Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Nine

Britain, the Past

Richard boosted Galahad up into the saddle as he'd done over a thousand times before since the day the lad was big enough to ride a horse by himself.

"You'll take care," he said, making it an order, not an admonition. He didn't like sending his foster son off on his own, but there were too few of them and too many of Mordred's forces, at least in this part of the land. Sabra said the boy would be fine, though, so . . .

"I'll meet you at the river ford in two days, sir," Galahad promised. "With more support for the king. I swear by St. Michael and St. George."

"Support or no, bring yourself back or your mother will do away with me." He made light of it, but in truth he'd never be able to face Elaine if anything happened to her son.

Galahad shot him a grin. "God be with you, sir, and mother, too." Then he kicked his horse and joined up with the dozen mounted men who would ride with him. Off to another keep to give the king's word to the lord there and hopefully hold him to their side.

It was so damned frustrating.

Arthur still ruled, but only just, for his court had been poisoned by dissension and betrayal. It had been years in the making, but his bastard son Mordred had finally pulled together enough malcontent lords to make a challenge to take the throne. All that had been so perfect and stable was being torn apart by one man's foolish greed. All that Richard and Sabra helped to build was crumbling.

It was a hard blow for them both, harder still for the kingdom, which would fracture into smaller holds easily conquered unless they moved fast to stop it. Like Galahad they were also on a journey to summon together allies for the king, to keep them heartened. Richard would have gone with the boy—a man, now, by God, for he'd lately turned fifteen—but knew he would not be welcomed by that particular noble. Too much history and bad blood were in their past, and the man was petty enough to let it influence his duty to his liege.

Galahad, though, was a great favorite with most of the lords of the land, admired for his courage and piety. He'd proven himself as a warrior, and his devotion to God seemed to make him more than half priest, yet he had a good-humored humility that somehow touched hearts. Rough rogues who only went to church to nap would smile when they saw the lad. It was because of his buoyant, confident spirit that loyalty to the king remained strong in some.

These days Richard was rather less admired than he had once been, those rumors about himself and the queen being at the core. All distorted out of hand with telling and retelling, but the damage was done. Yes, he had been with her, but not in the way others thought, and certainly not in the times or places they'd given in their accusations. That's how he knew Mordred and his followers had been spreading lies. They didn't know the truth, else they'd have seized on it instead, and Richard would have been hounded away or destroyed by now.

According to the stories that were abroad Lord Lancelot had committed adultery with the queen every time the king chanced to nap on his side of the royal bed. One had their fornication concealed only by the tapestry hanging behind the throne itself while the king obliviously held court. Never mind that the thing cleared the floor by a good twenty feet and was backed by a solid wall, people actually believed the ridiculous lie—even the ones who had seen the throne room and knew better.

It did not help that the queen had made Lancelot her favorite above all the other lords. He really should have talked with her about that, but any pass between them created more rumors. Ignoring the situation made it worse. By the time Sabra had a chance to influence her to temper her conduct it was too late and the lies were rooted and growing quick as weeds.

No help for it now. It was their lot to keep things going. Richard took a lesser seat to Galahad, providing him with advice and escort as needed on his rounds. He was content with that role, for he loved his foster son well, proud that one so young was accomplishing so much. There was hope yet for saving the kingdom from Mordred.

This day had been muggy and dark, threatening rain, which had been a relief to Richard and Sabra both, for they'd been exceptionally busy. The rain never fell, though, and they were thankful for that as well. The roads they traveled had not been made by the Romans, and consequently became mud wallows when it got wet, slowing them.

They'd avoided an encounter with Mordred's people only the day before. Sabra's Sight proved very helpful, but of course they had to pretend it did not exist. There were quite enough rumors about the queen using witchcraft, no one needed to think any of her ladies were practicing as well. It was up to Richard to think up a good reason to keep his party camped one more day on this side of the forest until the enemy force moved elsewhere. Not hard, there was always something to do or repair when on the move, and the horses as well as the people needed the rest.

Though Richard was absolutely certain of the loyalty of every man under his command, he was less sure of the camp followers. One couldn't sit down and influence them all. Not quickly, anyway. Besides, if they were spies, they could report little to help the enemy; as though this was a tourney, everyone was in good spirits and full of cheer.

Most of which departed with Galahad.

Those who remained were uneasy and trying not to show it. Richard understood it was because of the division of their forces, with the greater number of them gone off. Sabra assured him there was no danger from Mordred's men while they remained in place. He would have given much to be able to pass that on to the others.

They would leave in the morning for the ford, and preparations were going on, saddles and tack repaired or oiled, traveling food cooked. Richard made the rounds of the now much smaller camp himself, debating on whether to send the followers away yet. There was fighting ahead. He didn't have Sabra's Sight, but felt it in his belly. The others seemed to think this would be like a tourney, where yielding if outmatched meant only the loss of your gear or the payment of a ransom. Mordred and his men had no such honorable notions; they were warring for booty, property, and power, and you didn't acquire those by a fair contest.

Richard told his people again and again that real battles meant ugly death, and though they nodded somber agreement, he could see they didn't believe him. The peace in the land had been so strong during Arthur's long reign that this new crop of warriors did not know what war was like.

Their first real fight would be the only cure for that innocence, and he prayed they would live through it. He'd trained them hard enough, but training was never truly the same thing.

As evening came on he sensed the sun's departure with his skin, not his eyes, for the dull gray sky showed no change. The thick air turned chill, and fog gathered in low areas and began to fill the surrounding woods like lost spirits. A long way off, but still too close for those nervous of heart, a wolf howled at a moon it could not possibly see.

Across the camp, Sabra paused in her task of rubbing down her horse, and glanced toward Richard, not smiling. After a moment, she continued her work. There were pages for such jobs, but she liked tending her own animal, saying it eased her heart. The wolf howled again, and the horse stirred, restless. She whispered, and it calmed down. If there was a pack of wolves in the area, they'd not come near, Sabra would see to that, but there was little she could do to stop their song of hunger.

So long as it's not Annwyn's hounds a-howling, he thought. That never boded well.

"Riders, my lord!" One of the pages came pelting up to him out of the dark, red of face and excited.

"How far?"

"A quarter mile," he puffed. "Walking, not running. All armed. There's a priest with them, armed, too."

Which meant nothing. Priests were everywhere, with the king's men and the traitors alike, and everyone went armed these days. "How many?"

"Fifteen, my lord. They look foreign."

"How so?"

"Their banner colors. I never saw the like before."

"Describe them."

The page did, with great accuracy, rattling off every detail he'd seen from his hiding place near the main road.

Richard searched his memory, but there were no lords in Britain with such a banner, nor in Wales for that matter, only across—oh, good God, it couldn't be . . .

Sabra left off work and came over. "We have visitors."

"A ghost from my past, I think." Richard's heart felt ready to burst, it beat so hard and quick. If what he thought was true . . .

She put an hand on his. "Don't worry, all will be well."

"But the last time anyone came here from Normandy—" It still hurt to think of that awful day; it would always hurt.

"All will be well."

One of his warriors came up, having heard. "Shall we arm, my lord?"

"Yes. Prepare, but make no move unless I order it. Let's see them first. They could be friends."

Sabra, apparently unconcerned, went back to her horse. Some of the more perceptive women in the camp took that to mean no trouble was afoot. Had she gone to put on her sword, they'd have been scrambling like the men.

Strangely, there was not a lot of noise from their stir. It was as though they were quiet to catch the first sign of the horsemen's approach. There was no point to it, though. In a very short time the fog had turned thick as porridge, muffling and distorting sound. Even Richard had trouble discerning anything until the traveling party was quite close, the thud of hooves, the jingling of a bit.

Challenge was issued and answered, the reply in a familiar accent, a familiar, but long-unheard voice. Richard stepped eagerly forward, then halted suddenly as speaker—who was the priest—pushed back his cowl and revealed his face.

My God, he's an old man. Richard's heart swooped, freezing him in place as he recognized his brother Edward.

"I seek Lancelot du Lac," he said, looking right at Richard.

Does he not know me? "You've found him, good father," he whispered.

Edward's blue eyes flashed. His face was ancient, he must have been close to fifty by now, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. "Glad I am to have found thee. May we stay here for the night?"

"You are right welcome if you are friends of the king."

"We are friends of all good men, which includes the king."

"Then rest and break bread with us."

At a sign from Richard a page came forward to hold Edward's horse while he stiffly dismounted. He and his men were muddy from long traveling, but looked alert. They had a modest pack train with them, their two-wheeled carts filled with gear, but able to roll along fast if need be.

"May I speak with you apart, Lord Lancelot?"

"This way." Richard led off to his pavilion, and they ducked inside. He let down the flap, allowing them privacy. When he turned it was to be swept up in Edward's overpowering bear hug.

There were tears in his voice. "Dear God, I hardly dared hope you were to be found."

Laughing, Richard returned the embrace, thumping his brother on the back and was himself unable to speak for a few moments. When they broke apart, Richard lighted candles from the flame of a small oil lamp on a table and they were able to get a good look at each other.

"Life with the Britons agrees with you," said Edward. "You don't look a day older than when I saw you last."

"There's no sun in this land of rain to bake the skin to a crust," he said, shrugging dismissively.

Edward snorted. "I must be overdone, then."

Richard made no reply. This was hard, bitter hard. Sabra had warned him he would outlive everyone he knew, and the harshness of that truth was very visible on Edward's seamed face. The last time Richard saw his brother had been soon after the defeat at that last tourney at castle d'Orleans. He'd been thirty-five then, Edward just a few years older. Now Richard had the eerie feeling he was seeing his own face as it might have been had he not taken the path Sabra had offered him.

