Tristan's eyes went wide for a moment, then he scowled, grabbing her hard by the shoulders and bashing her hard against the wall. But Sean and the others were already there, the door flying open with a crash. In an instant, her brother had struck the man who held her hard across the skull with his sword hilt, dropping him unconscious to the floor.

"Sean, I'm sorry." She slumped to the floor beside her fallen husband, her legs melting beneath her. "I'm so sorry...I don't know how he got away."

"Hush, love," Sean answered, barely looking at her. "Take him out of here, to the courtyard," he ordered the men. "He is done- and keep Gaston away."

"Forgive me," she said softly, staring at the floor. She had failed them; she was weak, a woman after all. "I let him escape."

"You did not." Her brother draped her shoulders with a blanket as Tristan was carried out, his body lifeless as a corpse. "Is he escaped?" He drew her gently to her feet and smiled. "You did well enough." He drew his jeweled dagger, a trophy taken from the man who had murdered their father. "But now let us be done." He started to cut his own arm.

"Wait." She reached for the knife. "Let me do it." She sliced the blade across her palm and let her blood drip onto the sheets.

At dawn, she went out into the courtyard. Bruce and Callum were already on horseback, and two other men were trying to control DuMaine's own horse, a beautiful white destrier. Tristan himself, or what was left of him, lay sprawling on the ground.

"Fair morning, husband," she said, every word still painful and barely more than a rasp. But Tristan had suffered much worse-in truth, they had beaten him so badly, she would hardly have known him, could hardly believe he still lived. But at the sound of her voice, he started to move as if he were trying to stand. "I have come to say good-bye."

He made it to his knees, braced on all fours like a dog. But his eyes as he looked up at her were very much a man's. The proud devil inside of him lived on. She steeled herself for him to speak, determined not to give away the anguish she was feeling, fool that she was. He was her enemy, the murdering oppressor of her people. She must rejoice at his pain. But looking down at him, she thought of his kiss, the sound of his voice as he whispered her name. Why had he not run? He looked up at her now like nothing would please him so well as to see her dead.

But when he spoke, his words were not the curse she knew she deserved. "Please," he said, a rasping whisper as he knelt before her. "My child...my Clare." She took a step back in horror, and he caught her hand, his grip firm but not threatening, his green eyes locked to hers. "Promise me, Siobhan."

"Let her go," Sean ordered, raising a hand to strike him. "No!" Siobhan said, holding up her free hand to hold her brother back.

"Promise me," Tristan repeated, apparently oblivious to anyone but her. "Swear she will be safe."

If Henry's men had given him the chance, would her father have pled for her this way? Aye, she thought, he would have. Let us be better than our enemies, she had said to Sean when he would have beheaded the young squire. Surely little Clare deserved as much. "I swear it." She returned his grip for a moment. "I will guard her with my life."

"Enough, little sister," Sean said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes," she answered. She drew her hand from Tristan's, and he allowed it, dropping his gaze as well. "More than enough." She bent and touched Tristan's bruised and bloodied cheek. "Good-bye, husband. Wait for me in h.e.l.l." She stepped back, and Sean and his men scooped up Tristan and flung him over the destrier's back. The horse stopped prancing at once, as if he knew his rider even in such a sorry state. Biting so hard on the inside of her cheek she tasted her own blood, Siobhan watched them bind him to the saddle. Then Bruce and Callum led his horse away.

"There," Sean said as they pa.s.sed through the broken gates. "It is finished."

"Yes." A strange, sharp ache was clenched around her heart, and her cheeks flushed hot with shame. "At last, it is done." She looked up to find her brother watching her, studying her face. "So what now, captain?" she said, making herself smile.

Sean smiled back. "Victory," he answered. "Come, love. I will show you."

CHAPTER 4

Tristan no longer felt pain in his flesh. He had lost so much blood, he could feel very little sensation at all. But he felt fury. He felt hate.

Siobhan had bewitched him. Somehow, even with her throat clenched in his fist, she had managed to distract him long enough to stop him from escaping. She had stolen his reason, his will, with her beauty, then summoned her minions to finish him. And he had allowed it. For a kiss, he had squandered not only his life but his quest. Entranced by the beautiful devil's blue eyes, he had forgotten all else-his commission from Henry, even the safety of his child. He deserved the death that awaited him and eternal d.a.m.nation behind it. But not yet. He had promised Clare that the bad men would not murder him, and he would keep that promise. He had promised Siobhan that no grave would deny him revenge.

