .

No, he'd taken a well-judged knock. Enough to keep him out, but not permanently. Richard had had years to practice; he knew his craft.

"Here's another charge for us," huffed Lavaine.

Bors, Ector, and Lionel had formed a temporary alliance with nearly a dozen of their kinsmen, and were making havoc against the lone fighters on the field.

"Shall we break them?" Lavaine asked, grinning. Despite the cool of the dark day, he streamed sweat. His mail was rent from various cuts, his shield scarred from use, his helm battered. Blood crept down his neck where someone had shaved off a slice of his earlobe.

"Do what thou wilt," said Richard, not caring.

His manner had no ill effect on the always cheerful Lavaine, who shouted challenge to the others. Bors heard and raised his spear overhead in acknowledgment. He and his men would come when they'd seen to their current task of clearance. Lavaine waited them out, resting while the others tired themselves.

"Soon," he said, all anticipation.

Richard used the pause to survey activity off the field; this included Michel's tent. Throughout the contest he'd kept such watch as he could manage in that direction. There was no sign of movement yet. Good. If it held so until the hidden sun truly set . . .

"That big Norman you felled is back," said Lavaine, pointing in the opposite direction.

Richard whirled. No! 

Michel, looking fully recovered, had armed himself and was in the process of hurrying toward them. There was murder in his eye.

Richard stepped in front of Lavaine. "He's mine. Touch him and I'll kill you."

Lavaine snorted, nettled by the threat, but gave way. "As you please. What is your quarrel with him?"

Richard made no answer, busy meeting Michel's rush. The boy was better than before, but then he'd had five years to hone his talents. He ruthlessly pressed the least opening, but took care not to overextend himself. Richard used his sword and shield to deflect what came to him, but nothing more. This puzzled Michel, who dodged return strikes that never fell.

"Afraid, old man?" he taunted, holding his arms wide. "Fight me, damn you! Let me take back my honor!"

Richard held his sword blade downward, and slammed it against Michel's shield. The force staggered him backward a few paces, but not off balance. He returned the attack, withholding nothing, roaring out his fury. Still, Richard managed to keep clear of harm. He retreated a step, as though beaten back. Michel followed. Richard continued to retreat, not being obvious about it, but slowly drawing Michel away from the main knot of fighters. Once they were clear, he'd step in and knock the boy out again.

He thought of surrendering to him, but then Michel would only rejoin the battle. No. He had to be taken from it completely; then later, with cooler heads they could talk. Richard had no idea what he would say, but knew that he must—

With savage cries, Bors and his people bore down on them.

Lavaine, thrust aside in the rush, was trying to regain his ground while fending off Ector and two others. He shouted at Richard for help even as he swung the flat of his blade against a man's legs to trip him.

Richard had no mind for him. He lowered his head to get under Michel's guard and butted him clear of the charge, using his shield and sheer muscle. Michel grunted a curse and lost his footing, flying back to roll down a slight rise. One of Bors men went after him, sword raised high.

Richard got between them just in time and with the edge of his shield hit the man's helm hard enough to break it. He dropped. Another Richard beat back using his sword in earnest, surprising the noble with his energy. Bors intervened, his spear shaft taking what would have been a death blow. Richard's blade bit deep, cutting it halfway through, close to the spearhead.

"Retire, Lancelot!" he boomed. "Retire before you kill someone!"

Ignoring him, Richard wrested his sword free, making a stand before Michel. He took out one man after another, not holding back, cracking bones, shattering shields, fighting to win no matter the cost to others.

Lavaine threw himself into the press, smashing his sword pommel into a man's helm to clear his way. He shouted something at Richard, hurtling recklessly forward.

Richard half turned, just in time to see that Michel was up and coming at him. He led with his sword, about to run it through Richard from the back. Richard sidestepped at the perfect instant to avoid it, parrying it skyward. Michel's arm shot up, then out of nowhere a blade caught him in that unprotected spot beneath his arm, driving in deep. He made a brief low grunt of pain, then fell, blood spurting.

No! 

A wordless shriek and Richard brought his blade down on the other. There was a flash as the metals struck sparks like flint, then both shattered. He stared madly into the face of Lavaine.

"He was going to kill you!" he screamed at Richard. "The coward would have taken you from behind!"

Richard fell on him like death, hands closing on his neck, but the milling men around them kept him from getting a solid grip. Then something struck Richard hard in his left side. He heard the scrape and felt the tear of links as whatever it was sheered through his chain coat. All the breath went out of him. Suddenly the cloudy sky was before him, the earth at his back. He smelled his own blood as it flowed out to soak the turf.

"Lancelot is down!" yelled Bors somewhere above.

"See to the Norman," Richard told him. "See to him, for God's sake!"

"They're coming. My lance slipped and caught you by chance, be still!"

Squires were racing in from the sides with litters to carry off the wounded. Most of the fighters paused now, catching their wind, trying to make out just what had happened to cause the indestructible Lancelot to fall. Richard hardly knew himself, only that the pain flared each time he tried to breathe. Looking down, he saw Bors's spearhead—the shaft fully broken off—sticking out from his side just below his ribs. More than half of it was yet buried in his flesh. Impatiently, he clawed at it to draw it out.

"Don't, man—you'll bleed to death!" Bors made to stop him.

Richard struck him away and continued to pull. The effort dragged a scream from him. When had this last happened? That night in his father's keep . . . only then it had been a dagger in his thigh. He'd lived then, would live now.

The spearhead came clear, mostly. The top third of the tip was gone. He threw the head away and rolled over to look at Michel.

He lay panting with pain, his d'Orleans colors stained through with his blood. No one was with him; all were crowding round Richard. He crawled forward toward him, shrugging off help.

"See to him! Get a healer to staunch his wound! God's death, leave me and see to him!"

Two of the squires went to Michel, moving him onto their litter, then lifting and bearing him away to the cordoned-off ground. Only then would Richard allow himself to be helped. Lavaine. It was Lavaine who came forward and hauled him up. Richard glared at him and got only noncomprehension in return. The man still thought he'd saved his life. Rage was pointless. His arm around Lavaine's shoulders, they staggered after the bearers.

Dizziness seized him. His legs began to give way to the blood loss. His will alone kept him walking.

Michel sprawled flat on the grass, a healer on one side, a priest on the other.

Don't do this, Goddess! 

The squires had cut away Michel's tunic, and were working to remove his chain shirt. They manhandled him roughly, trying to pull it over his head. Lavaine let Richard go, and he fell on his knees, pushing the others away. He took hold of Michel's shirt in both hands and ripped it in two as easily as if it'd been made of thin cloth. The priest crossed himself; the others stared.

"Fire!" Richard snapped, tearing off the padded tunic beneath. "Bring a torch."

One was put in his hand. He touched the blazing end of it to Michel's gaping wound. The stink of burned flesh and blood columned up. Michel screamed and struggled as the men held him down. Still the blood poured out.

