Archivist’s note: The following is an original work of Fanfiction. No profit was made from the writing or distribution of this story.

Sea Changes

A Covington Cross FanFic

by Linda S. Oleksa

The courier's horse covered the road at an easy canter. It was a beautiful afternoon, middle fall, sunny but pleasantly cool. The leaves of the grove had half-turned and just barely begun to fall over the road.

The two bandits -- the courier assumed they were bandits -- came out of the trees just behind him. He kicked his horse into a full gallop, and for a time drew away from them, but the gelding had been on the road most of the day, and tired quickly. The two riders grew closer -- and then two more appeared in front of him. Being no fool, the courier drew the exhausted horse to a stop.

"I carry no money," the courier said clearly as the horsemen gathered around him. They were all well-dressed and well-armed, perhaps not bandits after all. "I have only a message. Let me pass."

The tallest of the riders was also, apparently, the leader. "Let's have the message."

"You have no right to it."

The tall man drew his sword. "The message," he repeated, in a bored tone. When the courier hesitated further, he placed the tip of his blade at the man's throat. "Now, if you please." The courier reached for the message.

"Mullens," one of the other riders said quietly.

A fifth horseman, this one much better dressed and traveling at a more leisurely pace, came up the road and joined them. "Problem?"

The tall one took the message and put his blade away. "We caught him riding across your land, sir."

"This is the King's road!" the courier protested swiftly.

"Yes, quite." Mullens took the letter and kicked his horse on up the road a few paces, covering his actions with his own body. The address of the message made him growl. The wax seal was not tight; he flicked it open, scanned the message swiftly, then licked his thumb and stuck the wax back down. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to the courier. "You are right, of course. My apologies -- my men had no right to detain you. But with so many ruffians on the road these days, you'll understand our need for caution."

He held the letter out, and the courier snatched it nervously. "I'll be on my way, then."

"My men will see you safe to the end of my holdings," Mullens announced, in a tone that allowed no argument. "It's a short ride from there to your destination."

Not happily, the courier tucked the message away and started off. The four riders trailed behind him.

Alone, John Mullens pondered his most recent bit of news. Then, smiling rather wickedly, he started for home.

In the courtyard of the keep at Covington Cross, the younger sons of Thomas Grey were beating each other with sticks.

More accurately, they were fighting with staffs. They would have preferred swordplay, but their father had forbidden it the week before, while his physician was stitching a long gash in Richard's shoulder. So he and Cedric now circled each other with long, slender poles, sometimes clashing, jabbing, feinting, trying to get through each other's guard.

Then Richard spun his pole, went low, and caught his younger brother behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him. Cedric landed squarely on his butt with a grunt.

"Let me try," Eleanor said brightly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Richard answered. "You're a girl."

"That doesn't mean I can't beat you."

"No," Cedric answered, still sitting on the ground, "it means he's afraid you can."

"Well, she can surely beat *you*, little brother."

Above them, a window opened and Thomas leaned out. "Where's Armus?" he called.

"He's in one of his moods," Richard answered. "We haven't seen him all morning."

"You might look in his room," Eleanor offered.

Their father scowled and withdrew into the castle.

"I wonder what he's done now," Richard mused. He turned and pulled Cedric to his feet. "Again, little brother?"

Without answered, Cedric attacked.

Thomas Grey stood in the corridor for a long moment, taping the message against his hand. He was very aware that this matter needed to be handled carefully. His younger sons could be boisterous, difficult, but neither could match Armus in a test of pure stubbornness. Armus was no longer a boy. He was a grown man, and though the gentlest of men, he was also an

independent thinker. Worse, Thomas rarely knew what his eldest was thinking. And this, he guessed, Armus was not going to like.

Still, it needed to be done, for a variety of reasons.

He knocked on the door, pushing it open at the same time. "Armus?"

The boy -- the man -- was sitting next to his open window, staring out. He had a book in his lap, unopened. He was so still, so serious, that for a moment Thomas was worried. "Armus? What's wrong? Are you not well?"

Armus moved, shaking himself out of his thoughts gladly. "I'm fine, Father. Did you want something?"

Thomas forced cheerfulness into his voice. "I've had a letter this morning from an old friend. Harold Devlin, of White Cliff."

"On the Channel."

"Yes. It seems that the Devlins host a celebration each fall, a harvest festival, and he's invited us to join them this year. The whole family."

"It's two days' ride."

"Well, yes, I know," Thomas agreed. "But there's not much work to be done here just now. It would be a nice change of pace."

Armus nodded agreeably. "There'll be fresh seafood on the coast."

"Good, then it's settled," Thomas said, greatly relieved.

The relief did not escape his son. "There's something else, isn't there?" Armus asked seriously. His father hesitated. "Father?"

Thomas sighed. "This isn't easy for me, Armus."

"It's not easy for me, either, and I don't even know what it is."

The elder Grey paced the length of the room, composing his words carefully before he returned to his son. "Armus, have you given any thought to your future?"

"Why?" Armus asked suspiciously.

"Harold's youngest daughter, Margaret . . . "

His son immediately saw where he was leading. "Oh, dear God, no."

"She's a lovely girl, Harold says," Thomas inserted quickly, "Sweet-tempered, sensible, accomplished . . . "

"He can hardly be expected to tell you she has the face and the disposition of a wild boar," Armus countered. "And in any case, I have no wish to be married."

"It wouldn't be right away, of course," Grey continued as if his son had not spoken. "Harold's just suggesting that you meet at the festival, and if it goes well, then in a year or two . . . "

"Father, *please*."

Thomas sighed. "Armus, I'm worried about you. You're alone far too much."

"I like being alone."

"And that's exactly why I worry," Thomas answered. "You brood, you worry over things that cannot be changed. The Crusades are over for you, Armus. Put them behind you, get on with your life."

Armus stood, slamming his book down, turning angrily toward the window. He had always known it would come to this. He was the oldest son, he had to marry, to have heirs, and the sooner the better. He had always known this day would come -- he just hadn't expected it to be *today*. He wasn't ready, he wasn't . . . still, perhaps he could buy himself some time. He

turned back to his father. "All right. I'll meet her."

"You will?" Thomas answered in surprise.

Armus shrugged. "I know you, Father. Now that you've got this idea you won't let this go. If it's not this . . . what's her name?"

"Margaret."

" ... Margaret, it'll be someone else. A procession of someone elses. But," he added sternly, "I'm only going to *meet* her. There's to be no talk of weddings. Agreed?"

"Of course, of course."

"And if I don't like her -- or if she doesn't like me -- that's the end of the matter."

"Absolutely," Thomas agreed, delighted to won even this much so easily.

Armus sighed. "When do we leave?"

The castle at White Cliff was full enough of confusion on any normal day; Harold Devlin had ten children, all but one married, and twelve grandchildren, and though they did not all live within the castle walls any more, they visited often. All of them came home for the harvest

festival, plus nobles from everywhere, dissolving the place into complete but happy pandemonium for the space of a week.

And this year, with a potential groom for Margaret on the horizon, was worse than usual.

So it was not without some displeasure that Harold learned that John Mullens had arrived. Still, he gathered his wife and put on his most welcoming face and went down to meet him.

"Hello, John. We weren't expecting you. You remember Marie, of course."

Mullens bowed over her hand. "You're as lovely as ever, Lady."

"You're welcome, of course, John," Harold continued, "but what brings you here?"

"Why, you do, Harold," Mullens answered with feigned surprise. "Haven't you told me a hundred times that the harvest festival at White Cliff was not to be missed? That I must come and enjoy myself? And here I am."

Devlin nodded gravely. "You should know, John, that Thomas Grey and his family will also be our guests during the festival."

"Will they? I'm surprised. I thought they never left that pile of rocks and dirt . . . "

"They will be our *guests*," Devlin repeated. "I know there have been hard feelings between you, but I'll have no fighting under my roof."

Mullens shrugged. "For myself, I will promise to take no action against them while they are your guests, save in my own defense. But perhaps it would be better if I came another year."

"Nonsense. I'll have your word, and theirs, and that will be the end of it."

A young woman entered the hall. She was elegantly dressed, a great beauty, with her dress just a little too tight, a little too low. She took Mullens in at a glance -- a glance that was a little too frank. "Is this Margaret, then?" Mullens asked.

"Our niece," Marie answered tightly. "Alicia, meet John Mullens. He'll be staying with us for the festival."

"A pleasure, sir," she answered at a purr.

"All mine, I assure you," Mullens answered. He lingered a long moment over her hand, taking full advantage of the view her dress offered.

"We'll have someone show you to your room," Harold Devlin said stiffly.

"Oh, I'll do that, Uncle," Alicia offered pertly.

Reluctantly, Devlin nodded. "All right. Dinner will be served shortly."

Mullens watched them out of sight, then turned back to the lovely woman who was still staring at him overtly. "So you're the Alicia they talk about."

She pouted prettily. "And what do they say?"

"That you make mischief for its own sake." Among other things.

"Does that worry you?" Alicia challenged.

"Not at all," Mullens assured her. "In fact, I find it a delightful character trait. I'm something of a mischief maker myself."

"Perhaps we should compare methods."

"Hmmm," Mullens answered. "Better still, perhaps we could combine our efforts."

Alicia took his arm. "And to think, I was afraid this festival would be a bore."

The road was broad and flat, easy to ride three or four abreast. The younger members of the Grey household, of course, were doing nothing of the sort. They were playing an improvised game of ambush, riding up behind each other and trying to knock or pull each other off their horses. Armus lagged a good twenty paces behind the group, just in front of the coach, silent

and brooding again.

In a temporary lull in the game, Richard and Cedric rode side by side. "Do you think," Cedric asked, "that women on the coast are different from women inland?"

Richard shrugged. "Women are women. It's how they look at men that's different."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I imagine that most of the men at White Cliff are sailors and the like, a rough crowd. Compared to them, we're the perfect inland gentlemen. We're likely to be very popular."

Cedric grinned. "You really think so?"

"Well . . . *I'll* be popular," Richard amended. "I can't speak for you. Maybe someone there will like little boys . . . "

His brother's arm shot out and pushed him, hard. Laughing, Richard kicked his horse into a canter and rode away, with Cedric in hot pursuit.

Thomas checked his horse and dropped back to ride next to his eldest. For the moment, Eleanor joined them.

"Lovely day for the ride, isn't it?" Thomas asked.

Armus scowled. "It's bad enough you're making me go, Father. Don't try to make me enjoy it."

"You're going about this all wrong," Thomas argued. "She may be a very pleasant young woman."

"Then I'll be very pleasantly surprised."

Thomas sighed. "You know, Armus, I've been thinking. Please don't take this the wrong way, but . . . perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell Margaret, at least not right off . . . "

"What I did in the Crusades?" Armus snapped. "Or rather, what I didn't do? Are you ashamed of me?"

"No, Armus, I am not," his father answered firmly. "You did what you felt was right, and I respect that. It's just that this young lady, growing up on the coast, was probably raised on tales of great battles and such -- without ever understanding what battle is really like."

Armus shook his head. "And how long to you recommend that I keep this little secret, Father? Until after the wedding?"

"No, no. Only until she gets to know you a bit . . . just think about it, Armus. Do whatever you think is best." And then, glad for the excuse, he shouted, "Cedric! Stop that before someone gets hurt!"

He rode ahead again, leaving Armus with his thoughts -- and his sister.

"What?" Armus snapped.

"Nothing," Eleanor answered quickly. But she continued to stare.

"Eleanor, *what*?"

The girl shrugged. "I was just thinking . . . what if she's wonderful? What if she's lovely and kind and intelligent, and you miss her because you've already got your mind made up?"

Armus sighed. "Eleanor, if she was Venus herself I don't think I could care for her. I don't have the heart for it any more. And besides, what do you care?"

Eleanor shrugged again. "I'm just a romantic, I guess."

"No," her brother countered. "You're thinking that if I marry this girl, then you're off the hook as the lady of the house without having to tolerate Lady Elizabeth in the role."

"That's a terrible thing to say!"

"The more terrible because it's true." Armus chuckled. "Consider this, little sister: Lady Margaret may be far more objectionable to you than Elizabeth ever was."

"You'd never marry anyone like that," Eleanor protested.

Now Armus shrugged. "I might, just to torture you."

Eleanor stared at him, pretty sure -- but by no means certain -- that he was joking. Then she threw her head up and kicked her horse to catch up with the others.

They crested the last hill at mid-afternoon, and White Cliff lay before them.

It was a spectacular castle, massive by necessity and built of the white rocks of the cliffs below, glittering in the morning sun like a fairy story. The castle walls at the rear grew straight from the cliff itself, while to the near side a gentler hill sloped down to the harbor. A thriving little city huddled there, in the protective shadow of the castle. It was a magnificent sight.

In surprise, Eleanor breathed, "It's beautiful!"

Thomas nodded in satisfaction. He had been to White Cliff a number of times, and it took his breath away each time he arrived. Harold Devlin, lord of this castle, had been a dear friend to Thomas, when Grey was a new-made knight and Devlin an older veteran. He was looking forward to this visit.

His sons were similarly awestruck. Even Armus seemed to perk up a little at the beauty that lay before them. Richard, of course, could not let such awe lie. "Look," he said brightly, "our brother has stopped looking like he's going to the gallows!"

Armus turned his head slowly to look at him. Completely without expression, he stuck his arm out and knocked Richard cleanly from his saddle.

The Greys were met by Michael Devlin, the oldest son of the household. He was not much younger than Thomas. He greeted them warmly and showed them to their rooms himself. There was to be a dinner to open the festival and greet the guests; they would have time to clean up and change from their traveling clothes before the meal.

Armus dumped his things on his bed unceremoniously and went back down the stairs. He scowled fiercely when Cedric came out of his own room and followed. "Where you going?"

"To get something to eat," Armus growled.

"Dinner's in less than an hour."

"I'm hungry now."

"Okay." The boy continued to trail at his elbow.

