The following is a work of fanfiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights. No profit is being made from this story--drat! The author is simply continuing the story of the Greys (particularly one curly-haired second son) in her own warped way. Comments welcome at [email protected] up a PC and chat awhile. Plague's Pawn

By Cathryn Mortenz-Teal ("Kate")

The cool shade of late afternoon hugged the towering walls of Louvenford Castle, creating

oblong patches of gloaming amid the sun-drenched grounds. Richard Grey listened to the gentle

swish of long grass against his leather boots as he escorted Lady Olivia Hammond from the

shadow of the massive stone edifice. He'd forgotten how the paths meandered about the castle in

random fashion--seemingly without direction, as they veered towards livery stable, smokehouse,

gardens, and chapel. Admittedly, the last time he'd been to Louvenford, he'd been ten years old,

aging his recollections a good eleven summers.

A glance at his companion revealed a serene profile--composed, yet aristocratic in bearing.

Though she was only a few years younger than his father, Lady Olivia appeared not to have aged

at all during those intermittent years. Her skin was unusually smooth, belying a woman in her late

forties. It contradicted the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the lack of gray in her braided

blonde hair.

Sensing his gaze, Lady Olivia glanced aside, a silky smile on her lips. "You've certainly grown

from the scruffy-haired child, I remember, Richard," she remarked casually, though the touch of

her eyes was anything but discreet.

Acutely uncomfortable, Richard felt sudden color bloom on his cheeks. It wasn't the first time

since his arrival yesterday that Lady Olivia had tossed him veiled comments. Not normally

flustered by the female sex, Richard found himself increasingly bewildered by his hostess's unusual

candor. There were times he almost thought she played on his affections.

Amused by his discomfort, Lady Olivia diverted her comments to safer ground. "It was courteous

of you to escort me for a walk while Armus and my husband discuss your father's proposal."

Only too glad for the change in topic, Richard spoke quickly to cover his earlier embarrassment:

"I'm only sorry my father couldn't be here in person, Lady Olivia. If it weren't for his sudden

ailment--"

"Yes, Armus said Sir Thomas was feeling poorly. Hopefully it's nothing serious."

"The healer expects a full recovery," Richard assured. They had reached a break in the path.

Rather than continue east towards the gardens, Lady Olivia veered away from the tailored

landscape towards the wild tangle of forestland beyond the castle walls. Richard offered his hand,

helping her traverse a small rock bed on the fringe of the treeline. Casting a skeptical glance over

his shoulder, he considered the safe haven of Louvenford. "Lady Olivia, wouldn't you rather view

the gardens?"

"I've seen the gardens countless times, Richard, and much prefer the forest. Certainly a knight as

skilled as you can protect me from a few wild rabbits?"

Uncertain if he was being mocked or teased, Richard frowned. With a light fluttering laugh, Lady

Olivia pulled her hand free and disappeared beneath the trees. Richard followed in her wake, his

mouth settled in a tight line. He knew how important this proposal was to Sir Thomas--and to

most of the farmers in the village. Without Sir Reginald's land to provide an irrigation conduit

between Chelsea Field and the village, the farmers stood to lose most of their crops. Sir Thomas's

offer for the parcel was more than fair. He'd even sent his sons with a gift--a fine breeding

stallion--as testament of his sincerity. Unfortunately, Sir Reginald Hammond was also

entertaining the interest of another party. Thus what Richard and Armus had perceived as a

simple visit, transformed into a bartering game with the unexpected emergence of a second

bidder.

"You look much too serious, Richard," Lady Olivia chastised as he drew abreast of her. "A

handsome man shouldn't set his face in such unbecoming lines." Her features altered, shifting from

haughty composure to sly whimsicalness. The change left him uncomfortably on edge. Since

arriving yesterday, he'd been unable to pigeonhole her changing moods. One moment the mistress

of the castle appeared refined and dignified--the next she taunted him with innuendo. Earlier,

when he and Armus had shared a cup of spiced wine with she and her husband, Richard had

caught her watching him when she thought him unaware. The touch of her eyes had been both

disquieting and bold.

Clearing his throat, he sought to silence his unease. "Perhaps it's just the matter of this visit, My

Lady. Without your husband's consent for his land, we lose a valuable resource for our villagers.

The potential devastation to crops in that area has tripled since a mudslide destroyed our existing

irrigation channels, last month."

Lady Olivia gave a backward flip of her hand. "You sound like a finance man, Richard--not a

knight."

"Managing my father's estates for the last eight years has given me a very real appreciation of

what loss can do. You don't understand the implication to the villagers--"

"I think I do," she said sharply, and again he heard the subtle shift in mood. Bracing her back

against the ponderous trunk of an oak tree, Olivia regarded him steadily. She held her arms to her

side, slender fingers gripping ridges of gnarled wood, her head tilted slightly to gaze up at him.

"All this haggling and posturing for a piece of land, when very little of it is actually necessary.

My husband debates with Armus, but he will do as I say."

Startled by her directness, Richard stepped forward. A bewildered frown drew his brows

together. "Lady Olivia?"

"The land is mine, Richard, deeded from my father. It is not part of my dowry or even subject to

my husband's administration. He merely entertains your father's bid--as well as that of the other

candidate--as his position dictates, but the final decision rests with me."

Uncertain whether the news was good or bad, Richard smiled hesitantly. "Then you do

understand how important this is," he said, taking another step forward.

"Your earnestness does you credit," Lady Olivia concurred. Sliding a hand onto his shoulder, she

smiled up at him. The sunlight haloed the hair at her back, unearthing a few silver strands in the

lush blonde braid. The light in her gray eyes was both calculating and amused. "I care little for

coin or timber parcels--"

"My father's offered to give you one of the richest corridors on our estates, plus a percentage of

all crop production irrigated by your land," Richard said firmly.

"Trinkets of meaningless value. I had another price in mind."

Without cause, he felt his mouth go dry. The weight of her hand on his shoulder was suddenly

uncomfortable. Belatedly, he realized how close she was standing. Dropping his eyes, he saw the

creamy swell of her breasts, straining against the material of her gown. Recoiling quickly, he took

a step backwards, placing distance between them. "Price?" he echoed.

"You do want the land, Richard, *don't you?*" Her gaze was pointed and direct.

Feeling the breath quicken in his lungs, Richard strove to regain his composure. "Lady Olivia, I--

if you're suggesting--"

"What I'm suggesting, is nothing that hasn't been done one hundred times over between a bored

mistress and a handsome knight. Don't look so appalled, Richard. You should be flattered I'd be

willing to release the land for a few nights in your bed."

"That's preposterous!" Suddenly angry, Richard strode forward and gripped her roughly by the

arm. He gave a short shake, intending to bring her to her senses. "Such licentious behavior is

beneath a lady of breeding. My father's offered to pay you fairly--"

"I'm more interested in what you're willing to pay," Lady Olivia countered, unaffected by his

rough handling. The corners of her mouth lifted in a silken grin. "I would hazard to guess you're

far from innocent--"

"That's beside the point!" Richard snapped. He felt his temper slipping as the net he kept on his

jumbled emotions, grew dangerously threadbare. As angry as he was, there was also something

humiliating in what Lady Olivia proposed. "Despite the fact that bartering . . . *my affection* . . .

is abhorrent and unethical in every imaginable way--you're a married woman."

"Is that what's bothering you?" Chuckling softly, Olivia freed her arm, then leaned forward,

locking her hands behind his neck. "I tend to get what I want, despite the constraints of proper

society. You'd do well to remember that."

Repulsed, Richard grabbed her arms and flung them from his neck. "I think I should take you

back to Louvenford," he said icily. "We've nothing more to discuss."

"For now," Lady Olivia agreed. The haughty composure had reclaimed her features, regal as the

noon sun on her wheat-burnished hair. Brushing past him, she headed towards the castle, her

demeanor unerringly victorious.

+++++

Armus Grey spared a brief smile for the serving wench who filled his wine cup, before refocusing

his attention on his younger brother. It was unlike Richard--normally so self-controlled--to

appear ill at ease in social company. Were it not for such an uncharacteristic display, Armus

might appreciate seeing his overly confident brother clearly attempting to mask his nervousness.

Oblivious to the increasing din of the many guests gathered for dinner in the Great Hall of

Louvenford Castle, Armus watched as Richard drummed his fingers against the table. The food

on his plate--served in ever-abundant courses--had barely been touched. Beside him a heavy-

jowled man slopped ale on the floor as he hefted his goblet in a toast to the Lord and Lady of

Louvenford. There followed a boisterous chorus of "here-heres" as one after another of the

twenty-odd guests seconded the toast. Most had come at the behest of Lady Olivia Hammond,

who regularly entertained for the sheer pleasure of merriment. Armus grinned, adding his own

loud commendation, while Richard responded in a more subdued voice.

Returning his goblet to the table, Armus leaned towards his younger sibling. "I'd be careful,

t'were I you, little brother. One might think you aren't as taken by Sir Reginald and his wife as the

rest of us."

Scowling, Richard applied his fingers to the table in an irritated cadence. "I thought we were here

to close a trade agreement for Father--not indulge in frivolity."

With effort, Armus supressed a guffaw. Not only was his cocky younger brother displaying

classic signs of anxiety, he also degraded a pass-time he normally found engaging. "I didn't think

I'd live to see the day when you frowned on a little diversion," Armus countered with a pointed

grin. Claiming his knife, he carved a piece of mutton from the haunch section on his plate, and

popped it into his mouth.

Annoyed, Richard increased his agitated assault on the table. "This isn't diversion, it's excess. It's

Lady Olivia flaunting her wealth like a common whore, for the gathered gentry. It's repulsive."

Armus chuckled. "Said to the wrong man, that's enough to get you killed. If I didn't know better,

I'd think you had a personal interest."

Falling silent, Richard leaned back in his chair. Absently, he used the tip of his knife to sift

through the sections of meat on his plate. There was a slight tremor in his hand, unnatural for

someone accustomed to wielding a sword without the slightest strain or hesitation. Around him,

the festivities of Lord and Lady Hammond's gala grew increasingly noisy. The heavy-jowled man

grunted something at his dinner companion--a bejeweled matron--who cackled shrilly, and pawed

his sleeve with a plump hand.

As though happening on something distasteful, Richard pressed his lips together. "We should

leave tomorrow," he said quietly.

Armus attacked his dinner with increased relish, bypassing the mutton for game birds and brown

bread. Slicing a chunk of cheese from the thick slab on his plate, he considered his somber

younger brother. The flush of color on Richard's skin was unnatural, as though fever suffused his

flesh. Concerned, Armus narrowed his eyes. "Are you feeling ill?"

Surprised, Richard drew back. "Of course not," he responded quickly. A trifle too quickly to be

taken seriously.

Armus scowled. Though it was unlikely Richard grew afflicted with the same ailment that plagued

their father, it was not altogether impossible. Since returning from his walk with Lady Olivia

earlier that afternoon he'd been notably uneasy. Originally Armus had construed his anxiety as the

strain of awaiting Sir Reginald's decision, but now he wondered if it didn't stem from something

physical. For the first time he took note of the slight tremor in his brother's hand.

Perturbed by the circumspect examination, Richard stabbed a piece of game fowl with his knife.

"You're grasping at straws, Armus," he muttered.

"If that's the case, perhaps you'd care to explain your suddenly sour disposition."

Still not meeting the other's eyes, Richard shrugged. "It's this excess. First Sir Reginald tells us

he's entertaining another prospect for the land, then Lady Olivia subjects us to a social gathering,

orchestrated for the sole purpose of flaunting her wealth."

As he spoke, Richard's words grew increasingly bitter, causing Armus to question the source of

his animosity. Twisting a chunk of meat from the mutton haunch, the older man propped both

elbows on the table and pulled the fatty section apart. "I say again--there's something personal

about your anger." Grease-coated fingers guided the oily mass into his mouth as his eyes slewed

aside. "While I've known you to be disagreeable at times, you generally have cause."

Richard ignored the light sting of the words and shoved his plate away. Around him, the din of

the hall swelled to greater proportions as an unending flow of wine and ale coaxed Lady Olivia's

guests to jovial interaction. Richard had to admit that although the gala was thrown together with

little more than a day's notice, the Mistress of Louvenford made the event seem effortless.

Garlands of lush greens draped the deep windowsills, while fresh cut flowers dotted the many

platters of fruits, pastries, breads and cheeses laden on the heavy tables. The servants kept

heaping plates of mutton and fowl circulating among the gentry, stopping every few seconds to

offer strong wine or ale. Seated at the center table, raised two steps above the others, the Lord

and Lady of Louvenford sat with their chosen guests. Throughout the evening Richard felt the

touch of Lady Olivia's cool gray eyes--sometimes in bold amusement, others in sly challenge. The

memory of what she proposed left him feeling alternately hot and cold, as his emotions ran the

gamut from anger to shame.

Exhaling loudly, he slipped his fingers into the ragged tangle of his long hair, sweeping the bangs

from his eyes. The habitual nervous gesture said more for his state of mind then all the carefully

worded half-truths he might offer. Slumping back in his chair, he turned a sharp gaze on his

brother. Though he was loathed to admit it, Richard knew his physical condition was on a steady

decline. Since returning from the forest with Lady Olivia, he'd been troubled by headaches and

chills with increasing frequency. If perchance he was to suffer the same fate as his father, he and

Armus needed to seal the transaction with Sir Reginald quickly. "What did Lord Hammond have

to say?" he asked.

Having dispensed with the mutton, Armus licked his fingers.

Unlike Richard, who was plagued with a riotous mass of brown curls, Armus was blessed with

soft wheat-colored hair. Even now, snagged by the shifting glow of torchlight and hearth, it

glinted like spun gold. An observer might think the two--one tall and broad, the other deceptively

slender--were unrelated for all their differences in appearance. "He was wholly attentive," Armus

returned. Dipping his hands in a finger bowl, he flecked the grease away, then speared an apple

with his knife. "He thought our offer sound, but reinforced the fact there was another party

interested in the land as well."

"Did he say who?"

Armus shook his head. "He wouldn't tell me--just that the man valued the land as highly as we

did. He also led me to believe his wife would be the deciding factor on whether or not Father's

proposal is accepted. Apparently, the parcel is deeded directly to Lady Olivia, and Sir Reginald is

merely an intercessor."

Richard muttered something unintelligible. Though Armus failed to catch the words,

unmistakable venom lingered in the tone.

Unfazed, the blonde-haired man continued: "Apparently the Mistress of Louvenford is rather

shrewd in matters of finance. From the general gossip and comments I've overheard since

arriving, it would seem Lady Olivia generally gets what she wants."

Inwardly annoyed, Richard closed his eyes. So the Mistress of Louvenford was skilled in

manipulating others. How far would she play her game, he wondered? Surely she wouldn't deny

his father's proposal simply because he was unwilling to lie with her? The woman was nearly as

old as Sir Thomas--and while she wasn't unattractive, the very thought of forced relations was

revolting. For the first time, Richard considered how a woman must feel when a man forced his

attentions on her. It was odd and unbalancing to be on the receiving end of a situation he

normally controlled.

Before he could ponder the matter further, Armus nudged him in the ribs, directing his attention

to the front of the hall. Richard followed his brother's gaze, noting a black-cloaked man who

drew abreast of the table where Lord and Lady Hammond were seated. In courtly fashion, the

newcomer paid his respects, pausing to hover theatrically over Lady Olivia's hand. Though his

back was turned, there was something disturbingly familiar about him.

"Six pence says he's our competition for the land," Armus said aside. The flat inflection of his

voice indicated he sensed the familiarity too. Richard was about to comment on it when the man

turned, revealing the blunt, chiseled lines of his face.

"Damn it all to hell." The breath whistled through Richard's teeth in a hiss of displeasure.

Beside him, Armus cursed softly. "John Mullens," he said tightly.

Richard met his gaze. "Something tells me the price of Sir Reginald's land has just increased

dramatically."

+++++

Pale slivers of melon-colored light bled through the narrow windows in Richard's bedchamber,

dragging him awake. With a soft moan for the disturbance, he shifted on the straw-filled pallet,

turning his back to the door and burrowing beneath the faded blankets. Though the edges were

frayed, the material threadbare, it would be unseemly to complain. With all the guests staying at

Louvenford, quarters were at a premium. Even so, Richard was certain Lady Olivia had assigned

him the worse chambers in the castle purely out of malice.

Closing his eyes against the invasion of anemic morning light, he sought to recapture the elusive

phantom of sleep. There, he might forget the whisper of cold that had tormented him throughout

the night. Though the early summer air was warm, chills riddled his body with increasing

frequency, making him long for the warmth of heavier blankets and the soft cocoon of his own

bed.

He had almost fallen into the grip of blissful slumber when he heard a faint rustling behind him. A

hand settled on his shoulder--the touch so unexpected, he jerked abruptly about, pulling himself to

a sitting position. Startled, he looked into the composed gray eyes of Lady Olivia Hammond.

The touch of her gaze was both frost and fire. Similarly, he sensed amusement and controlled

disdain in the haughty set of her shoulders; the upward curve of her full lips. Incensed by her

presence, he struggled to remain calm. If he ever hoped to obtain the parcel of ground for Sir

Thomas he needed her favor. Repressing both irritation and a series of mounting chills, Richard

swallowed hard, hoping for equanimity. "Is it your habit to intrude in your guests' bedchambers,

My Lady?"

Adopting languid ease, she perched on the edge of the bed as though intending a lengthy

visitation. "Only those I find enchanting," she returned smoothly. One hand shifted to rest upon

his leg, just above the knee. Richard could feel the heat of her flesh through the threadbare

blankets--her touch like molten fire on his chilled skin. Involuntarily he tensed. Her eyes

dropped, lingering on his chest, where his nightshirt gaped wide and unlaced. "I thought you

might change your mind about our . . . *discussion* . . . now that you know the identity of the

other candidate for the land."

"John Mullens?" With deliberate slowness, Richard removed her hand from his leg. "I can't

believe you'd side with a man like Mullens simply to spite me. He'd use the land to put a

stranglehold on the village."

"Pity," Olivia intoned without feeling.