"Not enough," said the healer. "You'll burn his arm off and still not staunch it."

"Wine, then."

Someone gave him a skin. He sloshed a stream into the wound, then set that ablaze. Michel bucked and shrieked under the hot blue flames.

And still the blood poured out. The big vein had been cut through.

The fire dwindled, died. Richard pressed his hand into the wound, to halt the flow. He looked at the healer. "Get your needle, sew this up."

The man knew better than to argue, but his long face held no hope for this patient. He went to work. Michel had fallen into a daze, his eyes open and wandering, and he began to shiver. His skin was gray and icy. Richard called for blankets.

"He must live," he told the healer. "I had such a wound as near took my arm off and survived. You will do that for him."

"If it please God to grant me the skill, my lord," he muttered back, working the needle and gut string like a seamstress. "He's Norman, as are you—a kinsman?"

Richard choked, his eyes blurring. "Yes . . . a kinsman."

The healer glanced quickly at him. "Someone see to Lord Lancelot—he's like to faint."

He felt gentle hands drawing him back, and he had not the strength to fight them. He was laid next to Michel. His overtunic was cut away, his chain shirt and the padding beneath pushed back so they could examine his wound. It was open and seeped steadily. Strange, it should have closed by now, the pain stopped, but—

Sabra's face came into his view. She yet wore her squire's guise. No weeping now, no time for it. "Lie still," she whispered.

"How is he?"

She shook her head, one hand palpating against his wound. "The spearpoint broke off inside you. You won't heal until it's out."

"Do what you must, then look after him."

"Yes, I swear it."

Reassured, Richard lay back. Sabra motioned for several men to come close. "Hold my lord fast."

Lavaine sat on his legs, another half knelt on his chest, two more on his arms. They marveled, though, when Richard moved not a muscle as Sabra dug into his side, fingers probing. It was an agony, but strangely distant; his heart and mind were elsewhere.

One of the men laughed. "Your squire will have a new name after this, Lord Lancelot. We shall call him Thomas after the one who doubted our Lord Jesu's return unless he could put his hand in the Holy Wound."

The others shushed him for blasphemy, but grinned at the joke.

Sabra made a small sound of triumph. Slowly she worked the spearhead free, finally holding up her bloody prize: a wide triangle of metal the length of her palm. She tossed it away and swiftly lay a thick pad of clean linen over the freshly bleeding gash.

Richard sighed out his relief. It would knit up now.

The men rose, foolishly asking after Richard's health. He shook his head and looked across to Michel. The boy looked back at him, his expression calm now, even rested, his blue eyes free of pain and pride. Richard spoke his name, but got no reply. It was then he saw that the only one in attendance was the priest, who crossed himself one last time, then laid a cloth over Michel's face.

Overhead, the thunder drummed throughout the heavens, and the black clouds finally broke. Silver sheets of the long-withheld fall streamed down, drenching them. Richard's hot tears mixed with the cold rain, and he stretched forth his near hand, trying to take Michel's, but couldn't quite reach . . .

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Framed

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Chapter Seven

Britain, the Beginning, Five Years Later

"King's Champion indeed," said Elaine, rousing from her doze. "I think you've ridden more oft for me."

Richard smiled and shifted his weight from her. "And you've ridden me enough to be the Queen's Champion."

She chuckled softly, moving so he could lie on his back with her cradled in his arms across his chest. Hers was a virgin's narrow bed, but he had no complaint for the warm closeness of it. "The queen would not be pleased to hear that," she said. "All the court knows she loves you."

"But no more than the court does itself," he countered, well aware of his own popularity. "I do not seek her favor."

"Yet she would give her heart to thee as easily as I have, as would the other maids and dames."

" 'Tis none of mine what they would do. Why speak of it?"

"Because, sweet Lancelot, it is my greatest pleasure to know that above all those others I am the one you chose to bed."

In reply Richard brushed his lips against her temple, and kept the truth to himself of just how many of those ladies he'd bedded in the years since his arrival at court. He'd been discreet about his various liaisons, so much so that many thought him more chaste than a monk. For some reason, this distinction made the women all the more fascinated with him.

Elaine was as unaware of his many mistresses as they were of each other. A delicate juggling act, but Richard managed it quite well, perhaps too well. Though a dear girl, Elaine possessed dreams for him of a future with her he could never fulfill. Already she had been hinting about his speaking to her father for her hand as though it was an inevitability.

"In my memory," he finally said, "it was you who chose me."

"What matters so long as we are together?" She sighed with vast contentment, burrowing snugly against him. "What matters so long as it lasts forever?"

That she spoke thus told him he would have to soon conclude things with her. He'd heard such from other girls when he walked in the sun, and with no small chagrin knew it would be so with future lovers. Why did some of them have to make a simple union so much more than it was? Even when they professed their understanding that a tryst was to be no more than a satisfying of mutual desire, they would change their minds afterward. Sabra had troubled to explain all the reasons to him. Several times. Still he was mystified. Sometimes it was just easier to simply pay for a woman's favors—and the blood that he took—than to deal with the complexities of mutual seduction.

He would have to soon supplant his will over Elaine's wishes and make her forget about their stolen nights together. Or at least persuade her from this dream of marrying him. That could never be, and the sooner she accepted it, the better for them both.

Not tonight, though. They'd enjoyed each other thoroughly here in her chamber in her father's keep; no need to vitiate the current good feeling with base practicalities. Richard had gone to some effort to gain entry, hoisting himself up the timbered sides of the building—his vampire's strength making the task easy—to climb through her window. Elaine had enthusiastically welcomed him for some months now, prettily delighting in their secret sport as though she'd never known its like. Well, she'd never known Richard's like, that was a surety.

She slept still in a virgin's bed, but had probably not slept as a virgin since her first moon as a young woman; her skills in love were too certain for him to believe her claim that he alone had received her maidenhead. The only blood he'd seen from her was that which he'd taken from her veins when they loved. As with the others he fed from, he was ever careful to remove that from their recollections. Other memories and intents required more effort and care.

But still . . . Elaine was such a lovely girl, fair of face and with a lushness and grace of form as to stir a statue to life. Even now he felt a decided stirring within from the thought alone . . .

Enough. He would soon have to bring this intimacy to a close before anyone found them out. Elaine herself might let something slip—more likely on purpose than by accident—in an attempt to achieve her fantasy of marriage. Her father would be annoyed at her seeming deflowering by Lancelot, but not so much as to deny himself the status of having the king's rich champion for a son-in-law.

Elaine reached across to the little table by the bed. Richard thought she might thirst, but instead of taking the wine cup, she picked up a small crockery jar.

"What's this?" he asked as she settled back again.

Her bright eyes danced with mischief. "A love potion."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. An old wife at the tourney fair told me that no man could withstand its power."