"Where are you going?" Armus demanded.

"With you," Cedric answered cheerfully. "I'm hungry, too."

Armus muttered under his breath, but he did not send him away.

Richard stopped short just inside the doorway. There was a woman in his room. A beautiful woman, at that, clearly noble, dressed in scarlet, her snug, low-cut bodice trimmed with white lace. She was looking out the window, her shoulders back, her breasts outlined tightly in the daylight . . . the young man blinked. He was used to charming young women into his bed readily, but this was impossibly easy. "I . . . forgive me, Lady, I must be in the wrong room . . . "

She turned and smiled radiantly. "Are you Richard Grey?"

"Yes."

"Then this is your room. I was just . . . checking it over before your arrival." She crossed to him like a cat after cream and presented her hand languidly. "I'm Alicia. I'm Devlin's niece. I am so pleased to meet you."

Richard blinked again, bringing the offered hand to his lips. "The pleasure is all mine."

"Well, perhaps it will be," she answered warmly. "If everything is to your liking, I'll be on my way. But I'll see you at dinner, won't I?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Richard assured her.

Watching the woman leave, with the same cat-like moves, Richard just shook his head. He'd expected the people here to be friendly, but he'd had no idea they'd be *this* friendly.

The inner courtyard of the castle was full of activity. In one corner, half a dozen men cleaned fish and shellfish for cooking. Tables had been made of sawhorses and planks, and they were bowed under the weight of cooling breads, pies, cakes, and other assorted baked goods. There were three fires with pots bubbling over them, a fire pit with two whole hogs cooking. The two doors to the castle kitchen stood open, and serving women bustled back and forth in quick procession.

Another rough table had been made for the common travelers and servants of the noble guests. Armus and Cedric, still in their traveling clothes, attracted little enough attention when they sat at one end of the table on the low benches.

"Lots of pretty girls," Cedric said brightly.

"Lots of good food," Armus answered with appreciation. He snagged a stern-looking old woman as she passed. "Pardon me, can you spare a plate for two hungry travelers?"

"Why not?" the old woman snapped. "Feed you all in the yard, less to clean up inside. Meg! Bring plates! Two more here! Boy! Bring ale!"

The boy brought the short mugs immediately; Meg was a little slower.

Sipping his ale, Armus looked around and sighed. Such a beautiful castle, obviously wealthy and yet friendly and pleasant. He knew that Harold Devlin had been a good friend of his father's for years; he knew how badly Thomas wanted this wedding to go forward, both to ally their houses and to cement their friendship. But why couldn't his father understand?

It wasn't that he was opposed to the notion of marriage. He had known practically from his own nursery that what was most expected from him, as eldest son, was a successful marriage and the production of an heir. He didn't object to that; he liked women, and he liked children. But Armus was abundantly aware that he had not much, really, to offer of himself. Oh, he was the firstborn, he would inherit the title and the lands, and that was more than enough to satisfy most of the noble ladies who might have been matched to him. But of Armus himself -- that was a different matter. He was not elegant, like his father, nor starkly handsome like Richard. He was

not boyishly charming like Cedric, or engaging like William. He did not sparkle as Eleanor did. He was just Armus. Too tall, too broad, too intimidating in his simple presence. Too serious-minded, too bookish. He would rather play chess than compete in a joust. He would rather write letters than sword fight. He would rather cook than almost anything. In all, he was content with himself. But how in the world was a wife to be content with such a man?

And a wife born and raised in this fairy tale castle, surrounded by knights and sailors and men of war? How could some delicate, high-bred noble woman from this elegant place ever be content with a man as simple as Armus Grey? How would she not be bored, restless -- unhappy?

And Armus was determined at least in this: whatever his father said, he would not marry a woman who was going to be unhappy with him. If he could not win her heart, he would not marry.

As badly as his father wanted this alliance, Armus didn't see any way that it was possible.

He sighed again. "Forgive me," a woman said at his elbow, "I did not mean to make you wait."

Armus looked up. She was young and pretty, her dark hair back in a heavy braid, her hazel eyes gently concerned. She put a platter down in front of him, a mountain of steaming clams in their shells. In her other hand she bore two plates, which she set in front of him and Cedric.

"I was not sighing over the wait," Armus assured her.

She smiled gently and nodded. "You're too early for the fancy dishes, but there's plenty fresh from the shell." The ale boy had followed her over with a dish of melted butter, which she also put before them.

"That's fine."

"How, um, how do we eat these?" Cedric asked nervously.

The girl flushed. "I'm sorry." She reached into her skirt pocket and produced two curious little knives. They were short, the blades scarcely longer than a man's smallest finger, with rounded blades, no edges. She set one down on Armus' plate, and picked up a clam to demonstrate with

the other. She slipped the blade between the two shells, and with an expert twist of her wrist pried the shell open. Then she slid the dull blade under the muscle portion and pried it loose. She dunked the morsel in the butter and offered it to Cedric.

He looked between the meat, the girl, and his brother. "You . . . eat that?"

"It's delicious," Armus assured him.

Cedric wrapped his hand over the girl's and guided the clam to his mouth. He chewed suspiciously at first, and then swallowed and smiled. "That was good," he admitted in surprises.

He had not, Armus noted, released the girl's hand. She drew it back carefully.

"Will you join us?" Cedric said brightly.

The girl glanced around the courtyard. Evidently, she decided that there were enough other people present to keep her safe from these two travelers. "For a moment only, or Cara will have my head." She sat lightly next to Armus. "Have you traveled far?"

"Two days," Cedric answered. "I'm exhausted -- I could drop into bed this instant." He winked at her.

The girl blushed deeply. "Brother," Armus said warningly, "let her be." It was one thing to chat up a kitchen maid, but quite another when the maid evidently *was* an actual maid. Besides, Armus found the blush quite charming.

She produced a third knife and set to work on her own shells. She was more proficient even than Armus was; Cedric was clumsy, but gaining skill.

Over the girl's shoulder, Armus spied a small boy -- a noble one, from his clothes -- creeping up behind her with a live crab at arms' length in front of him. "Crab," he said quietly, nodding.

She turned just as the boy sprang, snagging the waving crab with one hand, the boy with the other. "Hello there," she said to the crab. "And where did you come from?"

The boy giggled. "I caught him all by myself."

"In the tide pool?" she asked sharply.

The giggle faded. "N-no. On the beach."

The girl looked him up and down. "Your shoes are wet."

The child wiggled, but could not escape her grip on his arm. "You won't tell, will you? Papa said he'd tan me."

"Adam, you know better. You've been told a hundred times . . . "

"Please, please don't tell! He won't let me go to the festival!" The child was close to tears now.

"Aw, come on," Cedric said, "don't tell on him. He's just a boy."

The boy looked up at him in surprise, and then he did burst into tears. The young woman put the crab down on the table -- where Armus promptly stopped its escape -- and wrapped both arms around the child. She looked thoughtfully over his head at Cedric. "The tide pools," she said quietly, "have broken rock bottoms. When my brother was eight, he got his leg caught between the rocks. He was alone, and no one knew where he was. He drowned when the tide came in."

The young man stared, appalled. "I . . . I . . . forgive me, I had no idea . . . "

Meg nodded her understanding. She was not angry, merely explaining. "We have a great fear of the pools, and we try to teach it to the little ones . . . not very successfully." She pushed the boy away from her and dried his tears with her thumbs. "All right. I won't tell . . . this time. But if

I catch you down there again I will beat you myself until my arms are tired, and *then* I'll tell your father. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She leaned to kiss him on each cheek, and the child was suddenly all smiles again.

There, Armus thought with a sudden jolt, I need a woman like that. One who loves children like that, one who's not afraid of shellfish. A normal woman, a common woman . . .

He sighed again. He was the firstborn son of Thomas Grey of Covington Cross, and there was no common woman in his future.

The kitchen maid turned to him. "As for you," she continued, taking the crab out of Armus' hands, "I have just the place for you." She walked across to the nearest pot and threw him in.

"You're going to eat *that*?" Cedric exclaimed.

"They're delicious, too," Armus told him. "You boil them, then take the meat out of the shell and dip it in a little salt butter . . . "

"Sea-water rinse and fresh butter," the girl countered, sitting down again. She popped open another shell and neatly devoured the clam, then opened another for the boy, who still hovered beside her.

"I never would have thought of that," Armus conceded. "I suppose it takes away some of the bitterness."

"How come you're eating now?" the boy demanded. "You'll spoil your dinner."

"Because I don't want to be seen at the table eating like a pig," the girl answered directly.

"Why?"

Cedric laughed. "She wants to impress her beau with her bird-like appetite."

"But Aunt Meg doesn't have a beau," the boy protested.

"Oh, that *is* a shame," Cedric answered warmly.

The girl was blushing again. "Go change your shoes," she said to the boy.

He scampered off. "Nice boy," Cedric said after him. "Very helpful."

Blushing more deeply, Meg put her knife down and stood up. "I must go."

"Stay," Armus answered quickly. He put his hand on her arm, staring at her. "Please, stay. Just a moment more." She frowned, puzzled, and shot a quick look at Cedric, who was still grinning at her. "My little brother's annoying, but he's harmless, I swear. Please, stay."

His stare was unnerving her as badly as Cedric's remarks, and he forced himself to look away, to release her arm and reach for another clam, before she fled. Because he might be wrong. The boy had said . . . the boy had said . . . but it might be a pet name, it might be anything . . .

No. No matter how beloved servants became, noble children did not address servants as 'Aunt' anything.

He felt his chest go tight. No, he told himself firmly, do not think it, do not hope it. Aunt Meg might be anybody, any number of distant relatives, there was no reason to think . . .

He wore common clothes, too, when he worked in the kitchen, he might be mistaken for a servant by anyone not familiar with the household . . .

With so many important visitors, with such a large family, might not even the members of the Lord's family be pressed into service, especially the younger ones?

His hands were damp with perspiration, the clam slipping out of his grip clumsily. He glanced up at her again. She hadn't noticed. Was it possible?

No. He could not let himself hope that this pretty, sensible, easy-going woman was . . .

"Meg!" The old woman was back, and her temper had not improved. "Go and get changed," she barked as she moved past the table.

She sprang to her feet, glad of the excuse. "I must go. I hope you enjoy the festival."

"I'm sure I shall," Armus said carefully.

"Now, Meg!" the old woman snapped on her return trip.

"Coming, Nurse," the girl answered. She went inside.

"You going to finish these, Armus?" Cedric asked. He got no answer; his brother was staring toward the castle. "Armus?"

"Peasant girls don't have nurses," Armus answered vaguely.

"What?"

Armus stood up, suddenly full of purpose. "Don't just sit there, little brother. We have to get changed for dinner."

He strode out, with his younger brother struggling to catch up.

The Grey family gathered in the corridor just outside the great hall, and waited for Cedric. "Where *is* he?" Armus demanded. He's had plenty of time to change.

"He'll be along," Thomas soothed. He looked his oldest son up and down. The boy was quite handsome when he was cleaned up -- and he had clearly taken extra care today. It pleased Thomas at the same time is puzzled him. Armus had been so reluctant about this whole visit, yet now he seemed nervously eager.

Armus was staring back at him. "What, Father?"

"Nothing, nothing." Grey turned his attention to the other children. Eleanor was, under protest, wearing a dress, and she looked lovely, or would if she'd stop fidgeting. Richard was as elegant as always, relaxed, a little bored. A fine family, Thomas thought proudly. Now if only Cedric .

. .

His youngest bounced down the hall, breathless. "Sorry, am I late? I was . . . talking to someone . . . "

Indulgently, Thomas reached out and smoothed a black lock into place. "Shall we?"

They went into the great hall. Noble guests and immediate family were gathered, milling around, no one seated yet. Harold Devlin came forward to meet them, and Armus was vaguely aware that Devlin and his father were embracing, talking . . . he scanned the room with a mix of eagerness and dread. She had to be here -- she wasn't going to be here -- it wasn't her -- he didn't see her.

His heart sank. She wasn't here. It wasn't her.

"Armus?" Thomas prompted gently, and Armus realized that he'd missed being introduced. He turned to Devlin, shaking his hand, saving the situation as well as he could, hiding his disappointment.

"Good Lord, Thomas," Devlin started, staring at him, and Armus waited for the inevitable comment about his size; the man surprised him by finishing, "he looks just like his mother, doesn't he?"

Thomas nodded. "He favors her, yes. And these are my other children . . . "

Armus glanced around the room again even as he greeted Lady Marie. "We'll sit down as soon as Margaret comes," she said quietly.

Devlin frowned. "And my daughter is . . . ?"

Marie patted his arm. "I've sent for her, she'll be down directly."

Harold shook his head. "It's not like her to be late for anything," he said, trying to reassure Thomas. "But as she is, I'll take the opportunity to tell you, John Mullens arrived this morning."

Thomas bristled, but Richard spoke first. "Mullens is here?" he demanded.

"Richard," Thomas said sternly.

"I know, Thomas," Devlin continued, "believe me, I would sooner he wasn't. But as he *is* my guest . . . "

"Of course we will have a truce," Thomas completed quickly. "You have my word that neither I nor any member of my family --" this with a warning glance at Richard "-- will cause any trouble with Mullens."

"Thank you, Thomas."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Mullens came into to hall, with Alicia on his arm.

Richard growled. Cedric snorted. Armus moved to his father's right shoulder.

Mullens came over to them. "Hello, Thomas," he said brightly. "I didn't realize you'd be joining the festivities."

"Obviously," Thomas answered dryly.

"And brought all the family with you. How nice." He glanced up -- way up -- at Armus. "Hello, Armus. New shirt, isn't it?" He turned back to Devlin. "Oh, of course, you still have a daughter at home, don't you? I'd advise caution, old friend. Marriages with the Grey family don't always

go as arranged."

"You intercepted the courier!" Thomas barked in outrage.

Mullens threw up his hands. "Oh, no, that would be wrong!"

