"Rhys! Oh-yea, my love, I shall pray for your safety and a sure victory." Katherine relished his warmth and strength, clinging to his hand longer than was proper. She did not care. Mayhap Sir Dafydd would take heed and retract his claim. Rhys withdrew his hand and, regaining her seat in frustration and mounting fear, she watched her beloved make his way from the hall.

"Do you bid farewell to your doughty knight?" Katherine froze at the sound of Sir Geoffrey's dreadful voice murmuring into her ear. "Know you he cannot win, for the other is reputed to be invincible." The knight squeezed himself down on the crowded bench beside her, his thigh brushing against her knee. She jerked away.

"I pray you, beware of danger at Haughmond," he rasped into her ear.

"Do you threaten me?" Katherine's palms grew clammy in spite of her resolve not be feel intimidated.

"Nay, young Katherine." Sir Geoffrey's hands spread in supplication as he leaned treacherously close. "But accidents do befall those who are careless. Out of loving concern, daughter, I seek to warn you. Managing so large a domicile as Haughmond shall be daunting for one so young. 'Twill require much of your time and coin."

Katherine surged from her seat, levering herself with a clumsy hand upon Anne's shoulder.

Turning in surprise, Anne's gentle expression transformed to horror when she spied Sir Geoffrey. She leapt out of her seat.

Sir Geoffrey came to his feet with a smile that didn't reach his brittle blue eyes.

"Your advice is most needless, Sir Geoffrey," Katherine murmured, stepping back a pace and looping her arm protectively through Anne's. "Let me counsel you to journey to Shropshire, and by the king's command, to remove your belongings to Myton Castle with all due speed."

Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. Though his mouth still lifted in a smile, his expression chilled Katherine to the bone. "Let hope ever abound with you, young Katherine."

His sharp, cutting comment prompted Anne to tug violently on her sleeve. From the panic on her face, she knew her sister was desperate to quit the hall. But the time had come that Sir Geoffrey should know her mettle, else he'd put to flight any valor she might yet own. She would not spend the rest of her days fleeing from this wicked c.o.c.katrice. He must be made to understand her strength of purpose.

She took a cleansing breath. Her arm tightened around Anne's waist. Straightening her spine, she met his squinting gaze. "Yea, hope does abound for a happier future. So too does faith. 'Tis our strength and our salvation against all who would do us harm." Though her pulse hammered mightily, her guarded tone grew stronger. She managed to toss her head, laying emphasis to her confidence. "But like a cat who has squandered its nine lives, you have abused your share of charity. Begone from Haughmond, and right quickly."

Sir Geoffrey's frown and clenched fists evinced his fury. Katherine was not surprised, for she provoked him deliberately, making sure her voice carried. Heads turned and interested gazes focused on them. Sir Geoffrey must have realized the same, for he looked around uneasily.

His displeasure shifted back to Katherine, but she refused to look away, staring him down with her own severe expression.

With his lips compressed, Sir Geoffrey turned on his heel and stalked away.

The day of the joust broke sunny and clear. Sick with disappointment and roiling fear, Katherine buried her face in the feather pillow. Alas, the Blessed Mother had not heard her prayer for a late winter storm. Compounding her dread tenfold was an exhaustion that had settled into her chest and all but suffocated her, brought on by a night of sleeplessness. Disturbing inventions of her mind had her tossing and turning throughout the dark hours and weighed heavier on her than any daytime drudgery she had ever undertaken. It took all of Anne's frantic urging to drag her from their bed and to face the unwelcome day.

When at last she departed their bedchamber, 'twas doubly difficult, for there existed the atmosphere of a carnival throughout the castle community. Easter week, with its stringent laws, was finished and merriment had commenced. The inhabitants of Bereford donned their best clothing, glad for the additional holiday the joust brought. They converged on the wine shops or gathered around the c.o.c.kfights, cheering on their favorites while munching on meat pies. Only later, after much merrymaking, did they flock to the tourney field, by then well into their cups.

Before she must join the king, Katherine escaped to Rhys's tent, intent upon tying her blue-hued scarf about his arm.

Garbed in only his linen shirt and drawers, and half-hosed, he was drawing up the other woolen stocking when she burst in on him.

"For you, Rhys, for good luck!" she exclaimed, sidestepping the armor on the ground to drape the scarf about his neck. When he straightened in alarm, she threw her arms around his near naked frame and planted a warm kiss upon his lips.