"And so you wish to test it on me?"

"Indeed. If it gives you no pleasure, then I will know her for a liar."

"Am I to drink it then?"

"Only from my lips." She sipped a little from the jar, then placed her mouth over his. On her tongue he tasted honey and cloves and other rare flavors before she drew away. "Is it working? Are you in love with me yet?"

There was no harm in playing along with her new game. He could always change things later. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you must try again."

Instead of kissing him, she moved farther down his body. "Yes, perhaps I shall." He watched with amused interest as she let fall a fat thread of her potion onto his manhood. She spread the stuff with her fingers, enjoying his swift response to her touch. "The old wife told the truth it seems."

"So far as it goes, yes." He put no credence in love potions, only in Elaine's presence and what she was doing to him.

"Then must I test it a little more." She bent her head, her mouth enclosing him, capturing his full attention. He lay back with an appreciative sigh and gently stroked her hair, his heartbeat quickening as she worked on him.

Some time later she paused to inspect her results. "Indeed, she told the truth. You do love me."

For this night at least, sweet girl, he thought. He sat up and took the jar from her. She sat up in turn, facing him, smiling. He smeared a few drops onto each of her breasts, then did his best to lick and kiss them clean again, until she shivered and moaned in her need for him.

But he held off, knowing that some delays were better for the wait.

They passed the honey concoction back and forth, laughing, each hushing the other lest someone hear. It would not do to have Elaine's father or brothers bursting in upon them.

Richard cherished the taste of her, the salt essence beneath the honey. Her skin was cloud-smooth, her least reaction to his questing fingers adding immeasurably to his own excitement. How precious it was, how rare, and yet so brief.

These fragile children abide with us but a little while and then are gone. 

Sabra's words came to him even as he embraced Elaine. The girl in his arms would die and go to dust while he lived on. He faltered, looking long at her young face, as though to discern if death's shadow already lay upon her.

"What is it, Lord du Lac?"

He shook his head. A thousand words or none were equally inadequate. It was not something she could ever understand. "Time is so short," he murmured. Short for thee, my pretty one. He held her close, as if to keep her mortality at bay by his will alone. Futile gesture, but it made her gasp with joyance for his eagerness.

She will think her potion worked. Perhaps it has, for this night, for this hour. 

When their want became near unbearable, they coupled once more. She wrapped her strong legs around Richard, heels locked at the small of his back, her hips rocking hard against his. He kissed her mouth and her eyes, his hands moving on her until the first shudder of her climax began to take her.

Only then did he bite hard into the firm flesh of her throat.

She started to cry out, but he pressed his palm over her mouth, smothering the sound. Her breath came fast and harsh as he supped, drawing out the red ecstasy of her life even as she took his seed from him. He made it last for them both until she lay half swooning in his arms from sheer exhaustion.

"None," she whispered, her head lolling on his shoulder.

"Mm?" He was fair exhausted himself, but not for long. Eyes shut, he savored the heat of her blood flowing within him, renewing his strength.

"None pleasure me as do you," she murmured.

So far gone was she that she'd forgotten her claim that Richard was her first. He smiled and caressed her thick hair, letting the moment be.

He left a few hours before dawn, dropping to land silent in the dewy turf beneath her window, then looking round to make sure no one had seen. He wore no armor, nothing that would make a noise, but the moon was high. Its silver light could be deceptive to normal human eyes, but would serve to reveal an intruder; he kept to the shadows. To Richard it was like a sunny day, and he made use of his advantage, slipping across to the outer wall, his passage unnoticed by the sleepy sentry watching the gate. It was the work of a moment to take the man from behind and persuade him to blind obedience. Blind insofar as Richard's presence was concerned. The guard would have no recollection of letting anyone out through the small door set in the gate.

Richard could have climbed the keep's curtain wall and thence to the dry moat below, but saw no necessity for the extra effort. His powers to influence were harmless to others and most advantageous when he was on the hunt. Though he could have more safely fed from any number of servant girls, he had yet to tire of the sport of seducing—and being seduced by—their mistresses. Besides, a hasty feeding in some dark corner of a hall with a giggling wench was not nearly as satisfying as a slow loving of a giggling lady. Of course, there had been occasions when he took his time with the wenches as well. . . .

His horse still waited, ground-tied where he'd left it in a hollow just out of sight from the walls. The dogs, Prince and Merlin, kept it company, better guards than the one he'd just influenced to let him out. They yawned hugely, shaking themselves awake for the lope home. He tightened the saddle girth and mounted, kicking the horse to a canter. The clean night air cooled his face and cleansed his spirit. He would sleep until the forenoon, then ready himself for the coming day's tournament.

Light showed in his tent by the lake. Nothing remarkable in that; his people were accustomed to his night rambles, but as he dismounted and gave the reins to a waiting servant, he saw he had company.

Sabra stood holding open the door flap, smiling, her dark brown hair undone and hanging freely to her waist. How he loved to play with it.

Prince and Merlin bounded forward to welcome her, tails fiercely wagging.

"Such good boys," she said, petting them before they knocked her over in their excitement. "Did you care well for your master?"

"You've turned them into lap warmers," said Richard affably, watching as his great and deadly hunters fawned upon her like puppies.

Sabra laughed once and pulled him inside, their kiss of greeting long and warming. The dogs snorted and stretched themselves on the tent's carpeted floor to finish their naps.

"I thought you would yet be with the queen's company," he said.

"She decided to see the tourney after all, and the cortege arrived an hour after dusk. She gave me leave to depart. I was told you'd left before then."

"I hungered."

"Ah. Is it still Elaine, or has another caught your eye?"

"Elaine it is. Do you mind?"

Sabra shook her head, not as a reply, but to express fond patience. "Richard, you know well that I don't. There's no need to ask."

"It concerns me, so I will."

She kissed away his concern. "You'll want sleep. Come to bed." She took his hand, leading him to the broad spread of furs, pillows, and blankets he was accustomed to resting on during the day. Much wider than a normal bed, he could fair sprawl on it, his big frame unencumbered by the limits of an ordinary pallet. Some thought it a sinful excess on his part, having such an extravagance solely for the repose of his body, but he ignored them. He fought hard on behalf of his new king; it was only his just due to have a comfortable place to recover himself.

Sabra put out the oil lamps and helped him undress, her hands lingering familiarly over him. He caught them, bringing them up to kiss.

"I've sorely missed you, my lady." And he wanted her. Always.

"And I, you, but you've much to do on the morrow."

Regrettably, she was right, but the weeks she'd been away traveling with the queen's party had been weary to him for lack of her company. No matter whom he bedded, or how many, none could fill his heart as Sabra did.

"Do you hunger?" he asked, slipping her loose robe from her shoulders and drawing her onto the bed with him. He pulled a coverlet over their nakedness, to protect them from the cool of the late spring night.