Armus lunged at him, and stopped short. A woman stood between them, in a space so small that she had to turn sideways. No more than a girl, really, her dark hair brushed into fresh waves around her shoulders, a modest but rich gown the gray-green color of the ocean, her face flushed, her eyes dancing with nervousness. But she stood her ground between them, as if oblivious of her danger there. Armus dropped back a step. So did Mullens.

She ignored them and dropped a curtsy to her father. "Forgive my tardiness, Father. I meant no disrespect to your guests."

Harold held his hand out and she took it, moved to his side with ease. "Sir Thomas Grey, my daughter, Margaret."

She curtseyed again. "My apologies, my lord."

"Oh, I would say you arrived right in time," Thomas answered gently. "May I introduce my son, Armus." He turned and put her slender hand into Armus', where it all but disappeared.

Armus thought he might never breathe again -- and he didn't care. It was her. The sensible girl from the courtyard, his wonderful common girl, and she was beautiful, she was real, and she could be his . . . if he could win her heart . . . if he could even manage to speak.

Behind him, Cedric muttered, "Hey, that's . . . "

"You haven't met my brothers," Armus said quickly, grabbing Cedric's shoulder hard with his free hand. "This is Cedric, whom you haven't met . . . "

At least the boy was quick enough to nod. "Hello."

"And Richard, and my sister Eleanor."

She smiled gratefully, nervously. He smiled back, trying to be reassuring.

Mullens came between them, almost literally. He snagged her hand and drew it to his lips, a little too slowly. "Lady Margaret. It's been years, I'd nearly forgotten you'd be grown by now. And what a lovely young woman you've turned out to be."

Armus reclaimed the hand, firmly. "I believe dinner is ready," he said firmly.

Her mother joined in the rescue. "It is, thank you. Please, everyone, please be seated for grace."

It took some minutes to get everyone arranged at the long table, but they finally settled. Devlin sat at the head of the table, of course, with Thomas at his right hand and John Mullens at his left. Marie Devlin sat at the foot of the table, with Michael Devlin at her right and Armus at her left. Eleanor sat next to Michael, directly across from Margaret, who sat next to Armus. Cedric and Richard sat along one of the long sides, with Alicia between them. As soon as the friar had completed grace, the servants descended with mountains of food, amid a light clamor of conversations.

Cedric claimed a small crab from the platter in front of him and offered it to Alicia. "These are really delicious," he told her eagerly, with more confidence then he actually had. "You take the meat out of the shell and dip it in the butter, here, let me show you . . . "

As he talked, Richard drew his knife, neatly whacked a second crab in half, and offered a dainty bite to the young woman -- who ate it with a smile. The brothers glared at each other.

Eleanor was trying to figure out the best approach for the clams. They were open, on half-shells, but the muscle was still attached to the lower shells and every time she tried to pry it loose with her spoon, the shell skittered away. Mindful of the company, she could not just grab it with her free hand, which would be the most sensible approach . . .

"Ten generations," Lady Margaret said quietly.

Eleanor looked across at her. "Pardon?"

"For ten generations we've been trying to figure out a polite way to do that," Meg answered.

"And what have you found?"

"Really big napkins," the girl answered. She neatly took her own shell in one hand, her spoon in the other, and ate.

Eleanor laughed and began again. She was much more successful this time. She shot a glance at her brother, who was sitting there like a lump, but he was looking at his plate.

At the head of the table, the lack of conversation at the foot of the table had not gone unnoticed. Harold Devlin shook his head. "Meg's been skittish ever since she found out about this."

Thomas nodded his agreement. "And Armus has been silent. We shouldn't have told them."

"She'd have found out," Devlin answered. "She knows everything that goes on in this house."

Mullens snorted. "Then she's probably heard what happened the last time one of your children tried to marry."

Thomas glared at him, but with a glance at his friend and host, refrained from answering.

Alicia was very much enjoying the attention of the younger Greys. "For brothers," she observed, "you're very different."

"Which of us do you prefer?" Cedric asked confidently.

The young woman considered, then nodded toward the end of the table. "I've always preferred very tall men."

"No, no," Richard countered, "he's out of the running. You have to choose between us."

She pouted prettily. "Oh, don't make me choose. I don't know how I ever would, you're both so adorable . . . can't we all be friends together?"

"No," Cedric answered.

"No," Richard confirmed.

Marie Devlin had borne twelve children, buried two, and seen nine married. She could see her husband at the far end of the table, murmuring anxiously with his friend, watching the young couple not speaking, and she knew that they were nervous about it. But she had been through these introductory dinners before, and she was not at all worried. They were sneaking glances at each other, and that was enough. In time, away from all these people, they would talk. Thanks to the length of the festival, they had that time. They would get to know each other in their own way, and unless Marie missed her guess, which she rarely did, they would find they had a great deal in common. Marie was not worried about this match. She was primarily worried about keeping the fathers from meddling in it. What these two of them needed for the moment was to be ignored.

She turned her attention to the sister. "That's a lovely dress, Eleanor. Did you make the lace yourself?"

The girl flushed. "I'm . . . not very good at lace, I'm afraid."

"No matter," Marie smoothed over, "everyone has their own gifts. Is weaving more to your taste? We have a competition at the festival, you know. Just small pieces, but you're welcome to join in."

As Eleanor fumbled for a reply, Margaret came to her rescue. "Mother, there are a hundred things more interesting than weaving at the festival."

"I'm sure she'd enjoy it," Armus teased gently. "Go on, Eleanor, show off your talent."

Eleanor glared at him. "Well, perhaps I *will* give it a try."

And while older brothers were teasing younger sisters, Michael Devlin ventured into the conversation. "You're not eating, Meg? You usually have such a good appetite."

The girl blushed, staring at her plate.

"Do you feel all right?" her mother worried. "You seem flushed."

"It's nothing, Mother," Margaret answered faintly, wishing she could just disappear into the floor.

"Besides weaving," Armus said, gallantly changing the subject, "what goes on at this festival?"

"Oh, any number of things," Marie answered. "There are entertainers, we have Spaniards this year, with their wonderful horses . . . "

"And there are tournaments, of course," Michael added, "archery, and horse races . . . "

Under the table, Armus tapped Meg's hand. She glanced at him, and managed a small, grateful smile.

Her mother saw it, of course, and nodded quietly to herself. Just ignore them, they'd be fine.

Armus had not even tried to sleep; he knew it would be impossible. Instead, he sat by the window with a lamp and tried to read. But his thought kept straying, and in time he gave up, sat back and thought about the girl.

The Lady Margaret Devlin. He knew so much about her -- and so little. What his heart knew, that she was everything Eleanor -- *Eleanor*, of all people -- had predicted -- lovely and kind and intelligent. Someone he could talk to, someone he could -- admit it -- learn to love. But what his mind knew was that right now he knew nothing about her. The dinner had been

pleasant enough, interesting conversation, genteel and polite. But it had all been under the watchful eyes of her mother and her brother, no chance of finding out anything real about her. And after the dinner, she had done what was absolutely proper for a woman of her station: she had stayed at her father's side.

All this proper behavior was not helping Armus. He needed to really talk with her, to get to know her. He needed to get her away from all the people and just . . .

What? Because that was the sticking point, of course. If he got her away from everyone -- what would he say to her? He didn't even know where to begin.

I was a cook, he thought to himself. First and foremost, she needed to know that. His father's counsel came back. A woman like Meg, raised here on the coast, with men at arms an everyday fact of life, was likely to take a dim view of a knight who had been only a cook. If he didn't tell her . . . he had to tell her. Because everything after that might be -- nothing. That might be the end.

Armus sighed deeply. And if it was the end, then what? Could he even hope to find in this world another woman with whom he felt the instant connection he felt to Meg Devlin?

Toward dawn, he heard movement in the castle, gates opening, horses, carts, men speaking. Preparations for the festival, he thought, and put out his lamp and tried to sleep for a bit.

Lady Margaret was not at chapel, and did not appear at breakfast. Torn between annoyance and concern, Armus finally asked her mother where she was. "Lady Margaret is not ill, I hope?"

Marie shook her head. "She's in the infirmary. A ship came early this morning, with wounded."

Armus nodded his understanding, though in fact it surprised him. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, but I thank you for the offer. Go, enjoy the festival. Meg will be along shortly."

Nodding again, Armus went out.

The plain below the castle at White Cliff had exploded overnight with color. Tents and booths were set up in a large, wide circle around the central field. Entertainers and peddlers of every sort milled about, mixing with the city people and the nobles. Children ran unchecked through the crowd, playing joyfully, sitting entranced before the puppet show. Scents filled the air, everything from fresh bread to exotic incense. At the north end of the field, local farmers sold the freshest of their harvested fruits and vegetables.

Cedric had entered the flag race. The rules were simple enough; he and another man rode their horses to the far end of the field, grabbed a flag fixed to a pole, and carried it back to the starting line. There were thirty other riders entered, and Cedric waited, as impatient as his mount.

His father and brother stood on the sidelines, also waiting, applauding when he won his heat. "That is a fine horse," Thomas observed proudly, turning to his older son. But he was talking to himself; Richard was gone.

Alicia had taken his arm and drawn him into the shadow of a tent. "You're not riding today?"

Richard smiled warmly. "I prefer other sports."

"So do I," the woman agreed. "Do you want to kiss me?"

Startled, but willing, Richard answered, "Yes," and kissed her, thoroughly.

Alicia sighed in his arms. "I've been wanting to do that since I first laid eyes on you."

"We can do it again, if you like."

"Not here," she answered quickly. "Someone will see and tell Uncle."

Nodding, Richard released her.

"Your brother has eyes for me, you know," Alicia continued. "I don't want to hurt the poor boy, he's very sweet, but feeling as I do for you . . . "

"Don't worry about Cedric," Richard answered soothingly. "I'll talk to him."

"You'll be kind?"

"Oh, of course. He's my little brother."

Alicia smiled radiantly and gave him another kiss.

The castle kitchen was crowded with women and food, hot and noisy. Armus could scarcely sneak in any case, but certainly not here. He looked around, dodging a maid carrying a huge platter of meat, and found what he was looking for. The old woman, Cara, was struggling to drag a huge sack to a table on the far side of the room.

"Here, let me help you," Armus said. He lifted the sack easily with one hand and deposited it next to the table.

The old woman followed. She came barely to his elbow, but she looked him up and down with the critical eye, completely disregarding their difference in station. She was, Armus guessed, a secure and much-beloved servant -- which was exactly what he was hoping. "So," she finally said, "you're him." She dropped onto a bench, opened the sack, and began peeling one of the potatoes it contained.

"I am," Armus confirmed quietly. He sat opposite here, drew his own knife, and claimed his own potato. "Tell me about Lady Margaret."

The peasant woman stared at him. Here he was, noble born, noble dressed, hulking in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and asking for gossip. "Familiar one, aren't you?" she asked in her own much too familiar tone.

Armus shrugged, refusing to be baited. "You were her nurse. You know her better than anyone."

"And why would I tell you?"

The knight shrugged, deposited the neatly pared potato onto a plate and reaching for another. "Perhaps you won't. Is there something I shouldn't know?"

It was the potato, more than anything else, that made the old woman speak. A knight who was actually useful in the kitchen? This was clearly not the sort of noble she was used to -- and she liked the difference. It spoke well of him. "She's yet a virgin."

"Oh." Armus concentrated on the spud, avoiding her eyes. This was not exactly the sort of information he was looking for -- although it was nice to know.

"She has good hips. She'll give you strong sons."

Armus was not, he told himself, was definitely *not* blushing. "Oh," he answered again.

"She's a tender little soul," Cara continued. "She needs to be away from here. Away from the coast. All the soldiers here -- they break her heart."

"She falls in love easily, then?"

The old woman glared at him. "Are you truly a big dumb oaf?" she demanded. "I told you she was yet a maiden."

Armus nodded. He should, he realized, take great offense -- but he felt as if he were being scolded by someone's grandmother. "I misunderstood. Forgive me."

The glare softened into a critical consideration. It was a test, Armus realized. Of his temper, of his character. Evidently he passed; the old woman sighed and reached for another potato. "When Meg was a little girl, she would wake every day at first light and run up the stairs, in her

bare feet and her nightgown, and hang over the battlements and look for ships on the horizon. I never saw a child so crazy for ships. Nothing in the world made her happier than seeing a ship come into the harbor, nothing."

"And now?"

"And now," the old woman pursed her lips in disapproval, "now she wakes every day and climbs to the battlements and looks for ships, and she gets on her knees and prays to God that there won't be any. No ships full of soldiers, no ships of the broken, the wounded -- the dead." Cara shook her head impatiently. "A tender little soul. She sees too much. She thinks too much. Now you," she waved her little carving knife in Armus' direction, "you seem likely enough. She'll suit you. You marry the girl, take her away from here. Make her a wife and a mother before she turns into a sad old woman."

Aware that he had found a valuable ally, Armus stood, gave the old woman a bow of his head. "Thank you."

The old woman nodded, unimpressed. "Best you get to the games now."

"I thought the dinner went well," Devlin said, as he and Thomas Grey strode the castle grounds, now festival grounds.

Grey shook his head. "They didn't speak much. I'm not sure but that we should have gone about this the traditional way. Introduced them on the way to the altar, and let them sort out the rest afterward."

Devlin shrugged, apologetic. "She's my youngest, Thomas. My baby girl. I suppose I'm much too sentimental about her. "

"I can understand that," Thomas answered kindly. When he had ordered Eleanor to marry, over her objections, it had all but broken his heart. And what a foolish mistake that had turned out to be. "And Armus . . . needs time yet to settle from the Wars."

"Thank the Lord he came back alive."

Thomas nodded seriously, thinking of William, his other son, who had not yet come home. It did not bear thinking on. "Margaret. She can managed a household?"