"What brings you so far from home?" he asked.

Edward found a cushioned stool and eased down onto it with a pleasurable groan, shifting his sword belt around out of the way. "You call this summer? Ohhh, my bones think it's winter already."

Remembering his manners, Richard found a skin of wine hanging from the central tent pole and handed it over. "Warm them with this, then. I'm sorry there's no cup, but—"

Edward waved off the apology and took a swig, grunting his approval. "We both know what the road is like. Except for one night under a roof, I've been eating my bread in the saddle for I don't know how long. Before that I ate none at all because I was hanging over the side of a ship while we made the crossing from Normandy. The next time you decide to lose yourself could you do it on the same side of the sea that I'm on?"

He smiled and promised he would, then went to the flap and ordered meat and bread brought to his guest. The cook fires had been going all day, so food was ready. In a gratifyingly short time Edward had a special folding table in front of him along with a roasted fowl and a flat, weighty loaf with a bowl of hot drippings to dip it in.

"You won't partake?" Edward asked.

"I've eaten. Please, fill yourself." Richard burned with questions, but forced himself to polite patience, sitting on another low stool while his brother happily gorged like a field peasant at harvest.

"By God, that was good," he said, giving a well-mannered belch. "I've not had better for a very long time." He sucked the last grease from his fingers and wiped them on the hem of his traveling robe. He looked to be only a priest, but Richard knew he'd risen to archbishop, perhaps higher. "You've done well for yourself, Dickon."

"Would that we were at my keep and I could show you better."

"In truth, I went there first to look for Lord Lancelot. Your lady Elaine was exceedingly kind in her courtesy. By the way, she is in good health and sends you her love and instruction to look most carefully after yourself and your son."

"Thank you. How recent is the news?"

"Two weeks and a day. You—a father." Edward looked pleased.

Richard was well practiced at hiding the ache that word sometimes caused him. "Foster-father. Galahad is not my son by blood, though he is in my heart. I've raised him as my own since he was so high—" He held his hand palm-down to indicate the height of a small child.

"Galahad." Edward smirked. "Better here than in Normandy."

The boy's name had ever been a sore point with Richard, but he'd learned to live with it. "His mother picked that one, not I."

"That goes without saying, but I've heard of him, of you both. The tales of the good you've done here under the name of Lancelot have traveled even to my humble monastery."

"And the bad, too, no doubt."

" 'Let he who is without sin' and all the rest, brother. Aside from myself, you've been the only truly decent man in the whole of our family, and I know how enemies love hurtful gossip—and you've not asked about them, our family, that is."

"I thought you'd get 'round to it in your own time."

"Yes, and me with little time to spare."

"What do you mean?" He sharply looked Edward over for signs of ill health. Although old, he seemed hearty enough, his movements quick and decisive, his eyes and speech clear. Certainly his perpetual dry humor was yet firmly in place, along with his appetite.

"I've come to fetch you home—for a visit only," he added after seeing Richard's horrified reaction.

"Why?"

He grimaced. "Because our father is dying."

Though Richard kept himself apprised of second-, even third-hand news of Edward, he had little interest in the doings of the d'Orleans court. He'd rather thought old Montague had already passed away years ago. "That is nothing to me. You know how we parted." Not the whole story, but enough of the truth to satisfy Edward at the time.

"That is why he wishes to see you. He wants to make amends."

Richard was not successful at stifling his bark of laughter. "Toward what end? To finish what he tried to do? Murder me? Has he become addled and forgot the night he tried to gut me with his knife?"

"No, he is not addled, and yes, that was a terrible thing he tried to do."

Achieved. Had Sabra's gift not changed him, Richard would have died at his father's hand. Had he not stayed his own rage, he'd have drained the wretched man of all his blood, and have that murder forever on his soul. With Richard's agelessness and long memory, forever could be a merciless torment.

"But he is dying and would see us one more time," said Edward. "For his soul's peace."

"No. I bade him good-bye those years ago and closed that door. I will not see him on this side ever again. I'll light a candle toward his soul's peace, but that's all I can bring myself to do." Richard knew he'd have no heart behind the prayer, either. For his own peace he always tried not to think about his father at all. Edward coming in like this revived pain he thought to be dead.

"Do you think I've forgotten the evils he's done? Or that I'll ask you to forgive him for all that he's done to you?"

"Edward, you're too wise to ask that of me knowing I could end up lying to you or lying to God, or worse, to Father. My lack of sympathy is as close as I can come to forgiveness. I've worked very hard to bring myself this far."

"He's a dying man with a last request. I know you—you'd give as much comfort to a beggar wretch fallen on the side of the road. Father's committed many sins, but your being there will lift some of that weight from his—"

"That's what your place is about. Ego te absolvo, brother, and that's as easy as you can make the passing for him, and it's better than he deserves."

"Now you sound like Ambert."

Richard took no offense. "We are as Father made us. And as he made us, so now does he come to appreciate the kind of work he's done."

"At least think about it."

"I have. I can't leave, anyway, not with this war brewing. I won't leave my king."

"Your king will grant you a release from your obligations for this. You've but to ask."

"You overestimate my influence in court. Some of them barely tolerate me."

"The king's will is all that matters."

"And you overestimate that power as well. He may release me to go, but still needs me. If the others see the king's own keeper seeming to desert him when he's most needed at his side . . ."

"You can explain—"

"It's not to happen. Even if we were at peace with no Mordred to trouble the land I would not leave."

"That's a hard thing, Dickon. You'll have to live with it all your life, and then endure it when you yourself pass the veil and are judged."

"I will have to live with it, yes." He'd gotten very good at ignoring certain aspects of the future.

"Very well, then. If you won't go for Father's sake, then go for your own. Do that which is right, you always have."

Richard clapped both hands to his forehead, near-exasperated. "I am! My duty is here, and it is more important than anything, including Father dying, including my soul's rest in the next life. God's merciful, or so I'm told, and I think He will forgive me if I'm here trying my best to keep His anointed king on his throne."

Edward held silent, his jaw working, his eyes grown hot. For a moment he seemed to verge on giving in to anger, but it gradually passed. "All right," he finally said in a quiet voice. "I've done my duty, and can see it would be a sin to press you to go against your conscience on this. It is your conscience, isn't it?"

"Yes. Take me back there, and I'd be on my knees for the rest of the year confessing the lies I'd have to speak to get through it. But, Edward, please know that I am sorry you must bear this alone."

He chuckled. "I, of all people, am not alone. Hm?" He flicked his gaze briefly toward the tent ceiling.

"Sometimes I forget who and what you are."

"Well, that's good. There are days when I get so full of the bowing and respect and the blessing and all the rest I could just rip at the seams."

Richard blinked. "Really?"

Edward cocked his head. "Actually, no, I quite love it."

They stared at each other a moment, then erupted into laughter. It didn't have the same light-heartedness of their long lost youth, but was richer for their mutual understanding.

"I've missed you, Dickon. I'd hoped that on the journey back we would have time to talk, but it's not to be. I must leave at first light and pray I'm not too late on my return."

"What ails him?"

He shrugged. "Age. He has a sense this is his last summer. I've seen the same with others. Some just know their time has come, and they prepare. I'll tell him your duty holds you here. Which is the truth."

"What about Ambert?"

"He's mostly the same, more girth, not nearly as loud as he was, saves his strength that way. He doesn't snarl at me as he once did, and he gave up trying to hit me years ago. Might even be mellowing."

"That would be a miracle."

"So, all those prayers of mine have wrought some good." He smiled, but it faded. "When this is over . . . will you come and visit me? A real visit. You need never see Castle d'Orleans."

He solemnly took Edward's hand. "I swear I will do that."

"God will that you be spared."

Richard murmured agreement. "You need rest, I think. This tent's yours for the night, it has the best bed. I'll have someone bring coals for the brazier, warm it up a bit. Our summer nights can get cold. Ask and they'll bring you anything you want."

"Where will you sleep?"

"I've another place. Don't have much need of sleep lately. Generally I keep watch with the men."

"I better tell mine what's going on while I still can."

They emerged to find Edward's escort had been looked after as honored guests. Fed and bedded down, Edward sought out their captain and gave him the news of their morning departure.

"Will Lord Richard not be coming with us?" The captain shot Richard a look of unabashed curiosity. A young man, he might well have grown up on tales of the one-time undefeated Champion d'Orleans. They'd have to be whispered, too. Richard heard Ambert loathed any reminder of having a youngest brother and had been known to flog people who accidentally mentioned the fact.

Edward glanced around, apparently mindful of other ears who did not need to know of Richard's past. "He will remain. While we're here, always call him Lord Lancelot, hm?"

"Yes, my lord bishop."

"No need to set up my tent. His lordship is kindly loaning me his for the night. Sleep while you can, we leave for the coast at dawn. If there's any way of telling when the sun's up."

"I'll let you know," said Richard.

"Did I make the right choice?" he asked Sabra later. They walked slowly on the edge of the camp, making round after slow round, keeping watch in the night that was their day. He'd already told her of his conversation with Edward. Sometimes she answered such questions, but others she did not, seeing a multiplicity of futures, often not knowing which was the one that would be. Much of the future—and one never knew which parts of it most of the time—was ever and always in change.

"You are the best judge of that," she said. "You know the truth of what's best for you in your heart."

"Well, then, I feel better. My heart has been heavy."

"And now it's lighter?"

"Yes. Had I made the wrong decision, you'd have let me know with a different answer. Anyway, I told Edward if there was no war coming still I'd remain here. Why did you not come to meet him?"