She nestled comfortably against him. "I've fed."

"Who was it?"

She chuckled. "In truth, I know not. Some lad whose duty was to fetch water for the horses. On one of his trips he took a little longer than usual to complete his errand, and he will not be able to say why."

"Handsome?"

"Oh, yes, like a young god he was."

"Do you love him?"

"No more than you love Elaine."

He took the gentle point with good grace and kissed her brow. Once upon a time he'd have burned with inner rage, but no more. This was how life was for them, and he'd dealt well with what had been his most difficult adjustment to it, rooting out all jealousy over Sabra having lovers to feed from. Certainly she showed none toward him for his conquests. They did have an unspoken rule, though; both took care to keep out of each other's way when on the hunt. It was one thing to speak of other partners, but quite another to witness the seduction itself.

"What if they were like us?" he asked, staring up at the dim roof of his tent. "Able to live beyond their years, ageless and young forever?"

"What of it?"

"Their lives are short, so we must not love them too strongly, but if they also had the Goddess's Gift, would it make a difference to us?"

"You know it would not."

And she was right. He'd only wanted to hear her say it.

"Were you thinking to share blood with any of them?" There was concern in her tone. They had many freedoms, but bestowing the Gift to anyone they pleased was not one of them. Sabra had made clear to him that doing so was rare; the choosing came from the Goddess herself and no one else.

"No," he quickly assured her. "Nothing like that."

"Why then do you wonder such a thing about them?"

"Because the sadness of it came to me when I was with Elaine. One day she will die. They all will die."

"Ah." Sabra touched her lips to her fingers and placed her hand upon his heart. "Sweet Richard, in that you are not alone."

He took solace in her words and held her more closely.

She murmured and sighed, settling in, but a moment later raised herself on one elbow. "Richard . . . why do you smell of honey?"

He burst forth with a low laugh. "Elaine tried a love potion on me."

"Did she now? Are you enspelled to her, then?" Sabra gave him an arch look, eyes sparkling.

He grinned back. "Oh, yes. I'm quite certain of it."

"How terrible for you. I shall have to break that spell sometime."

"Now would be perfect, before it has a chance to grow in strength." His hand stole around her waist, pulling her back.

"But the tourney . . . you should rest . . ."

"Damn the tourney. I can always sleep." He rolled on top of her, pinning her arms.

She struggled briefly against his play, laughing too much to effectively fight off his kisses. Soon she was returning them. "You taste of honey," she remarked. "All over. Just how did she use this potion?"

"You really want to know?"

"Oh, yes. Please acquaint me with—"

And so he did. At first he repeated the course he'd taken with Elaine, but Sabra's reactions and wants were different, and his desire for her urgent. He quickly forgot the game, so caught up was he with the loving of her.

"You speak of growing in strength," she said, stroking him. "I had no idea the spell was so potent."

"There's more, much more," he said, and showed her that as well. God, but he'd missed her. The others were nothing, less than nothing, compared to her. He held Sabra like salvation itself, loving her until at last they both lay spent and gasping from the effort of it.

"You seem to have overcome her magic," she murmured sleepily.

"There is no magic for me but yours."

"None?" She unknowingly echoed Elaine, but made a question, not a statement.

"Were they all changed to be as we are, not in a thousand times ten thousand women could I find any like to thee. All that is life to me is the world in your eyes."

"Ah."

"You are my heart, Sabra, my soul, and I love thee more with each breath I take."

At this, Sabra made a small noise in her throat. An instant later he felt a wetness on his chest where she'd lain her head.

"Why do you weep?" he asked.

"For the happiness you give me, my Richard. No one can, has, or ever will move me as do thee. Your love is the breath in my body."

They clung tightly to one another in the darkness.

It was yet dark in the noontime, for the day of the tourney had but a feeble dawn. Gray clouds shrouded the spring sun, and the air was damp and cool, but so far there had been no rain.

"Is that your doing?" Richard asked with a short nod to the ominous sky.

Sabra only smiled.

"Some are taking it as a bad sign, that there will be death on the field ere nightfall."

" 'Tis only a little weather wizardry," she explained. "This is an important tournament for you. It would not do to have the King's Champion blinded by too much light or fainting from sunburn."

"I'd give you a proper thanks for the boon," he glanced sideways at her, "but neither would it do for the King's Champion to be seen kissing one of his squires."

She erupted into giggles, then hastily smothered them, schooling her face to sober lines as befitted a humble servant. Her slim form was such that she could disguise herself in boy's clothing and succeed with the deception. For those seeing through it, she had other ways of making them forget their discovery. She stood at Richard's side, dressed in his colors, her coil of hair hidden beneath a close-tied cap. Her delicate features were overshadowed by a thick cowl. She held one of his swords at ready. Behind them, the other servitors looked after the rest of the weapons. Before them lay the tourney field.

It was a wide span of acreage, surrounded on three sides by tilled fields, the fourth by a lake. Elaine's father owned the land and forbade his people to plant on it, keeping it instead solely for the practice of warfare. It increased his reputation to have so many famous fighters gathering here, all with the king's blessing, of course.

The king had been effective in keeping the peace, wisely maintaining its preservation by seeing to it his subjects knew how to fight. Though a force of armed men was a good hedge against outside enemies, more often than not they would fall to warring with each other. The tournaments, however, provided the nobles with a means to disburden themselves of tendencies to rowdiness. Here they had the opportunity to display their courage at arms without laying waste to the countryside or one another.

There was profit to be had as well. Richard had ever taken advantage of it when he'd fought on behalf of his father's house. Defeating and capturing a fighter for his gear or ransom was the custom, and an accepted method of enriching one's purse. But some of the noble combatants were wealthy enough to eschew the money altogether. Richard had not been one of them when in Normandy, but that was changed. He now could afford to be generous to those he defeated. Many in the court had come to follow his example, treating their captives as esteemed guests who had fought with skill and courage, and making a great show of returning the ransoms. It was a game of honor to some; to others it was survival.

To Richard it was practice and a way to judge the worth of a man. How an opponent conducted himself on the field revealed much of his inner face. Was he a thinker or did he let his passions rule? Did he plan his moves or trust in luck? Did he fight for himself or let others take the brunt first before stepping in? All this was useful to Richard, who might one day have to face any one of these men in earnest battle, whether on the field or across the Round Table in a council session.

Here the squires would also test themselves, close observed by their elders for signs of cowardice. Until they'd been through at least twenty such tourneys, most young men were not considered seasoned enough for a real battle. Broken teeth, broken heads and bloodings were common, as was death, by accident or on purpose if things got out of hand and tempers flared. No blunted or wooden weapons would be used in this combat. This was true training for war.

Yet there was no dearth of participants; too much profit was to be had to discourage anyone.

"I count many more than a hundred men," said Sabra. "Twice more than at the Michaelmas tourney."