He would keep that promise, too.

They rode for what seemed to be days-he vaguely noticed the world going dark, then light, then dark again, but he lost count of how many times. He heard the voices of the brigands speaking to one another, but he made no effort to find meaning in their speech. All his strength and will he focused on staying alive. Twice the larger of the outlaws came and grabbed him by the hair to turn his face up where he could see it. "Dead yet? No? As you will." But neither of them touched him further or took any more notice of him than they would have a bag of grain they were carrying on a pack mule behind them.

It was dark again when the big one said, "Turn off the road." Daimon stopped, and Tristan tried to concentrate at last, to test what strength he might have left and start to make a plan. "We have brought him far enough." Once they stopped, they would finish him, he knew, unless he killed them first. But how was he to do it? One of his arms was shattered, he knew, and dislocated from the shoulder, and several of his ribs were crushed-he had been tasting his own blood for hours now.

"We should see if there is a house nearby," the second brigand said as they stopped in a clearing in the woods. "We do not want him found."

"Why not?" The big one brought his horse alongside Daimon, drawing his knife as he came, and Tristan tensed, twisting in his bonds. "Who will know him here?" Instead of slitting Tristan's throat, the brigand cut the strap that held him bound to Daimon's saddle and kicked him in the side, letting him slump to the ground. "Farewell, Lord Tristan DuMaine," he said, spitting on him. Could they really be so stupid? Surely they would make certain he was really dead before they left him.

"Aye, my lord, farewell," he heard the second brigand laugh. "We will enjoy your castle."

Come closer, Tristan thought, willing his body to move.

Suddenly a great, black shape sprang out of the shadows-a tremendous wolf that pounced upon the largest brigand and knocked him from the saddle. "d.a.m.n me, Christ!" the brigand screamed as the beast's fangs tore into his throat, and if he could have found the strength, Tristan would have laughed in sheer joy at the sound. It was as if some sympathetic demon had conjured his rage into flesh and set it on his captors, so just did the wolf attack seem. Using the last of his strength, he turned his head to watch what the beast would do next. It seemed to be feeding from the brigand's throat, drinking his blood, oblivious to his struggles. When the man stopped twitching, the beast let out a sound that began as a howl but quickly changed to something else, something human. As Tristan watched in disbelief, the wolf stood up, his form melting into the shape of a man.

The brigand's horse reared up and screamed, and the man drew back and snarled, baring long, white fangs that gleamed white in the moonlight. He was young, no older than Tristan himself, with long black hair and eyes that glowed green for a moment before fading into brown. He was naked to the waist, but he wore the hose and boots of a n.o.ble knight. The horse reared back from him again and broke into a run, dragging the dead brigand behind it, his foot still caught in the stirrup.

"What the devil are you?" the second brigand stammered, aiming his crossbow at the demon knight. The demon smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth with his arm.

"You guessed it already," he answered, reaching up to grab the brigand by his tunic. The man fired the crossbow, sending a bolt through the demon's shoulder, but he didn't seem to feel it. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the bolt from his flesh as he dragged the man down from his horse, then used it to stab him in the throat. Once again he bent to drink from the fountain of blood. Tristan watched the ripple of the muscles in his back as he fed, fascinated and appalled.

"No!" the demon knight suddenly shouted, flinging the man he held against a tree like he might have been a child's toy. The brigand's head lolled on his shoulders as he fell, obviously dead, and the demon knight sank to his knees. "No...I am not," he mumbled, and Tristan heard the lilt of Ireland in his voice. "I am done."

What are you? Tristan thought, trying to focus on the creature's face. As if to oblige him, the demon knight leaned closer, gazing intently into Tristan's eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly as if to catch his scent. He touched Tristan's cheek with his fingertips, and Tristan tried to flinch away. But his strength was gone. He was dying. He tried to close his eyes, to shut out the demon's searching gaze, but even that power was lost. The demon knight slid a hand behind his neck, lifting him toward him with great tenderness, and Tristan saw great sorrow in his dark brown eyes. Then he bared his fangs again and sank them into his throat.

No! Tristan thought, a shout inside his head, and his body lurched upward, fighting back in spite of his weakness, pure fury giving him strength. He struck at the demon with his unbroken arm, bashing a fist into the side of his head over and over again. The demon sank his fangs in deeper, holding him fast.