"It isn't time yet. Besides, he only knows of you and the Lady Elaine. I think he'd be more comfortable not knowing about my presence in your life. It's bad enough with the rumors about you and the queen."

"Best not to add others about me and one of my pages?"

It was an old joke between them, still able to bring a smile. Everyone in the camp knew the Lady Sabra, but turned a blind eye to her preference for a page's clothes. Though considered immodest, they were much more practical for traveling than her court gowns, and not one of their party ever cast forth a disparaging comment. Even if Richard could not influence them all, she was herself very thorough. Sabra also saw to it their people did not notice many other oddities as well.

"Yes. The king's enemies have enough false grain for their lie-mills. Let's not give them anything real."

"Then I will try hard not to kiss you in front of them." He paused, bent low, and caught her squarely on the lips. "There, no one saw that one, I'm sure of it."

"They'll see less if we're deeper under the trees . . ." She took his hand and led him into thicker shadows within the fog.

"We're supposed to be on watch," he said.

"There's no one within two miles of our camp. None are abroad in this murk. And if they were, we'd hear them before the horses did."

He could trust the truth of her otherwise unconfirmed information "Let's be quiet, then."

She found a place for them, a moss-cushioned depression beneath an oak as wide as Richard was tall. Its black roots, as big around as his body, thrust high from the soil as though reaching for something. "There's power here," she whispered. "From him." She nodded respectfully at the oak.

"You're sure he won't mind?" Richard was still sometimes taken off balance by some of the things she said, particularly when she ascribed awareness to objects like trees.

"He'll enjoy the company."

Another advantage to her page's clothes: they were considerably easier to remove than her elegant gowns. Grass and mud stains were normal as well. An excellent arrangement for them both.

That in mind, they both arranged themselves in the makeshift bed. Strangely, there was much more privacy here than they had in his pavilion, surrounded as it was by the camp, certainly better than Sabra's tent, which was full of her female servants with only a drape of linen to separate them from view. Richard liked the change.

The air was chill on his bare skin, but he had no mind for it, only Sabra. Perhaps she was right about there being power in this spot; he thought he sensed it as a heady rich scent coming from the soil beneath the moss.

"Were you here earlier?" he asked.

"How did you know?" There was a smile in her voice.

"Because of the singular lack of fallen leaves, bark, and twigs. No acorn shells, either." They'd made love in several other forests over the years, and such debris could be very distracting.

"Silly, it's a male tree."

He knew better than that. "Oaks put out male and female flowers. You told me yourself."

"Then this one must be more male than female," she insisted, giggling.

"I'll show you male," he rumbled.

She put a hand over her mouth to smother a small laughing shriek as he fulfilled his threat. Her humor turned to long sighs as his lips roamed over her breasts and flat belly, questing ever lower until reaching her treasure. With a great deal of satisfaction for her response, he lingered long there, growing hard himself, anticipating what was to come. She was the best, the most beautiful, and absolutely unique.

"Soon now, my love," she murmured.

Indeed, yes.

Skin on skin, he moved up again, tasting every part of her. His beast within was quiet this night, strangely peaceful, as was hers, for there was no change in her eyes. There would be no sharing of blood, but this was enough, more than enough.

Kissing and loving, breathless, yet silent, she let him know she was ready and twisted around so she was facedown on the ground. She spread her arms wide as he rode her, and knew she was embracing the earth itself. Her hands clutched convulsively on the oak's roots when she climaxed, and in his own fever Richard imagined there were three presences there, man, woman, and the unseen, benign spirit of the ancient tree sharing its vast strength with them.

Hours later, the fog vanished and the night sky cleared. Moon and stars shone down coldly on them. The morning would be cloudless and bright. Richard almost cursed. He'd have to spend the day beneath a thick, tightly woven cloak, hood pulled well down, his gauntlets on the whole time to avoid burning. Sabra would have it no better, either.

For now they continued their slow walk around the camp. The fires gone low, they stopped to add more wood. Sometimes people would wake just enough to notice and nod off again, sometimes not.

In a way they were still alone and together. Richard longed for a time when they could truly go off by themselves and not have the responsibility of so many others to look after. Perhaps by the fall Mordred's rebellion would be broken, and they'd be free to cross to Normandy. It might be a good thing to maintain the name of Lancelot—he still had fame and respect over there—then Ambert need never know. How amusing it would be, though, if Ambert sent an invitation of hospitality to Arthur's greatest champion only to discover . . .

It would be worth it for the look on his face. Oh, yes.

"What makes you smile, my Richard?" Sabra asked. She'd been on the other side of camp and now returned, slipping her arm in his.

"Something that's likely not to come to pass. You aren't the only one who sees futures that never happen."

"What did you see?"

A lift in her tone caused him to glance at her. Her eyes were flushed bloodred from a recent feeding. It made him want her again.

As she had time and again, she knew his thoughts. "I took enough for us both."

"Oh?"

"I fed from two, not one. It would please me to share with you."

"It would delight me to please you," he returned. They'd often done this for each other. He wasn't hungry, but to have her once more . . . "The oak again?"

"Just out of the firelight will do. I'll try to be quiet." Hand in hand, she led the way again.

He could smell the fresh infusion of new bloods rising from her now-rosy skin. This time they stood, she bracing her back against another tree, her feet on its roots, lifting her tall so they were on a level with each other. Their love-play was brief, but intense, for she was eager again for him as well. No need to shed clothes, for the effect when he bit into her soft throat was the same as if they'd been joined in a more traditional manner. She tried to muffle her gasps as he fed from her and didn't quite succeed. No matter. None would pay them notice.

She held tight to him, urging him to take his fill. He made it last. This was no serving wench to be influenced into forgetting the familiarity, this was Sabra. Her blood-heat ran through his own body, as intense as any climax, touching different areas, fulfilling, nourishing flesh and spirit alike.

And it was all the more terrible when he chanced to look up and saw Edward's face, ghost-pale in the moonlight. He was only a few yards away, and it was clear from his stunned expression he'd seen everything he shouldn't. Frozen for the span of five heartbeats, he quickly retreated from sight.

No!  

Sabra's drowsy eyes opened wide. "What is it?"

"My brother saw us. He knows what I am." Richard was shaking, shot through and through with fear. He broke from her and went seeking.

He caught up with Edward just on the edge of the camp, dropping a hand on his shoulder and turning him about. Edward whirled, his cross in one hand, a sword in another.

"Touch me not!" he snapped.

Richard fell back as though struck. "Wait—please—"

"Away from me!"

"Let me explain."

"There is none for this."

"I am the same man, your brother. Edward, hear me!"

Edward paused, his heart's turmoil showing on his face: panic, horror, fear, and infinite, ghastly sorrow. "I see now why you appear so youthful, but God, Richard—why? How could you allow . . . it—it's unclean . . . oh, God . . ." He shot away toward his tent. Richard tried to follow, but Sabra, suddenly catching up, stepped between and stayed him.

"Let him be," she said.

"I must go, try to tell him."

"It won't work. Your brother is unable to hear you now. In the morning."

"When he can see us cower from the light? That will reassure him."

"Let him bide alone, he's afraid and must see his own way past it. Let him pray and think and remember who you are." Sabra left, going toward her own tent.

Richard held off, still disturbed, fearful, still wanting to talk. God, if he lost Edward because of this . . .

He hated what thoughts his brother must be thinking, what alarms and apprehensions were nesting in his mind.

I'm not a monster.  

But why should Edward believe him? So many years apart, they were near-strangers, their worlds impossibly different.

Richard paced, knowing he was too stirred up to wait until dawn, but seeing the wisdom of allowing Edward at least a little time to get over the first shock. If once he was calm enough he would have to listen.

And if not . . . then Richard would make him listen.

It was an action that smacked of dishonor, but shameful as it would be to force his own brother's mind to accept a truth, like it or not, better that than lose him to fear and ignorance.

So be it, but he hoped it would not become necessary.

Having thought that through, Richard swiped at his mouth, wiping away any lingering blood. His eyes should be normal by now, and Edward— What the devil was that . . . ?

Richard came alert at activity near Edward's pavilion. Men were moving about in the shadows, their movements furtive. These were not sleepy soldiers scratching themselves early-awake, nothing sluggish about this lot . . .

And their swords were out.

He silently drew his own weapon and moved in.

Sabra! He hoped she would hear and know the meaning of his urgent thought.

Two men were just entering Edward's tent. Richard grabbed one by the scruff and plucked him from his feet, throwing him well away. The other man completed his rush inside, raised his sword, and struck at the fur-wrapped figure in the bed. The blade bit down swift and hard.

Roaring, Richard dragged him around. He was the captain of Edward's escort. He slammed his sword pommel against Richard's skull with vicious, killing force, broke clear, and darted from the tent, yelling.

Shouts and screams ran through the camp, and two more of the escort came at Richard. One of them managed to get a single strike, his sword cutting into Richard's shoulder, but it served only to anger, not fell him. Their deaths were brutal and quick. He saw the captain rushing away, urging the rest of his well-armed company to take them all, take them all.

Richard's uncanny speed put a halt to that. He was before the man in less than an instant, full of fury. The captain had time to blink once—after his head was off. His body dropped like a stone. Another man bent on avenging his commander hurtled forward, shrieking. He seemed to move ridiculously slow to Richard's heightened perception. He died fast enough, though.

A dozen yards away . . . fighting by another tent . . . women screaming. Sabra was there.