"The news traveled far about the prizes and the purse the king offers."

"And about yourself, I'm sure. The bards have been kind in their praise of your battle skill."

"The skill is there, but I've advantages to make a pass of arms unfair to any who would challenge me. You saw to that, my lady."

"You've more strength than any, but take care, for there will be those who will test you on it."

"As I've always been tested. I will win out."

She shot him a look of amused warning.

"I know." No need for her to say aught, he understood well enough. One fault he'd always had difficulty controlling was his damned overconfidence.

Richard watched as two sections in the field were roped off. Tall poles with long streamers proclaimed neutral ground, where the wounded or captured were to take themselves or be taken if they were too injured to walk. Most of the time no one intentionally set out to kill or maim anyone here, but misadventures took place more often than not. It was well to be prepared for the worst. Both healers and priests stood by, ready to receive whichever came their way.

At last the field was cleared and a loud fanfare of horns and drums was struck, signaling the beginning of the tourney. A cheer went up from the watching crowds surrounding the field as the fighters marched past the pavilion where the king sat with his queen. Each man paused to have his name announced by one of the heralds and to bow to the sovereigns. The tourney's host, Pelles Bernard—Elaine's father—sat on the king's right. The old warrior, grim of face, made a particular show of bowing once at Richard, picking him out from all the others in the line for the honor. He was the King's Champion after all, but it was an unusual enough gesture to raise an eyebrow or two.

Returning the courtesy, Richard bowed back, furiously wondering if Elaine had said anything. It hardly seemed likely for he'd cautioned her to silence before leaving and could trust the efficacy of his influence upon her. Perhaps one of her serving maids had heard or guessed. Household gossip traveled faster than a winter gale and could do more damage.

Bernard bowed again, this time to his youngest son Lavaine, who had placed himself just a few paces down from Richard.

This was bad. If Bernard reserved such a courtesy only to those within his own family . . .

He did not bow to any of the other nobles.

Elaine sat with a group of ladies at the far end of the pavilion and did not meet Richard's gaze as he passed her. Pale as she was after his feeding, she still managed to raise a blush, showing two fiercely pink spots high on her cheeks. She worked her sweet mouth, as though trying hard to suppress a smile.

The subtleties of their combined messages were clear enough to those with eyes to see. Certainly the king and queen had noticed something of the byplay.

Damnation! 

"What is it?" Sabra asked, whispering. She trudged next to him over the uneven turf, still carrying his sword. She'd sensed his sudden discomfiture as though he'd spoken it aloud.

"There's mischief afoot with Elaine. I think her father is planning to welcome me to his hearth as his new son."

Sabra made a choking sound and nearly stumbled.

"This is no time for jollity," he snapped. "I've no wish to take the minx for a wife."

But Sabra was too consumed to wholly check her mirth. She pulled her cowl well forward to hide her face and for the most part kept her laughter internal, though she seemed like to burst from it.

Annoyed, Richard held his peace, until she returned to a fit state to speak, which took quite some while. She was nearly recovered as they assumed their place on the far side of the field, waiting for the rest of the men to make their bows to the king.

"What's to be done?" he demanded.

"Nothing for now. For later, we shall both do much. If Bernard asks for a private word with you—and I think he will—then you deal with him. I'll find a way to get to Lavaine, then we can dice to decide who is to speak to the girl."

"This is no little sporting, Sabra," he said, rankled at her levity.

"I know, but we can make it such before the day is done if we hold ourselves strong. Remember who you are and who I am. None may win against us if we so choose. Consider yourself lucky that Bernard did not make a declaration of the bans here and now."

"He's probably waiting to see if I live through the contest," Richard muttered. "Elsewise I might be tempted to forfeit on purpose to avoid marriage."

"Your pride would prevent that," she said, but in a way so as to restore his good spirits. She pushed the cowl back now that they had some distance between themselves and the rest of the field. "Fight as you always do, then—" But the rest went unsaid as she stared across to the pavilion.

"What is it?" He followed her gaze, trying to pick out what had so arrested her. "Is it Bernard? What does he do?"

"Sweet Goddess," she breathed. "Not here."

"Sabra?"

She swayed, dropping his sword and clutching at his arm for support. He caught her, his heart swooping at her abrupt weakness.

"What is it? A vision?" Sometimes they were intense enough to collapse her, but those were rare. What they signaled was always grievous.

"Aye, a vision . . . Oh, Richard, hold back, do not go forth today."

"Why? What do you see?"

She shook her head, fighting it. "Death. I see death."

"For whom? Me?" But that was nigh impossible. He could get nothing more from her, though. Her eyes had rolled up in their sockets and her body had gone rigid like some poor sufferer from the falling sickness. The nearest of the men drew away and crossed themselves after an uneasy glance at the dark sky; others came forward for a better look. Lavaine was one of them.

"How fares your squire?" he asked, half curiosity, half concern. At least he did not seem to be the outraged kinsman looking to avenge his sister's honor. Not just yet.

" 'Tis nothing toward," Richard replied, searching Sabra's face for distress, but she was gone from this world for the moment. "He has these fits when he gets overexcited. I expect he shall grow out of it once his voice changes."

"We've a healer if you wish one."

"I thank thee, but my people know how to care for him. I'll take him away."

" 'Tis not a task for a noble. My squire will do that for you." Lavaine's was a broad strapping lad who appeared strong enough to carry Richard himself.

"You honor me, but this is my charge. 'Twill be enough if he would guard my sword until my return."

Lavaine nodded and signed to his squire to retrieve the blade. "We'll wait for you."

Richard thanked him, then swept Sabra up, carrying her with long swift strides toward his tent. Before he'd gone a quarter of the way, she began to wake and struggled a little.

"Be still," he said. "Rest first."

"No, I must tell you—"

"Yes, but only where none may hear." They'd garnered enough attention. If word got out that Lancelot's squire was subject to visions, the outcome would mean either sainthood or a public burning.

But she would not be put off and pointed. "Look to the line, Richard. See him!"

He looked. The nobles were nearly through with their march. Last in their number was a man who stood to be more than Richard's match in height and span. He wore familiar colors, so familiar that Richard stopped in his tracks from the shock of it.

"Dear God, he's from Normandy—he's the champion for d'Orleans."

"More than that."

"You don't mean—" Richard now broke off, staring in near disbelief before puffing out a short, bitter laugh. "It is. He's the young bastard who defeated me, the very one. By God, but he's come up in the world."

"Take me from here," Sabra pleaded. "Now."

He shifted his attention to her and quickly finished the journey to the tent, setting her down on the bed. Servants hovered close, but she banished them with a sharp gesture and a sharper word. This was highly unusual behavior on her part; Richard sat next to her as they hurried out.

"What ails thee?" he demanded, worried for her agitation. "What was your vision?"