He pulled back from her, yet in a moment his reserve seemed to melt and his mouth began to quirk with amus.e.m.e.nt. "'Tis more than good fortune when a winsome la.s.s bestows her favor thus delightfully," he laughed and swept her into his arms, returning her kiss with a pa.s.sion she had not antic.i.p.ated, nor ever experienced. His lips, warm and demanding, and tasting faintly of ale, slanted against hers, captivating her with unexpected pleasure. His blond whiskers brushed across her cheek, kindled her skin, aroused her senses. Her arms slid along the smooth texture of his linen shirt, across the knotted ties hanging loose at his neck. Through the soft cloth she delighted in the ruggedness of his neck, the brawn of his shoulders, the rough flesh of his healing wound. Rippling muscles bunched beneath her fingers sent a thrill coursing through her, simmering and throbbing as though alive, vibrating every inch of her flesh.

Her hands grew bolder, slid across the puckered scars, touching, pressing, caressing. She suddenly became aware of his state of undress and his naked flesh beneath his shirt. She really should desist. Yet her inquisitive hands did not check the delectable search, but found their way up his neck and into his newly cropped hair, brushing the golden strands into place-even as she was gathered up against him.

Hard and lean, the muscles rippled over his st.u.r.dy frame. His body enchanted her. Pressed tightly to him, his strength penetrated the woolen cloth of her gown and blazed into her own frame. The potency of him as he imprisoned her, tingled her flesh, shook the very foundation of her world, overpowered her will.

Locked within Rhys's arms, straining to catch the fullness of his ardor against her own flesh, Katherine trembled, knowing how this would end. She would yield to him, to the man she loved. She yearned for his lovemaking. 'Twas her last chance for happiness, and she would have him this day. Pressing herself closer, scarcely able to breathe, she kissed him all the harder.

"Hah, while the cat's away the mice will play." Simon's sarcasm filled the tent.

With a gasp, Katherine reeled away in embarra.s.sment.

The squire brushed past her, to crouch by a large wooden chest that stood in the far corner of the tent. He flung open the lid.

She sidled a glance toward Rhys, then gaped, heat rising in her cheeks. Standing amid the accouterments of his trade, his chest heaving with panting breaths, he displayed a loincloth nigh bursting with his aroused ardor. Her eyes widened. 'Twas a fascinating sight, for she had only her imaginings to stoke an unfettered curiosity and the remembrances of Haughmond's rutting bull in the field.

Simon must have thought elsewise. "Put it away, Rhys, you've a joust to win." The squire's disgust was obvious in his crude growl.

Mortified that the squire had witnessed her ardor, Katherine whirled and stumbled from the tent.

'Twas a short time later that Katherine found herself in the king's pavilion at the center of the tourney field. While Edward and his queen took their seats amid exuberant cheering from the spectators, someone-the nun?-directed her to a bench. She deliberately ignored the dark figure seated beside her, preferring to relive those precious moments in Rhys's arms.

He would have made love to her. She could have taken that small token of happiness into a loveless marriage. With all her heart, she wished it had come to pa.s.s. She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life, save Haughmond. Therein lay her frustration. A pox on the king! Why couldn't she have them both? She balled her fists, crushing the linen hanky within her hand. "Blessed Mary, he must be the victor, he must be the victor!" She prayed in silent desperation, her sight fixed upon the tents on the yon side of the field, her imagination conjuring up her beloved's face.

A blaring fanfare of trumpets sounded and a herald, in his scarlet tabard, stepped forward to proclaim the opening of the joust. Anne's hand nudged hers and Katherine clutched her sister's cold fingers. She met Anne's worried gaze and suddenly realized how crowded the purple-draped pavilion had become. 'Twas natural the king and queen were seated at the middle of the platform, with the lords and ladies of the court surrounding them. But Sir Geoffrey's presence was wholly unsettling. When he turned and caught her aghast stare, Katherine was quick to look elsewhere.

Nearby, the Bishop of Bereford sat in a silent fit of pique, his folded hands showing white knuckles. Though she remembered him condemning the entertainment as a frivolous display of vanity, the king had ignored his ecclesiastical threats. When his entreaties proved fruitless, the bishop had lapsed into prayer.

Along the perimeter of the field stood other galleries filled with eager lords and ladies. Bright banners of red, gold, and silver draped the pavilions and fluttered on the cool breeze, while sharp smoke from the pie man's stall at the one end drifted across the field. The common folk stood three deep along the outside railing, jostling each other for best advantage and placing bets on the outcome.

In a sonorous voice, a herald announced the knights about to engage the tournament. With another fanfare of trumpets, the two combatants came into view with their banners capturing the wind above their heads. Katherine's favor blew in the breeze on Rhys's upper arm. With pride flowing through her veins, she sat straighter on the bench and smiled. 'Twas a symbol of her devotion for all to see and to know her preference. By accepting her favor, Rhys had declared himself her champion.