Yet another warrior got in Richard's way and was cut nearly in two by his passage, almost an afterthought. More of the escort men, instinctively seeking to take out the greatest threat, mobbed him.

They were nothing, less than children playing at soldiers, slow and clumsy, and also soon dead. He gave them no mercy, striking them down with the chill efficiency of a butcher at his trade.

Then they were gone, and he pressed toward Sabra where he'd glimpsed her fighting by the red light of one of the fires. She seemed aflame herself, but that was from splashed blood. Four men lay at her feet, her blade smoking in the cold air from their gore.

"See to Edward!" she shouted at him.

He hurtled back, fearing the worst.

No others came at him, they were either killed or running. His own people had realized the tumult for a traitorous attack, fought back, and were in pursuit.

Richard tore into the tent, his heart in his mouth as he knelt by the bed. No movement, no heart-sound.

"Dear, God—Edward . . . ?"

He choked as he pulled back the coverings. The huddled form beneath had been shaped by Edward's saddle and wadded-up blankets.

"I've not forgotten all there was to being a soldier," Edward said from the tent opening.

Richard sagged with boundless relief and came out, but Edward backed from him, cross and sword still before him.

"You've naught to fear from me, brother." To prove it, he reached and took the cross from him and kissed it. "And I thank our Lord that you are unharmed."

Edward let out a shaky breath, staring. "Which is more than may be said about you."

Now that he had time for it, Richard noticed the wound on his shoulder. It was in the same spot as the one that nearly killed him all those years ago, and looked to be as serious. Blood yet flowed, soaking his tunic, blending with the blood of those he'd killed, but he could also feel the burning sensation that meant healing. "I will be well, soon enough."

"You should be flat and groaning as happened once before."

"Would you prefer that for me now?"

"If it meant you would die as a man with prayers to ease your soul's passage. But this . . ."

"Yes, this. Which has saved the lives of these good people. Were I a man such as you I'd have never bested these murderers. See me as I am, not as what you fear!"

But Edward couldn't seem to take his gaze from the wound and shook his head. " 'Tis not natural. It goes against God."

Richard held up the cross. "Were that true, then let Him strike me down." They each waited, but nothing happened. Richard stepped forward and pressed the cross into his brother's hand. There was blood on it. "See? We both abide under His sky. Guard you the day and I the night. There's room enough for us all."

Edward continued to shake his head. He was not in utter rejection, this was more like being overwhelmed and unable to take it in. "I must pray . . . and see to the fallen."

"Very well. This is an evil thing to come to us. You're needed here."

"And for some I've come too late." He seemed infinitely sad.

"No, think that not! What's happened to me has been a gift bestowed to help me better serve. Without it you and likely everyone in this camp would be dead instead of—by God, I never thought I'd have to raise my sword against the d'Orleans banner. Are these men of the house or did you hire them for your journey?"

"They are of the house. Ambert sent them to the monastery to be my esco—oh, St. Michael protect us." Edward bowed his head, crossing himself. "I had a suspicion, but no, he couldn't have. It's too iniquitous."

"Yet you set up that ruse in the tent. Is that why you were in the trees?"

"Yes, waiting there, watching. I had a feeling something was not right. And then I heard . . . I saw what you were doing to that girl . . ."

"She's all right."

"But—"

"See for yourself." Richard gestured off to the side where Sabra energetically directed a rough cleanup of what had become a battlefield. Their men were dragging bodies together in a row like logs, and a knot of the women saw to a wounded survivor. "Trust me on this, not for all the world would I see harm come to her or anyone else under my protection—which includes you. I have pledged my life to that."

"But the means you've used . . ."

He held up his sword. "This is the means. The change in me makes me stronger and quicker—"

Edward backed away, one hand waving, palm out. "No, this is too much. I can't . . ." He did not finish, but turned and left.

Richard almost started after him, but caught Sabra looking his way and forced himself to stillness. Sudden, leadlike weariness settled on him. He would need some hours of rest to fully heal and to take more blood. There were plenty of dead to serve for that. He would feed from them, but not just yet.

He called for servants to come and deal with the bodies here, to carry them over with the others, then fled into his tent, out of sight of the coming sun.

From the thick shade of the woods Richard and Sabra watched as graves were dug in the noontime glare. Edward occupied himself giving the dead of both sides the proper rites. He moved from one to the next, the cowl of his black robe pushed back, his head bowed, lips moving from prayers he'd said a thousand times and more. Richard, his shoulder still aching, was rather less charitable concerning the fate of some of those souls.

"They'd have murdered a holy man as he slept," he said to Sabra. "My brother is old now, what harm could he possibly be to anyone?"

"You know the answer. So does he. Neither of you like it."

"I can believe it. He doesn't want to."

"He is a good man and would prefer to see only the best in others. When they don't live up to that it makes the truth a difficult thing for him to accept. He's been disappointed many times, but still he hopes."

There, the last one blessed and prayed over, the last spade of earth in place to cover his corruption.

"My lord bishop!" Richard called.

Edward heard, and after a moment trudged over, standing away from them in the now hot sun, sweat running down his face, his hands dirty from the fresh-turned earth. He was so weary, so old in the harsh light. Every seam on his skin was cut deeper than before, his fair hair gone silver, the look in his eyes heartbreaking. He spared one curious glance at Sabra, who was still in her bloodstained page clothes, partly covered by a winter-heavy cloak. "Yes?"

"Tell me one thing: did you go to d'Orleans and see Father yourself?"

Clearly this was not the question he expected. "No. I got a letter from Ambert. He pleaded with me to hurry. The men he sent carried supplies and coin to speed us to look for you."

That alone was cause for suspicion. Ambert never did a charitable deed unless he got something in return for it. Edward must have thought the calamity of a dying father had softened him. "Ambert knew you and I have been in contact over the years. Knew you would be the only one able to find me."

"And I came too late. My poor brother Richard died years ago. I will pray for his soul. And I won't trouble Ambert with this."

Richard sneered. "Ambert? You know he was behind this! Those were his men instructed to kill us both when the time was right." He gestured at the graves and waited.

Edward only crossed himself.

"The other certainty is our father is already dead. Ambert brought this about to make sure neither of us made any demand for our share of the inheritance. Ambert is not the taunting boy we sparred with; he's darker and more deadly than ever Father was, and was ever greedy. It's no one's fault, just what is."

"But from our own brother, our own blood . . ." He swiped a dirty hand over his eyes, leaving tear streaks in the sweat, then looked at Richard. "All men change, not always for the good. No one is the same as before, none of us, and some are worse and some are lost. I am alone now, but for God." He turned away.

Once more Richard perceived that same terrible sadness from the day of their last practice, when Edward accidentally killed the armsman. Edward's walk was the same, consumed with defeat and despair.

Sabra, thickly hooded against the sun and silent until now, broke from Richard and went to Edward. He halted to look at her.

"You know me," she said, with certainty.

"And you, too, are the same as you were from that time so long ago. I'm sorry, but I cannot—"

"What did I do?"

"You came dressed as a Holy Sister to bring me to see . . ." He cast a helpless eye toward Richard.

"Because you needed to be with him," she said. "And he with you."

"But you're . . ." he could not speak the words.

"Charity, good father. Judge us by our deeds, not by your fears."

"I've tried, but—"

"See me as I am," she whispered.

The change was subtle, but even in the daylight Richard saw a glow about her that had nothing to do with the sun. She put a hand on Edward's arm and looked deeply into his eyes for a very long time. Whatever he saw there must have spoken to him, for he finally nodded, the stiffness in his shoulders easing.

"Be at peace, my brother," she told him.

For all that, he still looked troubled.

Quick preparations were made for everyone's departure. The last of Ambert's murderous escort had been caught and would be taken north to Joyeuse Garde, Richard's stronghold. Elaine would look after them until there was time to spare to render a verdict on them for the attempted murder of an archbishop.

The whole camp gathered itself and pulled out, heading for the main road. When they reached the juncture of the lanes, Richard nudged his horse over to stand next to Edward's mount.

Edward gave him a polite farewell, speaking the expected words, but did not quite meet his eye. Perhaps Sabra had imparted some peace to him, but it was that of a forced truce; there was no true healing between them.

Richard thought this would be the last time they would ever see each other and the grief of it tore at his heart. He looked at Sabra. She smiled and shook her head and pointed up the road, not down, which was the way Edward originally came, the way he would have take to return to Normandy.

"You're sure?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Sure of what?" asked Edward, thinking he'd been addressed.

Richard gestured. "This isn't your road. You must take another."

"But it's my way back."

"Not anymore. You cannot return there. Not for a while, yet."

"What are you saying? I don't care if Ambert has a hundred deaths for me. I am needed home. They await me at the monastery—"

"You are needed here, now. There's an abbey not too far from this spot in Glastonbury. Our people will see you safely there. Shelter with the monks, speak to the abbot. Let him tell you what your dead brother has been doing all these years, and then decide whether you still think me Godless and cursed."

Edward had no response for that. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was an awakening glimmer in his eyes. What it meant remained to be discovered.

"Safe journey, brother. Pray for our father for the both of us."

Letting himself be led the other way, Edward rode off, casting one unreadable glance back at them, then pressing on.

"When will I see him again?" Richard well knew the perils of asking about the future, but couldn't help himself.

"When next you are needed," said Sabra. "He will be healthier there than anyplace else."

"What of the path he would have taken?"

"Ours now, along with the danger it holds. We shall deal well with it, my Richard." She rode with a sword the same as the men and checked to see that it was loose in its scabbard. "Let's not keep the traitors waiting."