Richard glared, his mouth compressing into a rigid line. "Lady Olivia, my father has made you a

fair offer. You've known me since I was a child, and aren't likely to gain any greater acquaintance

then you already have. No one need know about our discussion. Your husband--"

"My husband would have you drawn and quartered for even *suggesting* I'd behaved

improperly," Olivia snapped sharply. "I'm not a fool, Richard. I'm a respected noblewoman

married to a favorite of the King. You, on the other hand, are a second son with a reputation for

wanton behavior. If you so much as whisper any indiscretion on my part, I'll say you tried to

force yourself on me."

Appalled, Richard shoved away from her. "Damn you, woman!" He was half out of the bed when

he realized he was mostly unclothed. With a curse of resignation, he leaned back against the wall.

A dull ache bloomed behind his eyes, spreading roots deep into his skull. Wincing against the

unexpected pain, he considered her. "You are the devil's whore," he mumbled bitterly.

Unaffected by the slur, she maintained a steady gaze. "Irregardless, I'm accustomed to getting

what I want." Shifting, she leaned close and kissed him on the lips. The unexpected touch of her

mouth on his was so heated with fire, Richard was momentarily too shocked to respond. When

he would have wrenched away, she drew back, the sliver of a smile playing about her lips. "You

don't look well, Richard. It's amazing the harm that can befall someone who displeases me."

Tracing a finger along the curve of his cheek, she rose to her feet, gradually letting her hand fall

away. "I've yet to make a decision about the land your father desires. T'were I you, I'd use the

time to reconsider your options. There really is only one."

Struggling to repress his revulsion, Richard bit down on his lip. It took every ounce of control he

had to maintain a civil tongue. "At least we agree on that, Lady Olivia, though we may differ on

the choice. Your audacity is staggering."

Bestowing a slight inclination of her head, Lady Olivia retreated to the door. With her back

turned, she looked as young and comely as any maid of eighteen summers. It was only when she

turned and Richard caught the jaded lines of her face, that her true age became apparent.

Hesitating with her hand poised on the latch, she let her eyes rake over him, her gaze as sinuous

as the slithering path of a snake. Despite his resolve to the contrary, Richard felt heat rush to his

face. "The next time I visit, perhaps you'd be so good as to forgo the nightshirt," she purred

softly. "When you come to your senses, I'll dispense with it anyway."

Cursing, Richard ground his teeth together. He heard the door scrape open, then close, as the

aged seductress slipped from the room. Only then did he allow the tightly wound tension to

uncoil from his muscles. Only then did he succumb to the tremors riddling his body; the spike of

renewed pain in his head; the icy draft that made him wrap his arms close in an effort to trap

escaping heat. Miserable, he drew his legs to his chest and bowed his forehead to his knees.

For the first time in his life he felt trapped in a situation that was utterly hopeless. He could no

more do as Lady Olivia asked, then he could sell his soul for a farthing. Worse, he could not

stand idly by while the Mistress of Louvenford gave her land to John Mullens. For his father and

the countless villagers who relied on the protection of the Grey family, Richard was honor bound

to do what was necessary to procure the ground. Sickened, his mind muddled with growing

illness, Richard was uncertain what path to take. Under different circumstances he might discuss

the situation with Armus, but he was too embarrassed to consider that alternative now.

Rising, he dressed with effort, his joints plagued by the stabbing aches that accompanied affliction.

The tremors in his hands intensified, until he curled his fingers into his palms, drawing shuddering

breaths in an effort to regain his composure. By the time he descended to the lower bowels of the

castle he'd managed to regain a sufficient measure of poise. Still, there was little he could do to

alter the bleached hue of his complexion. The scent of food drew him to the Great Hall, but

soured his stomach the moment he approached the table.

Once again, Lady Olivia's guests had gathered, milling in a chattering throng of scented gowns

and embroidered tunics. Richard shied from the breakfast tables, keeping the food as far away

from him as possible. He spared passing nods for the noblemen and their consorts who hailed him

with false smiles and pretentious greetings. The strain of forced civility weighed on him heavily,

making him thankful when he encountered Armus just entering the room.

"Brother!" With a smile that brought the first true measure of warmth to the gathering, Armus

clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't tell me you've eaten without me."

Tight-lipped, Richard shook his head. Too late he realized his mistake. Armus's eyes tracked

over his face--noting the pale flush of his skin; the faint ring of shadow beneath his leaf-green

eyes. "Richard--" The hand tightened on his shoulder. "--there is something wrong. You look

unwell."

"I would too, if I'd lost the bartering edge on Sir Reginald's land," a new voice intoned smoothly.

The smug satisfaction of the words identified the speaker long before Richard and Armus turned.

Of one accord, the brothers stiffened.

"Haven't you a rock to slither under?" Richard asked bluntly.

Amused, John Mullens allowed one corner of his mouth to curl in a wolfish grin. He inclined his

head in mock acknowledgement. "A pleasure, Richard. But then it always is, when I can best Sir

Thomas or one of his sniveling whelps. You're out of your depth, boy."

Angered, Richard took a step forward. Immediately, Armus stayed him with a restraining hand.

"I don't recall a decision being made about the ground," the blonde-haired man said coolly, hoping

the calm rationality of his voice would offset his younger brother's quarrelsome temper.

Mullens glanced from one to the other. It was obvious his words had little effect on levelheaded

Armus, thus he directed his next barb to Richard. "Word at Louvenford is Lady Olivia has taken

a strong dislike to a certain green-eyed knight. Though I can't account for the reasoning, I'd

hazard it's sound, no matter the source."

Surprisingly, Richard remained unflustered. "Kitchen gossip becomes you, Baron Mullens." His

own lips curled in a goading grin. "It befits a conniving worm."

Mullens chuckled. "You've a tart tongue, Richard. Something to admire, even if the rest of you

is sodden with dung."

"The Devil take you!" Richard snapped.

"Enough of this!" Sensing the limit of his brother's restraint, Armus stepped between them. "The

two of you can bait one another until Michaelmas, but it isn't going to change the outcome of

Lord Hammond's decision. As difficult as it may be, I suggest we conduct ourselves cordially, as

befitting guests. If that means avoiding one another until the matter is settled, then so be it."

Squaring his shoulders, Mullens spared the briefest glance for the fair-haired giant. "I fear my

stomach sours in your company, so I'll take my leave before I lose my appetite altogether." It was

only too clear he considered Richard his primary sparring partner, and took perverse delight in the

antagonistic exchange. Turning, he hesitated momentarily and glanced over his shoulder. "You

know, Richard, you look decidedly unwell . . ." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snide grin.

" . . . not nearly as pretty as normal. Still--I'd wager any man with a fancy for boys would

consider you worth the effort."

"Let it go," Armus warned when Richard lurched forward. His hand descended on his brother's

shoulder, holding him in place until Mullens moved away. Beneath his fingertips, Armus could

feel a restrained quiver in Richard's tightly bunched muscles. The tremor had as much to do with

infirmity as it did with rage.

Armus tightened his grip. He could feel the soft brush of Richard's long hair against his knuckles.

Moving his hand, he extended his arm until his fingers settled on Richard's opposite shoulder.

Leaning close, he imparted words he hoped would instill wisdom: "He's baiting you, Richard.

You should know by now, it's a game you can't win."

Scowling, Richard tugged free. With effort, he put the insult behind him. "That might be, but he's

right about one thing--Lady Olivia has developed a marked dislike for me, and I fear that may

influence her decision."

Armus cocked a brow. "What's this all about?"

But Richard merely shook his head and moved into the throng. He needed to escape the breakfast

table with its sickening odor of excessive food. Needed to escape Armus and his disquieting

gaze. But most of all, he needed to flee the accusation which silently insinuated, he may have cost

his father and the villagers their only chance at evading misfortune.

+++++

"We understand your hesitation," Armus said politely, inclining his head towards his host.

Standing beside his brother in the solar of Louvenford Castle, he took leave of Lord Hammond.

Many of Lady Olivia's other guests had already departed, sensing an end to the spontaneous

festivities. Worried that Richard succumbed to the same ailment that afflicted Sir Thomas, Armus

deemed it time to depart as well. "Our father's offer remains, " he informed Sir Reginald

cordially. "When you reach a decision about the land, please send word to Covington Cross."

"Of course." Extending his hand, Sir Reginald gripped Armus's large palm in his. Though his

smile was sincere, it dimmed slightly when he turned to Richard. "Perhaps it's well you're leaving

now," he remarked aside to Armus. "Your younger brother grows sickly."

Richard fluffed off the concern with a shake of his head. "It's nothing," he assured, though the

mere sound of his voice ignited a clamorous pain within his temples. Drawing back, he took his

leave. "Forgive me, Sir Reginald--I think the air outside might suit better. I'll wait for my brother

by the horses."

With a slight frown, Armus watched him leave. The day had lengthened to afternoon, prompting

Armus to suggest they depart before it grew too late. Richard's increasing agitation made him

itch to be away. And, if there truly were friction between he and the lady of the castle, Armus

deemed it best to place distance between them before irreparable damage could be done. The last

thing he needed was to have Sir Thomas's proposal rejected because of some offhand comment

Richard made in the heat of frustration. Additionally, the presence of John Mullens coupled with

Richard's declining health, made early departure a step shy of imperative. Nodding attentively to

his host, Armus offered his best diplomatic smile. "My father has long been a faithful friend to

your family, Sir Reginald. He asks nothing selfishly."

"You needn't remind me of Sir Thomas's motives," Lord Hammond returned just as earnestly. "In

all fairness, I must admit the decision about the land rests solely with my wife. I have of course,

conveyed your interests to her, and will lend my own voice should she wish advice. I'm uncertain

why she delays the resolution, but it shan't be for much longer, I'm sure. Please inform Sir Thomas

his answer will be forthcoming."

Once again Armus inclined his head. "It's been an honor visiting with you, Sir. Please convey my

regards to your wife."

Departing, Armus found his brother outside by the horses. Richard stood next to his mount, arms

folded over his saddle, head bowed against the worn leather. The long tangle of his hair glinted

with unruly snarls of copper and gold, as the noonday sun picked highlights from the brown curls.

Dressed modestly in a loose white tunic, black breeches and boots, and a sleeveless gray jerkin,

Richard looked more squire than knight. Only the wide angled cuffs of his black gauntlets added

a measure of courtly decorum to his attire.

As Armus drew nearer, gravel crunched beneath his boots, drawing Richard's head up with a jerk.

"Resting?" Armus queried lightly.

"Waiting," Richard responded quickly. Gathering the reins, he swung onto the back of his black

charger. "I trust you've bid our host goodbye?"

Up close, Armus noticed a fringe of sweat stippled his upper lip. The lines of Richard's face were

unnaturally drawn, making the older man reevaluate the wisdom of undertaking the trek.

"Richard, perhaps we should remain until you're feeling better."

"I feel fine," Richard lied. His fingers curled possessively around the reins to silence their tremor.

"Could we go please? It's two day's journey to Covington Cross, and I'm anxious to be home."

Though unconvinced, Armus nodded. He was disappointed they hadn't managed to obtain a firm

decision from the Hammonds, but was more concerned with his brother's health. Mounting his

own horse, he set a moderate pace from the castle. Richard followed silently as he picked his way

through the forest. The hours lengthened and grew--broken only by the melodic clop of

hoofbeats, the elfin whisper of a fickle breeze, and the occasional grating rasp of Richard's cough.

When night descended, Armus prepared camp in a bower of rowan and yew. A short foraging

venture produced three quail, which he plucked and cooked above an open fire. Richard sat

huddled by a tree, wrapped in the folds of a cloak he'd procured from his bedroll. When Armus

offered him a portion of the fowl, he shook his head mutely, green eyes owlishly large in the

gathering gloom. Armus ate silently, disturbed by his brother's lack of appetite. He knew Richard

had eaten nothing that day, and little the previous eve. Though Richard might wield a sword with

the same strength as a larger man, he was too slender to avoid eating for long.

With the full descent of night, Armus listened to the crackle and hiss of the flames. Though the he

found the heat on his face uncomfortable, he noted Richard moved closer to the fire in a

presumable effort to ward away chill. Standing, Armus retrieved his own cloak and returned to

drape it over his brother's shoulders.

Startled, Richard glanced up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to keep you warm." Crouching beside him, Armus let his hands linger on Richard's

shoulders. "This isn't any passing illness, Richard."

Stubborn as ever, Richard scowled. "You're being foolish. It's nothing to fret over."

"Then why are you shaking?"

Only belatedly realizing his trembling was visible, Richard swallowed hard. Glancing away, he

huddled deeper into the double layer of cloaks. Armus watched his profile, noting the sweeping

veil of lashes as his gaze dipped to the ground. "I'll be fine," he whispered. "Everything runs its

course, given time."

"Richard--" Unwilling to abandon the topic, Armus raised his hand and brushed the soft curtain

of hair from his brother's face. "This needn't be so difficult, little brother. There's nothing wrong

with admitting you're ill."

"I'm fine."

Puffing out his cheeks, Armus exhaled a frustrated breath of air. "Of course you are," he said

sharply. Standing, he returned to his side of the fire. "You might at least try getting some sleep.

We've a full day of riding tomorrow."

Grunting something unintelligible, Richard retrieved his bedroll and pulled it close to the fire.

Turning his back on Armus, he wrapped himself in his cloak, and settled for the night. Alone in

the darkness, Armus contented himself with listening to the night sounds of the forest until he

heard his brother's even breathing. When he knew Richard had drifted to sleep, he located his

own bedding and rolled it out beside his younger sibling. Lying on his back, Armus crossed his

arms over his chest, and quietly contemplated the patches of night sky visible through the shifting

leaves overhead. In time, he too, slipped into welcoming slumber.

+++++

Armus came awake with a grunt, aware of a pressure on his chest. The sky was still dark,

engorged by a glittering array of awakening stars. The breeze had cooled, growing almost frigid

at the edges, as it became weighted with the icy breath of the enveloping night. Disoriented, it

took Armus a moment to identify what had awakened him. Almost immediately he became aware

of his brother's body curled against his. Seeking warmth, Richard had huddled against him,

pillowing his head on Armus's broad chest.

Briefly, Armus recalled a frightened eight-year-old boy curled in his bed. As a child, Richard had

been gawky--all legs and limbs, with an angelic face and a mop of snarled curls. It had been

nothing for Armus to find him in his bed, whenever he'd been troubled by bad dreams. Now, with

his brother's shoulder tucked beneath his arm, the memory of that closeness returned. He could

feel the tremors in Richard's body--his flesh raging with heat, despite the punishing chills that

plagued him.

"Richard--" Armus pulled him closer, adjusting the cloak around his shoulders. Beneath the

silver face of the moon, the white sleeves of Richard's tunic glowed as though imbued with faerie-

light. Armus tucked the coarse cloak around his brother's body, blocking the intrusion of cold air.

Though his ministrations were gentle, Richard moaned softly. "Ssh," Armus whispered gently.

"Go back to sleep, little brother. I've got you." Rolling onto his side, he pulled Richard against

him, cradling his slighter form in the enveloping cocoon of his larger body.

Richard shuddered once, then stilled, his head pillowed by Armus's thick biceps. His lashes

fluttered. " . . . cold . . ." he mumbled.

"I know." Gently, Armus tracked comforting fingers across his cheek. Using his palm, he

smoothed the sweaty bangs from Richard's brow. The blonde-haired man let his hand linger,

gauging the torrid measure of heat in Richard's flesh. Biting his lip, he drew away momentarily to

stoke life into the fire. His brother made a plaintive sound and coughed weakly. Once again

Armus wrapped him in his arms, drawing him closer to the newly awakened flames.

Turning his head to Armus's chest, Richard burrowed against him. " . . . God, Armus, I'm so cold

. . . I-I can't get warm . . ."

"It's the fever." Disturbed by Richard's uncharacteristic dependency, Armus bowed his brow

against his brother's hair. He could smell the heat of illness on Richard's flesh, along with the

scent that was distinctively his--a mesh of leather, milled soap, and the thin reek of oil from his

sword. "Try to sleep, Richard. I promise, I'll be here."

It was all Armus could do to keep from shuddering. Though their father had taken ill, that malady

was nothing even remotely similar to the one plaguing Richard. Armus felt his stomach tighten as

he considered drawing his knife and *bleeding* Richard. Though he wasn't a skilled physician

he'd seen the procedure done often enough to duplicate it. There was little alternative if he hoped

to remove the poisonous blood from his brother before it spread further.

When Richard shifted and moaned, Armus knew he couldn't possibly proceed. How could he

inflict greater pain when his brother already battled severe discomfort? Cursing their luck at being

so far from Covington Cross, Armus cradled Richard's head against his chest. Gently, he stroked

his fingers over the other's flesh, coaxing the corded muscle in neck and shoulders to relax. When

he felt Richard slump against him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Hours later, he awoke to the gray light of dawn. His own sleep had been restless and brief,

consumed by fragmented dreams and multiplying worries over his younger sibling. Stirring, he

tried not to rouse Richard, but even that guarded movement brought the other awake.

Blinking groggily, Richard moved his head on Armus's chest. Through the intervening layers of

clothing and protective cloaks, he could feel the chill touch of dew-saturated ground. The cocoon

of his brother's body provided a pocket of warmth he was loathed to abandon, but the insistent

pressure of his bladder made him sit up.

Rising beside him, Armus held a steadying hand to his shoulder. "You look like a child's rag-

doll," he commented lightly. When Richard's eyes slid in his direction, he grinned indulgently.

"But weigh considerably more. It's been sometime since I've slept with a companion nestled on

my chest."

Richard offered a wan smile. "I'm sorry I'm not female and amoral. If it helps--you're not my first

choice for bedmate either."

Armus snorted. "This from a man who slept like a cat curled on a warm lap. Look here--"

Slipping a finger beneath Richard's chin, Armus turned his face for inspection. Using his free

hand, he guided dew-dampened strands of hair from Richard's cheek. Beneath his fingertips he

could feel the flawless texture of his brother's skin--no longer seared by heat, but blessedly cool.

"I think the fever's passed. Will you eat something, if I manage to conjure up breakfast?"

Richard tried not to appear impatient. "At the moment all I care about is relieving myself."