"Oh, yes, she can manage," Harold confirmed. "She may manage you right to distraction, in fact. She cannot bear to have anything happen under this roof that she does not know about, from my leases to the servants' arguments. She's young, she'll need to learn her way a bit -- but she's level-headed, she's honest, and she's kind." After a pause, "Can I take it, from your question, that you don't plan to marry again?"

Thomas chuckled. "I don't know. I have these -- children, you see -- "

"I see," Devlin agreed immediately, understanding completely.

Armus truly did intend to go out to the festival grounds. He had nothing but the best intentions. But on his way, he passed an open door, a study -- and he saw the books.

The books stood on shelves against the wall, books and books, perhaps three hundred of them, more books than Armus Grey had ever seen in one place. He entered the room and stood, just staring at them. Then he reached for one. Then he stopped and looked around. This was obviously Sir Harold's study; a desk stood against the window, everything neatly put away. He was intruding here. And yet -- hadn't they been invited to make themselves at home? And he would not harm the books, he would be very careful, he only wanted to look . . .

Curiosity winning over manners, he took down the book. There was a deep chair near the fireplace, at the far side of the room, and he went and sat and was lost in the written words.

Lady Margaret came in briskly and crossed to the desk without looking around. Aware that she hadn't seen him, Armus started to rise, to speak. But the woman dropped to her knees, crossing herself as she went, and bowed her head in prayer. Armus remained silent, unwilling to interrupt her. And when she popped back to her feet, then sat at the desk, he was too slow; it would be awkward to announce his presence now. He wondered if he could make it out the door in silence. The thought that she would catch him sneaking out was embarrassing, but the alternative was to be caught observing her in secret when she left the room . . .

As he prepared to move, something about her posture, her attitude, caught his attention. She drew parchment out of the desk drawer, opened the ink well, dipped the quill with such quick assurance that he was amazed. Few enough noble women ever learned to read. This one could write as well? And write with great competence, at that; she dashed off one page after another,

setting aside the sheets in a neat row at the top of the desk with barely a pause. Who was she writing to, and why was it so urgent that she could ignore her father's guests to accomplish it? Did she have a lover somewhere, to whom she sent a desperate letter? Or perhaps . . .

She wrote five pages in rapid succession. Then she drew a handkerchief out of her pocket and unfolded it on the desk. A smaller piece of parchment lay within it, folded, and she unfolded it very gingerly. It was stained with dark browns and blacks, fading here and there to red . . . She hesitated a bare moment, bowing her head again, and then she set to copying it.

Armus closed his eyes. Everything Cara had told him was true. She was not writing to any lover; she was not wasting her day in any frivolous flirtation. He knew what that letter was. He had carried such a letter, all the time he was away from his home. He knew what the stains were, and why the letter had to be copied over before it could be dispatched. He knew, too too well, what his lady was doing. And his heart ached for her.

She had left the door open. The servant girl came in noisily, but the sound of her voice still startled Margaret. "Lady Margaret? Your father sends to know where you are."

Meg sighed without turning, her quill hovering over the letter. "Tell my father I will join him shortly."

The servant hesitated. "He bids you come now, my lady."

Armus stood up, startling both of the women. "Give my respects to Sir Harold, and tell him that Lady Margaret and I will join him very soon."

The girl fluttered and fled.

Margaret stared at him. Her turning had brought her up out of the chair; the quill, forgotten in her hand, dripped ink onto the desktop. Her eyes were full of questions -- how long have you been there? Why didn't you speak? But when she spoke she said only, "Thank you, my lord."

Armus inclined his head. "Please," he said, gesturing, "finish the letter."

She hesitated, reluctant to turn her back on him. He moved to the side of the desk and leaned against the wall, looking on the window. Slowly, she resumed her seat, wiped the quill and the small puddle it had made -- but did not continue. "Please," Armus urged again.

She bent her head to the letter.

He watched in silence until she was finished, taking a glance at the other letters as well. "I did not mean to startle you," he said by way of apology, as she finished the letter and set it aside to dry. "I saw the books and could not resist them." He realized he still had a book in his hand. "And then I was . . . distracted . . . "

Margaret nodded. "I have often been lost in that one." She reached for the stained letter and folded it back into the handkerchief.

"I carried a letter like that," Armus told her. "All the time I was away at the Crusades . . . I often wondered what would happen, if it should be . . . " he hesitated, "if it grew soiled by my death. It must be very difficult for you to copy such a letter."

The girl shrugged. "One scribe's hand is as good as another. It's little enough I can do."

"I doubt that it seems little to the mother who receives that letter."

She accepted this compliment with a nod of her head. But she stared at her hands, at the desk. Slowly, she ventured, "You must think me a very peculiar woman."

Armus smiled gently. "Must I?"

That was completely the wrong answer. She could take teasing from her brother, but not from the potential husband she barely knew -- not yet, anyhow. She stood up, pocketing the letter again. "My father seeks me."

Damn it, Armus thought. He had almost opened some real conversation between them. "Please, stay," he entreated.

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes serious and for once not veiled by politeness. But he could not tell what she thought of what she saw. Mostly she just seemed sad. She reached and put her hand on his arm. "My father seeks me," she repeated gently.

Armus sighed. "Then by all means, we must go."

Cedric tugged gently on the reins, trying to calm his nervous horse -- but not to calm him too much. He moved to the starting line for the second round of the race. He looked over at his opponent -- one of the Devlin boys, he thought, but he couldn't have said which one -- and then at the crowd.

Alicia had pushed to the front of the spectators. Cedric smiled at her; she smiled back, warmly. She waved. He waved back.

The flag fell while he was waving, and his opponent started without him. Cedric spurred his horse after him, but it was much, much too late to make up the distance.

Shaking his head, he scanned the crowd as he got back to the finish line. Alicia was gone.

Armus took a long deep breath, inhaling the scents of the festival. It smelled wonderful.

"Candied apples," Margaret said, pointing to a little booth. "They are delicious."

"Then let me get you one," he offered at once.

Before he could go, a young matron approached with a squalling, well-bundled, red-faced infant in her arms. "Meg! Thanks God you're here. I can't do a thing with him."

Margaret -- Meg -- took the child in her arms without comment. She reached through the blankets to touch the back of his neck. "He's too warm, Sarah," she said immediately. She juggled the baby onto her arm and began to peel away wrappings.

"But the nurse says he'll catch a chill," the mother worried.

Armus glanced around. Though fully fall, the day was bright and warm; he was comfortable in his shirt sleeves. You need a new nurse, he thought dourly.

"You need a new nurse," Meg said at the same time. She peeled off the fourth blanket and found the infant also wearing a heavy jacket. She frowned, her hands full and Sarah uselessly fretting.

"Here," Armus offered, and took the blankets. He threw them over one arm, then helped her wrestle the child out of the jacket. The child quieted considerably during the procedure, and by the time they draped in a single blanket over his gown, he had stopped crying entirely.

"You're sure?" Sarah fussed. "The nurse said . . . "

"He's no more likely to take a chill in this weather than you are," Armus said calmly.

The young woman looked him up and down, noticing him for the first time. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Margaret took the blankets back and began to fold them. "Armus Grey, my sister Sarah Hamblin."

"Lady Sarah," he replied smoothly, with a small bow.

"Sir . . . " she paused. "Oh, dear Lord, you're *him*. Oh, I am so sorry . . . " she reached for her child, " . . . I didn't mean to, to interrupt . . . "

"Sarah, shut up," Meg said mildly.

At least her sister did. "I . . . I . . . thank you for your help." She took her blankets back and fled.

Meg studied the toe of her little shoe for a moment, with an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry, she's . . . um . . . "

"I have a sister, remember?" Armus assured her. He offered an arm and she took it; they strolled toward the rows of seats at the far side of the tournament ring. "But tell me, does *everyone* know about this possible marriage?"

She shrugged. "I am blood kin to half the county. There are very few secrets here. I'm sorry. I know this was supposed to be . . . "

"It's all right," Armus assured her again. "I don't object . . . I only wonder, what happens if the marriage doesn't proceed?" He noticed that he was talking as if the marriage didn't involve either of them. It seemed safer, at this point.

"I suppose," she ventured quietly, "there will be someone else."

"Is that your wish?"

She looked up at him, startled. Too blunt, Armus knew instantly, he had been much much too blunt. "My wish?" she asked, bewildered.

"Is there someone you would rather be married to?"

Margaret stumbled, and he used both hands to steady her. It gave her a minute to collect enough wit to speak. "I have no lover, if that's what you're asking," she answered, just a shade defensively.

"That is not what I was asking," Armus answered, equally defensively. He sighed; he didn't want to argue with her, least of all over this. "I am not speaking well," he conceded. "Let me try again." Carefully, he thought before he spoke. "I know that, traditionally, you would have no control over who you married. But in this instance, I have arranged . . . I have told my father that I will not be married without my bride's agreement. Not concession, understand, but *agreement*."

She stopped walking and turned to face him, to stare at him as if he had gone quite mad. "And your father accepted that?"

"Well . . . I'm a lot bigger than he is. He pretended to accept it, anyhow."

"And how would I . . . how could your bride decide such a thing?"

Armus shrugged once. "I suppose . . . she would have to get to know me. To know if she could be happy with me."

"And you with her?"

"Yes."

She resumed walking, slowly, thinking this over. "It almost sounds like a love match."

"Such things are not unheard of."

Meg shook her head. "Sarah made one, but there were . . . circumstances." Her tone gave Armus a good idea what those circumstances were; Sarah did not strike him as being the sharpest knife in the drawer, but evidently she'd at least had the sense to get herself compromised by a noble. "It's best if you don't mention the phrase in front of my father."

"Thanks for the warning."

They walked further. "I don't know," Margaret confessed, "what I should say now."

Say anything, Armus thought madly, give me any clue what you're thinking. But he knew full well the position he'd put her in. "Say nothing, Lady Margaret," he advised. "You do not have to make a decision now, or even while I'm here. We're only meeting now, remember? Nothing is being arranged."

"Yes . . . " she answered uncertainly.

And then Armus wondered if she was wondering, too, if he should say something, give her some hint how he felt about her. But he decided against it. He'd confused her enough, for the moment. Besides, they were almost to the seats where their fathers waited. Let her think, let her consider for a time. Later he could try to be alone with her again, tomorrow or the next day. They had time, he reminded himself firmly. There was no need to rush her, to risk her bolting . . .

As Cedric turned his horse over to the groom, Alicia appeared at his elbow. "I am so sorry," she pouted, "I made you lose the race."

The boy shrugged. "There are other events."

"Yes, there are." She took his arm and drew him away from the crowd.

Devlin and Grey rose to greet the young couple. "I was starting to worry about you," Harold told his daughter.

"My apologies," Meg answered, again. "A word, Father?"

They drew to one side and spoke quietly for a moment. Thomas frowned at his eldest son, wondering what he'd done, but Armus shook his head. "She's been writing letters to the families of the dead," he reported quietly. "And she prepares the royal casualty dispatch."

"Good Lord," Thomas exclaimed softly.

The Devlins returned, and the four of them sat down to watch the horse racing. "Cedric's not competing?" Armus asked.

"He lost in the second heat," Thomas reported dourly. "He let himself be distracted by a pretty face."

"Alicia?" Meg asked brightly.

"Margaret," her father warned sternly.

Without pause, Meg changed the subject. "Sarah's here."

"Ah," Devlin answered, "and only a half a day late. The baby?"

"Overdressed, but thriving."

"Sarah," Harold explained to Thomas, "is my second-youngest. She's been married just a year, and she is . . . still adjusting."

Circumstances, Armus mused. Married a year, and holding a six-month old baby. He nodded to himself; threw a glance to Margaret, who shrugged marginally.

"I don't know how you keep them all straight," Thomas admitted. "All these children, I wouldn't know which one to bellow at next."

"I often don't," Devlin admitted. "Any one of them will answer to any other name, if it's bellowed in the right tone of voice."

"But it confuses us badly," Meg contributed.

Two small boys raced up to them -- up to Lady Margaret. She produced sweets from her pocket; they kissed her on each cheek and ran off again.

"Your grandchildren," Thomas mused. "I really don't know how you keep them straight."

"I don't even try. That was Gordon and . . . and . . . "

"Bernard," Meg supplied.

"Bernard, yes. He's George's oldest."

"He's James' oldest," Meg corrected gently.

"He's George's," her father insisted.

Meg opened her mouth, then closed it. She smiled politely. "If my father holds that he is George's child, I will of course abide," she said. "But as both the Church and my lady mother believe him to be James', it would be best perhaps if we kept it to ourselves."

The men laughed out loud. "Well done," Armus said quietly, and the girl nodded again.

The final heat of the race was run, the winner applauded, and the archery targets brought out. Richard came over, carrying two longbows.

"Are you going to shoot both of those?" Armus inquired mildly.

"No," Richard answered brightly. "I entered you, too."

"Why?" Armus was annoyed.

Richard gave a significant glance to the young woman at his side. "You're good at it. Come on."

"Father . . . " Armus appealed.

Thomas held his hands up. "No, I'm too old for such competitions, but you go on, enjoy yourself."

Reluctantly, Armus took his leave and followed his brother out to the field. "Why?" he demanded when they were out of earshot.

"So you can impress the girl, brother."

"I'd rather *talk* to the girl, which I was doing very nicely, thank you very much."

"Of course you were," Richard answer skeptically. "There in front of both our fathers, I'm sure you were having wonderful *conversation*."

Armus notched his first arrow. "That is my future wife you're making insinuations about," he said tightly.

"Maybe your future wife. Try not to embarrass yourself while she's watching."

The knight glared at his younger brother, then turned and released the arrow. It smacked firmly into the bullseye.

"Try not to embarrass yourself, little brother," Armus advised.

He glanced over at Margaret. She was smiling at him, encouragingly -- but then Eleanor was next to her, whispering frantically. The two of them left together.

Frowning, Armus returned to the targets.

Safely away from their fathers, Eleanor whispered, "I need your help."

"Anything," Meg answered at once.