Then in sudden dismay, she gulped, and her chest tightened in mortification. Rhys's charger sported no caparison. His funds must, indeed, be limited. It did not ease her annoyance that Sir Dafydd's steed, by contrast, was garbed in expensive gleaming mail, newly fitted by all appearances. While she struggled not to show her disappointment, an appreciative sigh swept over those spectators who knew the cost of such luxury.

As befitted a royal festival, the knights' great helms were decorated. With two gnarled black antlers affixed atop Sir Dafydd's helm and festooned with silk mantling streaming out behind him, he cantered toward the middle of the field, manifesting a foreboding image. The devil's own! Katherine shivered and looked to Rhys for comfort. His great helm was far less elaborate, boasting but a single crest of azure and argent feathers, St. Quintin's colors.

But 'twas Sir Dafydd's thick wooden shield and long streaming banner snapping in the breeze that drew everyone's attention.

"'Tis Myton's coat of arms, is it not, argent rapiers on sable?" A lady of the court, wearing a wimple decorated with a jeweled circlet, pointed in surprise.

"A combatant steals Sir Geoffrey's arms!" A knight seated in the second row leaned halfway out of his seat to gape over the bishop's generous girth.

"Why would a knight steal another's arms, unless- " The lady broke off in a twitter of embarra.s.sment.

Katherine knew the reason. Verily, everyone in the pavilion knew the reason, but decorum prevented any from giving voice to the crude accusation. For the very first time, she focused on Sir Dafydd's banner, the one the nuns had so diligently sewn, the one she had so carefully ignored. A cold dread washed over her. Indeed, it displayed Myton's colors and bold rapiers emblazoned for all to see.

Sir Geoffrey stared intently at the field of honor.

"Look you, the knight differences his arms with a label of azure. 'Tis a bar with points hanging from it," complained another knight, as though it should be forbidden.

"G.o.d's thigh, he's related to Sir Geoffrey," another royal guest chimed in with equal disbelief.

"But 'tis impaled with a different coat of arms," added the lady in a speculative tone.

"His dam's, most likely," her companion replied in a bemused tone, nodding knowingly.

The whispered comments flew about the pavilion until one knight, bolder than the rest, dared speak directly to Sir Geoffrey.

"Sir, who is this kinsman of yours?"

Katherine froze, unable to restrain her rising terror.

His scowl deepening, Sir Geoffrey's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. "I-I know not."

Seated beside her, Sister Mary Margaret murmured, "Mayhap he is ent.i.tled to it. Mayhap he is an unknown b.a.s.t.a.r.d of Myton's lord."

Her future husband was Sir Geoffrey's kinsman? The words were like a sword plunged into her breast. Drawing a ragged breath, Katherine turned to the nun, to gainsay such a claim, to decry it false, to force her to retract such a claim. But Sister Mary Margaret was a.s.sisting a lady with an irascible mantle billowed by the wind.

Her eyes wide in dismay, Katherine stared into the back of the nun's black headrail. Her heart pounded and thrummed in her ears like a feverish drum. Such a horror was not possible! She darted her attention back to the field, to stare at the terrible object beneath the black antlers. He was not human. He was a de Borne-a monster.

A loud clatter of encouragement rose from the spectators. The two combatants, having ridden to the center of the tourney field from either end, turned, and side by side approached the pavilion. Along the railing the peasants leaned forward, shoving and pulling at each other excitedly and shouting to each other and to the oncoming warriors.

"Do you not think Sir Dafydd's banner most worthy, Sir Geoffrey?" Sister Mary Margaret's voice was exaggerated above the loud din.

His face a study of restrained violence, Sir Geoffrey focused on the knight with the black banner and ignored the query.

The nun didn't appear daunted. She bent closer. "I see from his banner he is a kinsman of yours. How are you related?"

With her heart in her throat, Katherine licked at her parched lips.

Though Sir Geoffrey's attention remained fixed on the two knights, who advanced on the pavilion and presented themselves to the king, Edward turned with an irritated scowl.

Sister Mary Margaret sat back on the bench and folded her hands within the long black sleeves of her habit. In silence, she looked toward the mounted knights awaiting the king's attention.

Rising, King Edward addressed the audience. "Two knights of the realm will today join in combat to decide the fate of Lady Katherine de la Motte of Haughmond Castle. The victor must needs unseat his opponent to win her hand in marriage."

The spectators burst into wild applause.

Edward held up his hand and the crowd quieted. "Let it be known this is no jouste a l'outrance, but a fight a plaisance. There shall be no bloodletting. I have need of all mine knights in the coming weeks. The contest is concluded when one knight is unseated. And let it be known, thereto, that Sir Robert's name shall not die out. The winner must accept the name of de la Motte, as though born to it."