"Very well." Armus pulled him to his feet, maintaining a stabilizing hand until he was certain

Richard wasn't going to stumble. "Do you need help?"

Annoyed, Richard glared. "Armus--there are certain things a man does alone, no matter how ill

he might be."

Shrugging off his brother's long cloak, Richard kept his own wrapped about him as he ventured

into the trees. A short distance away, his back turned, he unlaced his breeches and released his

bladder. Almost immediately pain shot through his abdomen, cutting off the flow of urine.

Gasping, Richard bent double, sucking down a ragged breath. As quickly as the pain surfaced, it

flitted away, leaving him unsteady and dazed. Shaken, he glanced over his shoulder, but Armus

was busy tending the fire. Before his brother could ponder over his delay, Richard emptied his

bladder and laced his breeches.

"Are you all right?" Armus asked when he'd returned. "You look paler than before."

Squatting near the flames, Richard hugged his arms close to his chest. "You're full of

compliments this morning," he mumbled. Raising his eyes, he glanced at his brother. "Let's just

eat and start moving. I want to get home."

Armus nodded. It went without saying, he felt the same.

+++++

Richard ate little but managed to keep the food down. Once underway, he forced himself to

maintain a steady pace beside Armus, unwilling to slow their journey. Twice during the morning

hours, however, he was overcome by a fit of coughing. Each time, Armus drew rein, halting their

progress until Richard waved him forward. During the second occurrence, the sharp tang of

copper flooded his mouth. Wiping a hand across his lips, Richard glanced down to find his glove

stained bright red. Each cough thereafter brought a fresh bubbling of blood to the back of his

throat. Despite his own alarm, Richard kept the sickly discharge, and his growing fear hidden

from Armus.

When they camped that night, he huddled into his cloak, rolling away from his brother, enforcing

his desire for privacy. Though he secretly longed for the warm protection of Armus's embrace,

Richard feared infecting him. Pulling his cloak up about his ears for added warmth, he ducked his

head beneath the coarse fabric, shivering in the summer air. Feigning sleep, he waited until he

heard Armus's steady breathing, then allowed the breath to whistle through his teeth in a tortured

sigh. A coughing spasm followed. Earlier that day, he'd torn a scrap of material from his neck

scarf to mute the torturous hacking. Pressing it to his mouth, Richard collected the blood seeping

between his lips. "Oh God . . ." With a groan, he rolled onto his back.

His mother had died from a similar sickness.

His mother had died of the plague.

+++++

The following day proceeded in similar fashion, with Richard speaking less and keeping an even

greater distance from Armus. The coughing grew worse, accompanied by a spattering of blood

inside his mouth, each time a spasm took hold. He no longer made the effort to deny he was ill,

or to suggest the illness was trifling. By the end of the second day it was all he could do to sit his

saddle. Exhausted, he fell into a leaden sleep by the fire, curled in a fetus-like ball. When Armus

attempted to comfort him, he drew away as though his brother's touch brought pain. The

following morning he clawed onto his horse, barely managing to sit up, as the animal plodded

through the tree-lined passages of Tiner Forest. Shortly after noon, the ivy-encrusted walls of

Covington Cross breached the horizon.

Richard swallowed hard, dislodging the slick lump of blood in his throat. "I need to enter by the

back," he whispered. His voice was shorn, cracked at the edges. "--the postern in the lower

level."

Concerned, Armus glanced aside. "What nonsense is this? That doorway hasn't been used in

years--it leads directly to the dungeons."

Fighting fatigue, Richard drew rein beside his brother. His eyes were pain-narrowed slits--green

irises like marbled glass in the waxen shell of his face. The mere effort of speech made him

grimace. "You should do the same. I . . . I may have infected you."

Armus's gaze was earnest. "It's possible, but I've never felt better. Besides--you may not be

contagious."

Richard bowed his head. Shuddering, he drew a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. The

long waves of his hair concealed his face from view, prompting Armus to place a hand over his on

the reins. Too tired to shrug him off, Richard closed his eyes. "You shouldn't touch me," he

whispered, unwilling to meet his brother's worried glance.

Wordlessly, Armus squeezed his hand. Somehow the simple gesture gave Richard the courage to

continue. With a mute glance for his brother, he nudged his horse forward. Over the last hour,

the saddle had grown painfully uncomfortable as marked tenderness developed in his groin. Now,

each slight nuance of the horse brought a ripple of crippling agony between his legs. Biting his lip

to stifle a cry, Richard forced himself to continue--eyes locked on the towering walls of his

ancestral home.

Eventually the protective shelter of the courtyard surrounded him. He was vaguely aware of

dismounting; of his brother's strong arms holding him up when he would have crumbled listlessly

to the ground. His chin sagged to his chest as Armus pulled him through the postern, aiding him

through the stone corridors of the lower reaches of the castle. Here, the air was cold and damp,

snaking beneath his collar; effortlessly penetrating the thin sleeves of his summer tunic. Shivering,

he pointed to the dungeon. "There--"

Armus gave a short jerk of surprise. "What?"

With effort Richard pulled away from him and stumbled towards the heavy door. Cut from

massive stone, the barricade had a barred window no greater than two foot square, set near the

top. Richard closed his hands over the metal rods and shoved inward, dropping to one knee as

the door gave way. Instantly, Armus was behind him, gripping him beneath the armpits and

pulling him to his feet. "Damn it, Richard--what the hell are you doing?"

Too tired to resist, Richard sagged against him. "I-I can't risk infecting the castle."

Perturbed by his brother's obstinacy, Armus allowed irritation to slip through in his voice. "Infect

the castle with *what?*"

Richard coughed weakly, cupping the blood-saturated handkerchief in his hand. By rumpling the

cloth in a ball, his brother was no wiser to the stains soiling its surface. "Armus, I'm too tired to

argue. Just . . . leave me here, and tell Father we've returned. He needs to keep his distance--

and y-you need to keep yours from the others. Please--I-I have to sit down."

The naked vulnerability in Richard's voice prompted Armus to comply. Though the stone cell was

hardly the quarters he would have chosen for his brother, it presented the only option at present.

With a disgusted glance for the filthy, straw-littered floor, Armus helped Richard to the

biscuit-thin pallet in the corner. The coarse covering of homespun had long since worn to

threadbare strands, allowing moldy straw to poke through the bedding. Overhead, diminishing

beams of light pierced a small window, infusing the cell with a glow like watered sun. Oblivious

to all but the punishing effects of his illness, Richard crumbled gratefully on the tattered pallet.

Shuddering, he rolled onto his back, tossing one gauntlet-covered wrist across his eyes.

Armus gripped his shoulder. "I won't be long. I promise."

Not trusting his voice, Richard nodded. He heard the tread of his brother's footfalls as Armus

moved away. Left alone in the cell, he curled in on himself--rolling onto his side and wrapping his

arms close to his chest. It hurt to move his legs. The tenderness in his groin had spread, inching

down the constricting muscles of his inner thighs. Moaning softly, he rolled his head against the

pallet. He could smell blood from the cloth clutched in his hand; taste the perpetual copper of

irreversible sickness in his mouth. It had been eight years since his mother had died--eight years

since the plague had last taken a life in England. He'd been thirteen when she'd toiled with the

disease. Too young to remember much of anything, except that she'd vomited blood. She hadn't

wanted him or any of her children to see her in such a horrid state, but he'd crept into her room

one night--frightened when he found his father holding her, as she'd dispelled blood from stomach

and lungs, her tears mingling with those of Sir Thomas.

It had been a miracle no one else in the castle had contracted the deadly disease. There were tales

of healers dropping ill at the bedside of plague victims, so quickly did the malady strike. Wife

deserted husband and mother children, as victims were left to die in their own body fluids. It had

been a time of madness and rage--a time when loyalty and compassion were trampled beneath the

hideous demon of fear.

Feeling the first roiling stab of nausea, Richard bit his lip to stifle a cry. His throat was already

raw from coughing up blood. He didn't think he could survive the brutal torrent of vomiting.

Armus had left the door ajar, making him wish for the sound of voices in the corridor. He

wouldn't feel so alone if he could just hear his father's voice through the barred window--if he

could feel Sir Thomas's powerful presence, and know he was near. Though Richard had never

been overly demonstrative with his affection, there were occasions when he longed for his father's

comfort.

As though in mockery of his need, an icy draft scuttled through the doorway, making him flinch

from the cold. Huddling against the pallet, he drew his legs to his chest, groaning as the

movement kindled pain in his groin. Closing his eyes, he folded his hand against his mouth,

coughing into the blood-fouled cloth. The spasm was longer this time, making his lungs rattle.

Unable to bear the searing fire in his chest, he gasped aloud.

"Richard!"

Unprepared for his father's voice, Richard shrank from the sound. It took him a moment to

orient--a moment to realize Sir Thomas had entered the dungeon and was crouching at his side,

face creased with concern. Warm, gentle hands grasped his arms.

"No!" Recoiling violently, Richard wrenched from his grip, pressing back against the wall. "Stay

away from me! Don't you realize what I have?"

Sir Thomas Grey stared blankly. The man who huddled in the corner like a frightened animal,

was a pale phantom of his normally vibrant, cocky son. This Richard had enormous green eyes,

ringed by the pallid pink cream of illness. This Richard shuddered as though afflicted with an

unspeakable malady--the high bones of his cheeks gouged by slashes of horrific shadow. Thomas

stretched out his hand hoping to comfort, but Richard flinched away. Behind him, Thomas could

feel the presence of his oldest son, as Armus hovered in the background.

"How long has he been ill?" Though Thomas's blue eyes remained fixed on his second son, he

directed his query to Armus.

"It started about four days ago," the blonde-haired man supplied, taking a step closer. "He's

gotten progressively worse, but admittedly, I've done little in the way of treatment."

Richard uttered a choked sound--half sob; half laughter. "There is no remedy," he whispered

bitterly. Twisting his face away, he turned towards the wall.

Not to be put off, Thomas reached forward and lightly touched his cheek. "There is always a

treatment."

Unable to retreat further, Richard closed his eyes, permitting the touch. His father's fingertips

were warm and gentle as they tracked over his sweat-stained cheek. Undone by the touch, he

shuddered, biting his lip to stifle a cry. It took all his remaining strength not to surrender and fling

himself into his father's arms. "You shouldn't . . . have come . . ." he said with difficulty.

Sensing a crack in his son's impenetrable walls, Thomas shifted, easing forward to sit on the

pallet. Shoulder to shoulder, he could feel the heat radiating from Richard's body. Slowly he

curled his fingers around Richard's forearm, squeezing to impart comfort and assurance. The

flesh beneath the white linen sleeve was chill to the touch. Gently he slid his fingers over his son's

wrist, trying to coax the ball of Richard's hand to relax. One by one, the long fingers loosened,

until Thomas pried them back from the palm. The crumpled, blood-soiled cloth tumbled free.

"You see--" Richard croaked, glancing from the cloth to his father. "--it's the plague."

Unprepared for the sight of so much blood, Armus gave a short gasp of surprise, but Thomas

remained unaffected. Hooking his arm around his son's shoulders, he pulled Richard against him.

"If it was the plague, you'd be dead by now." Raising his free hand, he cupped Richard's neck,

guiding his head against his chest. "There hasn't been a case of pestilence in England for over

eight years, thus I think it unlikely you'd contract it now."

"But I--"

"Ssh," Thomas soothed, massaging his thumb over the taut cords of his son's neck. Pressing his

forehead to the crown of Richard's hair, he lowered his voice to a placating murmur. "If you're so

worried about others coming in contact with you, you'll stay in my chambers."

Richard coughed weakly, folding the soiled cloth against his lips. A tremor ran through his body.

"I should stay here."

Trying not to appear alarmed by the fresh smattering of blood on the rumpled material, Thomas

spoke hastily. "Richard, it's cold and damp, and there is no hearth for a fire. I simply won't allow

my son to remain in the dungeon." With a swift glance for Armus, the Lord of Covington Cross

conveyed silent concern. "Armus, summon the healer to my chambers--quickly please. And--" he

added when he saw Richard about to protest, "--try to avoid as many people as possible, until we

determine the nature of this illness."

With a short nod of his head, Armus departed, leaving Thomas alone with his son. No longer

insistent on maintaining distance, Richard curled willingly against his father's chest. He coughed

again, the sound producing a phlegmy rattle in his lungs. Rubbing his thumb over the taut cords of

the younger man's neck, Thomas tried to coax him to relax. He could feel the quivering tension in

the other's body; hear the soft, labored hiss of his breath. Though sweat dampened the long

waves of hair at the nape of Richard's neck, his skin was unnaturally cold. "Richard, if I help you

to stand, can you walk to my chambers?"

Mutely, Richard nodded. Thomas heard him draw a trembling breath, as though trying to find the

resolve to move. Very slowly, he straightened his legs. Spurred by the cautious rigidity of his

movements, Thomas placed a hand on his thigh. Immediately, Richard grimaced, drawing his legs

protectively back to his body, like a tortoise retreating into a shell.

"Son--" Sliding his palm across the hard muscle of Richard's thigh, Thomas's fingers encountered

a lump on the inner side. The breath whistled through his teeth as he recalled the egg-shaped

swellings on Anne's neck and thighs. Involuntarily, he wrenched his hand back as though stung.

Richard gave a short choked cry and tried to pull away. "It is the plague!" he cried.

"No!" Recovering, Thomas held him in a possessive grip. "I won't second-guess this," he

whispered fiercely. "Let's get you to my chambers--you'll be warm and safe there. I won't leave

you, Richard. No matter what this confounded malady proves to be, I promise I'll stay with you."

Not trusting his voice, Richard could only nod. Aided by his father, he managed to stand, though

the action left him trembling with fatigue. Thomas gripped his arm, hooking it over his shoulders,

while lending support. He kept his own arm secure around Richard's waist, holding him upright

when he would have stumbled. With concentrated effort, the two men traversed the stone

corridors, trekking up three flights of stairs to the upper level of the castle. Once in his chambers,

Thomas led his son through an adjoining study to the sleeping area. Here, a massive bed and six-

foot high hearth were accentuated by plush braided rugs, and richly embroidered tapestries. With

a glance for the barren hearth, Thomas eased Richard onto the bed. The younger man folded

gratefully into the cushioning embrace of the feather-stuffed mattress, groaning softly as Thomas

released him.

"I'll have the servants start a fire," Thomas said soothingly, noting how his son shivered, despite

the warm summer temperatures.

Richard rolled his head against the pillow. "N-No servants."

"Very well, I'll start it myself."

When Thomas moved to draw away, Richard caught his wrist. "Don't leave," he whispered.

Surprised, Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. There was something about the combination of

unbending steel and naked vulnerability in his normally self-reliant son, that twisted his heart

inside out. While his other children had always been fairly free in expressing themselves, Richard

had never been overly demonstrative with his emotions. This brief glimpse of uncharacteristic

dependence was oddly unsettling. Wetting his lips, Thomas twisted his hand around until he

clasped Richard's palm in his. "I told you I wouldn't leave," he said softly. Prying the blood-

soaked cloth from Richard's fingers, he tugged his son's gauntlets free. "You'll feel better out of

these clothes and in a nightshirt--" As he talked, Thomas loosened the laces on Richard's wrist

cuff. But Richard shook his head.

"Later," he said quietly. He tugged his wrist free. "Just stay here . . . while I sleep . . ."

Thomas swallowed hard. The vulnerability had returned to his son's voice. Twisting around, the

older man braced his back against the headboard, stretching his legs over the mattress. Richard

curled against him, pushing the pillow into his lap to gain closer contact. Somewhat possessively,

Thomas trailed his hand over his son's arm, feeling the minute shiver of muscle beneath his

fingertips. He heard a sighing breath escape his son's lips; watched as Richard's gossamer-fine

lashes slowly drew over his eyes. In time, the tremors riddling his body became less frequent and

the quivering hitch of his breath evened into a steady flow.

Thomas rubbed his eyes. It hadn't been that long ago he'd lain in this same bed, sick with fever.

The healer had mixed herbal remedies into his food and draped his bedchamber with milkweed

and rosemary. Yesterday was the first he'd felt half-human, leaving his chambers, like a monk

departing a sequestered Order. Now it appeared, he was to embrace seclusion a second time.

With a glance at his sleeping son, Thomas thought again about the lumps he'd felt on Richard's

thigh. It wasn't possible his son had contracted the plague, and yet those nodules felt much like

the growths Anne had experienced shortly before she'd died. Richard had been but thirteen then--

a child squire forced to pretend hardened masculinity. The burden of premature adulthood had

grown even greater when Armus had departed for the Holy Land shortly after Anne's death.

Forced into the role of eldest son, Richard suddenly found himself managing Sir Thomas's estates

and overseeing men twice his age.

*No wonder he's so damn cocky*, Thomas thought with a half-grin. An endearing glance at his

son induced a constricted lump in his throat. Gently, Thomas threaded his fingers into the long

snarled waves of Richard's hair. He started abruptly when the door opened. The tread of Armus's

boots preceded his presence in the chamber. Thomas glanced up as the blonde-haired man

rounded the corner.

"Well?" he prompted when he realized Armus was alone. "Where's the healer?"

"Gone to the village, I'm afraid." Approaching the bed, Armus glanced down at his sleeping

brother. His eyes flitted from the younger man to their father. "There was an accident--a cart

overturned and a child was crushed beneath it. Should I send word that the healer is needed

here?"

"No." Sadly, Thomas shook his head. "He'll return as soon as he's able, I'm certain." The

movement of his hand continued at the base of Richard's neck--small, soothing circles that kept

his son relaxed and sleeping. He was silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on the gaunt lines of

Richard's face. A side-ways glance at Armus sent his mind reeling on another track. "You say

he's been ill for four days?"

Armus grunted, his own thoughts scattering at the query. "More or less."

"And yet you feel fine?"

When Armus nodded, Sir Thomas frowned. His hand slid from Richard's neck, trailing over his

back, gently rubbing away knotted bands of tension. Lost in the gray haze of sleep, Richard

groaned softly. "Was anyone else at Louvenford ill?" Thomas asked his eldest son.