Eleanor was already steering her toward the castle. She paused and glanced toward the archers -- it had just occurred to her that she was interrupting.

"They won't finish until tomorrow," Meg assured her. "Come on. What's wrong?"

"Weaving." Eleanor pronounced it as a curse.

Meg laughed out loud. "I thought so. I'll help you."

As the went into the castle, they passed a shadowed doorway where Alicia was peeling herself away from Cedric. "And you'll be kind to him?"

Cedric nodded. "Of course I will. He's my brother, after all."

The contest continued. After each round, each man who had missed the target left the field, and the targets were moved back five paces. After eight rounds, only a dozen contestants remained. The contest would be completed the following day.

Armus wandered the festival grounds alone. He bought himself a candied apple -- it was indeed delicious -- and a tankard of ale and a hunk of bread. He avoided the fortune teller, but watched the jugglers for a time. Everyone was polite and friendly to him. He wondered if they were

always this polite, or if it had to do with Meg.

The armorer's tent was full of surprisingly excellent blades, but what caught the knight's eye was a small display case to one side. The craftsman made jewelry, probably from scraps of metal from the weapons, tiny, exquisite little items, incredibly fine. Suitable as an engagement gift -- or a farewell gift.

He selected a tiny silver cross on a very fine chain. As he picked it up, the craftsman bustled over. "A fine choice, sir. A beautiful piece, very fine work . . . "

It was the traditional opening of a haggle, but Armus wanted none. He dumped serval coins into the man's hand.

"Oh, yes, sir, very good, very good . . . "

Armus was already striding away.

Nearly a dozen looms were set up in a wide room on the second floor of the castle. Most were in use, in various stages of completion, but the room was for the moment unoccupied except for the two girls.

Eleanor watched helplessly while Meg threaded one of the empty looms. She tried not to be impressed with the other girl's skill -- but she had to admit, Meg was as quick and proficient with this piece of equipment as Eleanor was with her crossbow.

"How much do you know about weaving?" Meg asked as she worked.

"I wear clothes that were woven," Eleanor replied.

She expected some kind of rebuff, but got none. "I'll get you started, then," Meg answered. "It's easy after that, you just have to follow the pattern and keep the warp even."

"I suppose I really should have learned by now. It just always seemed so . . . boring."

"Weaving is boring," Meg confirmed graciously. "But it gives you a chance to sit by the fire and listen to the old ladies gossip. And besides, it builds your bosom."

"It what?"

A servant girl scampered in, in a tizzy. "Lady Margaret! Sir Andrew brought his daughter and son-in-law, and we've no place to put them!"

Meg's hands barely paused. "Put Sarah and her husband in my room; put Sir Andrew's daughter in that room."

"And where will you sleep?"

"I'll worry about that later."

"There are two beds in my room," Eleanor offered quickly. "You could stay with me."

"Thank you," Meg said quickly. Her hands flew across the loom. She noticed the servant still watching. "Go on. Be sure to tell my mother what we've done."

"Yes, lady." The girl fled.

In the castle's inner courtyard, a sideboard had been set with food and ale for the knights and their men. Richard found it first, but Armus quickly caught up with him, and Cedric came only a moment later, looking very serious and determined. "Richard, a word with you."

"My thought exactly, little brother. But you first. What it is?"

"It's about Alicia," the youngest Grey said importantly. "It's time you stopped pursuing her, before you embarrass us all."

Richard laughed out loud. "You have it wrong, little brother. The lady has made it clear that she prefers my company to yours."

"You're mistaken, brother."

"No," Richard said with certainty, putting down his mug. "You are."

They moved to the center of the courtyard, squaring off. Armus sighed and shook his head, then sat down to finish Richard's ale.

Eleanor was weaving, at least technically. She moved terribly slowly, and the strand -- the warp -- would not stay even, no matter how careful she was. "This is going to take forever."

"You'll get it." Meg encouraged. "Just take your time. The speed comes later."

Nodding grimly, Eleanor persisted. "All right. Now what's this about building cleavage?"

Her potential sister-in-law hesitated. "You'll be scandalized."

"Not likely."

"The motion of pulling the comb toward you and pushing it away -- it builds the muscles in your arms and chest, and it firms your bosom."

"That's an old wives' tale," Eleanor answered.

Meg shook her head. "Your chambermaid, the one with the . . . " she gestured with both hands, " . . . she's nursed eight children."

"That's remarkable. Who told you this?"

"One of my sisters."

Eleanor sighed. "I'll be glad when I have a sister to tell me these things." She caught herself, too late as always. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . "

"Don't. Everybody in the county knows about it." Meg frowned gently. "But I don't think we will ever marry," she continued wistfully.

"Don't you like Armus?"

"I like him very much. But . . . it's complicated."

"Is there another man?"

There was a commotion in the courtyard below, and Meg went to push open the window.

Below, Richard and Cedric had reached the pushing and shouting stage. "It's me she wants!" Richard yelled.

"You're wrong!" Cedric yelled back. "It's me she wants, now leave her be!"

"You leave her. I saw her first."

"But she sees me best!"

Richard threw a punch that landed squarely on his brother's jaw. Cedric staggered back, then stood and hit back. The fight began in earnest.

Above, Meg and Eleanor crowded in the window to watch. Meg noted that Armus was calmly observing the fight. "Why doesn't he stop them?"

Eleanor shrugged. "They're not armed. They won't hurt each other much."

The scuffle continued. Richard had a longer reach then his brother, but Cedric was somewhat quicker; they wrestled more than punched, and neither was notably ahead until Richard connected his fist with Cedric's nose, which began to bleed profusely. He stepped back, prepared to stop fighting, but Cedric ignored the wound and charged at him.

As they came close to their older brother, Armus stood and stepped out of their way. As they moved away, he sat back down again.

At the window, Meg nudged Eleanor and pointed. Across the courtyard, at another window, Alicia was watching -- and smiling. "She did this on purpose," Eleanor said sharply.

Meg nodded. "It's her favorite sport." She straightened. "They're nearly done. We'd better go."

The fight continued, but both fighters grew slower, clumsier, staggering and swinging blindly. Finally Armus sighed, stood up, and grabbed each of them by the collar. He half-carried them, unprotesting, to the bench, and sat them down. Cedric hunched forward over his hands, and Armus turned to look for aid just as his sister and Meg entered the courtyard with rags and

water.

Meg barely glanced at him. She knelt in the dirt in front of Cedric, took his blood-covered hands and gently pushed them away from his face. "Let me see. Let me see," she urged gently. She soaked a rag in the bucket, wrung it with one hand, and wiped some of the blood away. "Lean forward," she counseled as he tried to move away. "Breathe through your mouth, and let me see what I'm doing."

Eleanor dunked her rag in the water and threw it at Richard. "Wash your face," she said. "Where else are you hurt?"

Richard just shook his head, watching his brother with concern. "Is it broken?" he asked, mindful of the trouble he'd be in if it was.

Meg shook her head. "I don't think so. If it is, it's still nice and straight." She rinsed the blood-soaked rag and used it to pinch Cedric's nose firmly, shaking her head.

"You're not going to faint, are you?" Armus asked gently.

Meg glanced over at him, with a small smile. "I blush, but I don't faint."

"Good to know."

"You are both idiots," Eleanor said. "Can't you see she's just playing with you? She's up there right now, laughing at you."

They all looked the direction she pointed. Alicia had drawn back from the window a step. Armus thought he saw someone with her, but he couldn't tell who.

"Stop wiggling," Meg told Cedric firmly. She released the nose and ran her finger down its length, frowning. "No, it's not broken. It is going to swell, though." The bleeding continued, and she replaced the pressure. "Here," she told Cedric, "hold this, as tight as you can bear. The

bleeding will stop in a moment, and we'll get some ice."

Cedric nodded. "T'ank 'ou."

Meg glanced up. Alicia was gone. She looked back at the two bruised brothers. "Will you listen to me?" she asked gently. "Both of you?" She took Richard's hand in one hand and Cedric's in the other. "Whatever Alicia says, and whatever she does, she doesn't care for you. *Either* of you. She likes to see men fight over her, and she's very good at making that happen.

But she is not worth fighting over."

Richard swallowed hard. It would be bad enough to get a lecture like that from Armus or Eleanor, but from a total stranger . . . and worse, she said the words so gently, so caringly, that he couldn't argue with her. He was ashamed of himself, of the way he had behaved. He nodded his agreement.

Cedric didn't hesitate as long. She had tended his wounds; his heart was, for the moment, entirely hers. He nodded.

"Good." She released their hands. "I'll get some ice."

She turned quickly. Armus touched her arm. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Meg shrugged, smiling. "I have brothers, remember?"

"God," Richard said when she was gone, "I feel like a complete fool."

"You should," Eleanor answered. "If Father finds out about this . . . "

Cedric groaned. "Maybe he won't notith."

Richard just looked at him -- his nose swelling, his eyes turning black -- and shook his head.

"Maybe we can get Meg to talk to him," Eleanor answered slowly.

"She does have a way of calming things down," Richard agreed. "What do you think, brother? Can we beg for intercession?" No answer. "Armus?" Armus was gazing the way the girl had gone, and had no idea that they were talking to him. "Speaking of fools," Richard added under his breath.

"Yes," Armus answered without turning, "but at least a fool for a woman worth being a fool over."

Richard sighed. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?"

"Never," Eleanor agreed cheerfully.

Cedric held his nose and groaned.

Alicia stood in the corridor, improperly close to John Mullens. "Well, that was disappointing."

"Wretched little peacemaker."

"She's been a thorn in my side since the day she was born," Alicia agreed. "I can't get anywhere near the oldest boy."

Mullens shrugged. "No matter. Our goal was to cause as much strife as possible for the Grey family, and we have accomplished that."

"Oh, I'm not finished yet," Alicia promised. "I've barely started."

"Oh, my lady, I do adore you."

The great hall was full of light and warmth, despite the late hour. A fire roared on the hearth; two storytellers tried to outdo each other in one corner, while a minstrel played his lute and sang softly in the other. In between, the gathered family of Harold Devlin, and his noble guests, enjoyed each other's company.

Alicia sat in a cloud of young men, holding court. Richard and Cedric remained on the far side of the room, watching her with barely contained disdain.

"Well, my boys," Thomas said cheerfully, "are you enjoying yourselves?"

Cedric reached for his nose guilty, then put his hand down. It was too late, anyhow. Astonishingly, their father did not comment.

"Oh, yes," Richard answered without enthusiasm.

"Having a wonderful time," Cedric added dryly.

Eleanor came over to them, smiling. "Are *you* enjoying yourself?" Thomas asked.

"I am, Father," his daughter answered. "In spite of the dress and all, I'm having a wonderful time."

Thomas beamed. "You look lovely. I'm very proud of you. And what is this I hear about a weaving contest?"

Eleanor flushed. She'd been hoping he wouldn't hear about it. "I'm sure I won't win, Father."

"No matter. I'm glad to see you participate in some more traditional activities."

She glared at her brothers -- Cedric was snickering, while Richard rolled his eyes -- then gave her father her best dutiful-daughter smile. "Well, Meg -- Lady Margaret's helping me a lot. I really like her, Father."

Thomas nodded. "So do I. Unfortunately, you and I liking her is not really the issue just now."

"He's crazy about her," Richard ventured glumly, nodding.

They all looked the way he'd nodded; Armus was standing at the sideboard, a plate in his hand, and for once Lady Margaret was at his side. "Good," Thomas declared. "I'd like a word with him."

"No," Eleanor protested quickly. "I mean . . . can't it wait?"

Her father looked at her, than back at the couple. "I suppose it can, at that."

"I'm sorry I missed the rest of the archery competition," Margaret was saying.

Armus shrugged. "There will be more tomorrow. Eleanor needed your help weaving, I imagine."

"Yes."

"Does she have any talent at all for it?"

Meg considered. "She is very determined."

"You certainly have a diplomatic turn of phrase," Armus observed admiringly.

A modest shrug. "I get to practice a great deal. How's your brother's nose?"

"Oh, twice as big as it was this morning. Would you like a little ham?"

"No, thank you, I'm not very hungry . . . " Meg paused. "I've been nibbling in the kitchen," she admitted, blushing. "I suppose you might have guessed that."

Armus smiled warmly. "Ah, yes, she blushes but she does not faint. A useful trait, that."

"To be honest, I don't generally blush this much, either."

"It's me, then?"

"It's you."

"I'm not sure how I should take that, Lady Margaret."

"Just Meg. Please."

A servant approached and whispered quickly in Meg's ear. She turned suddenly serious, nodding. The servant left. "I'm sorry," Meg said quickly, "I have to go."

"But . . . " Armus protested -- to no one; the girl was already gone.

"Where's she going?" Eleanor asked, walking over to join him.

"I don't know," Armus answered crossly.

"Aren't you going to follow her?"

"No."

Eleanor considered, thinking about what Meg had started to say in the weaving room. "I bet she has a lover."

"She does not have a lover," her brother snapped.

"How do you know?"

"I know, Eleanor."

"But how?"

Glaring at her, Armus slammed his plate down and went after the girl.

He came into the courtyard in time to see Meg going through a doorway on the far side. He followed, opening the door cautiously. The room was dim and quiet, candle lit, a long room full of beds where sick and injured men slept -- the infirmary. In the bed nearest the door, the only man that Armus could see clearly had a neatly bandaged stump where his left leg had once been.

Halfway down the room, Meg was kneeling on the far side of a bed, her hands wrapped in those of an injured man. Across from her, with his back to Armus, was the priest. The young knight recognized the rhythms of the words he could not discern. Last rites.

Armus stood watching, transfixed. His Margaret seemed so calm, so comforting, her voice murmuring under the priest's, soothing -- how many deaths had she seen? How could she be so composed? Small wonder she wasn't bothered by a bloody nose . . .

The one-legged man moved suddenly, startling him. "Sir, if you wouldn't mind, a cup of water?"