In desperation, Tristan turned his head and sank his own teeth into the demon's bare shoulder, tearing at the flesh like a dog. The demon howled in pain as blood poured from the wound, and without thinking, Tristan bit him harder, sucking at the blood.

Feeling rushed back into his body, the pain that had left him returning in an instant, making him shudder as if in a fever, then instantly fading away. Warmth and joy washed over him, a kind of drunken ecstasy, and he fed harder, desperate for more. The demon struggled in his grasp, his fangs still clamped to Tristan's throat, but the pain was nothing; all that mattered in that moment was the blood. Visions rose before his eyes of a golden hall, a hundred demons battling around him, corpses piled around his feet as he struck them back with his sword. Strength flowed hot into his veins, the strength of the man in his vision, and he clasped the demon to his breast, feeling the fangs in his own mouth growing longer.

"No!" the demon shouted, flinging him away as he had flung his other victim. But Tristan was not dead. He moved his limbs, flopping like a fish upon the sh.o.r.e, and the warmth spread outward to his hands, strength and health returning to his muscles- more, much more than he had ever felt before. All his fear and all his pain were gone. All that was left was the fury, the healing fire of his righteous rage. The demon knight climbed to his feet, backing away, saying, "No." Tristan sat up, the night breeze cool and soft upon his face. Turning toward the demon, he sprang to his feet in a crouch, reaching for a sword dropped by one of the brigands. "Stay back," he ordered, raising it toward the demon, his voice strong as it had ever been. His broken arm was mended; he could feel it tingle, and his ribs no longer even ached.

"Stop," the demon knight said, holding out a hand to him. The wound Tristan's teeth had torn in his shoulder was healing itself; as Tristan watched, the skin was knitted whole. "You don't understand what has happened-"

"I live," Tristan answered. "That is enough."

"But you do not," the demon said, taking a step closer.

"You killed them." He looked back at the dead brigand slumped against the tree, his eyes staring blank. This creature had killed him with no effort at all, had taken a bolt from a crossbow in the shoulder with barely a flinch. "You killed them both with no weapons," he said. "I saw you." He raised the arm that should have been shattered but that was whole, holding a sword, ready for battle. "Will I now kill in this fashion?" With such power, he could scourge Lebuin and his rebels from the earth like the vermin they were. Siobhan's power would be nothing; he could kill her in an instant, without thought.

"You can," the demon admitted. Now that he was no longer feeding, he looked like any other man except for the fire in his eyes.

Tristan smiled. He would even look like himself. "That is all I need to know." Daimon was still standing behind him, nervous but faithful even so. With a demon's speed, he leapt onto the horse's back, urging him onward and galloping into the night. He heard the demon knight behind him swear an oath, heard him crashing through the trees, giving chase. Once he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the wolf, racing over the ground. But he was no match for Daimon. Bending low over the horse's neck, Tristan urged him onward, leaving the wolf-knight behind.

Once he knew he had lost his pursuer, he slowed his mount and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He had ridden over most of Britain as part of King Henry's retinue before receiving a holding of his own, but nothing he saw here was familiar. When the forest on either side gave way to a clearing, he saw he crossed a great, flat plain-could they have ridden so far south? He tried to think back and count over the days since they'd left his captured castle, but it was impossible. Worse, the magical sense of well-being he had first felt after biting the demon knight was fast giving way to the most painful hunger he had ever felt, a yawning, empty ache. He would have to find someone soon who could tell him where he was and give him something to eat.

He turned off the main road onto a narrow track as the open plain turned into forest again. He had ridden many miles from the deserted spot where his captors had fallen to the demon; surely he must be near a settlement of some kind. He slowly became aware of a strange sound in his ears, a kind of thrumming drumbeat in the distance, barely audible over the clop of Daimon's hooves on the hard-packed earth. Without thinking, he urged the horse into a faster trot, and the hunger in his belly turned sharper, making him wince. His last meal had been at his own table hours before the attack; 'twas no great wonder he was hungry. But he had starved before on marches at war and never felt such pain. His thoughts were losing focus; he could barely remember his purpose on the road, why he was there or what it was he sought. All that seemed clear was the burning need to feed.

A rough wooden hovel seemed to hunker by the road ahead, and as he drew nearer, the sound of drumming grew louder. A heartbeat, he thought, mildly horrified. That is a heartbeat. What sort of monstrous creature could be making such a sound? It seemed to be coming from the hovel, but surely that was impossible-such a beast must surely be too large to fit in such a shelter.