Briefly, Armus considered. "Not that I saw. Father--about Louvenford and Lord Hammond's

land--"

"We'll talk about it later," Thomas said distractedly. Gnawing on his bottom lip, he glanced to his

stricken son. It was so unlike Richard to be ill. Even as a child, he'd been sick infrequently.

When a malady did strike, it was normally brief, caused by some excess of wine or ale. More

often than not when his headstrong son was incapacitated, it was due to a physical injury--a

broken bone or wound from a sword. Richard had been fine when he'd left for Louvenford.

"Armus--" Thomas said thoughtfully. "I want you to go back to Louvenford, and see if there's

been any word of illness. Take Cedric with you. I don't want to cause alarm, so keep Richard's

condition to yourself. Above all, be discreet."

Armus glanced at his brother. "And Richard?" he asked.

Thomas's face was grave. "If the healer hasn't returned by Eventide, I'll commence a bleeding.

For now, I'm afraid, it's all we can do."

When Armus left the room, Thomas sat quietly, wondering if perhaps he wasn't the cause of his

son's illness. He'd been sick with fever for three days before Richard had left to visit the

Hammonds--and although that affliction was trivial compared to the ailment that plagued his son,

the timing seemed more than coincidental. Thomas cursed softly, sickened by the thought.

Unexpectedly, Richard stirred, seized by a fit of coughing. Pushing to one elbow, he bent forward

still dazed with sleep, as the spasm shook his body. Gripping the pillow, he buried his face against

the cool white fabric, muffling the torturous hacking.

"Richard--!"

Richard felt Thomas's hand on his shoulder, but even the pressure of his father's fingers couldn't

mute the sharp knife of agony in his lungs. It felt as though a fire-heated blade gouged his chest

sadistically plundering flesh and bone. Crying aloud, Richard tightened his grip on the pillow, as

if that might somehow ease the punishing torment. Slowly the spasm lessened--the horrific

hacking fading to a weak cough, then ceasing altogether. Gasping, Richard rolled onto his back.

"Dear Lord!" Horrified, Thomas gripped his son's shoulder. Blood ran from Richard's mouth;

was smeared across his cheek in red-veined threads. The pillow was saturated. A glistening

patch of crimson marred the ivory material like a bloom of disease. For a brief moment Thomas

experienced a flashback, recalling a similar occurrence with a dying Anne. Was it possible he was

to lose his son too? "This can't be happening," he mumbled, unaware he'd spoken aloud.

Breathing heavily, Richard dragged trembling fingers across his mouth. "God, it hurts!" he

choked.

As though coming to his senses, Thomas smoothed a hand over his son's brow. His throat

constricted when he realized there were tears on Richard's cheeks--glinting softly silver in the

shadowy haze of the chamber. The sight of his proud son reduced to tears made Thomas want to

weep. "Try to relax," he urged. "I know it hurts, but the more you struggle--"

"I--" Gripping his father's arm, Richard drew a wheezing breath. "--feel like . . . can't breathe."

"Take slow breaths," Thomas said as calmly as he could. The rise and fall of Richard's chest had

quickened dramatically, his breath coming in short, rattling bursts. Reassuringly, Thomas stroked

the back of his fingers against the younger man's temple, ignoring the racing cadence of his own

heart. "Calmly, Richard. I'm right here. I--" But Thomas's words were cut abruptly short when

Richard cried aloud.

Clutching both hands over his stomach, Richard rolled to the side of the bed and retched. His

body convulsed as searing cramps plundered his abdomen, pushing blood and fluid through his

throat. Already torn raw from the coughing spasm, the rancid sting of bile and blood against the

soft tissue of his esophagus made him half push from the bed. It was all Thomas could do to reach

him in time to keep him from tumbling from the raised mattress. The onslaught of vomiting was

so abrupt and so merciless, it left Richard sucking down jagged gulps of air, his entire body

drenched in sweat. His stomach constricted again and again as blood gushed from his mouth onto

the stone floor. He was vaguely aware of his father's strong arms wrapped about his trembling

body; of Sir Thomas's voice near his ear, reassuring him in soothing tones. His fingers dug into

the thick padding of the mattress, contorting with each ruthless contraction of his stomach.

Finally, when there was nothing left but dry air to push against the back of his throat, the seizure

ended. Exhausted, the younger man crumpled against his father.

White-faced, Thomas cradled him close to his chest. He could feel a trickle of blood seeping from

Richard's mouth, spreading into the woven fabric of his tunic. Shaken, Thomas tightened his grip

on his son.

"Is this how Mother felt . . . before she died?" Richard asked in a broken voice. His entire body

shook as the punishing effects of the illness stripped away the last remaining residue of his

strength.

Burying his face against Thomas's chest, he wept.

+++++

Thomas paced in his chambers, careful the tread of his boots was no louder than a whisper. Three

hours past, Richard had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, but not before another painful bout

of vomiting. Thinking he would feel better unclothed, Thomas managed to undress his son and

slip one of his own nightshirts over his head. Though they were matched in height, Thomas was

considerably broader across the chest. As a result, the soft material tended to slide from Richard's

shoulder. Even now as he lay curled on his side--the long tumbled waves of his hair concealing

his face--one shoulder lay bare and exposed to the air. For a brief time Richard had been troubled

by unbearable heat, but he was shivering again as the fever swung in reverse. Crossing to the bed,

Thomas caught the edge of the nightshirt and tugged it over his shoulder, then did the same with

the blankets. Through it all, Richard never stirred.

Nerves frayed by his son's unexplained illness, Thomas released a pent up breath. Briefly he

recalled the lumps he'd seen on Richard's inner thighs and groin while undressing him. A purplish

blotch had surrounded each fleshy nodule, fading to brown-yellow as it spread outward from the

mass of diseased skin. Coupled with the coughing spasms and the amount of blood he'd lost

vomiting, the symptoms of his illness were remarkably like the malady that had killed Anne--the

plague. It just wasn't possible.

"Thomas?"

The Lord of Covington Cross jerked at the intrusion of the voice behind him. Turning from the

bed, he was both relieved and horrified to find Lady Elizabeth Leland in his chambers. With

thoughts of Anne still swirling in his mind, it was oddly inappropriate to find his lover so near.

Worse, she'd walked into his chambers with no care for the isolation instructions he'd placed on

his rooms. "You shouldn't be here," he said crisply. Yet even the frost-like edge of his voice

couldn't conceal his relief at having found someone to share his misgivings with.

Setting aside her riding cloak, Elizabeth strode into the room, dismissing his objection with a

pointed glance. There was a scrap of parchment clutched in her hand, which she now slipped into

her sleeve. Approaching the bed, she stood at his side glancing down at Richard. "Eleanor told

me what happened. She's just left for the village to see if there's any word on the healer."

Leaning forward, Elizabeth pressed the back of her hand to Richard's cheek. "His fever's high.

Have you tried compresses of cool water?"

Thomas cast a glance to a small table opposite the bed, where a bowl and pitcher had been placed.

Cloth compresses were piled beside the pitcher, most used. "It isn't helping," Thomas said

quietly. He wasn't aware of the tortured doubt that slipped through in his voice--of the circles

under his own eyes that betrayed his growing concern. With a sigh he laced nervous fingers

through his long hair, sweeping the silver strands from his brow. "I don't understand it, Elizabeth.

Not at all. He couldn't possibly have--what I fear--and yet the symptoms are all there. It's like

reliving Anne's death with my son."

Turning from the bed, Thomas sank into a chair, dropping his face in to his hands. As the day

ventured towards Eventide, the shadows in the room lengthened and grew, contorting into shapes

both bloated and fantastical. Earlier, Thomas had kindled a fire in the hearth, hoping to warm his

son. Now, that dancing light cast flickering wraiths of amber and gold on the stone floor and

tapestry-draped walls, shifting with near-liquid ease. Leaning forward, propping his elbows on his

knees, Thomas lifted a stricken glance. "I can't lose him, Elizabeth. I just can't."

"Thomas--" The hem of her flowing gown whispered against the flagstone as she crossed to his

side. Kneeling by the chair, Elizabeth gripped her lover's arm. "You mustn't think in such

dreadful terms, Thomas. For Richard's sake, you must be positive--and you must be rested."

"I can't--"

"You've been ill yourself and need your strength. I'll stay with him while you sleep."

Miserable, Thomas allowed his eyes to track to the bed. Richard was still curled on his side, his

back turned. Exhausted by illness and tears, he'd barely moved since he'd fallen asleep. With any

luck he'd rest through most of the night.

*Yet another night*, Thomas thought. The plague would have taken Richard's life by now. Anne

had barely survived three days. Yet if it wasn't the plague--if it wasn't the black pestilence that

had taken his wife, then what dread illness afflicted his son?

"Please, Thomas--" Elizabeth insisted, gripping his arm. "It's better if you rest now, while Richard

is asleep."

There was logic at least, in that. With a resigned nod, Thomas glanced at the cot he'd had the

servants leave outside his chambers. Once they'd departed, he'd moved it within, placing it at the

edge of his study, where he could see both door and bed. "Rouse me if he wakens or the healer

arrives," Thomas told his lover. He didn't realize how tired he was until he lay on the welcoming

pallet and allowed the long, exhaustive hours of the day to wash over him.

Quietly, Elizabeth assumed vigil at Richard's bedside, using the chair Thomas had drawn close for

just such a purpose. Although she was closest to Cedric of all Sir Thomas's children, she felt an

innate fondness for Thomas's second son. He'd been perhaps the hardest to gauge as her

relationship with Thomas deepened. Cedric was so easily accepting, and Eleanor while not overly

congenial, was at least consistent in her snubs. Armus was both peacekeeper and diplomat, ready

to ease the passage for anyone who made his father happy. But Richard--for a man with a sword-

edged temper, he was remarkably adept at concealing his feelings when he chose. It had taken her

months before she'd felt comfortable in his presence--months before she'd realized he maintained

walls with most people--even members of his family.

And then she'd seen him smile.

The change that came over his face when he smiled was remarkable--part elfin delight; part

mischievous imp. She could still see the crinkled lines at the corners of his green eyes, the dimple

that sank deep into his cheek, his teeth straight and white. The first time Richard had smiled at

her, Elizabeth had known there was no longer any need to feel awkward in his presence. Looking

at him now with the flush of fever high on his cheeks; his brown hair creating a riotous fan of

curls against the pillowcase, she felt suddenly protective, as if he were her own son.

Almost reluctantly she pulled the folded parchment from her sleeve. One thin finger traced over

the wax seal of Louvenford. Eleanor had given her the missive before she ascended the stairs to

Thomas's chambers. It had arrived by courier shortly before her own entrance. Addressed to

Richard, she had intended to place it by his bedside, but now she realized it could hold

information pertaining to his illness. What if some malady had been discovered at Louvenford

shortly after his departure, and Lord Hammond wrote to warn him of that occurrence? Shivering,

Elizabeth rubbed her palms against her sleeves.

She would tell Thomas of the missive when he awoke and let him decide whether or not it should

be opened. With a glance for the young man on the bed, Elizabeth said a silent prayer the

parchment contained good news.

+++++

Cedric frowned as he fed a stick to the fire. Already darkness had descended, cloaking Tiner

Forest in mist-tipped gloaming. The moist breath of the trees was threaded with veins of silver--

cooling fog that coiled about his ankles and conjured insubstantial phantoms against the trunks of

beech and elm. On another night he might appreciate the voice of the forest--nocturnal

whisperings of wind and leaf; the lonely hoot of an owl; the rustling foray of a small animal in the

underbrush--but tonight all he could think of was Richard.

Neither he nor Eleanor had been allowed to see their brother, and that perhaps more than

anything, indicated the seriousness of his illness. It was odd to think of Richard incapacitated.

Richard, who always had a quick word and offhand grin. Only last week they'd practiced swords

together, and while Cedric was certain Richard had let him score a point or two, he also knew

Richard drilled him harder than anyone else in the yard.

The clutch of dread settled in his stomach as he glanced from the flames to Armus, seated on the

opposite side. "What do you expect we'll find at Louvenford?" he asked his brother.

Tinted with fire and darkness, Armus's fair hair glimmered with a ripple of amber. Shadows

creased his face, hollowing his eyes, until only a glint of blue remained. "An answer, I hope," he

replied, shifting slightly, forcing the gloaming from his face. "There has to be something to

explain why Richard became so ill."

"And if there's not?"

Armus scowled. He didn't want to consider such a dreadful possibility. Though Richard had only

been thirteen when he left for the Holy Land, they'd easily regained the closeness they'd shared in

childhood. He'd been back but a mere six months, yet it felt like he'd never left. Reserved at first,

Richard had eventually abolished his carefully constructed walls. Though the man was nothing

like the child Armus had left behind, glimmers of that younger brother still remained. The four

years of age separating them sometimes seemed like four days and others four decades. Armus

was close with all his siblings, but the bond he shared with Richard was rooted in the realm of

long ago. Apprehensively, he glanced at his brother.

Cedric watched with wide questioning blue eyes--eyes that mirrored his need for assurance.

Sometimes the combination of ink-black hair and ivory-pale skin made the younger man appear

otherworldly. Looking at him now--his straight black hair spilled haphazardly across his brow--

Armus could easily visualize his younger brother riding a flesh-colored horse over a moonlit

landscape. He thought of old tales--of changelings, pookas, and Named creatures. "Don't worry,

Cedric," he said with as much conviction as he could muster. "It will all work out in the end."

Cedric nodded, seemingly convinced by his brother's optimistic logic, though inwardly he chafed

to be away. Darkness or not, he wanted to ride at breakneck speed for Louvenford castle,

demanding an explanation for Richard's illness of anyone within earshot. Armus, however, said

they must exercise caution in seeking answers. Cedric failed to understand how discretion could

be an issue when his brother's life was in the balance. Still, he made an effort to restrain himself

and bow to Armus's greater wisdom. Cedric knew the restriction had to be difficult for Armus as

well. He was not immune to the special bond that existed between his two older brothers--a bond

which defied Armus's eight-year absence. While Richard never permitted any glimpse of

insecurity or need in Cedric's presence, Cedric was certain Armus had witnessed both. Rather

than experience jealousy, Cedric respected the closeness of his siblings. The Richard he knew was

headstrong, domineering and a trifle arrogant. The Richard Armus knew, combined those same

characteristics, with the softer traits of doubt, dependence and the occasional need for guidance.

Sighing softly, Cedric rubbed stiff fingers against his temple. Time moved much too slowly for

his liking. The dawn, and Louvenford seemed horribly distant.

+++++

Struggling to silence his mounting concern, Thomas held a clean kerchief to Richard's mouth,

while his son succumbed to a rigorous bout of coughing. Exhausted, barely able to support

himself, Richard relied on his father's bracing arm across his back to hold him upright.

Somewhere in the dizzying haze of his mind, he heard the soothing cadence of Thomas's voice.

Grappling for the security of that comforting sound, Richard closed his eyes, feeling the burn of

hot blood against his lacerated throat; the staggering sear of fire in his lungs. Like a whirlwind it

passed--intense torture for a brief time, followed by the concentrated ease of departure. With a

sob of relief, Richard turned his head, burying his face against Thomas's neck.

He felt the reassuring stroke of firm fingers in the sweaty knot of his hair; the touch of cool lips

against his temple. Thomas's arm tightened around his back.

"I've got you, Son," his father whispered near his ear. Richard was afraid to move--unwilling to

rekindle the violent seizure of coughing which had awakened him from a sound sleep. There was

something intrinsically comforting about being held by his father as though he were a small child.

It no longer mattered that illness stripped away his reserve and natural tendency for independence.

He wanted to remain in the protective pocket of safety his father had created with both presence

and voice--an enveloping warmth that allowed Richard the delusion of freedom from pain, even if

only briefly. He felt Thomas's fingers track over the sleeve of his nightshirt, slipping beneath the

cuff at his wrist. Warm flesh brushed his skin--fingers that were firm and whole, assuring with the

sheer pressure of intrinsic strength. Slowly those fingers rubbed across his arm, causing a ghost

shiver to trickle down his spine. Richard moaned softly at the contact, burrowing closer to his

father.

Thomas bowed his head. "Richard, I promise we'll find a way out of this . . . a way to make you

better. Please, Son--you must be strong. Try to fight this thing--" *This demon*, he wanted to

spit. *This infernal hellish nightmare, I'd strangle with my bare hands if it only had substance. I'd

fight a maddened boar, armed with only a kitchen knife, rather then watch you suffer this agony.*

"Lie back," he coaxed, gently striving to disentangle himself, but Richard held tight refusing to

release his hold.

"No," he croaked, in a broken voice. Trembling fingers curled into Thomas's tunic, surprisingly

strong, despite his exhaustive state. "Just let me stay like this for a while," he whispered, leaving

Thomas slightly off kilter.

The older man opted for humor when Richard's vulnerability would have brought tears to his

eyes. He hugged him closer. "Can I tease you about this when you're better?" A moment's pause.

"--in front of Armus and Cedric?"

Richard gave a short snort of laughter. Shifting, he curled his arm around his father's neck,

resting his head against the soft padding of Thomas's lambswool tunic. "I'll deny everything," he

returned in a murmur. Then: "Thank you for sending Lady Elizabeth on an errand. I prefer she

not see me like this."

"What? Curled up against me like a kitten?" Thomas chuckled, knowing it wasn't what his son

meant. His fingers feathered the long waves of Richard's ragged hair. "Richard--" his voice

changed, suddenly serious. "I sent her to the kitchen for . . . some implements. Eleanor returned

and the healer is still detained in the village. I could summon the barber, but I think I'm just as

skilled in certain matters of surgery."

Richard coughed weakly. "You mean bleeding?" He didn't sound surprised and only vaguely

concerned. "Just restrict any cutting to my arms. I have enough problems below the belt." Even

as he spoke, Richard felt a needling discomfort in his groin. He winced slightly, causing Thomas

to fixate on the other side-effect of his illness.

Slipping his hand beneath the bedcovers, Thomas encountered the linen edge of Richard's

nightshirt. Carefully, he pushed the material back from the younger man's thigh. Beneath his

fingertips, he could feel the raised nodules protruding from Richard's flesh--no larger than before,

but increased in number. As his hand tracked inward, cupping Richard's thigh, he felt his son

flinch. He was about to push the blankets aside for a closer look when he heard the release of a

door latch.