Tearing his eyes away from the dying man, Armus quickly poured a cup from the pitcher beside the bed and helped the man sit up enough to drink. "Did you know him?" he asked quietly.

"Aye, that's Robby. Poor boy. We knew he wouldn't be here long. Infection. Shame, he was just a boy."

"Lady Margaret comes here often?"

"Aye, every day since I've been here. She's an angel, that's what she is. An angel come to see us home, one way or the other."

Nodding, Armus eased the man back down on his bed, put the cup back, and moved quietly back to the courtyard.

He stood there for a long moment, just listening, trying to sort out his feelings. Before him, in the great hall, the festivities continued, music and light and laughter. Behind him, a boy died from his wounds. And between the two, Armus stood alone and waited. Absently he drew the tiny cross from his pocket and held it up. It turned, glittering with reflected lamplight. A betrothal gift -- or a farewell gift.

The door behind him opened. Armus tucked the cross away quickly before he turned. Meg stood there, just looking at him, not surprised, not pleased. "If you'd rather be alone . . . " Armus began uncertainly.

"I would," Meg snapped. Then she reconsidered. "I'm sorry. But yes, I would like to be alone."

Armus nodded. "I understand that you're sad . . . "

The girl laughed bitterly. "I'm not *sad*," she answered sharply. "He's better off, out of his pain. I'm *angry*. I'm angry because he was just a boy, and he didn't have to die. If anyone had thought to clean the wound thoroughly in the first place, if anyone had thought to keep him home until he was full grown . . . God forbid, if anyone had thought to *stop* this damned war before any *more* boys had to die . . . "

Her anger died as suddenly as it had risen. She bowed her head suddenly, contrite. "Oh, my lord, I am sorry, I meant no offense . . . "

"I do not take offense at things I have said myself," Armus answered gently.

Slowly, she looked up at him. She was puzzled, confused, uncertain. "My lord?"

Armus held his hand out to her. "Walk with me."

She considered for a long moment, a hundred different emotions crossing her face. Slowly, she said, "I won't be good company."

Armus nodded. "All right. But walk with me anyhow."

He kept his hand out. After another long moment, she took it.

Richard went to his bedroom tired, sore, and annoyed. Alicia was sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

"What do you want?" Richard demanded.

"I never meant to cause trouble between you and your brother. You know that."

"No," Richard snarled, "I *don't* know that."

Alicia nodded. "Meg's warned you against me, hasn't she? And she's right, Richard. I am a wicked girl, I always have been." She slid to her feet, pushed the door shut behind him. "But I swear to you, I didn't set out to make any trouble between you and Cedric. I was only teasing him a little, and then when he took me seriously . . . "

Her hand rested softly on Richard's chest. He folded his own hand over it, stopping her caress. "Whatever the reason, Alicia," he said, much less sternly, "It's done now. Go to bed."

Her eyes warmed, and she slid closer still. "But that's just what I intended."

Richard opened his mouth to protest -- and found Alicia's pressed against it. She kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, until the protest died away. Casting all reason aside, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed.

The castle gates stood open all night during the festival. They strolled out to the festival grounds, which were quiet and deserted, Meg's hand lightly on Armus' arm, silent for a time. "I'm surprised," Armus finally ventured, "that your father lets you visit the infirmary."

"It would be unchristian to forbid it," Meg answered quietly. "My mother would be there also, were it not for the festival."

"It's difficult for you."

"It's little enough I can do for them. But sometimes I think . . . "

"What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Meg, please. Tell me what you think."

"You'll think I'm mad."

"Perhaps."

She considered for a long moment. "Sometimes I think that every time I see a man die, I'm dying with him, slowly, an inch at a time." She shook her head quickly. "Mad, I know."

"Perhaps," Armus repeated, "but I know exactly the feeling you mean." She glanced up at him. "Shall I tell you what I did in the Crusades, Lady Margaret?"

Her posture stiffened. "If you like."

"I fought in one great battle, and I heroically killed one fierce pagan. Only when I lifted his visor, he wasn't the devil-monster I expected him to be. He was just a boy, just like me. A frightened boy, who had died by my hand."

Meg stopped walking and turned to him, putting both her hands over his.

"I became a cook," Armus continued. "I thought if I didn't kill any more it would get better. But I kept seeing men die around me, and like you I felt my own life slipping away with every one of them. And one day I woke up feeling that there was almost nothing left of me, nothing but . . . despair. So I came home."

Tears stood in her eyes. "And . . . you got better? You got your heart back?"

Her question nearly broke his heart. Cara had been right; Meg needed to be away from here, and soon. "I thought I wouldn't," he answered slowly. "I thought I'd always feel . . . mostly dead. But I can see now that being with my family, being part of a normal life again, must have healed

me. Because I *did* have my heart back . . . " He stopped himself there; this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation. "Meg, you have got to leave this place."

She shook her head. "How can I leave them?"

"There are others to tend the wounded," Armus answered firmly. "If you stay here you will lose your heart. You will destroy yourself."

"But . . . "

"You must leave, Meg," he insisted. "If you cannot like me, then choose someone else and marry him, but you *must* leave this place."

"I . . . " Meg hesitated again, wiping the tears away impatiently. "I could like you," she admitted very quietly.

Not a particularly rousing endorsement, Armus thought, but perhaps the best he could expect from an uncertain maiden. "I suppose that's something," he ventured gently.

She managed a brief, sad smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . it's just . . . escaping here seems like the wrong reason to marry."

"You're right," Armus answered, almost chuckling. "An arranged marriage should be based solely on property considerations."

"I just . . . " She fell silent then, unable to speak any further.

"Lady Margaret. Meg. Please, listen to me. I did not tell you I had been a cook, because my father believed that you would think the Crusades some marvelous heroic adventure. And you did not tell me that you thought the Crusades a foolish waste of lives because you thought that I was some brave warrior and I'm guessing that your father advised you to hold your tongue."

The girl nodded her confirmation. "We have been polite and diplomatic and cautious -- and we do not know the first thing about each other. We need to speak plainly now. We need to have truth between us."

She drew a long, shaky breath. "That is *not* something I've had much practice with."

"Will you try?"

She met his eyes, studying him, considering. "I will try, my lord."

Armus nodded. "For starters, don't do that. Call me Armus, or hey you if you like."

"All right." She took his arm, and they began walking again. "Hey You, a question?"

"Anything."

"Have you decided?"

'Decided what?"

"About this marriage. You have the option of refusal. Have you decided?"

Armus frowned, chagrined. "Wouldn't you like to know my favorite color?"

"I would," Meg agreed, "but this first."

While he considered his answered, she reminded him, "Plainly."

"Plainly. That word didn't take long to come around and bite me, did it?" Armus sighed. "Plainly, then. I have decided . . . that if you are willing . . . I would like very much to have you for my wife. But remember what I said. I want your consent to this. I will not allow my

father to arrange this marriage if you don't agree to it. Say a word, and this conversation is over. I will tell my father it's my decision, no one will have any cause to reproach you . . . "

"Armus," she interrupted. "You want to marry me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?"

Meg chuckled. "Yes, why?"

Armus' frown deepened. He wasn't sure what answer she was after. She didn't seem the type to fish for compliments -- but in any case, he was willing to provide them. "Because you're beautiful and intelligent and witty . . . "

The girl shook her head. "No. I am too serious, probably overeducated, and often lose whole days in the pages of a book. You have traveled, you've been places -- there must be woman who are more beautiful, more interesting, more . . . "

Armus laughed out loud. "I've met them," he answered. "They frighten me to death."

"I'm serious," Meg said.

"So am I, " Armus assured her. So it wasn't compliments she was after, but truth -- as he'd promised. "My parents," he answered slowly, "were very much in love. They kept their house together, raised their children, they were lovers and parents and hosts and every other thing . . . but what I remember most, what I always thought was most important, they were each other's best friend." Meg had turned to look at him again. "When I was a boy, I used to creep downstairs very late at night -- to the kitchen, of course -- and I'd hear them talking in the main hall. It wasn't usually anything important, just things that had happened in the day, things we

children had said or done . . . it didn't seem to matter. They just . . . they talked to each other. They liked each other. Am I making any sense at all?"

Meg smiled reassuringly. "You are. You think we could be like that, you and I?"

"Yes," Armus answered fervently. "I think we could. I have thought that since I first saw you in the courtyard, when Cedric made you blush . . . " He hesitated, then decided again in favor of the truth. "Of course, since then I've also fallen in love with you, but that remains, that we might be friends in addition to everything else."

Her eyes flickered downward, uncertain. Armus suddenly became aware of how small her hands were, lost within his. For all that she knew about death and pain, she was but a virgin girl, and knew little enough about life. He had said they should speak plainly, and she had agreed, but it was bound to be heady stuff for a sheltered girl. Perhaps he had pushed it too far. "Meg, I'm sorry, I . . . "

"Stop that." Her eyes came up, calm, serious, tender. "I'm not going to run away."

"I haven't frightened you?"

She shook her head. "No." Then, "Well, yes, maybe, a little. You are so very much not what I expected . . . "

"I'm sorry."

"*Don't* be sorry. I like what you're not. I like what you are. I just . . . you're just unexpected, and it's taking me a minute to catch up."

Armus nodded graciously. "Take all the time you need."

"Thank you." They walked again. "Tell me about Covington Cross."

In the upper passageway of the castle, Alicia came out of a bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. She was tugging her bodice into place, checking her laces as she walked, and she ran right into John Mullen's chest.

"You're abroad late tonight, Lady," Mullens observed as he steadied her. "Up to no good, I hope."

"As always," Alicia assured him.

"I've been thinking, it hardly seems fair that your hard work should have no reward." Mullens reached into his jacket and brought out a large, brightly jeweled pin. "Will you take this as a token of my . . . admiration?"

"You are too kind," Alicia answered, taking the pin.

"Sleep well, my friend."

"Perhaps later." She watched the man out of sight, then examined the pin closely. "Fancy that," she muttered to herself, "being paid for something I'd have done just for fun." She tucked the pin away and continued down the corridor.

Eleanor frowned at the loom. It was late, the castle was dark, and the room empty except for herself, a lamp, and the cursed loom.

It was all well and good, she decided, to have Armus' lady help her, but she didn't want her future sister-in-law to think she was completely inept. If she could just practice a little, so that she could show some progress, she'd feel a lot better. She didn't care what the old matrons thought of her abilities, but Meg was different. She didn't want to do anything to scare Meg away.

Smoothly, she thought, evenly. This is easy. The littlest servant girls can do this. Throw the thread thing, pull the pull thing, easy . . .

The loom immediately tangled.

Cedric was sound asleep, and only half-woke at the gentle breath in his ear. The caress was repeated, and he sat bolt upright, grabbing the woman. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't you guess?" Alicia purred.

"Alicia," Cedric said frantically, "you're very beautiful, but this just won't . . . "

"Shhh," she answered, kissing him. She kept on kissing him until the protest died away, until his hands found their way around her waist, until he let her push him back on the bed and cover his body with her own.

They had strolled all the way around the castle, across the beach, past the tide pools where her brother had died, all the way to the cliff beneath the castle, and back up toward the gate again, talking all the while, the conversation everything Armus could have hoped for. " ... he tried to

arrange a marriage between Eleanor and his son, Henry. He told the King it would bring peace between the families, but of course, being Mullens, he was up to his usual treachery and Eleanor shot Henry with a crossbow . . . "

He stopped because Meg's attention had clearly wandered off. She was staring intently at a rider who came across the field toward the front gate. "Someone you know?" he inquired.

She glanced up at him, startled. "Armus . . . plainly . . . is there any chance that either of your brothers is with Alicia right now?"

Rather a startling question, but Armus shook his head. "None at all. Why?"

The rider was spurring his horse through the main gate. "Because that's her husband, Roland."

More startling still. "Alicia has a husband?" And as an afterthought, "Is he as big as he looks?"

Meg nodded grimly. "He's half again as big as you are. And rather evil-tempered."

"Well, he would be, wouldn't he, with a wife like that?" They resumed their stroll. "I'm not entirely sure that a young lady of your position should know of such things," Armus ventured. "About my brothers, I mean. I suppose your brothers . . ."

"More to the point, my sisters," Meg answered. She stopped short. "Oh, dear Lord."

"What?"

"Sisters. I'm supposed to be sleeping in your sister's room."

Armus chuckled. "Don't worry. Eleanor won't say a word."

"Because she likes me?"

"Because she hates Lady Elizabeth."

Calmer, Meg walked on. "And she is?"

It occurred to Armus that after this night he was going to have to marry the girl, not just because of appearances, but because she was going to know every secret the Grey family had. "Lady Elizabeth is our neighbor. A widow. She is also my father's . . . ah . . . "

"Understood," Meg answered cheerfully. "And Eleanor doesn't like her because?"

"Well, that's a bit complicated . . . "

They walked on, and they talked.

"Marie, where is our daughter?"

Marie turned, her hairbrush hesitating in midair. "She's out walking with Armus."

Devlin reached for the coat he had just taken off. "Let them be," Marie said firmly.

"But you just said . . . "

"If you wish to see your lady daughter married, then let her be."

Devlin hesitated. He knew that tone from his wife; he rarely argued with it. But, "She is a child, Marie."

"She is not a child." Marie resumed brushing her hair.

"And if he defiles her?"

"He will not."

"And if he does?" Harold demanded. He put his coat back on.

His wife put the brush down and went to her, her hands gently on his arms. "And if he does, Harold, then he will marry her and no harm will come of it."

"But . . . "

"My lord husband, we have been through this before."

"But . . . " Devlin protested. He knew she was right. They had been through this, nine times, and it had always turned out well. "But she's just a girl."

"I had borne you two sons when I was her age."

Harold sighed. "She's our baby, Marie."

Marie nodded. "Yes. And when she's married and gone, our house will be empty and silent." As if prompted by her words, a child squealed with laughter somewhere down the corridor. A trample of running feet followed.

Devlin took his coat off again. "No harm will come to her?"