She kicked her horse up, and they cantered to meet the threat lying ahead.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Nine

Britain, the Past

Richard boosted Galahad up into the saddle as he'd done over a thousand times before since the day the lad was big enough to ride a horse by himself.

"You'll take care," he said, making it an order, not an admonition. He didn't like sending his foster son off on his own, but there were too few of them and too many of Mordred's forces, at least in this part of the land. Sabra said the boy would be fine, though, so . . .

"I'll meet you at the river ford in two days, sir," Galahad promised. "With more support for the king. I swear by St. Michael and St. George."

"Support or no, bring yourself back or your mother will do away with me." He made light of it, but in truth he'd never be able to face Elaine if anything happened to her son.

Galahad shot him a grin. "God be with you, sir, and mother, too." Then he kicked his horse and joined up with the dozen mounted men who would ride with him. Off to another keep to give the king's word to the lord there and hopefully hold him to their side.

It was so damned frustrating.

Arthur still ruled, but only just, for his court had been poisoned by dissension and betrayal. It had been years in the making, but his bastard son Mordred had finally pulled together enough malcontent lords to make a challenge to take the throne. All that had been so perfect and stable was being torn apart by one man's foolish greed. All that Richard and Sabra helped to build was crumbling.

It was a hard blow for them both, harder still for the kingdom, which would fracture into smaller holds easily conquered unless they moved fast to stop it. Like Galahad they were also on a journey to summon together allies for the king, to keep them heartened. Richard would have gone with the boy—a man, now, by God, for he'd lately turned fifteen—but knew he would not be welcomed by that particular noble. Too much history and bad blood were in their past, and the man was petty enough to let it influence his duty to his liege.

Galahad, though, was a great favorite with most of the lords of the land, admired for his courage and piety. He'd proven himself as a warrior, and his devotion to God seemed to make him more than half priest, yet he had a good-humored humility that somehow touched hearts. Rough rogues who only went to church to nap would smile when they saw the lad. It was because of his buoyant, confident spirit that loyalty to the king remained strong in some.

These days Richard was rather less admired than he had once been, those rumors about himself and the queen being at the core. All distorted out of hand with telling and retelling, but the damage was done. Yes, he had been with her, but not in the way others thought, and certainly not in the times or places they'd given in their accusations. That's how he knew Mordred and his followers had been spreading lies. They didn't know the truth, else they'd have seized on it instead, and Richard would have been hounded away or destroyed by now.

According to the stories that were abroad Lord Lancelot had committed adultery with the queen every time the king chanced to nap on his side of the royal bed. One had their fornication concealed only by the tapestry hanging behind the throne itself while the king obliviously held court. Never mind that the thing cleared the floor by a good twenty feet and was backed by a solid wall, people actually believed the ridiculous lie—even the ones who had seen the throne room and knew better.

It did not help that the queen had made Lancelot her favorite above all the other lords. He really should have talked with her about that, but any pass between them created more rumors. Ignoring the situation made it worse. By the time Sabra had a chance to influence her to temper her conduct it was too late and the lies were rooted and growing quick as weeds.

No help for it now. It was their lot to keep things going. Richard took a lesser seat to Galahad, providing him with advice and escort as needed on his rounds. He was content with that role, for he loved his foster son well, proud that one so young was accomplishing so much. There was hope yet for saving the kingdom from Mordred.

This day had been muggy and dark, threatening rain, which had been a relief to Richard and Sabra both, for they'd been exceptionally busy. The rain never fell, though, and they were thankful for that as well. The roads they traveled had not been made by the Romans, and consequently became mud wallows when it got wet, slowing them.

They'd avoided an encounter with Mordred's people only the day before. Sabra's Sight proved very helpful, but of course they had to pretend it did not exist. There were quite enough rumors about the queen using witchcraft, no one needed to think any of her ladies were practicing as well. It was up to Richard to think up a good reason to keep his party camped one more day on this side of the forest until the enemy force moved elsewhere. Not hard, there was always something to do or repair when on the move, and the horses as well as the people needed the rest.

Though Richard was absolutely certain of the loyalty of every man under his command, he was less sure of the camp followers. One couldn't sit down and influence them all. Not quickly, anyway. Besides, if they were spies, they could report little to help the enemy; as though this was a tourney, everyone was in good spirits and full of cheer.

Most of which departed with Galahad.

Those who remained were uneasy and trying not to show it. Richard understood it was because of the division of their forces, with the greater number of them gone off. Sabra assured him there was no danger from Mordred's men while they remained in place. He would have given much to be able to pass that on to the others.

They would leave in the morning for the ford, and preparations were going on, saddles and tack repaired or oiled, traveling food cooked. Richard made the rounds of the now much smaller camp himself, debating on whether to send the followers away yet. There was fighting ahead. He didn't have Sabra's Sight, but felt it in his belly. The others seemed to think this would be like a tourney, where yielding if outmatched meant only the loss of your gear or the payment of a ransom. Mordred and his men had no such honorable notions; they were warring for booty, property, and power, and you didn't acquire those by a fair contest.

Richard told his people again and again that real battles meant ugly death, and though they nodded somber agreement, he could see they didn't believe him. The peace in the land had been so strong during Arthur's long reign that this new crop of warriors did not know what war was like.

Their first real fight would be the only cure for that innocence, and he prayed they would live through it. He'd trained them hard enough, but training was never truly the same thing.

As evening came on he sensed the sun's departure with his skin, not his eyes, for the dull gray sky showed no change. The thick air turned chill, and fog gathered in low areas and began to fill the surrounding woods like lost spirits. A long way off, but still too close for those nervous of heart, a wolf howled at a moon it could not possibly see.

Across the camp, Sabra paused in her task of rubbing down her horse, and glanced toward Richard, not smiling. After a moment, she continued her work. There were pages for such jobs, but she liked tending her own animal, saying it eased her heart. The wolf howled again, and the horse stirred, restless. She whispered, and it calmed down. If there was a pack of wolves in the area, they'd not come near, Sabra would see to that, but there was little she could do to stop their song of hunger.

So long as it's not Annwyn's hounds a-howling, he thought. That never boded well.

"Riders, my lord!" One of the pages came pelting up to him out of the dark, red of face and excited.

"How far?"

"A quarter mile," he puffed. "Walking, not running. All armed. There's a priest with them, armed, too."

Which meant nothing. Priests were everywhere, with the king's men and the traitors alike, and everyone went armed these days. "How many?"

"Fifteen, my lord. They look foreign."

"How so?"

"Their banner colors. I never saw the like before."

"Describe them."

The page did, with great accuracy, rattling off every detail he'd seen from his hiding place near the main road.

Richard searched his memory, but there were no lords in Britain with such a banner, nor in Wales for that matter, only across—oh, good God, it couldn't be . . .

Sabra left off work and came over. "We have visitors."

"A ghost from my past, I think." Richard's heart felt ready to burst, it beat so hard and quick. If what he thought was true . . .

She put an hand on his. "Don't worry, all will be well."

"But the last time anyone came here from Normandy—" It still hurt to think of that awful day; it would always hurt.

"All will be well."

One of his warriors came up, having heard. "Shall we arm, my lord?"

"Yes. Prepare, but make no move unless I order it. Let's see them first. They could be friends."

Sabra, apparently unconcerned, went back to her horse. Some of the more perceptive women in the camp took that to mean no trouble was afoot. Had she gone to put on her sword, they'd have been scrambling like the men.

Strangely, there was not a lot of noise from their stir. It was as though they were quiet to catch the first sign of the horsemen's approach. There was no point to it, though. In a very short time the fog had turned thick as porridge, muffling and distorting sound. Even Richard had trouble discerning anything until the traveling party was quite close, the thud of hooves, the jingling of a bit.

Challenge was issued and answered, the reply in a familiar accent, a familiar, but long-unheard voice. Richard stepped eagerly forward, then halted suddenly as speaker—who was the priest—pushed back his cowl and revealed his face.

My God, he's an old man. Richard's heart swooped, freezing him in place as he recognized his brother Edward.

"I seek Lancelot du Lac," he said, looking right at Richard.

Does he not know me? "You've found him, good father," he whispered.

Edward's blue eyes flashed. His face was ancient, he must have been close to fifty by now, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. "Glad I am to have found thee. May we stay here for the night?"

"You are right welcome if you are friends of the king."

"We are friends of all good men, which includes the king."

"Then rest and break bread with us."

At a sign from Richard a page came forward to hold Edward's horse while he stiffly dismounted. He and his men were muddy from long traveling, but looked alert. They had a modest pack train with them, their two-wheeled carts filled with gear, but able to roll along fast if need be.

"May I speak with you apart, Lord Lancelot?"

"This way." Richard led off to his pavilion, and they ducked inside. He let down the flap, allowing them privacy. When he turned it was to be swept up in Edward's overpowering bear hug.

There were tears in his voice. "Dear God, I hardly dared hope you were to be found."

Laughing, Richard returned the embrace, thumping his brother on the back and was himself unable to speak for a few moments. When they broke apart, Richard lighted candles from the flame of a small oil lamp on a table and they were able to get a good look at each other.

"Life with the Britons agrees with you," said Edward. "You don't look a day older than when I saw you last."

"There's no sun in this land of rain to bake the skin to a crust," he said, shrugging dismissively.

Edward snorted. "I must be overdone, then."

Richard made no reply. This was hard, bitter hard. Sabra had warned him he would outlive everyone he knew, and the harshness of that truth was very visible on Edward's seamed face. The last time Richard saw his brother had been soon after the defeat at that last tourney at castle d'Orleans. He'd been thirty-five then, Edward just a few years older. Now Richard had the eerie feeling he was seeing his own face as it might have been had he not taken the path Sabra had offered him.