"Thomas?" Lady Elizabeth's voice drifted from the adjoining study even as she entered the

chambers.

With a groan at having to release his father, Richard disentangled himself and lay back against the

pillows. Not nearly as comforting as his father's broad chest, the cushioning softness allowed him

to maintain a certain measure of dignity nonetheless. Managing a weak smile, he watched as Lady

Elizabeth stepped to the foot of his bed. Wordlessly, she passed Thomas a wooden tray laden

with bowls, knives and bandages, then went immediately to Richard's side. Her fingers were long

and slender--much like his mother's--and he enjoyed the feel of them against his forehead, as she

checked for fever.

"You don't feel as flushed," she told him. "If I have the servants fetch a bowl of soup, will you try

to eat something?"

Richard hesitated. The thought of food soured his stomach, but he knew his limited strength

wouldn't last much longer without some form of nourishment. Almost reluctantly, he nodded.

Elizabeth smiled, glad to see him make the effort. That alone was an improvement over the shell

of the man she'd observed when first entering the chamber. The memory made her recall another.

Slipping her fingers beneath her sleeve she withdrew the parchment addressed to him. "This came

earlier today," she explained, passing the missive to him. "You were sleeping when it arrived."

Thomas recognized the wax seal as Richard accepted the letter. "From Louvenford?" he guessed.

Uneasily, Richard nodded. He hadn't explained the awkward situation Lady Olivia had placed him

in, nor his failure to procure the land for Sir Thomas. Surely if Lord Hammond was writing, he

would address his answer to Thomas himself, or at the very least Armus. A missive from

Louvenford, addressed to him, was unusual in itself.

"Perhaps it has something to do with your illness," Lady Elizabeth suggested.

Richard swallowed hard. He glanced at his father. "There's something I haven't told you," he said

with difficulty. Briefly his eyes dropped to his hands. "Armus presented your offer for the land as

requested, but--"

"Not now," Thomas instructed softly. Strong fingers closed over Richard's arm, imparting a

reassuring squeeze. "We'll discuss business when you're well. I think perhaps Elizabeth is right,

and some malady has struck Louvenford. Perhaps that missive explains its nature."

*So why isn't it addressed to Armus? As eldest he was the emissary to Louvenford.* Richard

could see the question lingering in his father's eyes. Rolling his fingers into his palm, he pressed

his fist against his lips to suppress a cough. There was no blood this time, just the sting of copper

at the back of his throat. Thomas passed him a clean cloth from a nearby table, and Richard

tucked it into his hand. Bracing his back against the headboard, he slipped his finger beneath the

wax seal, unfolding the stiff parchment. An unfamiliar yet distinctively feminine hand flowed over

the page:

Dearest Richard:

By now you are feeling the effects of wine laced with carefully chosen herbs. I say "carefully"

chosen, because these plants are not commonly used, nor widely known, to any but a select few

who secretly practice the arcane arts. A decade ago, your symptoms would have prompted your

family to denounce and abandon you as a plague victim. The same villagers you now strive to

protect would have turned on you, demanding your death by the violent act of dismemberment

and burning. These same villagers can be incited to similar wrath today, should they believe

Plague lingers within the walls of Covington Cross. That unfortunate incident would require the

death of all who have come in contact with you--including family members and servants. Such a

high price to pay for a few nights spent appeasing a lady's vanity!

By the time you receive this missive, the effects of the toxin will already have begun to subside

towards remission. Once that occurs, you will have four days to right the wrong you have done.

Four days in which to return to Louvenford and seal the proposal I made, in the manner

suggested. Should you fail to do so, at the end of that time, the malady will return in greater

force. It will then be my great pleasure to incite rumors of Plague within Covington Cross,

placing the safety of your family and servants on your shoulders. If you will not think of yourself,

have a care for those you love. Do as I ask, and I will provide medicinals to counteract the toxin,

as well as sign over the land to your father. Many men would consider themselves fortunate,

faced with such a dilemma. Count yourself blessed I fancy young men with comely features.

Wrath, after all, is much worse than affection.

O.

"Well?" Thomas prompted when Richard had silently read through the letter. His son's face had

gone from ashen to a sickly shade of gray as he'd digested the message. Certain the news couldn't

be good, Thomas laid a hand on his knee and gave a small shake to draw his attention.

Richard's eyes met his, pained and filled with self-recrimination. "I've made a mess of things," he

said in a strained whisper. His hand fell to the side, exposing the flowing lines of the parchment.

Uncertainly, Thomas reached for the letter. When Richard made no move to stop him, he tugged

it free. "Read it aloud," Richard instructed.

Still doubtful, Thomas complied. Once or twice he saw his son flinch, scrunching his eyes closed

as points of the missive were driven home. When he was through, Thomas glanced from his

consort to his son. "Richard, am I to believe these threats come from Lady Olivia?"

Unable to meet his eyes, Richard nodded.

"Poison?" Thomas asked appalled. "Treachery? Richard, what did you do to this woman?"

"*What did I do?*" The heated outburst was so violent, it immediately reduced Richard to a

reflexive bout of coughing. Pressing the cloth to his mouth, he bent forward, folding one arm

across his middle as the brutal hacking brought him close to tears.

"Richard I'm sorry." Wrapping an arm about his shoulders, Thomas held him through the seizure,

hating himself for each punishing shudder coursing through his son's slender body. "I'm so sorry,

Richard--I wasn't thinking. That was thoughtless and foolish of me. It's just, I've known Lady

Olivia for nigh on twenty years--"

"I've known her longer," Lady Elizabeth said quietly.

Surprised, Thomas glanced up. Richard drew a rattling breath, and sagged against his father.

With trembling fingers he wiped the blood from his mouth, tilting his head on Thomas's shoulder

to gaze at the Mistress of Leland Castle.

"Olivia is my first husband's half-sister," she explained, "And I've always suspected she knew a

thing or two about potions and incantations. Her marriage to Sir Reginald placed her above

suspicion, but certain rumors persist despite the passage of time." Hesitating, Elizabeth looked

steadily at Richard. "Olivia's fondness for herbal lore and folk remedies isn't her only fault. A

greater weakness is her promiscuous appreciation for handsome young men."

Mortified, Richard bowed his head. Thomas felt him tense in his embrace. "Richard?" he

queried.

Richard kept his eyes lowered, feeling the hot flush of shame spread over his cheeks. "I don't

want to talk about this," he mumbled. "--it's too embarrassing."

Thomas exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. Based on the missive in his hand and the revealing

facts she'd just shared, he had a fairly good idea of what was troubling his son. He scanned the

letter a second time. *Such a high price to pay for a few nights spent appeasing a lady's vanity,*

Olivia had written. Thomas wet his lips. "Richard, what did she wish of you?"

Uncomfortable, Richard pushed away, falling back against the pillows. He glanced at the ceiling;

at the dark shroud of night beyond the windows; the implements Lady Elizabeth had secured for

the bleeding--anywhere but at Sir Thomas and his guest. The sting of color on his cheeks made

him feel as though the fever had returned. "The land is hers, deeded directly from her father,"

Richard explained with difficulty. "She was quite willing to sign it over, but she didn't want your

money or promises of harvested crops." Expelling a breath, Richard swore softly. "I should have

just bloody done what she wanted," he mumbled.

Thomas fixed him with a pointed gaze. "And what was that?"

Richard lowered his eyes. Tiredly he rubbed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his

nose. "She wanted me to lie with her," he admitted awkwardly "--just a few nights in her bed and

she would have signed the land over. Armus and I shared wine with Lady Olivia and her husband

when we first arrived, at her behest. In all likelihood, mine was drugged. From the very start, she

must have planned--" he faltered, unable to finish. Biting down on his lip, he glanced at his father.

"John Mullens showed up later, flaunting his own offer for the land. I'm sorry, Father."

Miserable, Richard looked at his hands. "I should have just done as she asked. I'd be handing you

the deed right now, rather than offering excuses."

"And I'd take a strap to you for having lost your senses!" Thomas snapped appalled. "Really,

Richard, have you ever known me to condone blackmail? What makes you think I'd feel

differently, when my own son is involved?"

"But I--"

"You'd service this whore, then she'd turn around and hand Mullens the deed. Worse, she might

decide to retain the lawful rights to the land, permitting us the use, based solely on your

compliance with her needs."

Richard blanched. "I hadn't considered that."

Irritated, Thomas stood. His face darkened, clouding with controlled anger as he paced restlessly

at the foot of the bed. "This . . . shrew . . . thinks she can play licentious games, using her

position as Mistress of Louvenford to place her above reproach. The very thought she'd make

such a immoral proposal to my son, while he's conducting business on my behalf--" Unable to

finish, Thomas sputtered to an enraged halt. Something about the righteous indignation on his

face was almost comical, causing Richard to lose sight of the problem.

"Actually, Father . . . she's not entirely without appeal," he offered with a lop-sided grin, "And it

has been some time since I've had the leisure of dalliance, though I fear her age might cause her to

expire before I was through . . ."

Thomas's head swiveled about like a hawk zeroing in on prey. Despite the black severity of that

gaze, Richard chuckled. "I must be feeling better," he commented lightly.

"I think you are both being dreadfully vain about the whole matter," Lady Elizabeth inserted

before either could utter another word. She glanced sharply from one to the other. "Granted,

Olivia Hammond needs to be taken to task for attempting such a profligate overture, but the

situation is no different from the treatment men have subjected women to for countless years--and

without a moment's thought for any injustice, I might add."

"I beg your pardon!" Thomas objected hotly. "I have never tried to blackmail *anyone*, much

less a member of the fairer sex--whether or not it was within my power to do so. And I object to

such manipulations being used on my son--especially when he's attempting to carry out my

bidding."

Lady Elizabeth's lips curled in a casual smile. "Then perhaps you should find a less attractive

son--or at the very least, one who knows how to use his comeliness to advantage." Though she

addressed the words to Thomas, she glanced pointedly at Richard, causing him to shift restlessly.

Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Richard squirmed lower against the pillows.

He'd forgotten Lady Elizabeth's tongue could be as barbed as any arrow when she chose. In

retrospect, he imagined he deserved the verbal slap for his off-color commentary concerning Lady

Olivia. "Perhaps I should simply show the letter to Lord Hammond," he suggested, hoping to

regain the original thread of conversation. "Would that not prove Lady Olivia's guilt?"

"She'd likely say it was forged," Elizabeth answered, serious once again. "In all likelihood, she's

already prepared for the possibility and will blame the missive on a lady-in-waiting. By

confronting Lord Hammond, you wouldn't be helping yourself and you'd likely be hurting an

innocent maid. Olivia has managed both witchcraft and debauchery for many years, not because

of any great secrecy, but rather because of the harm she can do others if exposed. I sometimes

wonder if Lord Hammond doesn't prefer to be blind."

Pressing the blood stained cloth to his lips, Richard gave a short cough. Thomas glanced at him

worriedly, but Richard shook his head to indicate he was fine. "I have to go back to Louvenford,"

he announced evenly.

Considering, Thomas was silent. With a sigh of disgust, Richard closed his eyes. The pain in his

legs was subsiding, but was still unpleasant enough to make him want to drive a fist against his

groin, effectively quelling the root of his discomfort. It was hard to believe a handful of properly

chosen herbs could duplicate the same ghastly symptoms as the plague. Only Lady Elizabeth's

presence restrained him from a few unseemly groping maneuvers. "I'll leave in the morning," he

inserted when Thomas failed to answer.

"You'll do no such thing." This time the response was immediate.

"I have to address this, Father." Turning slightly, Richard eased the pressure on his legs. Despite

the fact Lady Olivia's letter indicated the toxin would fade towards remission, he felt himself

growing weary with the effort of speech. There was a time when the punishing sweaty hours of

wielding a sword in practice or a tourney left him feeling invigorated, yet now the simple labor of

conversation reduced him to fragility. He gave a short nod of his head to indicate the wooden

tray laden with knives and bandages. "I think you can dispose of those," he commented wearily.

"If she really has used witchcraft to poison me, bleeding isn't going to help."

"You believe her?" Thomas asked doubtfully.

With a darting glance for Lady Elizabeth, Richard ran light fingers over his inner thigh, feeling the

contour of raised flesh through the intervening layers of blankets. Uncomfortably he wet his lips.

"The . . . lumps on my legs have receded," he told his father quietly, a heated flush of color rising

to his cheeks.

Trying to mask her amusement, Lady Elizabeth bowed her head. She never would have guessed

Richard--who was renown for casual affairs--would suffer embarrassment over discussing

something so trivial in her presence. Pressing a hand to her lips, she bit away a smile. "I'm

inclined to agree with Richard, Thomas. I don't believe bleeding is going to help, and certainly

he's suffered enough already. Besides--if he's going to ride to Louvenford, he's going to need his

strength. And that--" she insisted with a marked glance at Richard, "--requires more than a

fledging bowl of soup. I'll see what the servants can prepare on short notice."

Rising, she departed the room, leaving the two men to stare at one another uncomfortably. At

length, Thomas approached the bed, looking down at his son with a mixture of concern and

disapproval. Almost tentatively he touched Richard's brow, using a single finger to hook a curling

strand of hair from his eyes. Even then his touch lingered, contouring the flawless arc of chiseled

cheekbone to jawline. Through it all, Richard gazed at him steadily, his green eyes direct but

inscrutable.

Tilting his head to the side, Thomas dropped his hand. "You've always been willful. It really

doesn't matter what I say, does it? You'll damn well do as you please."

Richard wet his lips. "I *have* to go to Louvenford," he persisted.

Thomas nodded sadly. "Yes, I imagine you do."

+++++

"You're as thick-headed and addle-brained as any four-legged beast in the field!" Eleanor Grey

snapped harshly. "At the very least allow me to go with you. I can understand why you don't

want Father there--"

"--so you'd have me drag a woman along, when another is bartering to be my bedmate?" Richard

chuckled softly and continued adjusting the straps on his saddle. Behind him, in the courtyard, the

gray milk of dawn gradually receded before the fragile touch of emerging daylight. Tugging

down on the straps, Richard concentrated on the feel of supple leather against his worn gloves. It

was preferable to meeting his sister's irate gaze. "You'll pardon if I prefer not to discuss my

sexual prowess in front of my sister."

Eleanor smiled sourly, " 'T'would be a short discourse indeed."

Richard's gaze slid sideways, fusing disapproval with sly admiration. In the weak half-light, his

normally pale eyes appeared moss green. "You are a troublesome imp, Eleanor. It makes me

wonder if some mean-spirited beastie didn't gobble my sister whole in childhood, and replace her

with a red-haired harpy--"

"Who will beat you black and blue for an insufferable tongue." Eleanor rolled her first and

pummeled his arm for good measure.

"Ow!" Laughing, Richard made a quick grab for her wrist. Catching her by the forearm, he

tugged her into his embrace. Only twelve hours ago, the simple act of extending his reach would

have reduced him to convulsions, yet now he held his sister with casual ease. "Save your threats

for my return," he instructed, planting a brotherly kiss on her cheek. Before she could so much as

sputter a reply, he released her, turning away to catch the reins of his horse.

Eleanor watched him swing into the saddle. "Father wanted to see you--Richard, you can't leave

yet."

"I've no time," he protested, wheeling the jet-black steed around. Dressed in contrasting shades

of navy, onyx and brown, Richard appeared as much a part of the horse, as he did its rider. "I

spoke with Father last night."

"But this is important," Eleanor protested. Stepping to his side, she gripped his leg, glancing up

at him. "--something about not counting Lord Hammond out. After you fell asleep last night,

Father sent a courier to Louvenford. Richard, he'll be furious if you leave without--" Her

remaining words were cut short as Richard gave lead to the horse, kicking booted heels to its

sides. Releasing her hold, Eleanor jerked backwards. "Fool!" she yelled, but the words were lost

in the thunder of pounding hooves; the fluttering snap of her brother's long cape. The stallion

bolted from the courtyard.

Shaking her head, Eleanor turned towards the castle. The turn of events which had taken her

brother from deathly ill to hale still left her troubled and confused. If the missive from

Louvenford and Lady Elizabeth were to be believed, Olivia Hammond was more than a trifling

danger. Eleanor thought it silly a woman would expend so effort to lie with a man--particularly

when that man was her brother. Though she knew Richard was no stranger to a lady's

bedchamber, she often wondered on his appeal. She had very little use for friendships with

women who cooed over men, but she'd seen enough behave like simpletons when her curly-haired

brother was around.

"God rue the day I act like a half-wit over some trumped-up knight," she mumbled, trudging

through the courtyard to the castle. Yet in the back of her mind a discordant thought lingered:

*What if Olivia refuses to provide Richard with restorative herbs? How does one outfox a witch

intent on lechery?*

+++++

Richard was still a day's ride from Louvenford when he came upon a fresh set of hoof prints. The

notch on the shoe of Cedric's horse was distinctive for its irregularity and thus easily tracked. His

thoughts were ordered and he could think clearly now. Just a short while ago, troubled with

illness, he'd felt only failure--faulting himself for not accepting Lady Olivia's demands. Now--no

longer embarrassed by the situation or plagued by sickness, his anger grew dangerously volatile.

Thomas had informed him of Armus and Cedric's earlier departure--a journey undertaken in vain,

given the revelation of Lady Olivia's letter.

Quietly seething, Richard followed the hoof prints through the sheltering trees. The mere fact

he'd let a woman reduce him to blatant uncertainty, set his teeth on edge. He entertained himself

with imagined ploys of satisfaction, until he came upon the abandoned remains of a camp. Stones

encircled a small cooking pit, gray with ash and fire-blackened sticks. The surrounding grass was

trampled and flat where bedrolls had once lain, bending supple blades to the green earth. Banked

slopes rose on either side of the deserted site, creating a natural pocket or valley within the

woodland. A chaotic web of hoof prints and animal tracks crisscrossed the dew-sodden ground.

Pulling his horse to a halt, Richard listened to the flicker of wind through overhead leaves. Uneasy

without understanding why, he nudged the stallion forward. There came a rustle of sound on his

right, prompting him to instinctively reach for his sword. His fingers had barely brushed the hilt,

when the color drained from his face.