She put a hand to her temple. "Why did she show me this now? Why not before?" Thus did Sabra refer to the Goddess and her Gift of the Sight.

He held her other hand. "Just tell me. What is it that troubles you? What did the Goddess show you? Death? Death for whom?"

A tear spilled down her cheek. "For him. I saw a glimpse of his doom that day five years past, but clearly now. Too clearly. His fate is set; nothing may change it."

"Why does it affect you so? Men die. 'Tis the way of things." He tried to say it in such a manner as to give her comfort, but it had the opposite effect.

She slammed a fist ineffectually against the giving surface of the bed, snarling frustration. "Because I know now who he is!"

"Who, then?" Though bewildered, he kept himself patient with her.

"It cannot be changed—chance, fortune, and fate brought him here."

"To meet his death?"

She nodded, swiping impatiently at her eyes as more tears streamed forth.

"What of it then? Am I to be the one to kill him?"

"No!" She all but shouted in his face. "That you must not do!" She seized his sword arm, gripping hard even through the mail with a strength to make him wince. "Richard, if you love me, promise you will not go near him. Promise me you will raise no weapon to him even if it costs you your honor and place at the king's side."

"It's that important?"

"Yes!"

"Then I promise. Now tell me why."

She eased her hold and wilted. "I have not the words. The Sight told me all in an instant, but why not earlier? Why did she wait so long to show me?"

"Sabra . . ." His patience had limits.

She swung off the bed, pushing past him to go to the door of the tent. The servants lingering there hastily scattered. He followed, looming over her as she looked across to the king's pavilion. The heavens were darker than before, clouds churning as if in response to Sabra's turmoil. In the still air that preludes a storm they heard the herald's clear call as he presented the bastard to the crowd.

"Michel d'Orleans, champion of the house of Duke Montague d'Orleans of Normandy!" he shouted.

"My father yet lives," Richard murmured. What a terrible old man he must be by now. He'd not thought of the ancient tyrant since leaving home.

But Sabra took no notice of his observation, her gaze fixed on the young man. "Look to him, Richard, and remember your promise. I know not why she held this truth from us."

"Can you speak it?"

Her shoulders drooped. "Aye, and the words burn my tongue. This Michel d'Orleans . . ."

He'd never seen her waver so. "Tell me. Sabra?"

"He's—he is your son. Your bastard son, bred before your change."

What? He gaped, staring across the field. "What . . . what say you?"

"You heard. And it is the truth."

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. Her expression told all, but he could not bring himself to take it in. Blood pounded behind his eyes like a club.

"Richard—"

"No . . . oh, it cannot be. I'd have known. That day in Normandy, seeing him then—when we fought—I'd have known."

She puffed a little, hopeless laugh. "With all my gifts, only this moment did I realize it, only when I was shown . . ."

"This cannot be. I'd have felt something from him, seen my blood in him, and if not that, then his mother would have sought me out while he was yet in her womb."

"Perhaps. If she knew you to be the father. You had many women in your youth in the sun. 'Tis like that they in turn had other lovers than yourself."

"Yes, but . . ." Indeed, he'd enjoyed the company of dozens of wenches in those days. Any one of them could have mothered a babe and not been able to name its father. "Know you his history? Who she might have been?" Richard wanted—needed—to remember. Which, if any, of those girls had kept his seed and made a child?

Sabra shook her head, helpless. "But you've only to look at him—his face and form tell all."

Richard looked and saw his younger self mirrored there. Michel was now a strong young man of one and twenty perhaps, with a proud carriage beyond his rank, and those eyes . . . like chips of winter blue ice. They stared over the short distance, meeting Richard's gaze, challenging, arrogant.

Dear God. He caught hold of a tent pole to steady himself. "I've no words. No thoughts." Only feelings, a terrible roiling mix of them. "What am I to do?"

"Nothing."

"But you said he's to die this day?" He spoke less to Sabra than to himself, his voice so thin he did not recognize it. "Why?"

She spread her hands, still helpless.

"Why tell me now? Is this some cruel joke?" He could scarce believe the Goddess would be so petty.

Sabra shut her eyes, as though to look inward for an answer. After a moment, she took a deep breath, like a swimmer starved for air. "To spare you. The Goddess would spare you."

"From what? From ever knowing I had an heir of my body?"

"From . . . from being the one who kills him."

He released Sabra, falling back a step. "What mean you?"

"If you'd gone on the field in ignorance . . . There are two paths for him; both lead to death. Richard, one of them led to you. You would have been the one to kill him."

"Where leads the other path? Name me that man!"

"I cannot—she denies it to me. This is his fate. I know not why it must be so; she has reasons beyond our wisdom."

"That shall not be."

"It shall, Richard. There's naught to be done to save him."

"Fate be damned," he snapped, and set off. Sabra cried his name—his real name—out once in anguish, then he heard no more.

Michel d'Orleans squared himself as Richard approached. The young man's expression was guarded yet amused. "Come for a second trial at arms?" he asked, impolitely speaking first. He made no bow.

Richard stopped before him, searching this stranger's face for signs of recognition. "Michel . . . do you know who I am?"

"I know who you were. You've made a good place for yourself since that day you yielded all to me. Defeat served you well in the end."

"But do you know me?"

He shrugged. "You are the King's Champion here, by another name than your own. Many hold you in high esteem. I'm not one of them."

Now was not the time to reveal his paternity. He would not be believed. "How came you here?"

"The duke sent me. When news of this tourney came to the keep, I asked his leave to champion him. He granted it. He warned me that I might meet you again. He knows what you've been up to all these years."

That was a surprise. "He cares what I do?"

"He cares to keep watch over his enemies, and he gave me enjoinment on what to do should we meet."

"Which is . . . ?"

Michel smiled unpleasantly, hand straying to the sword on his hip. It had once been Richard's own blade. "You can answer that for yourself . . . old man."

The jibe held no sting for him now; it inspired only desperation. "You may kill me as we stand here, Michel, I care not, only please, listen to me."

"What trickery is this?"

"None. I bear you no malice over that day, boy. The past is gone; the present is all, and you must listen to me . . ." Richard put forth his will, pouring it out like a river. "Hear my words . . . and obey them, Michel."

Above them, thunder crackled threateningly. The Goddess was not pleased. Then damnation to her. He could not stand idle.

"Obey you?" Michel questioned, fighting off his influence. "I have my liege-lord. You are nothing to me."

"I am your way to life; hear me out!"

Michel glared at him, sullen. His face was flushed. There was wine on his breath. Had he had too much to be susceptible?

Richard focused hard. "There is a seeress here, a prophet. All that she says comes true. The king himself will swear to it. She foretold that your path on this field goes straight to your death."

That took him aback, but he quickly recovered. "You lie. You just don't want to meet defeat again from me."

"By Jesu's wounds I am charged to keep you alive!"