His wife shook her head. "She is safe with him, my husband."

Armus peered carefully over the battlement. The castle here stood directly over the cliff, and the drop to the sea below was considerable. "When we were young," Meg told him, "we used to jump from here."

"From here? It's a wonder you weren't killed. How did you get back up?"

"There's a sea gate in the dungeon. The servants thought the castle was haunted, because they kept finding trails of sea water on the stairs." She stepped back from the wall. "Armus, are you sure about this?"

He felt his chest grow tight. Such easy conversation, until it turned back to the marriage. But he forced his voice to remain calm. "Sure that I want to marry you? Yes. But you don't have to decide tonight, Meg . . . "

"I do," she countered. "I have." Armus let his heart soar, but it crashed back to earth with her next words. "It's just . . . "

It was harder, this time, to keep his voice neutral. "Just what?"

"It's just that I don't want you to do this out of pity."

"Out of . . . my God, you are the most impossibly stubborn woman I have ever met." Armus grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her onto a bench, so that she was exactly at eye-level with him. "I am sure, I am absolutely *certain*, that I do not want to marry you out of *pity*."

He took her face between his two hands and kissed her, hard.

Even before their lips met, he wished he hadn't. He knew she was a maiden; had she ever even been kissed before? Or was this going to send her running and shrieking to her mother's side? Bad enough to kiss her, but to do it in such a brusque and sudden manner . . . but he was already kissing her by the time he'd thought about it.

She didn't try to escape, but she didn't kiss him back, either. She just froze with shock. Armus pulled back, still holding her little face. "I'm . . . I'm . . . "

"Shhh," Meg whispered. She put her own hands up, just her fingertips gently on his cheeks, her eyes wide and questioning, asking permission which he gladly gave, and she drew his face back to her. This kiss was softer, gentler, and she responded to it tentatively. If she had been kissed,

Armus decided, she hadn't been kissed well.

They broke apart again. Armus studied her face, looking for some clue -- was she frightened? Was she pleased? Did he dare try it again? But dancing in her eyes he saw -- mischief? "I am," Lady Margaret pronounced solemnly, "not convinced."

That was, Armus decided, pretty clearly an invitation. He kissed her again, this time slipping his tongue between her pretty lips. It surprised her for one instant, delighted her in the next. Her hands came off his face and wove around his neck. He slipped one hand to the back of her head, and let the other slip down to her waist, pulling her willing body again his. The kiss went on until they had to part for breath.

"Convinced?"

Glimmering. "No."

A longer kiss, deeper, more certain. "Convinced?"

Sparkling. "No."

Another kiss. He tightened his arms around her and turned, so that her feet dangled in the air. "Convinced?"

She laughed in sheer delight. "Well, maybe."

He was still holding her effortlessly off the ground. "Marry me?"

Meg stroked his cheek again. "If I do," she asked, more seriously, "will you kiss me like this every day?"

"Every day," Armus promised.

She nodded. "Put me down."

He did so, carefully. She had turned so serious again, and it alarmed him. She gestured for him to sit on the bench, and when he did, she sat on his lap, which reassured him. It also put them at eye level again. She liked that; she liked to touch his face. "I am not sure still," she said

seriously, "that I am the best choice for you. But if you think I am, then I will try my very best to be your partner, and your lover, and the mother of your children -- and you best friend. And your wife."

Armus gathered her against his chest, holding her very tight, squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected tears that formed there. She was his! Against all the impossible and hopeless odds, she was his. "Thank you," he whispered, to his lady and to his God.

Among the tousled bedclothes, Richard slept like the dead.

In the weaving room, Eleanor was draped over the tangled loom, sleeping fitfully.

Cedric's bed was empty, the mattress bare. Cedric was asleep on the floor against the wall, tangled in the blankets and utterly content.

Outside the castle, Armus sat on the battlement with his back to the tower wall and watched the sky lighten. Meg was cradled in his arms, her back against his chest. The tiny cross was around her neck now, and she toyed with it absently. They were silent, finally, and they were happy.

A shadow loomed over them, and they looked up as one.

"Hello, Roland," Meg said sleepily.

"Where's Alicia?"

Breakfast during the festival was a very informal affair: The servants laid the sideboard, and the guests ate what and when they pleased. Meg had barely managed to wash up and change in time for chapel; now she was eating alone, quickly, with a hundred things on her mind.

John Mullens came and sat very close beside her.

"Good morning," Meg said, shifting away from him.

"Good morning, Lady Margaret," he replied, leaning closer still. "I hope you slept well. Though I can't imagine how you could have. Those stone walls are *so* cold."

Meg gazed at him evenly, but did not respond.

"Certainly *I* know that your overnight visit with Armus Grey was completely innocent," Mullens continued, "or, at least, mostly innocent -- but I don't know that you could convince your father of that."

"What do you want?" Meg asked calmly.

"I want you to know, before you make any hasty decisions, Lady Margaret, that the Greys have some very dangerous enemies, and if you marry into that family, you will acquire those enemies as part of your dowery."

Meg reached for an apple from a bowl on the table, and drew a small, sharp knife from her belt. Mullens eyed the knife, incredulous. "Are you threatening me, girl?"

The young woman calmly cut the apple and took a bite. "Of course not." But she noted that the man leaned back again.

No less than Thomas Grey himself came to her rescue, sitting down across from them at the table. "Good morning, Lady Margaret. Mullens."

"For that matter," Mullens continued as if he had not heard, "it might be difficult to convince *his* father."

"Is he bothering you?" Thomas enquired mildly.

Meg shrugged, cutting another piece of apple. "He's threatening to tell you that Armus and I spent the night alone on the battlements," she answered calmly.

"I must say," Thomas answered just as calmly, "I'm surprised at your lack of judgement. You'll catch your death of cold in the night air."

"Not bloody likely," Mullens snorted. He stood up angrily. "Remember what I said, girl."

He stomped off, leaving Thomas and Meg alone.

"Yesterday you were such a polite little thing," Thomas mused, "and this morning I find you pulling the fangs from a viper."

The girl shrugged. "I have brothers. I know how to deal with bullies."

"John Mullens is a particularly dangerous bully."

"We'll deal with him."

The 'we' did not escape Grey. "About last night . . . "

Meg shook her head. "You need to discuss that with your son, Sir Thomas."

He almost smiled. "Do I, now?"

"Try to be surprised."

Inevitably, a servant scuttled in and whispered in her ear. "A *crossbow*?" she exclaimed, startled.

"That must be Eleanor," Thomas said, starting up.

Meg shook her head. "I'll go. Finish your breakfast." She was already on her feet.

Thomas stood anyhow. "Lady Margaret . . . Meg, I want you to know, I couldn't be more pleased."

She smiled warmly and went, passing Richard and Cedric at the door. They both looked exhausted, and sat without speaking to each other. Thomas looked back and forth between them. Richard had a bruise on his right cheekbone, not dark. Cedric's nose was nearly purple, and the bruises radiated across his face in every direction. Their father sighed. Devlin had explained to him about Alicia, and Thomas had agreed that the whole matter was best ignored. But he found he could not let it go without some comment. "Richard," he said lightly, "don't hit your brother in the nose anymore."

"Yes, Father," the boy answered, startled.

"Cedric," Thomas continued, "don't get into stupid fights over easy women."

"Yes, Father."

They ate in silence. Armus came in and looked around, then came over to the table. "Good morning, Father. Richard, Cedric -- God, your face looks awful. Have you seen Meg?"

"She's gone to rescue your sister," Thomas answered. "It seems Eleanor is mixing her weaving with her crossbow."

"Hmm. Perhaps she requires some assistance."

"She does not," Thomas answered firmly. "Sit down."

Armus sat, looking not the least bit nervous. "A word with you, Father?"

"Of course. Boys . . . "

"They can stay," Armus answered quickly. "As it does -- remotely -- concern them. I want to ask you to speak with Sir Harold about Meg and I."

Thomas let one eyebrow climb. "About Lady Margaret and you? Alone on the battlements, perhaps?"

Richard gasped in mock dismay. "Armus! You?"

"I'm shocked," Cedric contributed.

Armus ignored them. "We would like to be married, Father. As soon as it can be arranged."

Thomas frowned. "Armus, you've only just met the girl . . . "

"How long did you know Mother before you were married?"

"Well, yes, but . . . we had discussed, in the spring . . . "

"Father," Armus said, "I am certain she is the woman I want to marry. And Meg has agreed to it. There is no reason to wait."

Thomas sighed. "Very well. If you're certain, I'll speak with Harold this morning."

"Thank you, Father."

"Who *is* that?" Cedric asked.

He was staring toward the door. A man stood there, a mountain, blocking all the light behind him. "That's Roland," Armus answered. "He's Alicia's husband. Good thing you stopped pursuing her yesterday, isn't it?"

His brothers did not answer. They were both bent intently over their plates.

The matrons were huddled nervously in the hall. They parted to let Meg into the weaving room. Eleanor was standing there, with loading her third quarrel. Two others bolts already quivered in the frame of the tangled loom. "Don't try to stop me," she warned.

"I won't," Meg answered cheerfully.

Eleanor took aim. She glanced at the other woman, who waited near the window, glared at her loom again, and finally lowered the crossbow. "I tried, I really did. I just can't do it."

Meg shrugged. "You just need practice."

"No. I need you to sit right here beside me and tell me what to do."

"Well, maybe we'll find time for that this winter."

"I won't be here this winter."

"Neither will I," Meg answered, "if our fathers can behave reasonably."

Eleanor stared at her. "You're going to marry Armus."

"Yes."

Eleanor smiled broadly. "But you said . . . "

"Things change," Meg said, blushing slightly.

"When? I mean, when will you be married?" Eleanor put down the crossbow and went over to her.

"Before the week is out, if the King cooperates."

"Before . . . so you'll be going home with us."

"I hope so. Is that . . . I mean, do you mind?"

"Do I mind? Who cares if I mind?"

"I do," Meg answered.

"Why? Of course I don't mind. I'm going to have a sister -- finally! We'll still be outnumbered, of course, but still . . . Armus must be overjoyed."

Meg nodded, unable to contain her own smile. "He's speaking with your father this morning."

"Father will be thrilled. *I'm* thrilled. Oh, Meg . . . " Impulsively, she threw her arms around the other girl. "Tell me everything. No, don't, don't, I just . . . I am so happy for you, for both of you . . . for all of us."

They hugged again. Over Meg's shoulder, Eleanor noticed something in the courtyard. "Look," she said.

Meg turned. In the courtyard, Alicia and John Mullens were standing very close, talking. "What is it they say about strange bedfellows?" Eleanor asked.

"I made of enemy of him at breakfast," Meg announced.

"What, before the marriage contract was sighed?"

"I like to plan ahead. He's just like she is. Hateful, meddlesome. Conniving. Evil for its own sake."

Eleanor nodded. "I think if I lived under the same roof with her, I'd have found a way to discourage her behavior."

"Oh, I know plenty of ways. But she's my cousin, and I am charged by my father to raise no hand against her."

"Pity," Eleanor speculated, "that you can't find an ally who isn't bound by such constraints."

"Hmm," Meg agreed. "Allies of discretion are hard to find."

"Sometimes they come with the contract."

Meg grinned quietly. "I wonder if she knows her husband has arrived."

"Alicia has a *husband*?"

Cedric and Richard raced into the courtyard, closely pursued by Roland. They worked together, circling around him like a baited bear. He lunged first at one, then the other. Finally he decided on Richard, who ran back into the castle through another door. Cedric paused to catch his breath, and then followed.

"Find Armus," Meg directed. "And your father, and my father, and as many of my brothers as you can." She was already moving for the door.

"He won't kill them, will he?"

"He will if he can catch them."

At an intersection of the halls, Richard and Cedric nearly collided. "You slept with her, too?" Cedric demanded breathlessly.

"She came to my room," Richard explained, equally breathless. "It would scarcely have been polite to refuse."

"You might have . . . "

Roland appeared at the top of the hall, bellowing like a bull. The brothers fled in the opposite direction. Around the next corner, they nearly ran into Meg. She stepped aside. "Run!"

As they went, she stepped directly into Roland's path. "Roland, stop."

Surprisingly, he did -- just long enough to pick her up by the shoulders and set her gently to one side. Then he pursued again.

"We need to split up," Richard panted.

"Why?" Cedric demanded. "So he can kill us one at a time?" But he took the next stairway to his left, while Richard continued down the corridor. The steps went up -- and up. After four flights, they opened onto a wide landing.

The old woman was coming down with an armful of sheets. "Don't run in the house, young man," she snapped.

"What's through that door?" Cedric panted.

"The battlement," the old woman answered.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs behind him. Cedric winced. "Is there another way down?"

The old woman considered. "That depends. Can you swim?"

In the great hall, Armus and his father were still chatting over breakfast when Eleanor rushed in. "Eleanor, what is it?" Thomas demanded, on his feet.

"Alicia's husband," she answered. "He's after Richard and Cedric. Meg say's he'll kill them."

Thomas looked doubtful. "One man, against the two of them?"

Armus stood quickly. "One man, Father, this much bigger than me."

Cedric skidded to a halt at the edge of the battlement. The sea looked a very, very long way down. But behind him, Roland was pounding on the door. The door gave, and the man -- the biggest man Cedric had ever seen -- charged at him. Cedric took one last look, crossed himself, closed his eyes, and jumped. Roland reached out and just barely missed catching him. His roar rang in the boy's ears all the way down.

Richard circled around and came back to the courtyard. He opened the door and peeked out, then stepped into the courtyard, still looking around warily. It seemed much too quiet to him. He kept waiting for the giant to appear. His hand rested on his sword hilt. But he reached the far side of the courtyard unmolested. Sighing his relief, he opened the door to the kitchen.

And then could not get it shut before Roland stepped through it. There was no chance of drawing the sword, and no chance to run. Roland put one hand around Richard's throat and lifted him off his feet.