"Cedric!" Dismounting quickly, Richard rushed for the trees and the man stumbling from the

protective shelter. The dark-haired apparition was little like the brother he remembered. Cedric's

tunic was torn, hanging ragged on his arms as though he'd undergone an entanglement with some

fell beast. Once hued like sand, the garment bore rust-colored stains over the left shoulder and

arm. Gasping, the younger man stumbled just as Richard caught him. Together the brothers sank

to their knees, Cedric folding into Richard's embrace. "Thought . . . you were . . .

ill . . ." he managed in a reed-thin voice.

Richard felt his throat tighten. He could smell the heavy odor of blood on his brother; feel him

trembling in his arms. "Damnation, Cedric, what happened here? Where's Armus?" Confronting

Lady Olivia and securing a remedy to the toxin was suddenly of little concern. Slipping his hand

behind Cedric's neck, Richard supported him as he eased him to the ground. The other gave a

slight moan, twisting his head to the side.

"Attacked . . ." Cedric croaked, but the word was slurred with the effort of speech.

Concerned, Richard checked his chest and arm, noting the deep lacerations on his pallid flesh.

The wounds appeared to be tended as best they could--washed and cleaned, but bare of dressing.

Anxiously, Richard wet his lips. Sometimes he forgot Cedric was just seventeen years old, barely

more than a boy. He wished Armus were near--Armus, who was equally proficient as comforter

and tactician. Richard had never been overly adept with affection unless he was vulnerable

himself. Still, he held his brother supported in his lap, Cedric's head resting against his chest.

Lifting his right hand, he caught his glove with his teeth, tugging until the gauntlet fell free.

Pressing his fingers to Cedric's brow, he checked for fever, cursing when unnatural heat greeted

his touch.

"What happened?" Richard persisted.

Cedric blinked. The deep blue glint of his eyes was veiled and spectral, like moon-dusted sky.

With surprising strength, his fingers curled over the laces of Richard's wrist-guard. "Men with

dogs," he muttered. "Unnatural beasts. Fanged . . . feral . . . came just before dawn . . .Armus

. . . went for help . . ."

Richard swore softly. A glance at the encampment told him Cedric's horse was gone. If Armus

had maintained his own mount, he would head for Louvenford, unaware any help from those

quarters would likely be deadly. The best thing to do was to find other shelter for Cedric.

Richard glanced to his horse, considering the odds of maneuvering his wounded brother into the

saddle. Cedric was smaller and lighter, but it was obvious he was in pain. Richard had passed a

few shacks scattered within the forest proper, and reasoned them better havens than the stone

edifice of Louvenford.

"Cedric--" He pitched his voice low, keeping his tone as gentle as possible. He felt out of depth in

the role of comforter, wishing again for Armus. His older brother always made him feel protected

and secure--why couldn't he do the same for Cedric? "Louvenford isn't safe for any of us, and I

can't leave you here. I passed a hut a short time ago. Do you think you can sit a saddle?"

"I--" Cedric struggled to form words through dry lips. " . . . what of Armus?"

"I'll find him," Richard promised. Shifting, he eased Cedric forward, stiffening with reflex when

the forced movement elicited a groan. "I'm sorry," Richard whispered, lips very near his brother's

ear. He could feel the brush of hair against his cheek--thick and sleek, black as the underbelly of

the night sky. Fingers which were curled over his wrist-guard convulsed, then tightened. With

concentrated effort, Richard pulled Cedric to his feet. He'd taken only a few steps when he heard

the telltale drum of frenzied hooves against packed earth. Supporting Cedric with his left arm,

Richard drew his sword.

Apprehension quickly turned to relief as the approaching rider came into view. "Armus!"

Never hesitating, the fair-haired man drew rein and swiftly dismounted. Hurrying to Cedric's side,

he helped Richard ease the other to the ground. A flicker of surprise claimed his blue eyes.

"Richard, what are you doing here?"

Attention divided between his two siblings, Richard glanced from Cedric to Armus. The former

was slipping into a dazed shroud of half-sleep, dark lashes dipping to waxen cheeks. "It doesn't

matter," Richard said distractedly. "We have to get Cedric help--and not at Louvenford."

Armus nodded. "There's a shack about four miles southeast. That's why I came back. If I can

make Cedric comfortable, I can ride to the castle for a healer."

"I'll do that," Richard said quickly. Gently, he grazed a knuckle over Cedric's cheek, noting the

beads of sweat collecting in the straight fringe of his brother's bangs. Tightness claimed his

throat. "You'll be fine, little one," he whispered, using an endearment he'd not spoken since

Cedric was a small child. A silent voice insinuated he was indirectly responsible for the attack--

that the woman who played games to secure his affection, had effectively raised the stakes.

Clenching his jaw, Richard glanced at Armus. "He said you were attacked."

Grimly, the other nodded. "They weren't bandits or cut throats . . . at least they took no coin.

They came just before dawn--men with hoods, accompanied by wolf-like dogs. There were

enough of them to kill us easily, yet once Cedric was injured, they departed."

Biting the inside of his lip, Richard came to a decision. "Can you get him to the hut you

mentioned?" he asked, rising to his feet. " I'll ride to Louvenford and send a healer."

Armus nodded. For a moment he remained squatted on his haunches, glancing up at the other.

Slowly, he stood. "You're remarkably improved," he commented with thinly veiled suspicion.

Richard's smile was tart. "You might say I'm monetarily dormant. I'll explain later." A quick

glance at Cedric revealed the younger man still lost in the feverish haze of half-sleep. Richard

hesitation was evident. "Will you be all right with him?"

Armus steered him towards his horse. "Don't worry, little brother, I'll take care of him."

Though still reluctant, Richard nodded. He had a feeling if he was going to help his brother, he

needed to secure Lady Olivia's favor. If that meant feigning affection, he supposed he could shed

his clothes. One thing was certain, however--if she were responsible for the injuries to Cedric, the

deceitful hag would rue the day of her existence.

With a clipped nod for Armus, Richard mounted his horse and rode for Louvenford.

+++++

Richard's mind remained on Cedric long after day had passed into night. Though he kept a

watchful eye on the darkness when he camped that evening, his rest was undisturbed. Hooded

men and wolf-like dogs appeared only in his dreams. In contrast to the misfortune that befell his

brothers, it seemed the forest silently ushered him into Lady Olivia's waiting embrace.

Rising shortly before dawn, he downed a hasty breakfast of fruit and black bread, anxious to be

underway and secure medical aid for his injured brother. In short order, the intervening land

flowed beneath the strike of his stallion's urgent hooves. The sun had already begun a slow

decline from its apex when the towering walls of Louvenford beckoned him within. Dismounting,

passing the reins of his horse to a groom, Richard asked to be escorted before Sir Reginald.

Shown to the Great Hall, he paced restlessly until he was summoned to the solar. There, he

counted agonizing seconds into minutes, until he heard the latch on the door behind him.

"I see you received my letter," Olivia Hammond announced as she stepped into the chamber. She

was exactly as he remembered--irritatingly composed, her face set with haughty superiority.

Though Richard had once thought her passingly attractive, the harsh glare of afternoon light

destroyed any semblance of youth left to her features. Small lines were visible at the corners of

her eyes, and her lips had lost the smooth sensuality of maidenhood. Weathered and lined, the

bud of her mouth had thinned with the passage of time, withering like the dried petals of a rose.

Richard resisted the urge to strike her. "I asked to see Sir Reginald," he said shortly.

"My husband has undertaken a brief journey on my behalf," Lady Olivia explained as though

sharing dinner conversation. Slow, graceful steps led her into the room where she halted just shy

of him. "Surely you don't think I'd have the doddering fool about, when I knew you'd be

returning."

Richard pressed his lips together. "My brother's been injured in the forest. I need to have a healer

sent immediately."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." This time the words carried an air of boredom. As though dismissing

the matter, Olivia walked behind him. Richard remained staring straight ahead, back stiff, face set

with stone. "I received word about your brothers coming--the forest is full of spies--and rightly

assumed it had to do with you." She laughed softly, and Richard was reminded of a spider

scuttling across the floor. "--or perhaps I should say, I knew it had to do with the unfortunate

malady which left you spitting blood like a gutted pig."

A pulse ticked in Richard's temple. "Lady, my brother is injured--"

"Hooded men with wolf-like beasts," she interrupted languidly. "Servants come in all forms when

properly paid. The dogs are cross-bred with their wild cousins, then penned and goaded to

viciousness."

Unable to bypass the reference, Richard turned around. His fingers curled into his palms, leather

gloves scritching with the force of his frustration. "You ordered them attacked?" he hissed.

"As a matter of leverage."

"Damn you!" Enraged, he strode forward, intending nothing so much as to snap her neck.

Recognizing the violent flash of rage in his eyes, Olivia wrenched away. "If you want your brother

tended by a physician, you'll curb your anger," she snapped viciously. "I don't think you

thoroughly comprehend your dilemma. You have two days before the toxin in your system turns

lethal. In the interim, your brother suffers to a lesser degree from poison inbred with the dogs'

saliva. I'll send a healer this moment, if that is your wish, but I expect appreciation in return."

Richard bit down on the inside of his lip, feeling the seething crush of anger. An image of Cedric

flashed through his mind, his brother's youthful features pinched with pain. With effort, he

controlled the quickened rush of his breath. "You selfish bitch."

As though she had scored a point, Olivia smiled. She waited a moment--just long enough for him

to realize the extent of his predicament, then she extended her hand. "Come here, Richard."

Involuntarily, he ground his teeth together, silently weighing his options. In the end there was

only one.

He took her hand.

Satisfied, Olivia leaned against him. Richard stood rigid and unresponsive as her fingers slipped

beneath the edge of his jerkin, tracking across his chest. Coiling her free hand behind his neck,

she leisurely unlaced his tunic.

"The healer--" Richard said stiffly.

"In a moment," Olivia returned. Tugging his tunic aside, she smoothed her hand over his chest,

allowing her fingers to trace over his ribs. There was bone where there should have been flesh,

the illness stripping away pounds he couldn't afford to lose. Olivia made a soft sound in the back

of her throat--a cross between a sigh and a whimper, then pressed up against him, sealing her

mouth to his.

Momentarily recoiling, Richard took half a step backwards. Her hiss of displeasure drew him up

short, reminding him what Cedric stood to lose. Stealing himself, he kissed her back, forcefully

invading her mouth with his tongue. Bracing an arm over the small of her back, he crushed her

against him, surprised at the hard firmness of her body pressed to his. When he could bear the

intimacy no longer, he broke the kiss. "My Lady, I'll come to your bedchamber this night, only

tend to my brother now."

His submission seemed to please her, signaled by the faint hint of a savoring smile. With annoying

slowness, she traced one finger over his moist lips. "My steward waits in the corridor. He will

take you to the healer, whom you may instruct as you wish. Come Eventide, I will expect you to

fulfill your promise. In the interim, you have the freedom of Louvenford to distract you."

"And the remedy for the poison you gave me?"

She tilted her head to gaze up at him, absently threading her fingers through the long hair at his

collar. "In time--as promised--along with the deed to that parcel of land you value so highly."

Considering the statement, she paused. "Had I known all I need do was threaten those you love, I

would have saved the poison for later entertainment. Still--I rather like the thought of you

vulnerable."

Holding his anger in check, Richard glanced to the door thinking of the steward in the hallway;

the precious seconds slipping by while Cedric lay sick. Striving for patience, he flexed and

unflexed his hands.

Olivia followed his gaze. "You're as restless as a stallion penned from studding. Pray, you act

similarly tonight." Lowering her hand, she touched him boldly--intimately cupping her fingers

between his legs. Richard tensed and glanced at her sharply. "I dare say you would murder me if

you could," she commented casually, noting the stone set of his jaw. With a final caress, her hand

fell away. "Go to the healer, Richard--instruct him as you will. Come evening, I expect your

complete attention focused on my pleasure. I should hate for any further misfortune to befall your

brothers. Need I be plainer?"

"I think not," he snapped. Face hot, he pushed past her, striding quickly for the door.

Suffocating tightness spread over his chest inflicted by raging humiliation and anger. He'd never

been forced into such a mortifying situation before, and silently vowed if he ever wormed free of

the entanglement, he'd adjust his own views about relationships. Belatedly he realized how

frequently he'd spent the night with some willing maid, simply to sate his own pleasure. More

often that not, he'd been guilty of a casual affair, discounting the girl's feelings when such

interfered with his own gratification. *Face it Richard--in some respects, you're no better than that

manipulative bitch.*

Grimly, he suppressed the thoughts. In the hallway he was greeted by a somber-faced steward,

who led him through interconnecting corridors to the healer's quarters. Though small, these were

neatly kept. Medicinal elixirs, herbs and tonics were neatly displayed, along with books and

reference scrolls--each claiming its own niche on table or shelf. Overseeing the chamber was the

physician--a portly man with coarse complexion and thinning brown hair. It took Richard only a

moment to realize he already knew of Cedric's condition, and had been prepared to depart for

some time. With a sinking sensation, Richard grasped the extent of Lady Olivia's mastery, and the

number of lackeys who willingly answered her beck and call. "Does she lie with all of you?"

Richard snapped, causing the two men look on him appalled.

Dismissing their shock with a curt wave of his hand, he proceeded to relay instructions to the

healer, giving an approximate location of the forest hut, then detailing Cedric's condition. Though

he would have liked to follow the man into the woods and ascertain he would treat Cedric as

promised, the arrangement he'd made with Lady Olivia restricted him to Louvenford. Thankfully

he had until Eventide before he was expected to fulfill his half of the bargain.

With little to do to pass the time, Richard detoured to the rear courtyard, hoping the seclusion of

the vine-encrusted walls and lengthening afternoon shadows, would provide privacy to vent his

frustration in sword practice. It didn't take long to fathom the weight he'd lost, coupled with five

days of illness, had exacted its toll. In brief order, his energy was spent on a stationary target.

Though the "dummy" was constructed of straw and homespun material, erected on a makeshift

post, Richard visualized a shrewish woman with braided blonde hair and gray eyes. Viciously, he

buried his sword in the target's gullet.

"You're panting," a voice observed behind him.

Richard jerked, annoyed he hadn't heard the newcomer approach. Wrenching the sword free, he

turned about. "Baron Mullens." If there was one person he wished to avoid right now, it was his

treacherous neighbor. Raking a hand through his sweat-soaked bangs, Richard stepped away

from the target. "I would have thought you'd departed days ago."

"And miss the final decree on the parcel of land we both covet? I think not." Mullens' sword was

unsheathed, held laxly at his side. Extending it slightly, he kept the tip down, watching as sunlight

ignited gleaming pinpricks along the edge. Though the movement was indifferent, it was carefully

staged. "Practice is better when the target strikes back," he observed casually.

Richard sheathed his sword. "You're too late. I was just finishing."

Mullens raised a sardonic brow. "What's this--the renown Richard Grey passing up a chance to

cross swords? I was led to believe your skill with that pig-sticker unsurpassed. Could it be I've

been grossly misinformed?"

"You aren't going to goad me into a match," Richard returned flatly. Briskly he strode forward,

hoping to escape before his unstable temper got the better of him. As he moved past Mullens, the

older man caught his arm, jerking him to a rough halt.

"Listen to me, you pretty little cockscomb, I'm within a breath of charming that land from Lady

Olivia and I don't need you interfering. The games she plays are beyond your reach, boy. If

you've any sense at all, you'll go back to Covington Cross and stay there."

"I'd like nothing better, " Richard spat acidly, "But Lady Olivia has dictated otherwise. If you'd

any sense, you'd realize the cursed harridan makes sport of us both." Yanking his arm free, he

stalked from the courtyard, the long hours of illness, deception and exertion exacting their toll.

With effort, he constrained raw anger.

Craving privacy, Richard retreated to his chambers. A far cry from the sparse room he'd occupied

on his last visit to Louvenford, these were richly detailed, almost vulgar with opulence. A

massive bed dominated the center of the room, its raised mattress swaddled with thick quilts and

overstuffed pillows. Plush, fur-skinned rugs warmed the stone floor, while the bed itself was

curtained with folds of shimmering cloth. Richard felt his stomach twist when he realized Lady

Olivia intended this for their Eventide haven.

Avoiding the bed, he entered the bathing chamber. Here, a large wooden tub had only recently

been filled with scented water. The whisper-thin fragrance of sandalwood clung to the room,

stirred to greater density, when Richard skimmed a finger over the water. Stacked nearby on a

stool were sumptuous yards of cloth, intended for use in drying. Richard's mouth thinned further

when he realized Olivia had instructed her servants to leave him clean clothes. A silken tunic,

gold-threaded sash and black breeches were neatly draped over a claw-footed chair. The tunic--

pale green like his eyes--was minus the drawstring laces, ensuring the material would gape open

on his chest. Swearing softly, Richard reminded himself Cedric's health, as well as his own,

depended on the favor of the Mistress of Louvenford. *At least she doesn't intend to bathe with

me.*

Though irritated by the prepared bath, he was much too exhausted to refuse the warmth of the

water. She'd obviously had her steward monitor his movements--knowing when he'd finished in

the courtyard and would wish to bathe--but allowed him the privacy of doing such without

servants in attendance. Marveling at the courtesy, Richard stripped off his clothes and climbed

into the tub, sinking beneath the water. The sensation of liquid warmth was welcome, almost

disturbingly intimate. Rising, he swept wet hair from his eyes, using one hand to rake it straight

back from his forehead. Rivulets of water trickled over his back and shoulders, dripping from the

curling ends of his hair. With vague distraction, he noted the discoloration and lumps on his

thighs had completely vanished. It was hard to believe he'd suffered such an incapacitating illness

just a short time ago.

Attempting to relax, Richard lingered in the water until it began to cool and the scent of

sandalwood grew sickly sweet. Claiming the coarse block of soap set nearby, he scrubbed grime

from his skin and hair, striving to banish the remembered stain of illness; the taint of poison; the

repulsive memory of Lady Olivia intimately fondling him.