Despite the force behind the words, Michel held to a stubborn face.

Dear God, he is my son. How could I have not seen? Richard tried a different tack. "I ask—ask—that you simply not fight me this day, just this one day. In return, you will have all that is mine as your prize." He gestured at his tent, far richer than the one Michel had originally taken from him. "Everything is yours, horses, weapons, all, if you retire now. I will vouch for you and say you took sick. None will question your honor or my word."

His gaze strayed to the tent, but Michel caught himself. "You mock me. I owe fealty to my lord Montague—this is some ruse to insult him and disgrace me."

"Not a ruse! Run me through now if it will please you and Montague, only promise you will not fight this day. Should you wish it we can make a test of arms later, but—"

Michel snorted. "You're bewitched! The duke warned me you'd been enspelled into madness by the lady of the lake. Seeress! Sorceress more like. I'll not be caught in her web—"

Enough was enough. He'd sworn to Sabra not to raise a weapon to Michel, but had made no promise concerning his fists. He clouted the younger man solidly on the jaw, knocking him flat. Michel lay like a stone and would stay that way for some time to come.

Their exchange was seen by many, and now the herald hurried over. Several others came with him.

"What means this, Lord Lancelot?" He was highly offended at such a gross breach of conduct, but restrained himself before the King's Champion.

" 'Twas a private quarrel, nothing of import."

"It is here, before this throng. What am I to say to the king?"

"Whatever you please. I'll speak to him later on it." Richard walked away quickly, leaving the man and his foolish questions behind.

In the tent he found Sabra slumped on the bed, still in her squire's clothing. She raised up when he came in. Her eyes were red with spilled sorrow. "He did not hear you," she stated.

His mouth twitched. "Yet I made him listen."

"Richard . . ."

"No! Not one more word. I have obeyed the Goddess in all things, but not this. She asks too much."

"There are destinies even she cannot command. This is one of them."

"Who commands is nothing to me. The boy will be spared this day, I pledge my life on that."

She went bone white. "Take care, Richard." There was fear in her whisper.

Thunder. A deafening roar and crack of it, that made them both flinch.

Richard looked up, as though to see the sky through the tent's ceiling, as though to see the face of the Goddess herself. "Be angry with me as you will," he shouted. "Strike me down if you must, but let him live."

You don't even know him.

The voice was unexpected. His heart faltered at the sound. It was in his head, like a whisper of doom.

From Sabra's stricken look, she'd also heard.

He mustered himself, bolstered by righteous anger. "I don't have to know him! What do you expect of me? Did you think I would do less? If so, then you know me not at all!"

The thunder without rumbled, going on and on, yet no rain fell. Eventually, the noise faded. The air grew thick and hard to breathe.

"Has she more to say?" he asked Sabra.

"I don't know."

"None of this is your fault," he declared. "I hope she understands that."

"Nor is it yours. You are who you are, Richard."

"You may have to explain that to her. I must go now."

"Godspeed," she blurted, as he reached the tent flap.

He turned and came back, just long enough to frame her face with his hands, then kiss her. He wiped her tears away with his fingers, touching the salt wetness to his lips. "Here do I wear thy tokens, Lady du Lac," he said, then left.

He fought as one struck mad, as Lancelot had never been seen to fight before.

Gone was consideration of his opponents' moves, gone was planning; he fought recklessly, taking sword blows like fly swats, beating down all who dared to test him. The crowds cheered him, but he heard them not. One after another, he disarmed or knocked them unconscious or wounded the warriors in his frenzy. The fallen were taken away to the safe areas cordoned off between the flags. He fought on.

He was dimly aware of Lavaine sometimes being at his side, sometimes at his back. Richard was neither thankful for the alliance, nor against it; it was simply part of the day's ordeal. All he wanted was to end the melee quickly. If Michel recovered himself too soon . . .

No, he'd taken a well-judged knock. Enough to keep him out, but not permanently. Richard had had years to practice; he knew his craft.

"Here's another charge for us," huffed Lavaine.

Bors, Ector, and Lionel had formed a temporary alliance with nearly a dozen of their kinsmen, and were making havoc against the lone fighters on the field.

"Shall we break them?" Lavaine asked, grinning. Despite the cool of the dark day, he streamed sweat. His mail was rent from various cuts, his shield scarred from use, his helm battered. Blood crept down his neck where someone had shaved off a slice of his earlobe.

"Do what thou wilt," said Richard, not caring.

His manner had no ill effect on the always cheerful Lavaine, who shouted challenge to the others. Bors heard and raised his spear overhead in acknowledgment. He and his men would come when they'd seen to their current task of clearance. Lavaine waited them out, resting while the others tired themselves.

"Soon," he said, all anticipation.

Richard used the pause to survey activity off the field; this included Michel's tent. Throughout the contest he'd kept such watch as he could manage in that direction. There was no sign of movement yet. Good. If it held so until the hidden sun truly set . . .

"That big Norman you felled is back," said Lavaine, pointing in the opposite direction.

Richard whirled. No! 

Michel, looking fully recovered, had armed himself and was in the process of hurrying toward them. There was murder in his eye.

Richard stepped in front of Lavaine. "He's mine. Touch him and I'll kill you."

Lavaine snorted, nettled by the threat, but gave way. "As you please. What is your quarrel with him?"

Richard made no answer, busy meeting Michel's rush. The boy was better than before, but then he'd had five years to hone his talents. He ruthlessly pressed the least opening, but took care not to overextend himself. Richard used his sword and shield to deflect what came to him, but nothing more. This puzzled Michel, who dodged return strikes that never fell.

"Afraid, old man?" he taunted, holding his arms wide. "Fight me, damn you! Let me take back my honor!"

Richard held his sword blade downward, and slammed it against Michel's shield. The force staggered him backward a few paces, but not off balance. He returned the attack, withholding nothing, roaring out his fury. Still, Richard managed to keep clear of harm. He retreated a step, as though beaten back. Michel followed. Richard continued to retreat, not being obvious about it, but slowly drawing Michel away from the main knot of fighters. Once they were clear, he'd step in and knock the boy out again.

He thought of surrendering to him, but then Michel would only rejoin the battle. No. He had to be taken from it completely; then later, with cooler heads they could talk. Richard had no idea what he would say, but knew that he must—

With savage cries, Bors and his people bore down on them.

Lavaine, thrust aside in the rush, was trying to regain his ground while fending off Ector and two others. He shouted at Richard for help even as he swung the flat of his blade against a man's legs to trip him.

Richard had no mind for him. He lowered his head to get under Michel's guard and butted him clear of the charge, using his shield and sheer muscle. Michel grunted a curse and lost his footing, flying back to roll down a slight rise. One of Bors men went after him, sword raised high.