"What brings you so far from home?" he asked.

Edward found a cushioned stool and eased down onto it with a pleasurable groan, shifting his sword belt around out of the way. "You call this summer? Ohhh, my bones think it's winter already."

Remembering his manners, Richard found a skin of wine hanging from the central tent pole and handed it over. "Warm them with this, then. I'm sorry there's no cup, but—"

Edward waved off the apology and took a swig, grunting his approval. "We both know what the road is like. Except for one night under a roof, I've been eating my bread in the saddle for I don't know how long. Before that I ate none at all because I was hanging over the side of a ship while we made the crossing from Normandy. The next time you decide to lose yourself could you do it on the same side of the sea that I'm on?"

He smiled and promised he would, then went to the flap and ordered meat and bread brought to his guest. The cook fires had been going all day, so food was ready. In a gratifyingly short time Edward had a special folding table in front of him along with a roasted fowl and a flat, weighty loaf with a bowl of hot drippings to dip it in.

"You won't partake?" Edward asked.

"I've eaten. Please, fill yourself." Richard burned with questions, but forced himself to polite patience, sitting on another low stool while his brother happily gorged like a field peasant at harvest.

"By God, that was good," he said, giving a well-mannered belch. "I've not had better for a very long time." He sucked the last grease from his fingers and wiped them on the hem of his traveling robe. He looked to be only a priest, but Richard knew he'd risen to archbishop, perhaps higher. "You've done well for yourself, Dickon."

"Would that we were at my keep and I could show you better."

"In truth, I went there first to look for Lord Lancelot. Your lady Elaine was exceedingly kind in her courtesy. By the way, she is in good health and sends you her love and instruction to look most carefully after yourself and your son."

"Thank you. How recent is the news?"

"Two weeks and a day. You—a father." Edward looked pleased.

Richard was well practiced at hiding the ache that word sometimes caused him. "Foster-father. Galahad is not my son by blood, though he is in my heart. I've raised him as my own since he was so high—" He held his hand palm-down to indicate the height of a small child.

"Galahad." Edward smirked. "Better here than in Normandy."

The boy's name had ever been a sore point with Richard, but he'd learned to live with it. "His mother picked that one, not I."

"That goes without saying, but I've heard of him, of you both. The tales of the good you've done here under the name of Lancelot have traveled even to my humble monastery."

"And the bad, too, no doubt."

" 'Let he who is without sin' and all the rest, brother. Aside from myself, you've been the only truly decent man in the whole of our family, and I know how enemies love hurtful gossip—and you've not asked about them, our family, that is."

"I thought you'd get 'round to it in your own time."

"Yes, and me with little time to spare."

"What do you mean?" He sharply looked Edward over for signs of ill health. Although old, he seemed hearty enough, his movements quick and decisive, his eyes and speech clear. Certainly his perpetual dry humor was yet firmly in place, along with his appetite.

"I've come to fetch you home—for a visit only," he added after seeing Richard's horrified reaction.

"Why?"

He grimaced. "Because our father is dying."

Though Richard kept himself apprised of second-, even third-hand news of Edward, he had little interest in the doings of the d'Orleans court. He'd rather thought old Montague had already passed away years ago. "That is nothing to me. You know how we parted." Not the whole story, but enough of the truth to satisfy Edward at the time.

"That is why he wishes to see you. He wants to make amends."

Richard was not successful at stifling his bark of laughter. "Toward what end? To finish what he tried to do? Murder me? Has he become addled and forgot the night he tried to gut me with his knife?"

"No, he is not addled, and yes, that was a terrible thing he tried to do."

Achieved. Had Sabra's gift not changed him, Richard would have died at his father's hand. Had he not stayed his own rage, he'd have drained the wretched man of all his blood, and have that murder forever on his soul. With Richard's agelessness and long memory, forever could be a merciless torment.

"But he is dying and would see us one more time," said Edward. "For his soul's peace."

"No. I bade him good-bye those years ago and closed that door. I will not see him on this side ever again. I'll light a candle toward his soul's peace, but that's all I can bring myself to do." Richard knew he'd have no heart behind the prayer, either. For his own peace he always tried not to think about his father at all. Edward coming in like this revived pain he thought to be dead.

"Do you think I've forgotten the evils he's done? Or that I'll ask you to forgive him for all that he's done to you?"

"Edward, you're too wise to ask that of me knowing I could end up lying to you or lying to God, or worse, to Father. My lack of sympathy is as close as I can come to forgiveness. I've worked very hard to bring myself this far."

"He's a dying man with a last request. I know you—you'd give as much comfort to a beggar wretch fallen on the side of the road. Father's committed many sins, but your being there will lift some of that weight from his—"

"That's what your place is about. Ego te absolvo, brother, and that's as easy as you can make the passing for him, and it's better than he deserves."

"Now you sound like Ambert."

Richard took no offense. "We are as Father made us. And as he made us, so now does he come to appreciate the kind of work he's done."

"At least think about it."

"I have. I can't leave, anyway, not with this war brewing. I won't leave my king."

"Your king will grant you a release from your obligations for this. You've but to ask."

"You overestimate my influence in court. Some of them barely tolerate me."

"The king's will is all that matters."

"And you overestimate that power as well. He may release me to go, but still needs me. If the others see the king's own keeper seeming to desert him when he's most needed at his side . . ."

"You can explain—"

"It's not to happen. Even if we were at peace with no Mordred to trouble the land I would not leave."

"That's a hard thing, Dickon. You'll have to live with it all your life, and then endure it when you yourself pass the veil and are judged."

"I will have to live with it, yes." He'd gotten very good at ignoring certain aspects of the future.

"Very well, then. If you won't go for Father's sake, then go for your own. Do that which is right, you always have."

Richard clapped both hands to his forehead, near-exasperated. "I am! My duty is here, and it is more important than anything, including Father dying, including my soul's rest in the next life. God's merciful, or so I'm told, and I think He will forgive me if I'm here trying my best to keep His anointed king on his throne."

Edward held silent, his jaw working, his eyes grown hot. For a moment he seemed to verge on giving in to anger, but it gradually passed. "All right," he finally said in a quiet voice. "I've done my duty, and can see it would be a sin to press you to go against your conscience on this. It is your conscience, isn't it?"

"Yes. Take me back there, and I'd be on my knees for the rest of the year confessing the lies I'd have to speak to get through it. But, Edward, please know that I am sorry you must bear this alone."

He chuckled. "I, of all people, am not alone. Hm?" He flicked his gaze briefly toward the tent ceiling.

"Sometimes I forget who and what you are."

"Well, that's good. There are days when I get so full of the bowing and respect and the blessing and all the rest I could just rip at the seams."

Richard blinked. "Really?"

Edward cocked his head. "Actually, no, I quite love it."

They stared at each other a moment, then erupted into laughter. It didn't have the same light-heartedness of their long lost youth, but was richer for their mutual understanding.

"I've missed you, Dickon. I'd hoped that on the journey back we would have time to talk, but it's not to be. I must leave at first light and pray I'm not too late on my return."

"What ails him?"

He shrugged. "Age. He has a sense this is his last summer. I've seen the same with others. Some just know their time has come, and they prepare. I'll tell him your duty holds you here. Which is the truth."

"What about Ambert?"

"He's mostly the same, more girth, not nearly as loud as he was, saves his strength that way. He doesn't snarl at me as he once did, and he gave up trying to hit me years ago. Might even be mellowing."

"That would be a miracle."

"So, all those prayers of mine have wrought some good." He smiled, but it faded. "When this is over . . . will you come and visit me? A real visit. You need never see Castle d'Orleans."

He solemnly took Edward's hand. "I swear I will do that."

"God will that you be spared."

Richard murmured agreement. "You need rest, I think. This tent's yours for the night, it has the best bed. I'll have someone bring coals for the brazier, warm it up a bit. Our summer nights can get cold. Ask and they'll bring you anything you want."

"Where will you sleep?"

"I've another place. Don't have much need of sleep lately. Generally I keep watch with the men."

"I better tell mine what's going on while I still can."

They emerged to find Edward's escort had been looked after as honored guests. Fed and bedded down, Edward sought out their captain and gave him the news of their morning departure.

"Will Lord Richard not be coming with us?" The captain shot Richard a look of unabashed curiosity. A young man, he might well have grown up on tales of the one-time undefeated Champion d'Orleans. They'd have to be whispered, too. Richard heard Ambert loathed any reminder of having a youngest brother and had been known to flog people who accidentally mentioned the fact.

Edward glanced around, apparently mindful of other ears who did not need to know of Richard's past. "He will remain. While we're here, always call him Lord Lancelot, hm?"

"Yes, my lord bishop."

"No need to set up my tent. His lordship is kindly loaning me his for the night. Sleep while you can, we leave for the coast at dawn. If there's any way of telling when the sun's up."

"I'll let you know," said Richard.

"Did I make the right choice?" he asked Sabra later. They walked slowly on the edge of the camp, making round after slow round, keeping watch in the night that was their day. He'd already told her of his conversation with Edward. Sometimes she answered such questions, but others she did not, seeing a multiplicity of futures, often not knowing which was the one that would be. Much of the future—and one never knew which parts of it most of the time—was ever and always in change.

"You are the best judge of that," she said. "You know the truth of what's best for you in your heart."

"Well, then, I feel better. My heart has been heavy."

"And now it's lighter?"

"Yes. Had I made the wrong decision, you'd have let me know with a different answer. Anyway, I told Edward if there was no war coming still I'd remain here. Why did you not come to meet him?"