Later, he dressed--stubbornly dismissing the silken garments provided by the Mistress of

Louvenford in favor of his own worn leathers. Rifling a hand through his damp hair, Richard

crossed to the bedchamber. His stomach had wormed into a disagreeable knot, kindling an acute

level of anxiety. Though he would do whatever necessary to assure his brothers' safety, he

despised the notion of being ordered to perform like a paid companion. More than a passing

share of the nobility kept mistresses, but he wasn't aware of any woman who brazenly entertained

herself with varying partners. Pausing by the window, Richard stopped to contemplate the

gardens below--greenery and delicate blooms now tinged with the fading glow of expiring

daylight.

Once again his mind turned to Cedric and Armus. Was it possible one woman could be so

vindictive, her true pleasure was gained in the cruel manipulation of others? How could Sir

Reginald remain blind, with so many misdeeds orchestrated under his very nose? Sighing, Richard

leaned against the wall. The latch on the door gave way, causing him to jerk and turn sharply. He

steeled himself at the sight of the woman who strode confidently into the room.

"It isn't yet Eventide," Richard said flatly.

Lady Olivia closed the door. "I thought we'd dine together." Extending her hand, she waited,

command clear in her eyes. Though he would surely vomit if forced to endure food on top of her

attentions, Richard crossed the room and clasped her fingers in his. "You didn't like the clothing I

supplied?" she queried, a trace of annoyance in her voice. When he gave no answer, she slipped a

hand behind his neck, tugging his head down for an open-mouthed kiss. Her tongue tasted of

wine and overly ripe fruit. Repulsed, Richard resisted the urge to pull away and waited until she

broke the kiss.

"You look horribly cross," Olivia reprimanded lightly. "Surely the prospect of spending the night

with me is not that disagreeable."

Richard arched a brow, his glance coldly indifferent. "I have no words to express the extent of my

aversion, Lady Olivia, only hopes the recollection will prove fleeting."

"Bastard!" The sharp crack of her hand across his face was not thoroughly unexpected.

Richard closed his eyes briefly as though fighting down annoyance. "As you appear to be renting

me by the hour and not the day," he said, pinning her with a quiet stare, "I'd prefer to finish as

soon as possible. Likely when I'm through I won't need poison to induce vomiting--memory alone

should suffice."

Enraged, Olivia stalked away from him. Her eyes smoldered with demon-fire as she paced

restlessly through the room. Whirling around she jabbed a vicious finger in his direction. "I could

order your brothers attacked this very moment--"

"--and I'd break every bone in your whore's body!" Richard shouted, striding forward and

catching her by both wrists. For a moment, the force of his grip was so savage he saw fear in her

eyes. As quickly as it surfaced, the emotion faded, replaced by silent victory.

"You have too much to lose," she said simply.

Infuriated, Richard flung her away. The breath whistled through his teeth as he strove to master

the dangerous flow of his anger. Pressing one hand to his temple he waited for the crippling rage

to subside, certain he would murder her given time.

Unaffected by his hostility she strode forward, face hardened with furious determination. "If

you're so anxious to put the night behind you, by all means let it commence now." Forcefully

tugging at the belt securing his jerkin, she tossed the wide band aside. The leather garment

followed as she pushed it off his shoulders, stripping it from his back. Richard caught her wrists

when she reached for the laces on his tunic, but the warning glare she cast, made him release her.

Slipping her hands beneath the edges of the linen garment, she pushed upward, sliding her hands,

palm flat, over his chest. He felt the scrape of her nails, the press of her body, as she leaned

forward hungrily kissing him.

The latch to the door gave way with a sudden resounding "clack." Startled, Richard jerked

backwards as Sir Reginald Hammond strode briskly into the room.

"Husband!" Olivia sounded truly horrified.

Looking at the other man--the glowering set of his face; the massive bulge of muscle across chest

and arms--Richard had the sinking sensation he'd sealed his own grave.

It took the Mistress of Louvenford only a moment to recover. "Praise heaven, you've come!"

Flinging herself on the floor, she wrapped her arms about Reginald's legs, her body shaking with

staged tremors. "I thought this boy a respected guest, but he would have forced himself on me,

t'were it not for your arrival. Oh, husband, I am undone!" The weeping began in earnest, so

artfully executed Richard took a step backwards for fear of Sir Reginald's wrath.

He glanced furtively about the chamber, belatedly realizing he'd left his sword in the bath. The

blood drained from his face as he calculated the dooming extent of his situation--he stood partially

unclothed, with the mistress of the castle accusing him of lechery.

Richard swallowed hard. "Lord Hammond, I--"

"Silence, dog!" Richard had only a flicker of warning as Sir Reginald kicked his wife aside.

Spewing a string of profanity, the larger man raised a mailed gauntlet and drove it across

Richard's cheek. The blow spun his head to the side, gouging a bloody path across his flesh,

sending him crashing to the floor. Stunned, he struggled to rise.

"I'll flay you alive you for this," he heard Lord Hammond snarl.

Mercifully, darkness claimed him first.

+++++

"Richard."

Though he knew the sound of his father's voice, it took Richard a moment to realize he was not

dreaming. He'd left Covington Cross days ago. If the throbbing pain on his cheek, and the hard

boards against his back had anything to do with present circumstance, Sir Thomas Grey was

oddly out of place. Grimacing, Richard opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.

"That's it--" A hand guided him, lending firm support. There was a rattling jangle in his ears; an

unusual weight on his wrists. Gradually, his surroundings solidified, drawing into sharp focus.

The blunt stone walls of a prison had replaced the lavish bedchamber. Cold and unappealing, the

cell was no more than ten foot square. He was sitting on plank boards, which had been fitted

together and covered with a smattering of homespun to form a type of cot. A small rectangular

window recessed into the far wall, provided the only illumination in an otherwise shadow-draped

chamber. Leg irons encased his ankles and shackles his wrists, each strung with a length of heavy

chain between. The hand on his shoulder shifted to the back of his neck.

"You've been unconscious for some time."

Richard glanced aside, only slightly surprised by his father's presence. Lifting a hand, he

tentatively touched the torn skin on his cheek. A rough edge of dried blood lingered beneath his

fingertips. "Lord Hammond is not a gentle man." Belatedly Richard's eyes dropped to the chains

linking his wrists. The memory of Sir Reginald finding him with Lady Olivia made him bite down

on the inside of his lip. "Please tell me you've come to plead me free of this mess."

With a resigned half smile, Thomas sat on the floor beside the makeshift cot. "And what mess

would that be?"

Sighing, Richard drew his legs up, linking his arms around his knees. "I'd ask what you're doing

here, but right now I'm more concerned about clarifying matters with Sir Reginald. There's also

reason for concern about Cedric and Armus--"

"I know all about Cedric and Armus," Thomas returned patiently. He laid a hand on Richard's

arm when he saw the other growing anxious. "Before you say anything, rest assured your

brothers are well cared for and safe. If you hadn't been in such a hurry to leave Covington Cross,

I would have told you I sent a courier to Sir Reginald shortly after you received Lady Olivia's

letter. My herald rode almost non-stop and reached Louvenford nearly a day prior to your

arrival."

Richard appeared bewildered. "But what did you tell Lord Hammond?"

"The truth," Thomas supplied simply. His grip tightened on Richard's arm--a marginal distraction

that was innately comforting. "I wasn't certain Reginald would believe me, but our friendship is

old and longstanding. He knew I wouldn't make an accusation without evidence to support it.

When his wife requested he undertake a short journey on her behalf, it leant credence to my

dispatch."

"But he found us together," Richard protested.

"Yes," Thomas concurred. "And prior to that he witnessed the two of you together in the solar."

"The sol--" Appalled, Richard bit off the word. He thought back to that first encounter with

Lady Olivia when they'd discussed what she expected of him in return for Cedric's safety. The

remembered feel of her fingers intimately caressing him made his face grow hot with shame.

Mortified, he glanced at his father. "But, I--"

Sensing his chagrin, Thomas looked at him steadily. "Lady Olivia condemned herself with that

exchange," he assured. "The steward she believes faithful to her, is actually Sir Reginald's man.

He informed his lord of your arrival, and in the delay when he went to summon Lady Olivia, Lord

Hammond secreted himself in a concealed passage. He witnessed the entire exchange which I

understand amounted to nothing short of blackmail."

Dazed, Richard rested his head against the wall. "If that's the case--if Sir Reginald knows I'm not

at fault, why didn't he interrupt us then--why wait? And why did he strike me, then chain me like

a prisoner in the dungeon?"

Shifting, Thomas braced his elbows on his knees, turning to glance at his son sideways. "He

didn't interrupt you because he had to allow you the time to send the healer to Cedric. As for the

rest, there's a two-fold explanation I suppose. No man likes to have his vanity impinged. While

the blow he struck you was staged, I'm sure part of him wanted to punish you simply for being

attractive to his wife. And two: He's allowing Olivia to believe he perceives her the innocent

victim in all of this."

"What!" Enraged, Richard sat forward. The leg chains rattled with his clipped movements.

"Why would he do anything so half-witted?"

"Because I asked him to," Thomas said quickly. Turning fully about, he faced his son. "As I told

you at Covington Cross--I knew you'd do as you damn well pleased. I was certain you wouldn't

wait to discuss matters with me, which is why I sent the herald. Once you departed, I followed

behind you. It's always been my intention to intervene with Sir Reginald on your behalf."

"That still doesn't explain why I'm in the dungeon," Richard said tightly. Though he attempted to

concentrate solely on his father's words, the throbbing pain in his cheek spread roots into his

temple and jaw. He'd likely bear a bruise for weeks once the laceration had healed.

"You're forgetting about the poison," Thomas said slowly. Even as he voiced the words, his

stomach clenched. The memory of Richard spitting up blood was entirely too fresh in his mind.

He'd rather suffer greater harm himself, than witness his son enduring such pain again. "If Sir

Reginald condemned her, Lady Olivia would likely let you die from sheer vindictiveness. If,

however, she believes her husband is going to punish you in a public forum--possibly resulting in

your execution--she has to provide the remedy, or forgo the pleasure of seeing you humiliated."

Richard cast his father an arch look. "Is this meant to cheer me?"

Thomas gave a strangled snort. Hooking an arm around Richard's neck he pulled him close for a

brief hug. His hand lingered when he drew back, fingers twined in the curling ends of his son's

unkempt hair. The toll of the last few days could readily be seen in Richard's eyes--normally

vibrant, now bridled with exhaustion. Though the harsh pallor of illness had fled, his skin

remained sculpted with shadow. Thick fingers of dried blood tracked across his cheek, where the

wound had bled freely and deeply. Though he found it difficult, Thomas tried to focus on the

matter at hand. "I don't plot this lightly, Richard. I see little recourse at this juncture, but to pray

Lady Olivia's conceit is predictable. Within the next two days, she must send one of her lackeys

to you with the remedy."

"And if she doesn't?" Richard challenged.

Thomas swallowed hard. His son's gaze was disturbingly direct, causing an acute rise in his level

of anxiety. Briefly, he averted his gaze. "I've sent my courier to a wise woman in the village, with

a detailed description of the affliction you suffered. If all else fails, Sir Reginald and I hope the

woman will be able to correctly gauge the herbs needed to formulate a restorative."

Richard was silent. Crossing his legs at the ankles, he drew his knees to his chest, bracing his

elbows on his thighs. "And in the meantime I wait?" he ventured tiredly.

Thomas massaged the knot of tension at the back of his son's neck. "I'll be close," he promised.

"Olivia doesn't know I'm here, but Reginald is keeping me apprised of events as they transpire.

Armus will arrive tomorrow. Though he'll feign ignorance of the situation, a messenger has

informed him of the details. He'll be granted leave to see you, thus you'll have someone trusted

nearby. When this is over, Sir Reginald has assured me he'll deed his wife's land to us. He feels

it's the least he can do for the harm she's caused."

"I thought he had no say in the matter," Richard countered.

Thomas shrugged. "When Lady Olivia is discredited, she'll have little choice but to obey her

husband's every whim. Apparently Sir Reginald has been suspicious of her activities for some

time, but lacked for proof until now. He'll likely maintain the marriage to save face, but I warrant

his wife will find her station drastically altered."

Uncomfortable Richard shifted, trying to ease the bite of the shackles. Absently, he massaged his

left wrist. "I can't believe this started over a simple parcel of ground," he said bleakly.

Reluctantly, Thomas stood. "It will rectify itself, Richard." Though his words carried assurance,

a glimmer of uncertainty lingered in his eyes. He glanced away before his son could see it. "It's

time I left. I've stayed too long as it is."

Tilting his head to glance up at his father, Richard wet his lips. "I-I'm glad you're here," he

managed. A quavering trace of apprehension affected the normally precise lilt of his voice.

The subtle vulnerability did not go unnoticed by Thomas, who lowered his hand, gently touching

his son's face. "I promise I'll be near," he vowed. Then before he lost his resolve to depart, he

turned and strode for the door, calling to Sir Reginald's personal guard.

Alone in the cell, Richard stretched out on the plank boards of the makeshift cot, attempting to

find a position of comfort. Each nuance of movement brought a clanking rattle from the chains

which held him restricted. He could feel the chafe of leg irons through his leather boots; the

burdensome weight of shackles on his wrists. Already his skin grew raw beneath the iron

manacles. Guessing the hour had lapsed deep into Eventide, he deemed further visitation unlikely.

Half an hour later the guard surprised him by depositing a tray of food in the cell.

Though Richard was not truly incarcerated, it was obvious Sir Reginald strove to maintain that

guise. Far from sumptuous, the food he provided was barely a notch above the usual tasteless

gruel fed prisoners. Richard ate most of it, then washed it down with a flask of tepid water.

Lying on his back, he braced one arm behind his head and contemplated the ceiling. Events of the

day vied for attention in the jumbled web of his thoughts. If his father were right, Lady Olivia

would provide him with the remedy for the toxin. But what if she was vindictive in a manner

neither of them guessed? What if she gave him poison instead?

Disturbed, Richard dismissed the thought and tried to focus on sleep. Eventually the gray light of

the cell deepened with the bloated shadows of night. Swaddled in darkness, Richard counted long

minutes into distraction, until slumber crept on him unaware. He awoke the following morning

sluggish and wincing with pain. The hours of confinement, restricted by chains, had left his

muscles cramped and stiff, barely functional. Groaning, he pulled himself to a sitting position and

sucked down a breath of dank morning air. An unpleasant ache needled the flesh behind his eyes,

reminiscent of the discomfort that originally preceded his illness. By midday it had bloomed to a

persistent throbbing, inducing an intermittent flutter of nausea.

Though Armus failed to appear, his father returned in the evening, decidedly grave when he took

in the gaunt lines of Richard's face. The guard left food as before, but Richard ate very little.

Thomas's time in the cell was short spent, but it was obvious he worried over the delayed

appearance of Lady Olivia or one of her lackeys. Eventually, Richard fell asleep, but his rest was

fitful.

In the morning he awoke, coughing blood.

+++++

Armus followed Sir Reginald's guard through the bowels of Louvenford castle. He'd been

apprised of the situation involving Richard via a missive from his father, two days prior. Leaving

Cedric in the capable hands of the healer and a servant loyal to Lord Hammond, Armus arrived at

Louvenford, prepared to play the role of brother to the accused. Accordingly, Sir Reginald

greeted him curtly, denouncing Richard's actions in the basest of terms.

Armus was granted leave to the dungeon, but instructed to veer clear of Lady Olivia. For her

part, the intended victim remained in the background, suitably subdued. Armus had only a

glimpse of the woman who caused his brother so much grief, but recognized the skills of a worthy

opponent. Someone who didn't know Richard might easily be swayed by the woman's quiet

weeping and demure fright. For his part, Armus was enraged--appalled a woman so old would

attempt to coerce his young brother into seduction. That anger was quickly forgotten when he

entered the cell and found Richard curled on the unyielding boards of the cot.

"Richard--" Behind Armus, the door shuddered into place with a resounding echo that made his

brother flinch. Striding swiftly across the cell, Armus squatted at Richard's side. The younger

man was curled in a fetus-like position, manacled hands tucked beneath his chin. Though his eyes

were closed he trembled slightly, as if snagged in the veil of half-sleep. "Little brother you look

decidedly uncomfortable." Smoothing a hand through Richard's hair, Armus used his fingers to

gently comb snarls from the tousled curls. Touch and voice induced a soft moan from Richard,

who stirred and opened his eyes.

It took a moment for his gaze to focus. A weak smile touched his lips. "You must be Sir

Thomas's good son."

"Come to comfort the black sheep," Armus countered. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew a

heavy iron key. "Don't ask who I had to bribe." Unwilling to meet his brother's gaze, Armus

concentrated on freeing the shackles. He had expected Richard to be well--belligerent and hostile

over his confinement, but certainly not battling pain. Though the final day had not fully passed, it

was obvious Lady Olivia's affliction steadily progressed.

Freed, Richard groaned with relief. Sitting upright, he sagged against the wall and rubbed his

wrists, attempting to coax circulation into his arms. There were needles in his legs, shooting fiery

pinpricks up through his knees. Drawing his legs forward he applied his hands to his ankles,

gritting his teeth against the painful pleasure of returning blood. "How's Cedric?"

"Healing. Likely in better shape then you are." Brushing Richard's hands aside, Armus turned his

own large palms to his brother's ankles. He worked his fingers steadily, kneading cramped bone

and muscle through worn leather. The haggard lines of Richard's face concerned him, causing

him to bit down unconsciously on the inside of his mouth. Though the dried blood on Richard's

cheek had mostly flecked away with the night, the open cut remained mottled with ghastly color.

Closing his eyes, Richard leaned back against the wall, content to let Armus care for him. After a

time he coughed weakly, silently dismissing the faint tang of copper in the back of his mouth. He

could feel Armus's hands on his right leg, traveling from ankle to calf, as his brother massaged his

cramped muscles. The sensation was wonderfully pleasing, causing him to momentarily forget the

incessant ache in his temples.

"John Mullens is still lingering about," Armus said conversationally. "He's in his glory knowing

you're confined to the dungeon. As planned, he thinks Sir Reginald means to have you executed.

Like the rest of the gathering vultures, he's waiting for the carnage to begin." Irritated, Armus

sighed. "It certainly doesn't take long for word to spread when there's been an affront to the

nobility."