Richard got between them just in time and with the edge of his shield hit the man's helm hard enough to break it. He dropped. Another Richard beat back using his sword in earnest, surprising the noble with his energy. Bors intervened, his spear shaft taking what would have been a death blow. Richard's blade bit deep, cutting it halfway through, close to the spearhead.

"Retire, Lancelot!" he boomed. "Retire before you kill someone!"

Ignoring him, Richard wrested his sword free, making a stand before Michel. He took out one man after another, not holding back, cracking bones, shattering shields, fighting to win no matter the cost to others.

Lavaine threw himself into the press, smashing his sword pommel into a man's helm to clear his way. He shouted something at Richard, hurtling recklessly forward.

Richard half turned, just in time to see that Michel was up and coming at him. He led with his sword, about to run it through Richard from the back. Richard sidestepped at the perfect instant to avoid it, parrying it skyward. Michel's arm shot up, then out of nowhere a blade caught him in that unprotected spot beneath his arm, driving in deep. He made a brief low grunt of pain, then fell, blood spurting.

No! 

A wordless shriek and Richard brought his blade down on the other. There was a flash as the metals struck sparks like flint, then both shattered. He stared madly into the face of Lavaine.

"He was going to kill you!" he screamed at Richard. "The coward would have taken you from behind!"

Richard fell on him like death, hands closing on his neck, but the milling men around them kept him from getting a solid grip. Then something struck Richard hard in his left side. He heard the scrape and felt the tear of links as whatever it was sheered through his chain coat. All the breath went out of him. Suddenly the cloudy sky was before him, the earth at his back. He smelled his own blood as it flowed out to soak the turf.

"Lancelot is down!" yelled Bors somewhere above.

"See to the Norman," Richard told him. "See to him, for God's sake!"

"They're coming. My lance slipped and caught you by chance, be still!"

Squires were racing in from the sides with litters to carry off the wounded. Most of the fighters paused now, catching their wind, trying to make out just what had happened to cause the indestructible Lancelot to fall. Richard hardly knew himself, only that the pain flared each time he tried to breathe. Looking down, he saw Bors's spearhead—the shaft fully broken off—sticking out from his side just below his ribs. More than half of it was yet buried in his flesh. Impatiently, he clawed at it to draw it out.

"Don't, man—you'll bleed to death!" Bors made to stop him.

Richard struck him away and continued to pull. The effort dragged a scream from him. When had this last happened? That night in his father's keep . . . only then it had been a dagger in his thigh. He'd lived then, would live now.

The spearhead came clear, mostly. The top third of the tip was gone. He threw the head away and rolled over to look at Michel.

He lay panting with pain, his d'Orleans colors stained through with his blood. No one was with him; all were crowding round Richard. He crawled forward toward him, shrugging off help.

"See to him! Get a healer to staunch his wound! God's death, leave me and see to him!"

Two of the squires went to Michel, moving him onto their litter, then lifting and bearing him away to the cordoned-off ground. Only then would Richard allow himself to be helped. Lavaine. It was Lavaine who came forward and hauled him up. Richard glared at him and got only noncomprehension in return. The man still thought he'd saved his life. Rage was pointless. His arm around Lavaine's shoulders, they staggered after the bearers.

Dizziness seized him. His legs began to give way to the blood loss. His will alone kept him walking.

Michel sprawled flat on the grass, a healer on one side, a priest on the other.

Don't do this, Goddess! 

The squires had cut away Michel's tunic, and were working to remove his chain shirt. They manhandled him roughly, trying to pull it over his head. Lavaine let Richard go, and he fell on his knees, pushing the others away. He took hold of Michel's shirt in both hands and ripped it in two as easily as if it'd been made of thin cloth. The priest crossed himself; the others stared.

"Fire!" Richard snapped, tearing off the padded tunic beneath. "Bring a torch."

One was put in his hand. He touched the blazing end of it to Michel's gaping wound. The stink of burned flesh and blood columned up. Michel screamed and struggled as the men held him down. Still the blood poured out.

"Not enough," said the healer. "You'll burn his arm off and still not staunch it."

"Wine, then."

Someone gave him a skin. He sloshed a stream into the wound, then set that ablaze. Michel bucked and shrieked under the hot blue flames.

And still the blood poured out. The big vein had been cut through.

The fire dwindled, died. Richard pressed his hand into the wound, to halt the flow. He looked at the healer. "Get your needle, sew this up."

The man knew better than to argue, but his long face held no hope for this patient. He went to work. Michel had fallen into a daze, his eyes open and wandering, and he began to shiver. His skin was gray and icy. Richard called for blankets.

"He must live," he told the healer. "I had such a wound as near took my arm off and survived. You will do that for him."

"If it please God to grant me the skill, my lord," he muttered back, working the needle and gut string like a seamstress. "He's Norman, as are you—a kinsman?"

Richard choked, his eyes blurring. "Yes . . . a kinsman."

The healer glanced quickly at him. "Someone see to Lord Lancelot—he's like to faint."

He felt gentle hands drawing him back, and he had not the strength to fight them. He was laid next to Michel. His overtunic was cut away, his chain shirt and the padding beneath pushed back so they could examine his wound. It was open and seeped steadily. Strange, it should have closed by now, the pain stopped, but—

Sabra's face came into his view. She yet wore her squire's guise. No weeping now, no time for it. "Lie still," she whispered.

"How is he?"

She shook her head, one hand palpating against his wound. "The spearpoint broke off inside you. You won't heal until it's out."

"Do what you must, then look after him."

"Yes, I swear it."

Reassured, Richard lay back. Sabra motioned for several men to come close. "Hold my lord fast."

Lavaine sat on his legs, another half knelt on his chest, two more on his arms. They marveled, though, when Richard moved not a muscle as Sabra dug into his side, fingers probing. It was an agony, but strangely distant; his heart and mind were elsewhere.

One of the men laughed. "Your squire will have a new name after this, Lord Lancelot. We shall call him Thomas after the one who doubted our Lord Jesu's return unless he could put his hand in the Holy Wound."

The others shushed him for blasphemy, but grinned at the joke.

Sabra made a small sound of triumph. Slowly she worked the spearhead free, finally holding up her bloody prize: a wide triangle of metal the length of her palm. She tossed it away and swiftly lay a thick pad of clean linen over the freshly bleeding gash.

Richard sighed out his relief. It would knit up now.

The men rose, foolishly asking after Richard's health. He shook his head and looked across to Michel. The boy looked back at him, his expression calm now, even rested, his blue eyes free of pain and pride. Richard spoke his name, but got no reply. It was then he saw that the only one in attendance was the priest, who crossed himself one last time, then laid a cloth over Michel's face.

Overhead, the thunder drummed throughout the heavens, and the black clouds finally broke. Silver sheets of the long-withheld fall streamed down, drenching them. Richard's hot tears mixed with the cold rain, and he stretched forth his near hand, trying to take Michel's, but couldn't quite reach . . .

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