A surprised murmur raced through the crowd at this unusual command. Edward's voice boomed over them. "The winner shall henceforth be known as the lord of Haughmond Castle and all the lands that surround that domicile."

Edward looked down at the two knights. "Do you accept the terms of the joust?"

"Yea, sire!" came their answers in unison.

"Do you accept my judgment of the tourney?"

Again came both voices. "Yea, sire!"

"Then let the tournament begin!"

The spectators roared their approval.

A desperate prayer surged across Katherine's lips.

Sweeping aside his golden cape Edward settled onto his cushioned chair beside Eleanor and watched the field with keen interest.

Both knights bowed, then whirled away toward opposite ends of the field. Exchanging their banners for long wooden lances, they settled themselves securely within their high-backed saddles.

The spectators fell silent.

Katherine clutched her hanky so tightly her nails tore through the delicate fabric.

Down went the flag. Spurs set the war-horses into motion. Both animals leapt forward, charging across the field toward the other. The tall lances, pointing skyward, began to lower into position.

Closer they came. The legs of both horses flashed as the destriers gained momentum. Behind the knights, the silken mantling on their helms flowed in their wake. With heavy lances couched in position, each knight made ready to strike his opponent's shield.

'Twas magnificent.

'Twas horrifying!

She could not bear it, yet could not tear her eyes from the awful sight. She had marveled how a knight could view the world through so narrow a slit in a great helm. 'Twas no longer awe, but anguish holding her captive, forcing her to watch with bated breath, her gaze riveted on Rhys. How could he possibly defend himself? How could he see to defend himself?

Onward the knights charged at full speed, with blunted lances, aiming for the other's shield. A lance could break or catch an opponent in the throat. 'Twas not a fight to the death, but- Sir Geoffrey's caveat surged through her, swamped her composure. Accidents occurred. A s.p.a.ce could be found betwixt shield and armor. An unintended injury could be as deadly as a deliberate blow.

Frantic-helpless-she twisted in her seat, not able to sit still. Her hanky shredded beneath her fingers.

The two knights met with a horrific blast. Amid wild cheering, the lances with their splayed metal tips, crashed into the wooden shields. Rhys's lance struck Sir Dafydd's shield at an angle and did no damage. But he took a hard hit from Sir Dafydd's lance. While it shattered into pieces against his shield, Rhys lurched sideways in his saddle, all but losing his seat.

Watching Rhys grapple for control as his horse cantered down the field, Katherine fought down the cry rising in her throat. By the time he reached the far end, she could sigh in relief, for he had maneuvered himself into a more secure position within his saddle.

The spectators responded with a rousting cheer.

Sister Mary Margaret leaned toward Katherine. "Do you fall faint, my lady?" she inquired in a gentle voice.

Unwilling to answer, Katherine swallowed down the bile threatening to choke her and stared fiercely at Rhys, willing him to prevail.

Sir Dafydd galloped steadily toward the far end of the field and whirled his charger. Given a new lance from his squire, he hefted it into place and waited, sitting like a threatening G.o.d beneath his horns of evil. His black consort stomped the ground with its ominous hooves, impatient at the delay, its muscles bunched in readiness beneath the heavy mail caparison.

Her fears rushed through her. Affrighted by the outcome of this unjust contest, dreading that Rhys might be disgraced, Katherine trembled. Having shown her preference, she thereto, would be disgraced. But her loyal nature demanded fidelity. Holding her head high, she forced herself to stare, unblinking, at the field. With all her being, she poured out one last silent and desperate prayer for Rhys's success, and for her own salvation.

Down went the flag. Rhys spurred his mount into action, lowering his heavy lance. It dipped dangerously close to the ground before he drew it level. With bated breath, Katherine went rigid, panicked by his display of weakness.

From the other end of the tourney field Sir Dafydd came at full speed. His lance slid smoothly into position as his destrier surged forward.

A hush fell over the crowd as serf and gentry alike craned their necks, watching the two horses close the distance in a fury of galloping hooves.

Sir Dafydd leaned forward in the saddle. At the last moment he rose in his stirrups and aimed with deadly accuracy. 'Twas a dangerous placement, for it left him vulnerable. But the horse's weight became part of his momentum, making his attack all the more potent.

Katherine shuddered.

The blow slammed into the middle of Rhys's shield, hurling it back into his chest. While his weapon glanced harmlessly off Sir Dafydd's shield, Rhys's head snapped back from the fierce blow. The impact knocked him up and out of the high-backed saddle. He clawed at his horse's mane, forcing the destrier onto its hind legs, while the long lance slid from his grip. The destrier found its footing, came down with a hard thud. Rhys lost his hold and went crashing to the ground.

With a cry, Katherine leaped to her feet.