"It isn't time yet. Besides, he only knows of you and the Lady Elaine. I think he'd be more comfortable not knowing about my presence in your life. It's bad enough with the rumors about you and the queen."

"Best not to add others about me and one of my pages?"

It was an old joke between them, still able to bring a smile. Everyone in the camp knew the Lady Sabra, but turned a blind eye to her preference for a page's clothes. Though considered immodest, they were much more practical for traveling than her court gowns, and not one of their party ever cast forth a disparaging comment. Even if Richard could not influence them all, she was herself very thorough. Sabra also saw to it their people did not notice many other oddities as well.

"Yes. The king's enemies have enough false grain for their lie-mills. Let's not give them anything real."

"Then I will try hard not to kiss you in front of them." He paused, bent low, and caught her squarely on the lips. "There, no one saw that one, I'm sure of it."

"They'll see less if we're deeper under the trees . . ." She took his hand and led him into thicker shadows within the fog.

"We're supposed to be on watch," he said.

"There's no one within two miles of our camp. None are abroad in this murk. And if they were, we'd hear them before the horses did."

He could trust the truth of her otherwise unconfirmed information "Let's be quiet, then."

She found a place for them, a moss-cushioned depression beneath an oak as wide as Richard was tall. Its black roots, as big around as his body, thrust high from the soil as though reaching for something. "There's power here," she whispered. "From him." She nodded respectfully at the oak.

"You're sure he won't mind?" Richard was still sometimes taken off balance by some of the things she said, particularly when she ascribed awareness to objects like trees.

"He'll enjoy the company."

Another advantage to her page's clothes: they were considerably easier to remove than her elegant gowns. Grass and mud stains were normal as well. An excellent arrangement for them both.

That in mind, they both arranged themselves in the makeshift bed. Strangely, there was much more privacy here than they had in his pavilion, surrounded as it was by the camp, certainly better than Sabra's tent, which was full of her female servants with only a drape of linen to separate them from view. Richard liked the change.

The air was chill on his bare skin, but he had no mind for it, only Sabra. Perhaps she was right about there being power in this spot; he thought he sensed it as a heady rich scent coming from the soil beneath the moss.

"Were you here earlier?" he asked.

"How did you know?" There was a smile in her voice.

"Because of the singular lack of fallen leaves, bark, and twigs. No acorn shells, either." They'd made love in several other forests over the years, and such debris could be very distracting.

"Silly, it's a male tree."

He knew better than that. "Oaks put out male and female flowers. You told me yourself."

"Then this one must be more male than female," she insisted, giggling.

"I'll show you male," he rumbled.

She put a hand over her mouth to smother a small laughing shriek as he fulfilled his threat. Her humor turned to long sighs as his lips roamed over her breasts and flat belly, questing ever lower until reaching her treasure. With a great deal of satisfaction for her response, he lingered long there, growing hard himself, anticipating what was to come. She was the best, the most beautiful, and absolutely unique.

"Soon now, my love," she murmured.

Indeed, yes.

Skin on skin, he moved up again, tasting every part of her. His beast within was quiet this night, strangely peaceful, as was hers, for there was no change in her eyes. There would be no sharing of blood, but this was enough, more than enough.

Kissing and loving, breathless, yet silent, she let him know she was ready and twisted around so she was facedown on the ground. She spread her arms wide as he rode her, and knew she was embracing the earth itself. Her hands clutched convulsively on the oak's roots when she climaxed, and in his own fever Richard imagined there were three presences there, man, woman, and the unseen, benign spirit of the ancient tree sharing its vast strength with them.

Hours later, the fog vanished and the night sky cleared. Moon and stars shone down coldly on them. The morning would be cloudless and bright. Richard almost cursed. He'd have to spend the day beneath a thick, tightly woven cloak, hood pulled well down, his gauntlets on the whole time to avoid burning. Sabra would have it no better, either.

For now they continued their slow walk around the camp. The fires gone low, they stopped to add more wood. Sometimes people would wake just enough to notice and nod off again, sometimes not.

In a way they were still alone and together. Richard longed for a time when they could truly go off by themselves and not have the responsibility of so many others to look after. Perhaps by the fall Mordred's rebellion would be broken, and they'd be free to cross to Normandy. It might be a good thing to maintain the name of Lancelot—he still had fame and respect over there—then Ambert need never know. How amusing it would be, though, if Ambert sent an invitation of hospitality to Arthur's greatest champion only to discover . . .

It would be worth it for the look on his face. Oh, yes.

"What makes you smile, my Richard?" Sabra asked. She'd been on the other side of camp and now returned, slipping her arm in his.

"Something that's likely not to come to pass. You aren't the only one who sees futures that never happen."

"What did you see?"

A lift in her tone caused him to glance at her. Her eyes were flushed bloodred from a recent feeding. It made him want her again.

As she had time and again, she knew his thoughts. "I took enough for us both."

"Oh?"

"I fed from two, not one. It would please me to share with you."

"It would delight me to please you," he returned. They'd often done this for each other. He wasn't hungry, but to have her once more . . . "The oak again?"

"Just out of the firelight will do. I'll try to be quiet." Hand in hand, she led the way again.

He could smell the fresh infusion of new bloods rising from her now-rosy skin. This time they stood, she bracing her back against another tree, her feet on its roots, lifting her tall so they were on a level with each other. Their love-play was brief, but intense, for she was eager again for him as well. No need to shed clothes, for the effect when he bit into her soft throat was the same as if they'd been joined in a more traditional manner. She tried to muffle her gasps as he fed from her and didn't quite succeed. No matter. None would pay them notice.

She held tight to him, urging him to take his fill. He made it last. This was no serving wench to be influenced into forgetting the familiarity, this was Sabra. Her blood-heat ran through his own body, as intense as any climax, touching different areas, fulfilling, nourishing flesh and spirit alike.

And it was all the more terrible when he chanced to look up and saw Edward's face, ghost-pale in the moonlight. He was only a few yards away, and it was clear from his stunned expression he'd seen everything he shouldn't. Frozen for the span of five heartbeats, he quickly retreated from sight.

No!  

Sabra's drowsy eyes opened wide. "What is it?"

"My brother saw us. He knows what I am." Richard was shaking, shot through and through with fear. He broke from her and went seeking.

He caught up with Edward just on the edge of the camp, dropping a hand on his shoulder and turning him about. Edward whirled, his cross in one hand, a sword in another.

"Touch me not!" he snapped.

Richard fell back as though struck. "Wait—please—"

"Away from me!"

"Let me explain."

"There is none for this."

"I am the same man, your brother. Edward, hear me!"

Edward paused, his heart's turmoil showing on his face: panic, horror, fear, and infinite, ghastly sorrow. "I see now why you appear so youthful, but God, Richard—why? How could you allow . . . it—it's unclean . . . oh, God . . ." He shot away toward his tent. Richard tried to follow, but Sabra, suddenly catching up, stepped between and stayed him.

"Let him be," she said.

"I must go, try to tell him."

"It won't work. Your brother is unable to hear you now. In the morning."

"When he can see us cower from the light? That will reassure him."

"Let him bide alone, he's afraid and must see his own way past it. Let him pray and think and remember who you are." Sabra left, going toward her own tent.

Richard held off, still disturbed, fearful, still wanting to talk. God, if he lost Edward because of this . . .

He hated what thoughts his brother must be thinking, what alarms and apprehensions were nesting in his mind.

I'm not a monster.  

But why should Edward believe him? So many years apart, they were near-strangers, their worlds impossibly different.

Richard paced, knowing he was too stirred up to wait until dawn, but seeing the wisdom of allowing Edward at least a little time to get over the first shock. If once he was calm enough he would have to listen.

And if not . . . then Richard would make him listen.

It was an action that smacked of dishonor, but shameful as it would be to force his own brother's mind to accept a truth, like it or not, better that than lose him to fear and ignorance.

So be it, but he hoped it would not become necessary.

Having thought that through, Richard swiped at his mouth, wiping away any lingering blood. His eyes should be normal by now, and Edward— What the devil was that . . . ?

Richard came alert at activity near Edward's pavilion. Men were moving about in the shadows, their movements furtive. These were not sleepy soldiers scratching themselves early-awake, nothing sluggish about this lot . . .

And their swords were out.

He silently drew his own weapon and moved in.

Sabra! He hoped she would hear and know the meaning of his urgent thought.

Two men were just entering Edward's tent. Richard grabbed one by the scruff and plucked him from his feet, throwing him well away. The other man completed his rush inside, raised his sword, and struck at the fur-wrapped figure in the bed. The blade bit down swift and hard.

Roaring, Richard dragged him around. He was the captain of Edward's escort. He slammed his sword pommel against Richard's skull with vicious, killing force, broke clear, and darted from the tent, yelling.

Shouts and screams ran through the camp, and two more of the escort came at Richard. One of them managed to get a single strike, his sword cutting into Richard's shoulder, but it served only to anger, not fell him. Their deaths were brutal and quick. He saw the captain rushing away, urging the rest of his well-armed company to take them all, take them all.

Richard's uncanny speed put a halt to that. He was before the man in less than an instant, full of fury. The captain had time to blink once—after his head was off. His body dropped like a stone. Another man bent on avenging his commander hurtled forward, shrieking. He seemed to move ridiculously slow to Richard's heightened perception. He died fast enough, though.

A dozen yards away . . . fighting by another tent . . . women screaming. Sabra was there.