Bemused, Richard gave a distracted grunt. "At least Mullens is predictable."

"You should have told me about Lady Olivia," Armus said suddenly, addressing the greater threat.

Involuntarily, Richard jerked. His eyes flew open, rounding in bewilderment. His father would

have apprised Armus of all details. Only now did Richard realize how uncomfortable he was with

that knowledge. It was irritating enough having a woman better him, but the manner in which

she'd accomplished it was degrading. Somehow Richard couldn't see Armus ensnared in a similar

situation. His brother was much too astute to be blackmailed into a position where he was forced

to shed his clothing. "And have you chastise me? Or worse yet--laugh."

Armus's hands stilled momentarily. After a brief pause he undertook similar attention to Richard's

left leg. "I've nothing to chastise you for. And if you think me so callous as to laugh at your

misfortune, then perhaps eight years apart has done us a disservice."

Tiredly, Richard rubbed one hand over his eyes. "No . . . you're right. It's just been difficult

admitting what's happened, much less discussing it with someone. I was too embarrassed to talk

with you about it when Lady Olivia first . . . " Uncomfortable, Richard shifted. " . . . approached

me."

Finished with his ministrations, Armus glanced at his brother thoughtfully. "Father's known Lord

Hammond and his wife a long time. I remember coming here as a child--"

"And I," Richard interrupted sharply. "I never would have suspected Lady Olivia of such

wretched behavior. She was kind to me when I was a child--" He broke off suddenly as a harsh

bout of coughing seized him. Unprepared for the merciless assault, he bent forward, instinctively

cupping a hand to his mouth. There was no discounting the sticky flow of blood this time.

Involuntarily, Richard moaned.

"Damn it!" Color drained from Armus's face with liquid alacrity. The stain of blood on his

brother's lips was bright enough to appear vulgar. Like a catalyst of buried affliction, the spasm

unleashed convulsive tremors in Richard's body.

Bowing his head to his knees, he shuddered. "God, Armus, I can't go through this again."

Moving to his side, Armus wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He could feel the hard strain of

developed muscle beneath his fingers, reminding him that Richard's slender build often belied his

strength. That same stamina waned now, approaching near empty levels as Lady Olivia allowed

her retribution to be felt. Sitting beside Richard, Armus realized how uncomfortable the cot was--

yet the stone floor would be harsher still and fraught with cold. It was a wonder his brother had

managed any sleep at all. Sadly, in order for Sir Reginald's ruse to proceed, he could allow

Richard no comfort.

Shifting, Armus braced his back against the adjacent wall. "Come here, Brother--" With a leg

braced on either side of the cot, Armus pulled Richard into the natural cradle his body created.

"At the very least, I might afford you a few hours of sound sleep."

Resisting the pull, Richard met his brother's eyes. "Lady Olivia won't risk exposing herself if

you're here with me."

"Just a few hours," Armus promised. He could see the punishing fatigue in his brother's eyes, as

tangible as the green glass of his irises. Too weary to protest, Richard folded willingly against

Armus's chest. Almost immediately, the tremors in his body subsided, quieted by his brother's

protective embrace. For a time Richard almost believed himself safe, then the rattle began in his

lungs. Turning his face against Armus's tunic, Richard gripped the coarse material in sweaty

panic, vainly striving to mute his cough. A hot knife tore through his chest. Each hacking breath

sent a torturous burst of fire splintering across his rib cage, until he cried aloud with the constant

agony.

"I've got you, brother." Armus wrapped his large arms around Richard's trembling shoulders,

supporting him through the seizure. When it was through, Richard crumbled soundlessly.

Though his fingers loosened their panicky grip, he never raised his head. The uneven hitch of his

breath, told Armus he struggled with tears. With comforting slowness, the larger man rubbed a

soothing hand over his brother's back. "Richard, if Lady Olivia hasn't come by Eventide, father

will have the obtained a remedy from the wise woman in the village."

Richard rolled his head against his brother's chest. "Which may or may not work," he mumbled

with marked effort. The words were strangled and choked, lacking the distinct precision he

normally placed on each consonant and vowel.

Only then did Armus appreciate how exact his brother's diction was, when it was suddenly absent.

Drawing Richard closer, Armus bowed his head. "Try to sleep, little brother. I promise it will be

over soon."

+++++

Richard was only vaguely aware of Armus leaving. He slept soundly for a few hours, until the

sheltering warmth withdrew, leaving hard boards to brace his flesh. Gentle fingers stroked over

his cheek, fading with the departing warmth. Lost in half-sleep, he grunted softly, futilely willing

it to remain.

A brief time later he awakened, each muscle protesting with stiff movement. Raw pain spiked

through his groin, wrenching a gasp from his lips. Pressing a rolled fist between his legs, he

counted agonizing seconds until the torture shriveled into submission. "Damn you, woman."

"And here I thought you'd be grateful for the remedy."

Richard jerked at the unexpected voice. Though the shadows in the chamber were soft, not yet

blackened with the taint of night, they spread far-reaching tentacles into the corners. Squinting,

through the pewter-laced gloaming, Richard watched as Lady Olivia moved into the light.

Uncertain if it was rage or relief he felt, Richard braced a hand against the wall and pushed to his

feet. Though the circulation had returned to his legs, they felt unsupportive and weak. Unwilling

to leave the security of the brace at his back, he remained leaning against the wall. "Why have

you come?"

"Why do you think?" Extending her hand, Lady Olivia displayed a small vial of colored liquid.

"To save you."

Richard's smile was bitter. "So your husband can execute me?"

With a dismissive shrug, Lady Olivia stepped closer. "Reginald would never do anything so base.

He'll turn you over to the Reeve for public flogging in the Village Square. Criminals are chained

on display for three days." With a faint smile, she paced beneath the window. The train of her

rose-colored gown rustled against the stone floor, snagging straw in the folds of shimmery

material. "Afterwards, he'll challenge you to public combat. And while you're infinitely more

attractive then my husband, I've no doubt he outclasses you in brute strength. Since your skill

with a sword is fairly well renown, he'll likely choose mace and chain. It will be my pleasure to

watch him kill you."

Testing his strength, Richard stepped away from the wall. "So why should I accept the cure when

you're setting me up to be murdered?"

Caught off guard by the question, Lady Olivia paused. "I should think you'd prefer it over

coughing your lungs out. I offer you a knight's death, albeit tainted. What man wants to die

incapacitated in a prison cell?"

Her calmness infuriated him. "And what's to stop me from killing you now?"

This time her smile was pointed. "The man standing guard outside this cell is loyal to me and me

alone. All I need do is raise my voice and--"

Before she could finish another word, Richard was across the cell. With lightning speed he

wrapped an arm about her neck, wrenching her back against him. His hand clamped over her

mouth, muffling her screams. Though her hands clawed at his arm, he barely felt the gouge of

slashing nails through his tunic. He was more concerned with the swirling blackness before his

eyes; the horrific buzzing in his ears and the sudden wave of heat that left him reeling with

vertigo. Bowing his head, he sucked down an unsteady breath. He hadn't been certain of his

speed; now he feared he couldn't maintain the fa‡ade of strength. "Be still," he hissed near

Olivia's ear. Claiming the vial from her grasping fingers, he used his thumb to uncork the top.

The liquid within was a pale shade of blue, ribbed with gray at the edges like the shell of a robin's

egg. Richard glanced at the small bottle, considering.

Turning his head, he pressed his lips against Olivia's ear. His proximity was intimate, almost like a

lover. "Would you drink this, Lady?" Raising the vial to her mouth, he slid his opposing hand

free. "Scream and I'll break your neck. I've nothing to lose."

He could feel her fright now--the first time she'd shown any glimmer of uncertainty since her

initial overture almost a week ago. "W-why would you waste it on me?" she stammered.

"Because I think you're a vindictive bitch, who'd rather see me suffer privately for her personal

entertainment. This is poison, isn't it--worse than anything already in my body?"

"No--"

"Then drink it!" Clamping his hand on her brow, Richard forced her head back. Struggling for

her life, Olivia screamed. Though he'd had no real intention of forcing the poison down her throat

when he'd begun the charade, Richard abruptly felt the need to make her suffer as he'd suffered.

Her screams summoned the sentry outside. Bursting into the cell, the guard was trailed by three

other men--two who instilled a sense of immediate relief in Richard. Seized by a sudden fit of

coughing, he dropped the vial, reflexively releasing Lady Hammond. The ping of broken glass

echoed hollowly in the chamber as the bottle shattered against the floor. The room lurched

erratically and Richard staggered backwards.

"Son!" Thomas strode across the chamber, catching Richard by the arm when his knees would

have buckled. Half-dazed, Richard blinked rapidly, waiting for his head to clear. He could feel

Armus hovering opposite his father, supporting him with a steadying hand beneath his elbow.

"Give him the damn remedy, Olivia."

Leaning heavily against his father, Richard raised his head to see Sir Reginald glowering at his

wife. The guard, who had been in his Lordship's employ from the start, quietly withdrew.

Confused, the Mistress of Louvenford glanced from Richard to her husband. "I don't know what

you're talking about," she said in a shaky voice. "I-I only came here because--"

"Damn you, woman!" Reginald thundered. "I will brand you a harlot and fling you from this

castle if you so much as *attempt* to deny your guilt. I stood in the solar two days ago and

overhead every damaging word you exchanged with this boy--" A thick finger jabbed in Richard's

direction. "Did you really believe I thought you the innocent victim?" Striding forward, Reginald

towered threateningly over his wife. Shrinking from the enraged man, Olivia backed up against

the wall, eyes wild with fear, face bleached of blood. "What you have done to this boy and his

family is beyond contempt. Now you attempt to feed him poison on top of your other crimes?

Were you not my wife, I would gut you with a sword, myself. No more deceit, Olivia--give him

the remedy!"

Slowly the fear left her face. As though sensing there was no way free of her husband's wrath,

Olivia straightened, trying to regain a small measure of dignity. Brushing a finger beneath her

eyes, she wiped aside a stray tear. "I shall need to use the healer's herbs to mix the proper

amounts."

"Under *my* supervision," Reginald returned tartly. Grasping her arm he pulled her roughly

towards the door. Hesitating on the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Thomas.

A short while longer and your boy will be free of this horror."

Sadly, Thomas nodded. As Reginald and his wife left the cell, the Lord of Covington Cross

wrapped his arms around his second son and pulled him tightly against his chest. "God willing,

we'll be home soon, Richard."

+++++

Three weeks later, Richard led Lady Elizabeth Leland through the courtly steps of a fashionable

dance. He'd forgotten the relaxation to be gained from one of Lord Shrewbury's monthly soir‚es.

Though he hadn't been inclined to attend this latest gala, his family had conspired otherwise

prodding him incessantly until he relented. He was only a short time at the gala, milling with the

guests in the Great Hall, when Lady Elizabeth insisted he accompany her to the dance floor.

Naturally lithe of movement from the extensive hours he invested in sword training, Richard

moved gracefully through the dance steps. The lilting notes of flute, harp and lyre meshed with

the underlying murmur of voices and laughter.

"You move elegantly, Richard," Lady Elizabeth complimented when the music came to a close.

Bowing, Richard drew her hand to his lips. "With such a beautiful partner to inspire my steps,

how could I be anything less?"

Elizabeth permitted the compliment, though the hint of a smile touched her mouth. "You are

much too loquacious for your own good. T'were I you, I'd save the flattery for a maid still

inclined to blush."

Smiling, Richard linked an arm around her waist and led her from the floor. In the Great Hall he

rejoined his family, surrendering Lady Elizabeth to his father. Eleanor stood nearby engaged in

conversation with a comely knight bearing the colors of Dandridge Castle. Cedric--recovered

from his injuries--escorted a young girl to the nearest banquet table, all the while beguiling her

with charm. Only Armus was missing, presumably tarrying with Lord Shrewbury.

Glancing across the room Lady Elizabeth noted a trio of young women who while trying to

appear aloof, cast discreet glances in Richard's direction. Smiling, she took Thomas's hand. "I

think your son will not lack for dance partners this evening, Thomas."

"Then perhaps he'll pardon our desertion." With a nod for his son, Thomas took his lover's hand

and led her into the throng of dancers. Smiling, Richard watched the two, so perfectly matched

their movements appeared flawless. Arms folded, he observed for a time, enjoying the skillful reel

of music and the gaiety of the richly dressed dancers. Shrewbury's gala was infinitely different

than the staged grandeur he'd witnessed at Louvenford. Here, Richard felt part of the festivities

rather than an observer.

The room was brightly lit with hanging candelabras, each crafted with the intricate workings of

wrought iron. Wall braziers bracketed an arched entry, and firelight flowed from an ornately

carved hearth. The banquet tables had been laden with food--venison, mutton and pork,

complimented by platters of fruits, cheeses, wafers and jellies. Spiced wine and mead flowed

freely. Watching his father and Lady Elizabeth swirl into the crowd of dancers, Richard abruptly

realized he was hungry.

"An interesting couple," a voice commented at his elbow.

Scowling, Richard didn't bother to turn. "I see Lord Shrewbury is not overly particular about his

guest list. What orifice have you crawled from today, Baron Mullens?"

The chuckle that answered him was amused rather than angry. "I can always count on you for a

pleasant introduction, Richard. 'Tis a shame Lord Hammond didn't lob off your head,

permanently silencing your tongue."

Feeling too good to be insulted, Richard turned. Mullens too, seemed in good spirits, his dark

eyes sparkling with animated scorn. Pursing his lips, he raked his gaze over Richard, deliberately

pausing to consider the snug fit of the other's courtly attire. "Well my comely friend, there's little

doubt why the witch pursued you. The question is--how did you manage to wheedle the land

from Lord Hammond? Unless I've missed my guess, your pretty face wouldn't turn his head."

"Your insight never fails to astound me."

Mullens gave a short grunt. "Don't be so glib, Richard--we're too much alike. Perhaps one day

you'll cross blades with me yet."

The corner of Richard's mouth quirked up in a smile. "We're nothing alike, Baron Mullens, and I

prefer to fence with you verbally. Now if you'll excuse me, I haven't eaten." Leaving before the

other could continue the discourse, Richard crossed to the nearest banquet table. Mullens hadn't

seemed angry, and in retrospect, Richard realized the older man had enjoyed the exchange. As

much as Mullens loathed him, there was a part of the man that respected an opponent who parried

so freely. It was oddly unbalancing to realize the same enemy who would have gleefully watched

his execution, readily enjoyed their moments of verbal sparring.

"I see Mullens found you," Armus commented at his elbow.

Claiming a plate, Richard began to mound it with food. "Yes," he agreed with a grin. "His Grace

was imparting his usual vindictive wisdom." Plunking a piece of fruit in his mouth, he considered

his brother. "Where have you been, anyway? There's a trio of young ladies yonder, in dire need

of companionship and I only have charm for two."

Armus frowned. "I would have thought your encounter with Lady Olivia had tempered that

inbred cockiness."

Richard feigned bafflement. "What?" When Armus's scowl deepened, Richard pushed a plate in

his hand. "Don't look so glum, Brother. You wouldn't have me eat alone would you?"

Later, seated at one end of a long table, Richard downed his third cup of mead. There was a

slight tingling in his fingertips, warning he needed to eat more food if he planned on drinking so

heavily. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed. The stain of illness had been

punishing and severe; the entrapment Lady Olivia had planned, suffocating for its binding

constraints. Free of both entanglements, Richard felt wonderfully high-spirited. The sensation

waned only slightly when he thought of Sir Reginald.

"Has Father heard from Lord Hammond?" he asked his brother.

Seated across from him, Armus licked his fingers and reached for his wine cup. Though he'd

consumed just as much alcohol if not more, he was irritatingly unaffected. "There was a missive

earlier, indicating Sir Reginald had sent his wife to her sister's estates in Scotland. I wouldn't be

surprised if he took his own mistress, now that the marriage is an acknowledged fa‡ade."

Uncomfortable, Richard tapped a finger against his lips. "He had to suspect Olivia before this."

"I'm certain he did." Folding his arms on the table, Armus leaned forward. "There's something

I've been meaning to ask you--when Lady Olivia came to your cell, how did you know the vial she

had contained poison?"

Richard winced, uneasy with the memory. "I didn't--but given her character it seemed the likely

choice. Having me killed by her husband before a crowd of strangers wouldn't give her the same

satisfaction as seeing me writhe at her feet."

Armus wet his lips. "If you'd drank that--"

"I know." Pausing momentarily, Richard collected his thoughts. Three weeks had distanced him

from the event, but not silenced its ugliness. Unwilling to examine it now, he glanced at his

brother. Though he hadn't wanted to attend this gala, he realized the festivities did him good.

Moreso, he wanted to share that liveliness with his brother. Like his father, Armus had comforted

him when he'd thought he'd perish from pain. Despite the eight year separation they'd endured,

their closeness remained intact.

Pushing back from the table, he smiled insolently. "Now that I know what it feels like to be

pursued, I promise to tread lightly as the aggressor."

Startled by the proclamation, Armus guffawed. "The three young ladies?" he guessed, correctly

interpreting his brother's thoughts.

Richard stood. "I'll be generous--you can have two."

With a smug smile Armus pointed across the room. "You're too late, little brother."

Richard turned, following his glance. Standing amid the three women, his black hair a sharp

contrast to their fair, gilded locks, Cedric conversed with innate charm. All three huddled around

him, intent on his every word, seemingly entranced by the bewitching curve of his smile.

Richard balked. "Why that runty little--"

Laughing, Armus stood. "Come Brother--maybe Baron Mullens will stand you a dance. The day

hasn't passed when he's neglected to tell you, you're pretty."

"You're enjoying this too much," Richard said sharply.

"Yes, I am," Armus agreed. Hooking his arm around Richard's shoulders, he steered him into the

throng of guests. There, it would be easy to overlook the fact a beguiling seventeen-year-old had

just upstaged them both.

--End Plague's Pawn--

Author's note: As usual, I took lots of liberties with this story. The main being, I gave Richard

symptoms of both the Bubonic Plague and the Pneumonic Plague and lumped them both together.

If I've done my research correctly a person was normally effected by one strain or the other but

not both. That, of course, just wasn't enough for our Richard! ;-)