Above him, through the rush of blood pounding in his ears, Richard thought he heard a woman scream. He wrapped his hands around the big man's wrist, but couldn't get enough of a grip to do any good. His vision turned red, then black at the edges. He tried to kick, felt his feet connect -- but it didn't seem to matter.

The world turned black.

Just before sound disappeared, Richard felt a the pressure on his throat lessen a bit. The world turned from black to red again, and his hearing sharpened. His father's voice, very close, "Stop it! You're killing him!"

Another man -- Devlin? "Roland, let him go! Let him go!"

Several other voices, bodies crowding around him. A rescue, at last. Couldn't have cut it any closer, could they? Richard thought dimly.

"He slept with Alicia!" The sheer volume of the man's voice made Richard's head ring.

"So has everyone else on the county," Armus answered calmly.

The hand released, and Richard fell onto the rest of the men as Roland turned in white fury on his brother. His vision cleared gradually as the blood returned to his brain; he saw the giant trip fuzzily, but by the time the body hit the paving stones, he was able to determine that Armus had

cause the fall.

Armus knelt on the man's back, twisting one arm up behind him as hard as he dared. The pin held Roland -- but clearly it was only temporary. He leaned close to the big man's ear. "Listen, friend," he said, as reasonably as he could, "I know you're angry, and I don't blame you. But I can't let you kill my brother, however much he may deserve it. We both know that in a minute you're going to get loose. We can either beat each other senseless, which is what Alicia wants, or we can settle this like civilized men."

The giant stopped struggling. "Civilized?"

Armus sighed, not relaxing his grip. "You think just because you're bigger than everyone else, you can't behave like a gentleman?"

"Settle it how?"

"A ... competition, perhaps," Armus answered, improvising: he hadn't for a moment thought this would actually work, he'd just been stalling while reinforcements arrived.

"What kind?"

"Any kind you like."

"Against you?"

If I survive this, Armus thought, I'm going to kill my brothers myself. "If you like."

Roland lay for a moment, face down in the courtyard, thinking. "Agreed. Let me up."

With extreme caution, Armus released him.

Meg ran into the courtyard, took in the scene at an glance, and ran to her father. "I need the keys to the sea gate," she said frantically.

"The what? Why?"

"Father, please! I don't know how well he swims!"

Bewildered, Devlin gave her the keys and watched her race off.

In the great hall, a crowd had gathered. A table had been moved to the exact center of the room, and Armus and Roland sat at it, facing each other, preparing to arm wrestled.

Among the spectators, John Mullens chafed. "What kind of nonsense is this?" he asked scornfully. "Why don't they fight like real men?"

Harold Devlin glided up behind him. "Mullens," he said quietly, "shut up and get out."

Meg came in with her arm around Cedric, who was wrapped in a blanket, soaking wet and shivering. She guided him to a bench where Richard was sitting, rubbing his throat. Cedric glanced up at her mournfully as he sat down. "She wasn't worth it," he admitted.

"She really wasn't," Richard agreed.

Meg shrugged without comment. She took a corner of the blanket and dried Cedric's hair with it.

"You know," Richard ventured, "if you're going to fit in with this family, you're going to need to learn some new phrases."

She raised one eyebrow at him.

"In this case," Richard continued, "the phrase is, 'I told you so.'"

Meg chuckled, but did not answer. Her attention turned back to the men at the table.

The arm wrestling contest began. At the beginning, at least, they were evenly matched. "It's not really the boys' fault, you know," Armus said through clenched teeth.

"Don't you blame Alicia," Roland growled back. "She's a good wife."

Armus glanced up. Meg nodded; he followed her glance to where Alicia was standing at the edge of the group -- with Mullens. "I'm sure she is. But even the most faithful wife can be led astray."

"So you admit it was their fault."

"No. They're just pawns." Roland lunged, but Armus kept his hand up. "Someone else gave Alicia the ideas, the directions. Someone else talked her into betraying you."

"Who?" Roland demanded.

This time Mullens caught Armus looking at him. Glowering, he moved closer to the table, trying to hear what they were saying.

"Someone very devious, very hateful," Armus continued. His arm ached with the effort of holding this man at bay, pain warming from his wrist all the way to his shoulder. "Someone who knows how to get exactly what he wants. Even if it means turning a good wife against her husband."

"Who?" Roland bellowed.

Mullens took another big step toward the table. "Shut up and fight!" he screamed.

Roland turned to look at him. He looked back at Armus, who simply nodded. Abruptly, the bigger man relaxed his grip -- causing Armus to thud his arm hard against the table.

Mullens recognized the danger only as Roland climbed to his feet. He backed away three steps, then turned and ran.

Alicia stood in front of her mirror, pouting. All her plans, gone to waste. And she had made such a good start. Still, she thought, her pout melting into a smile, she had had a very nice night. And she still had the jeweled pin . . .

Footsteps outside her door, and the whisper of paper. She turned. A note waited on the floor just inside her door. She opened the door quickly, but saw no one. Closing the door, she picked up the note and read it. The contents made her smile wickedly -- and lick her lips. Perhaps her plans were not lost after all.

With practiced speed, she slipped out of her dress and removed most of her under things. She primped her hair in front of the mirror, practicing enticing poses, then wrapped her cloak over her near-nakedness and went out.

In the sitting room, Cedric, Richard, and Eleanor crowded against the window, watching the courtyard. Armus and Meg took turns pacing.

"What are they up to?" Armus finally asked, gesturing at his siblings.

"If I knew," Meg answered, "I might have to stop them. So I have no idea."

"There she is," Richard called excitedly.

In the courtyard, Alicia licked her lips one last time as she approached the chapel door. The chapel, of all places -- what wouldn't this man think of next? She glanced around, then dropped her cloak low on her bare shoulders, opened the door and stepped in. "Here I am, you naughty thing," she announced, dropping the cloak entirely.

The priest, whose service she had interrupted, would not have admitted he enjoyed the free show. Marie Devlin, and the matrons with her, certainly did not.

From the window, the younger three Grey children cheered as Marie dragged Alicia across the courtyard by her ear.

"That was wonderful," Cedric said warmly.

"Truly inspired, little sister," Richard agreed.

Eleanor shrugged. "I did have a little help."

The three of them turned to where Meg and Armus were still pacing. "What are you so nervous

about?" Eleanor demanded. "It was their idea in the first place."

Meg shook her head. "Something's going to go wrong."

"This will not happen the way we want it to," Armus confirmed gloomily.

"Unbelievable." Richard shook his head. "Two days ago he was throwing me off my horse for

even *mentioning* the word marriage, and now look at him."

"Two days ago I was flirting with her," Cedric offered.

Armus glared at him. "And don't think I've forgotten that, little brother."

Meg shook her head. "They're up there drinking ale and telling jokes. I know they are."

"They're being so slow deliberately. They're torturing us," Armus agreed.

"Would you two stop it?" Eleanor said. "Everything's going to be *fine* . . . "

Harold and Thomas came in, in good spirits.

"There, you see?" Eleanor finished.

"Well?" Armus demanded.

Thomas laughed. "Everything's settled. The contract is done and signed, a letter's been sent to the king . . . "

"Purely a formality," Devlin added. "I've already spoken to him about it, he thinks it's a fine idea. And another letter's off to my brother, the Bishop . . . "

"No!" Meg cried.

Everyone in the room turned to stare at her. "Meg . . . " Armus began.

Meg ignored him and went to take her father's two hands, pleading. "Please, Father, please let someone else do it . . . "

"Someone else?" Devlin shook his head, not understanding. "He's the Bishop, for Heaven's sake, and he's your uncle. It would break his heart."

"I don't see the problem . . . " Thomas ventured carefully.

"Nor do I," Armus added. "Meg . . . "

Meg turned away from her father. "He's in *Rome*," she cried.

Silence descended. Armus reached for her and she went, willingly, huddling in his arms. "And he's coming back when?" Armus inquired calmly.

"Right after Christmas," Devlin answered.

Thomas sighed. "Which would put him back in Britain . . . "

"About Ash Wednesday." Armus completed grimly.

"But you can't be married during Lent," Eleanor contributed. Then she realized what she was saying. "Oh."

Harold threw his hands up. "It was *never* the plan that they would be married before next summer . . . "

"Spring," Armus pronounced with certainty. "We will be married in the spring. Just after Easter." He stroked Meg's hair, soothing her, ignoring the others in the room, and whispered, "You will look wonderful in spring flowers."

The girl began to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . . "

"Shhh," he answered, and held her closer still.

The rest of the festival passed much too quickly. The food was delicious and plentiful, the games competitive and friendly, the entertainment inspired and varied. The weather continued fine except for one afternoon, when as storm rushed in from the sea. The nobles simply moved the festivities indoors, to the great hall, safe against the rain.

Thomas noted that his oldest son was missing from the gathering -- and so was Meg Devlin. He frowned a moment. There had been an unspoken, but very deliberate, effort by Devlin to let the couple have time together -- but not alone. Thomas was the only one who had noticed they were missing. He really should say something . . .

He did not. Instead, he wandered away from the games and noise, seeking somewhere quiet to spend the afternoon, perhaps a good book. It had been a long week, full of constant company, and however good that company had been, he was weary of it.

Armus' voice came rather loudly from a room that Thomas knew to be Harold's study. Curious, he followed the sound, and there found his son, with Meg at his side, but by no means alone. Half a dozen of the grandbrats -- Meg's term for the herd of Devlin grandchildren -- sat enthralled at Armus' feet as he read aloud to them with great expression. The smallest of the children, a baby not yet a year old, snuggled contentedly in Meg's lap.

Thomas watched them from the doorway for a moment, then withdrew before he was seen. Ten years, he thought with sudden certainty. Give them ten years, and my house will look like that on rainy afternoons. He felt a sudden, sharp ache for Anne to see it, to share it with him. She would have loved her house full of grandbrats . . .

Shaking his head, over full at once with joy and with sorrow, Thomas Grey went up to his room.

Lady Margaret sat in the edge of her bed, in her nightgown, waiting patiently while Cara brushed out her hair. There was a quiet knock on the door. The old nurse went and opened it, scowling fiercely at Armus -- who entered the room anyhow. "Can I have a word with you?"

Meg brightened considerably. "Of course. Cara . . . "

The nurse glared at both of them, muttering something under her breath about, "In my day . . . "

"Cara, please," Meg said firmly.

"I'll be *right* outside," she warned sternly as she went.

Armus pushed the door shut, then went and sat on the bed next to the girl. He took up the brush and gently ran it through her hair, following with his fingers, amazed at how smooth and soft her hair was, how warm to his touch . . . With a firm shake of his head, he put such thoughts aside.

"We're leaving at first light," he said.

"I know," Meg answered sadly.

"I can't tell you how I dreaded coming here. And now I dread leaving even more." He held her face with just his fingertips, kissed her lightly on the forehead. In her nightgown, in candlelight, she looked very young and very lonely. "There's something I want you to do for me while I'm gone."

Meg shook her head. "Please don't ask me not to go to the infirmary. I can't do that."

"I know. I know." His fingers trailed down her neck to her shoulder. Devlin had been right, Armus thought, to make sure they were never alone together. It was all he could do to resist her -- and he doubted that she would resist him at all. "I want you . . . I want you to try to be

happy."

"How can I be happy?" she protested, puzzled. "Without you . . . "

"But you will not be without me," Armus promised. "Listen to me. I know that wounded men will come, and you will tend them. And I know that men will die, and you will be with them, and that those things will hurt you. I would sell my soul to take you away from here now, to keep you from those things. But if that is not to be, then I want you to do this: Every single day, before you get out of bed, before you go to the battlements, I want you to think to yourself, Armus Grey loves me, and we will be married in the spring, and he wants me to be happy. And when the wounded are tended, then I want you to do something for our life together. Sew beads on your wedding dress, or gather bulbs from the gardens, or learn lullabies for our children. Do something that reminds you how good our life together is going to be -- how good it already is. Fill your days with just as much joy as you can find. And every night, just before you go to sleep, think to yourself, Armus Grey loves me, and we will be married in the spring, and he

wants me to be happy. Will you do all that for me?"

"I'll try," Meg answered, her voice choked with tears.

"Promise?"

She managed a smile. "Will you promise to do all that for me?"

Armus nodded. "I will." He couldn't resist her lips any longer; he kissed her, long and deep and slow. "I should go."

She took his hands. "Do you want to stay?" she asked, very seriously.

The invitation startled him -- and pleased him. His hands closed over hers, and he leaned to kiss her again. And then thought better of it. "I *want* to stay, very much," he managed to answer, "but I'm not going to."

Meg sat back, blushing furiously. "I'm sorry, I . . . you must think . . . "

"No, Meg . . . Meg, stop that." He took her shoulders and forced her to turn back to him, put his fingers under her chin and made her look up. "Meg, stop. What I think is that you're as eager to share my bed as I am to have you share it, and I love knowing that. But there are . . .

possibly, consequences . . . "

"Then they couldn't make us wait for the Bishop," Meg argued.

Armus nodded, smiling his agreement. "I had considered that option myself. But it comes at a price, Meg. It casts a shadow on your honor, and on mine -- and it casts doubt on the lineage of our firstborn."

Meg nodded, miserably agreeing. "I have had," she said with a sigh, "just about enough honor."

"So have I." Armus considered a moment. "Plainly, Meg?"

"Please."

"If I stay with you tonight, I will never find the strength to leave you tomorrow."

Meg moved into his arms, kissed him even while tears rolled down her face. "I love you."

Armus held her as tightly as he could. He never could have guessed, scarcely a week ago, that there was anywhere in the world a creature that would become more dear to him than his own life. "I love you, my lady."

And then he released her, stood, and walked out. He shut the door quietly. Cara was indeed standing right there, and he stooped to kiss the startled old woman on the cheek. "Keep up the good work."

The nurse watched him walk away, shaking her head. "Knights," she snorted. Then she went to check on her ward.

*The End*