But some instinct stronger than reason led him onward, closer and closer to the sound. He stopped his horse a few feet from the hut and staggered toward it, feeling drunk, and the very worst of the fury he had felt in the hands of Lebuin and his men seemed to return full force, as if his enemies themselves were hiding in the hut.

"Who is there?" he demanded, pounding the door with his fist. "Come forth and fight!"

"My lord?" The peasant who opened the door was a fair-sized man, but certainly no monster. "My lord, what offense-?"

Tristan fell on the man just as the demon knight had fallen on his captors, his new fangs tearing into the man's bearded throat.

Without a thought, he drove him back into his hut, slamming him against the wall, oblivious to his screams of pain and terror or the huntsman's knife he stabbed into his arms and chest. He drank deeply, the blood that should have sickened him delicious on his tongue. Nothing seemed to matter but the blood.

Reason came back to him slowly, the horror of what he had done creeping back into his consciousness as the man in his grasp went limp. The terrible hunger was gone, replaced by an equally terrible remorse. He had murdered this peasant in cold blood, attacked him like some ravenous beast...Appalled, he let the body go, watching it fall dead to the floor. He was an animal, a demon. He looked down at his hands. His sleeves were slashed and torn at the forearms from the peasant's knife, the edges stained with blood. But his flesh was whole.

He touched his face, his jaw that should have been broken, his nose that had been smashed. All felt whole and sound; he felt no pain at all. The demon had cured him with his blood. He had made him like himself. I live, Tristan had told him. No, he had answered. You do not.

"What am I?" he said softly, falling to his knees on the dirt floor of the hut. "Sweet Christ-" His tongue burned as if a fire had exploded in his mouth as he spoke the oath, and he brought a hand to his mouth, expecting to see blood. But the burning stopped at once as soon as he fell silent. He looked down at the dead man before him and saw a wooden cross hanging from a cord around his neck, a peasant's charm against evil. He reached for it slowly, holding his breath. As his fingertips made contact, he felt more searing pain, saw smoke rising from his burning flesh as he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away.

"Cursed," he mumbled, watching as the skin on his fingers healed itself from the burn. "I am cursed." He should have been horrified, sickened at the thought. But another, more powerful thought possessed him. He took up the peasant's knife and plunged it into the flesh of his arm, wincing at the pain. But as soon as he withdrew the blade, the wound closed up again. "I cannot be killed." He thought of Sean Lebuin, slaughtering his knights like cattle, n.o.ble men whose only crime was obedience to their lord.

He thought of Siobhan, his beautiful pretended bride, bewitching him to ruin. He looked down at the rough blade in his hand and smiled. He would keep his promise, cheat the grave. As this d.a.m.ned demon, he would have his just revenge.

He dragged the body out and buried it in the soft forest loam, his guilt but a little. If the man was righteous, he was now in his heavenly reward. And if he was not, a demon at his doorstep was no worse than he deserved. When the ch.o.r.e was done, he went back into the hovel and rummaged through the dead man's possessions, finding clothes to replace his own. The leggings and tunic were rough and unrefined, but they were clean, and he found he barely felt the cold.

But as the night began to fade and the sun began to rise outside the open door, he found he felt tired, so sleepy he could barely hold his eyes open. He would have to make camp as soon as he was clear of the scene of his crime. Looking for provisions for his journey, he opened a clay jar and found cheese, but the smell of it sickened him-everything in the hovel stank of death. Buckling his own belt around his hips, he stuck the peasant's knife into the sheath that had once held a silver dagger and the fallen sword he had taken from one of his dead captors into his scabbard and started to leave the hut.

Pale sunlight struck him like a wall of fire, making him scream out in pain. He fell back into the shadows of the hovel, his blood boiling in his veins, smoke rising from his skin. He scrambled back from the light, kicking the door shut, but even the tiny beams that filtered through the wooden walls were agony, burning through his cursed flesh like rods of molten iron. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a leather blanket from the peasant's narrow cot and huddled under it, curled up in a shadowed corner like a rat. "What h.e.l.l is this?" he murmured, furious and frightened. But even in his fear and fury, the strange weariness grew stronger, making his body grow heavy and his mind grow numb. Almost before the words were spoken, he was sleeping, waiting for the dark.

Gaston had served the baron of Callard since they were both of them boys, and he had no doubt of his greatness. But to his mind, superst.i.tious nonsense was likely to be his undoing. He had ridden all night from the wreck of the castle DuMaine to report with no sleep, no food, and no woman to reward him for his efforts. But now he must cool his heels and wait while his master consulted a witch.

"Your history is dark, my lord," the crone muttered over her bones. Gaston suppressed a snort of laughter. Any child of five within these walls could have said as much with no magic to guide him. The baron fixed his faithful servant with a glare to make his blood run cold before returning to his own study of the bones. Crouched on the floor beside the baron's chair was his latest mistress, a redhead in a n.o.blewoman's gown. She looked up at Gaston as well, and he saw the mark of an iron brand on her cheek. On your way out then, sweetest? Gaston thought, giving her wink.

"I know my history, old dame," the baron said. "Tell me of my future." He gave Gaston a friendlier glance. "Tell me if my plans will fail."

"No, my lord," the witch hastened to a.s.sure him. Her clothes were rough and wild, and she spoke English with the porridge-thick brogue of the Scots. How far had some poor patrol been forced to ride to find this one? Gaston thought with an inward sigh.

"You will succeed." She tossed the bones again, leaning close over the table. "You have won already."

Gaston nodded to his master, and the baron's smile widened. "Your powers are great, old dame," the baron said. "Now tell me something my own man could not."

"Your enterprise will give you power beyond reckoning, my lord," the witch answered, an obedient toady's response. But she didn't speak as one currying favor; her voice was hushed with awe, her rheumy eyes wide. "You will cheat even death...but no."

A toothless smile broke over her face. "Not you." She looked up and met the baron's eyes. "You are nothing."

Gaston held his breath as the familiar flush swept over his master's face, and the girl on the floor let out a whimper, clinging to her cruel lover's leg as if for shelter from his wrath. "You dare," the baron breathed.

"One will come to take possession of your fate," the witch said with no sign she felt afraid or noticed his anger at all. "His evil is beyond your darkest dreams." She smiled again. "He is a devil indeed."

"Liar." The baron struck her with his fist, knocking her aside into the rushes, then flung the heavy wooden table over after her.

"Take her from my sight," he ordered his guardsmen. "A week in the stocks will make her visions true."

"But...my lord," one of the guards said as the crone on the floor began to chant in her own tongue, the Gaelic that always put Gaston in mind of a cat trapped in a thicket. "This creature is a starving ancient-she will not live a day-"

"Mayhap her devil will save her." The thought seemed to calm him; the flush faded again. "If he should come, let me know." He rose from his chair, giving the young woman still clinging to his leg an impatient look. She withdrew, but Gaston noticed she looked up, exchanging a glance with the merciful guardsman.

"Yes, my lord," the guardsman said, moving with his fellows to obey. The crone was still laughing and chanting as she was carried away.

" 'Tis glad I am that I made haste, my lord," Gaston said as he followed Callard to the window. "I would have hated to have missed the show."

"Your wit will be your murder, Gaston," the baron answered, but he smiled. "Tell me of DuMaine."

"Dead as Judas Iscariot, my lord, along with all his knights," Gaston promised. "Or did you mean the castle?" He watched the baron's mistress retreat back into the shadows. Should he tell his master what he guessed about her and the guardsman? No, best to save that for a more profitable moment.

"The castle fell, I presume," the baron said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes," he answered quickly. It was not wise to lose one's focus in the presence of the baron, particularly when he'd already had a disappointment. "But it was barely damaged. And Silas of Ma.s.sum survived."

"Well done, Lebuin," Callard said with a slight, musing smile. Outside the window, the ancient witch was being chained into the stocks, still chanting. "The peasant prince is as clever as you said, then."

"Aye, my lord," Gaston answered. "But no more clever than you would wish him to be."

The Baron closed the shutter. "And the girl?" He turned back toward the shadows where his mistress hid. "Tell me again about her. She is beautiful, yes?"

"Exquisite," Gaston agreed. He thought of the little b.i.t.c.h threatening him for daring to insult a peasant wench, and a wave of affection swept over him for his master. "The most beautiful I myself have ever seen, with no vanity to speak of. But she is...

spirited, my lord." Callard raised an eyebrow. "She had DuMaine bound to his bed and used him like a doxy before she would let him be killed."

"Did she?" the baron laughed, delighted. "Good for her. I'd say we were well matched." A pair of strong men had come in to set the table on its legs again, and a pair of women were bringing in breakfast. "Breaking her spirit will be...amusing, I think."

"Aye, my lord," Gaston answered, his stomach rumbling and a general good humor lifting up his heart. "I dare say it will be."

CHAPTER 5