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

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

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

No!

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

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

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

"Lancelot is down!" yelled Bors somewhere above.

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

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

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

Impatiently, he clawed at it to draw it out.

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

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

The spearhead came clear, mostly. The top third of the tip was gone. He threw the head away and rolled over to look at Michel. He lay panting with pain, his d'Orleans colors stained through with his blood. No one was with him; all were crowding round Richard. He crawled forward toward him, shrugging off help.

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

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

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

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

Don't do this, Goddess!

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

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

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

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

"Wine, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He felt gentle hands drawing him back, and he had not the strength to fight them. He was laid next to Michel. His overtunic was cut away, his chain shirt and the padding beneath pushed back so they could examine his wound. It was open and seeped steadily. Strange, it should have closed by now, the pain stopped, but- Sabra's face came into his view. She yet wore her squire's guise. No weeping now, no time for it. "Lie still," she whispered.

"How is he?"

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

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

"Yes, I swear it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eight

He sat up fast with a sharp intake of air, heart thumping, his right hand crossing to his left hip as though to draw a sword.

Old habits...

He listened in the cool confines of the dark room. He heard only Michael's soft breathing from the bed and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

What had awakened him? He concentrated and finally determined it had been nothing at all. He'd simply slept enough, and it was time to face the day, or what was left of it. His watch told him it was almost noon. It might have been midnight in this dim sanctuary.

He felt better. Getting up was not an effort. The aches in his body were gone, and he sensed his final restoration was complete... at least on the physical level.

Michael was exactly where Richard had left him. The covers were kicked off, but he still slept deeply. Maybe too deeply, but surely it would help, it would heal him, and God knew Michael needed healing. Richard replaced the bedspread, quietly chose fresh clothes, then left the boy alone, closing the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Richard dressed slowly. It was time to deal with responsibilities and he had no spirit for it.

Going back to stand watch over the child in the easeful dark was more preferable than facing reality. He sat heavily at the desk, a bleak stare for the telephone as he put things off for one more minute. No matter how much he wanted to avoid this, he couldn't. Waiting would not make things better. He picked up the receiver and, since it was Saturday, punched in Bourland's home number. A woman answered, the live-in housekeeper, and at Richard's request went to fetch her employer.

"Hallo?"

Bourland's voice was polite yet puzzled. Richard had not said who he was, and few people had this particular number.

"Philip... it's Richard."

"Richard, how are you? It's been months. What on earth have you been up to?"

Such warmth in Bourland's drawled greeting. Richard could not make himself respond. The words stuck in his throat and an uncomfortable silence stretched over the lines.

"Hallo? Are you there? Is something wrong?"

Yes, my old friend, I'm about to put a knife in your heart and twist it.

"Richard?"

"I have very bad news, Philip. Please sit down."

"What-" Bourland bit off the rest. Along with the ominous words, he'd have picked up on those subtleties of tone that indicate something truly serious had happened.

"I'm in Dallas."

"What is it? Is Stephanie-"

"I'm sorry, Philip." There was no way to make the news less brutal. Best just to say it, get it over with. "Stephanie is dead, and so are Elena and Seraphina."

A very small strangled sound came over the line, cut short. "What... what happened? An accident?"

"No. Not an accident. They were murdered."

There came a soft exhalation of breath, not quite a word, not quite a sigh, then a long silence, and Richard could sense his friend bowing under the sudden burden. He heard the scrape of wood against a bare floor. Bourland was sitting down. When he spoke, his voice was tight, stretched, hardly recognizable. "Are you sure?" "Yes." Yes, I'm sure. Dear Goddess, I'm sure. I saw the blood, the bullet holes, the awful gaping smile of their slit throats. He shook his head sharply, disrupting the image.

"But they... they... oh, God." Another long pause.

"Philip? I'm right here, Philip."

His response was a whisper thick with tears and pain. "Sorry... I-I can't. I'll call you b-back."

The disconnecting click was sharp, abrupt. Bourland would be completely devastated. Stephanie had been like a second daughter to him. He had loved her in that hopeless, helpless way that older men do when their own daughters have left the nest. He'd once confided his wish that Richard might marry her and give him surrogate grandchildren to dandle on his knee in his old age. He had eventually gotten them, but now that happiness was gone. Ripped away.

Richard sat by the phone, waiting until Bourland's first terrible rush of grief abated enough so he could talk again.

His own anguish hovered close; he willed it away. Nothing would be served if he lost control now. A scant ten minutes passed when the sharp warble broke the silence. Richard picked up.

Bourland's voice was steel. "Was it Alejandro?"

"Yes."

"You saw him?"

"If I had he'd be dead."

"What about Michael? And Luis?"

"I don't know about Luis. Michael's alive and safe here with me. He's sleeping."

"Thank God, thank the dear God for that. Are you all right?"

"I'm... coping."

"What happened? Tell me everything."

Richard poured out the whole story from the first alarm call on his computer to walking into the too, too quiet house and finding the bodies. He gave the simple facts, carefully keeping out all emotional embroidery. It was the only way he could get through it.

"There must have been devices set all through the place," he said. "I smelled something odd under the propane, but didn't identify it as Semtex until it was almost too late. I think the gas was on to cover the smell and add to the damage. There was nothing I could do for them, so I ran. I got clear just as it went up, but something knocked me flat.

Must have been flying debris. Didn't quite pass out, but I couldn't do anything for myself. It was like being drugged.

Took hours before I was able to wake up enough to move."

"Hours? But the explosion must have drawn attention. Didn't anyone call it in?"

"The property's isolated, miles from everything, and the house is far from the road in a low spot in the land. That would muffle the blast and hide the flames. The smoke would have blended into the general darkness."

Bourland swore once. "Go on."

"I don't remember much. Just being thirsty. I crawled to the pump house for water and that's when I found Michael. He must have been hiding there the whole time, scared out of his wits."

"How is he?"

"Just some scratches and a bruise or two. He's asleep."