Yet another warrior got in Richard's way and was cut nearly in two by his passage, almost an afterthought. More of the escort men, instinctively seeking to take out the greatest threat, mobbed him.

They were nothing, less than children playing at soldiers, slow and clumsy, and also soon dead. He gave them no mercy, striking them down with the chill efficiency of a butcher at his trade.

Then they were gone, and he pressed toward Sabra where he'd glimpsed her fighting by the red light of one of the fires. She seemed aflame herself, but that was from splashed blood. Four men lay at her feet, her blade smoking in the cold air from their gore.

"See to Edward!" she shouted at him.

He hurtled back, fearing the worst.

No others came at him, they were either killed or running. His own people had realized the tumult for a traitorous attack, fought back, and were in pursuit.

Richard tore into the tent, his heart in his mouth as he knelt by the bed. No movement, no heart-sound.

"Dear, God—Edward . . . ?"

He choked as he pulled back the coverings. The huddled form beneath had been shaped by Edward's saddle and wadded-up blankets.

"I've not forgotten all there was to being a soldier," Edward said from the tent opening.

Richard sagged with boundless relief and came out, but Edward backed from him, cross and sword still before him.

"You've naught to fear from me, brother." To prove it, he reached and took the cross from him and kissed it. "And I thank our Lord that you are unharmed."

Edward let out a shaky breath, staring. "Which is more than may be said about you."

Now that he had time for it, Richard noticed the wound on his shoulder. It was in the same spot as the one that nearly killed him all those years ago, and looked to be as serious. Blood yet flowed, soaking his tunic, blending with the blood of those he'd killed, but he could also feel the burning sensation that meant healing. "I will be well, soon enough."

"You should be flat and groaning as happened once before."

"Would you prefer that for me now?"

"If it meant you would die as a man with prayers to ease your soul's passage. But this . . ."

"Yes, this. Which has saved the lives of these good people. Were I a man such as you I'd have never bested these murderers. See me as I am, not as what you fear!"

But Edward couldn't seem to take his gaze from the wound and shook his head. " 'Tis not natural. It goes against God."

Richard held up the cross. "Were that true, then let Him strike me down." They each waited, but nothing happened. Richard stepped forward and pressed the cross into his brother's hand. There was blood on it. "See? We both abide under His sky. Guard you the day and I the night. There's room enough for us all."

Edward continued to shake his head. He was not in utter rejection, this was more like being overwhelmed and unable to take it in. "I must pray . . . and see to the fallen."

"Very well. This is an evil thing to come to us. You're needed here."

"And for some I've come too late." He seemed infinitely sad.

"No, think that not! What's happened to me has been a gift bestowed to help me better serve. Without it you and likely everyone in this camp would be dead instead of—by God, I never thought I'd have to raise my sword against the d'Orleans banner. Are these men of the house or did you hire them for your journey?"

"They are of the house. Ambert sent them to the monastery to be my esco—oh, St. Michael protect us." Edward bowed his head, crossing himself. "I had a suspicion, but no, he couldn't have. It's too iniquitous."

"Yet you set up that ruse in the tent. Is that why you were in the trees?"

"Yes, waiting there, watching. I had a feeling something was not right. And then I heard . . . I saw what you were doing to that girl . . ."

"She's all right."

"But—"

"See for yourself." Richard gestured off to the side where Sabra energetically directed a rough cleanup of what had become a battlefield. Their men were dragging bodies together in a row like logs, and a knot of the women saw to a wounded survivor. "Trust me on this, not for all the world would I see harm come to her or anyone else under my protection—which includes you. I have pledged my life to that."

"But the means you've used . . ."

He held up his sword. "This is the means. The change in me makes me stronger and quicker—"

Edward backed away, one hand waving, palm out. "No, this is too much. I can't . . ." He did not finish, but turned and left.

Richard almost started after him, but caught Sabra looking his way and forced himself to stillness. Sudden, leadlike weariness settled on him. He would need some hours of rest to fully heal and to take more blood. There were plenty of dead to serve for that. He would feed from them, but not just yet.

He called for servants to come and deal with the bodies here, to carry them over with the others, then fled into his tent, out of sight of the coming sun.

From the thick shade of the woods Richard and Sabra watched as graves were dug in the noontime glare. Edward occupied himself giving the dead of both sides the proper rites. He moved from one to the next, the cowl of his black robe pushed back, his head bowed, lips moving from prayers he'd said a thousand times and more. Richard, his shoulder still aching, was rather less charitable concerning the fate of some of those souls.

"They'd have murdered a holy man as he slept," he said to Sabra. "My brother is old now, what harm could he possibly be to anyone?"

"You know the answer. So does he. Neither of you like it."

"I can believe it. He doesn't want to."

"He is a good man and would prefer to see only the best in others. When they don't live up to that it makes the truth a difficult thing for him to accept. He's been disappointed many times, but still he hopes."

There, the last one blessed and prayed over, the last spade of earth in place to cover his corruption.

"My lord bishop!" Richard called.

Edward heard, and after a moment trudged over, standing away from them in the now hot sun, sweat running down his face, his hands dirty from the fresh-turned earth. He was so weary, so old in the harsh light. Every seam on his skin was cut deeper than before, his fair hair gone silver, the look in his eyes heartbreaking. He spared one curious glance at Sabra, who was still in her bloodstained page clothes, partly covered by a winter-heavy cloak. "Yes?"

"Tell me one thing: did you go to d'Orleans and see Father yourself?"

Clearly this was not the question he expected. "No. I got a letter from Ambert. He pleaded with me to hurry. The men he sent carried supplies and coin to speed us to look for you."

That alone was cause for suspicion. Ambert never did a charitable deed unless he got something in return for it. Edward must have thought the calamity of a dying father had softened him. "Ambert knew you and I have been in contact over the years. Knew you would be the only one able to find me."

"And I came too late. My poor brother Richard died years ago. I will pray for his soul. And I won't trouble Ambert with this."

Richard sneered. "Ambert? You know he was behind this! Those were his men instructed to kill us both when the time was right." He gestured at the graves and waited.

Edward only crossed himself.

"The other certainty is our father is already dead. Ambert brought this about to make sure neither of us made any demand for our share of the inheritance. Ambert is not the taunting boy we sparred with; he's darker and more deadly than ever Father was, and was ever greedy. It's no one's fault, just what is."

"But from our own brother, our own blood . . ." He swiped a dirty hand over his eyes, leaving tear streaks in the sweat, then looked at Richard. "All men change, not always for the good. No one is the same as before, none of us, and some are worse and some are lost. I am alone now, but for God." He turned away.

Once more Richard perceived that same terrible sadness from the day of their last practice, when Edward accidentally killed the armsman. Edward's walk was the same, consumed with defeat and despair.

Sabra, thickly hooded against the sun and silent until now, broke from Richard and went to Edward. He halted to look at her.

"You know me," she said, with certainty.

"And you, too, are the same as you were from that time so long ago. I'm sorry, but I cannot—"

"What did I do?"

"You came dressed as a Holy Sister to bring me to see . . ." He cast a helpless eye toward Richard.

"Because you needed to be with him," she said. "And he with you."

"But you're . . ." he could not speak the words.

"Charity, good father. Judge us by our deeds, not by your fears."

"I've tried, but—"

"See me as I am," she whispered.

The change was subtle, but even in the daylight Richard saw a glow about her that had nothing to do with the sun. She put a hand on Edward's arm and looked deeply into his eyes for a very long time. Whatever he saw there must have spoken to him, for he finally nodded, the stiffness in his shoulders easing.

"Be at peace, my brother," she told him.

For all that, he still looked troubled.

Quick preparations were made for everyone's departure. The last of Ambert's murderous escort had been caught and would be taken north to Joyeuse Garde, Richard's stronghold. Elaine would look after them until there was time to spare to render a verdict on them for the attempted murder of an archbishop.

The whole camp gathered itself and pulled out, heading for the main road. When they reached the juncture of the lanes, Richard nudged his horse over to stand next to Edward's mount.

Edward gave him a polite farewell, speaking the expected words, but did not quite meet his eye. Perhaps Sabra had imparted some peace to him, but it was that of a forced truce; there was no true healing between them.

Richard thought this would be the last time they would ever see each other and the grief of it tore at his heart. He looked at Sabra. She smiled and shook her head and pointed up the road, not down, which was the way Edward originally came, the way he would have take to return to Normandy.

"You're sure?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Sure of what?" asked Edward, thinking he'd been addressed.

Richard gestured. "This isn't your road. You must take another."

"But it's my way back."

"Not anymore. You cannot return there. Not for a while, yet."

"What are you saying? I don't care if Ambert has a hundred deaths for me. I am needed home. They await me at the monastery—"

"You are needed here, now. There's an abbey not too far from this spot in Glastonbury. Our people will see you safely there. Shelter with the monks, speak to the abbot. Let him tell you what your dead brother has been doing all these years, and then decide whether you still think me Godless and cursed."

Edward had no response for that. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was an awakening glimmer in his eyes. What it meant remained to be discovered.

"Safe journey, brother. Pray for our father for the both of us."

Letting himself be led the other way, Edward rode off, casting one unreadable glance back at them, then pressing on.

"When will I see him again?" Richard well knew the perils of asking about the future, but couldn't help himself.

"When next you are needed," said Sabra. "He will be healthier there than anyplace else."

"What of the path he would have taken?"

"Ours now, along with the danger it holds. We shall deal well with it, my Richard." She rode with a sword the same as the men and checked to see that it was loose in its scabbard. "Let's not keep the traitors waiting."

She kicked her horse up, and they cantered to meet the threat lying ahead.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed