A PAINFULLY TRADITIONAL COVINGTON CHRISTMAS

a Covington Cross FanFic by Steven and Linda Oleksa

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross copyrights. No profit is being made from this story.

Rating: PG

Feedback wildly craved to: [email protected]

Author's Note: This story is fourth in a series that began with "Sea Change", but perfectly able to stand alone. If you haven't read the others, the only thing you need to know is that Armus married Lady Margaret (Meg) Devlin, from White Cliff, last spring.

"Christmas. Christmas dinner. Dinner means death. Death means carnage. Christmas

means carnage. Christmas means carnage!"

Ferdinand the Duck, 'Babe'

**

Somewhere in the forest, somewhere in the castle, the day before the day before Christmas:

**

Until he saw the ax, Richard Grey was pleased to see the figure coming through the snow.

It was mid-afternoon, but the light was already fading, smothered by the heavy clouds and thick snowfall. His foot was numb all the way to the knee as the icy water soaked through his leather boot. And he was stuck. So the dark figure trudging across the ice had seemed like certain salvation, and one that Richard was eager to embrace.

But the ax changed all that.

Not a hatchet, like one would use to chop firewood. An ax. The figure carried it at its side, dangling from its hand, and the head of the monstrous weapon reached all the way to the snow. A very, very big ax.

Richard struggled frantically to free his leg. The ice on the lake was three inches thick, at least, and he should have been able to walk right across it, pursuing his quarry. But the hole had caught him unaware, and his left leg had plunged into it nearly to his knee. He had pulled his leg back out easily enough, but his foot was stuck. And growing more stuck by the minute, as the hole tried to refreeze around his ankle. His struggles availed him nothing. He could not break himself free.

He glanced up, hoping for something, anything, that would help him. What he saw was the damn stag, standing just at the edge of the lake, gazing calmly at him. He wondered if deer could laugh. If they could, this one certainly was.

The figure stood above him now. Richard looked up at the shapeless black cloak, feeling its menace like a wave over him. The figure did not speak.

Richard wondered for a wild moment if this was Death himself, come for him.

The figure raised the ax over its head.

As the wicked blade began to descend, Richard had one last clear thought: This is all Father's fault.

**

"Damn," Eleanor swore under her breath. She glanced back toward the kitchen, but the door remained closed. She was alone in the kitchen yard. "Damn!" she repeated, with satisfactory volume. She shifted her grip, hefting the spear a bit closer to the tip. Keeping low, keeping her knees bent, her boots soft on the crackling ground, she moved.

Beady black eyes watched her approach warily -- and then suddenly there was an explosion of brown and noise, coming right at her head. Gritting her teeth, she launched the spear. There was a surprised squawk, and weapon and prey fell to the ground together.

Grinning in relief, Eleanor stepped closer and yanked the spear free. The creature at her feet shuddered and fluttered. Swiftly, she took the knife from her belt, held its neck in one head, and removed its head.

The enemy jerked upright, spasmodically, and ran in a wild, impossible circle, blood spraying from its headless neck all over the kitchen yard -- and all over Eleanor.

Her mouth came open with surprise -- and closed barely in time to avoid drinking the last spray. She wiped blood from her eyes, noting that her clothes were completely wrecked. Even her hair dripped with gore. And the damn animal was still flopping about like the proverbial . . .

She heard a soft clatter behind her. She turned, and spotted another of her adversaries, this one armored, waving its evil arms at her. "Got you, you scuttling coward!" she exclaimed. She stepped toward it, knife upraised. Her foot hit a patch of fresh blood and shot out from under her, landing her unceremoniously on her butt.

The enemy waved once more and scampered away.

Eleanor seethed, thinking with rage: This is all Father's fault.

**

"She's coming back!" Cedric said, excited. "Look, there! She's coming back."

"Uh-huh," Duggins said quietly.

"You thought she was gone, didn't you? Admit it, you thought she was long gone. And she's coming right back to me."

"Uh-huh." The old man glanced at the young noble beside him. "Might want to stick your arm out."

Cedric extended his right arm gracefully. He threw his chin up, fully aware that he was striking in this pose, and would soon be more so, with his valiant falcon on his arm. No girls to see him up here, but it didn't hurt to practice.

The falcon landed elegantly on his wrist, and proceeded to dig its talons into his flesh.

"Ouch!" Cedric yelped. He shook his arm, trying to dislodge the bird. Startled, the falcon gripped tighter still, flapping her wings, and began to peck at his fingers, looking for her reward. "Ouch, let go! Let go!"

The falcon's claws drew blood.

"Duggins, help me!" Cedric demanded. "Ow!"

The old falconer nodded calmly. "Might have put the glove on first."

"Duggins!" Flailing himself now, Cedric spun and swung his bleeding arm toward the wall of the mews. At the last possible moment, the falcon released her grip and flapped off toward the forest.

"Didn't reward her," Duggins observed laconically. "Now you got to chase him."

Cedric glared after the bird, feeling the blood drip down his fingers. The falcon vanished into the trees. The young man turned and glared at the old falconer. The old man was completely unperturbed.

Cedric sighed, one resigned thought repeating itself in his mind: This is all Father's fault.

**

Armus trudged away from the cabin into the storm, the snow already melting and freezing to ice on his cheeks, the heavy sack slung over one shoulder. He didn't have to go far with it, he reasoned wearily. Just far enough to keep from drawing scavengers too near the cabin.

As the cold wind whipped his face, the ten or twenty spots where the claws had gripped and torn flesh began to sting smartly.

Twenty paces later, the sack began to move.

He paused, shifting the burden to the other shoulder. Surely he was imagining that. But as he set off again, the contents of the sack quite distinctly snarled. More wiggling, rather vigorous, and considerable hissing.

The sack was of heavy leather, and Armus was reasonably sure the creature -- or creatures, if they had both survived -- could do him no harm. The fact that they were alive, however, added a whole new level of misery to his current situation.

If he let them out of the sack, could he kill them with his sword before they either escaped or attacked him again?

And if they got away, would they immediately try to return to their burrow under the cabin?

He stopped and turned. The cabin was just disappearing in the cloud of snowflakes. It had no windows, yet it seemed from here warm and inviting. Inside, his lovely young wife waited for him. He imagined her lolling on the fur rug before the finally-cozy fire, her dark brown hair loose and silky around her shoulders, her hazel eyes dancing with expectant mischief . . .

The creatures snarled.

Armus sighed, turned, and trudged on, ever further away from his waiting bride, away from his cozy and passionate afternoon, further instead into a snowstorm with a sack of angry badgers on his back.

And he spoke aloud the words all his siblings had given to thought: "This is all Father's fault!"

**

Sir Thomas Grey was concentrating on keep his back straight. "Straight as a sword, that's the way," he encouraged himself aloud. "Wouldn't do to look sloven in front of the lady." He listed in his saddle, far to the right. His horse, well-schooled and faithful, took a half-step sideways and got under him again.

"Ah," Thomas said, when he stopped feeling himself falling. "That's better, then." He hoisted the tankard toward his mouth. It clanged against the helm, knocking it askew, blinding the knight. "Bloody bad fit," he muttered, adjusting it with his free hand so he could just barely see through the slit again. "Fire the armorer!" Forgetting the tankard for the moment, he began to sing. "I went to something fair to something something sell . . . and I spied a fair young maiden standing in a dell . . . near a well . . . well something hell . . . and we fa la a daily till spring rang around yea we fa la a daily till the spring . . ."

The horse stopped and huffed. "What, stopped? Onward ever . . . oh, we're here." Thomas gazed up at the wall for a moment. "Hum. Well. Hark the gate," he shouted. "It 's, uh, Father Christmas. Open up."

A voice pitched and cracking like a ungreased hinge carried back. "What?"

"I said open up!" Thomas bellowed.

"What?"

"Pox-ridden dung-heaped . . . oh, wait." Thomas raised his visor, allowing his voice to carry. "I said, open up, good lad. I have gifts for the household." He tossed the last contents of the tankards down his throat. The visor fell and his epic belch echoed in his head. He tossed the pewter away in a sweeping gallant gesture.

"Ow!" cried the voice, immediately after the tankard thunked. "Help, I am attacked at the gate!"

"Attacked?" Thomas answered in alarm. "Wait there, good man, I'll help you!" Slapping at his visor with one hand -- and finding it was already down -- he gathered his reins in the other and wheeled his horse around. "Defend the gate!" he called nobly.

The great studded doors stood open against the archway but a turnstile barred the opening. A solid oak trunk, balanced on a pivot and studded with old pike heads, spanned the arch. A hedgehog of steel, the lady's sergeant-at-arms called it, and it barred the entry even when the gate itself stood open. Thomas whirled his horse and eyed the thing uncertainly. It seemed higher than he remember. Well, no matter. He slapped his visor down -- it was already down -- and spurred his mount toward the gate.

"No, don't!" a voice called within the castle.

Thomas ignored this advice. His horse, however, who had not been drinking, decided to give it heed. It planted all four hooves, sliding to a stop on the icy ground. The rider, leaning forward in the charge, flipped neatly over the steed's head and landed helm-first on the ice in the moat. He rolled again, this time landing on his backside.

With a groan, Thomas settled back onto his back.

The visor had come open in the crash -- it would never shut again -- and Thomas looked up into a thick swirl of snow that melted in his beard. Upside down, his horse gazed down at him. It snorted, and Thomas quite clearly heard it think, "Sod *this* for a game of soldiers!" Then it turned and trotted off into the night.

He tried to stand up, and found that he could only slide across the ice on his back, like an upset turtle. The snow began to trickle in ice rivulets down his neck. Thomas lay very still, and sighed. "I have no one to blame for this," he said solemnly, "but myself." And then he added, cheerfully. "And we fa la a daily till spring rang around yea we fa la a daily till the spring!"

**

The Grey's Christmas of pain had officially begun at dinner the day before, though it had been brewing for some time. In mid-December, the weather had unexpectedly turned bitterly cold, forcing all of them inside. Bored and restless, they began to bicker. Thomas had broken up a fistfight between Cedric and Richard that morning, a fight begun over absolutely nothing. Eleanor tried to help in the kitchen, succeeding only in annoying the staff and ruining a perfectly good stew. Armus had taken to lolling in front of the nearest fire, with his long legs sprawled inevitably in his father's way. Only Meg had succeeded in avoiding the lord's wrath, and that largely by virtue of the fact that she was busy either in the kitchen with preparations for the Christmas feasting or in the infirmary she had set up behind the kitchen. If she was not at these duties, she was in her own apartments, and thus out of the way.

But that evening, that particular night when it all came to a head, it was Meg who precipitated the trouble.

She was late for dinner.

Not very late, to be sure, only a few minutes late. But in those few minutes, the servants had brought out soup to the rest of the family, and all four of the younger Greys had spooned up their first bite. Sir Thomas barked, "We will wait!"

Startled, annoyed, chagrined, his children put their spoons down.

Meg scampered in a moment later. "Forgive me, Father," she said, a formality, but she kissed him on the cheek as she passed. She sat down at the table at the far side of her husband, then glanced around. "You didn't have to wait for me."

"Yes we did," Cedric muttered.

"You may proceed," Thomas pronounced, and his children ate.

"I'm sorry," Meg said quietly.

"It's all right," Richard answered dryly. "We like cold soup."

"Richard," his father barked.

They ate for a moment in uneasy silence. "You were checking on the girl?" Thomas asked his daughter-in-law. She nodded. "How is she?"

"Much better," Meg answered. "Her fever broke this morning, and it's stayed down nicely. I think she'll be well in a few days."

Thomas nodded solemnly, still watching her. Meg was pale again, dark circles like bruises under her eyes. He doubted that she'd slept more than a few hours in a row since the girl had wandered up from the village, with her grossly infected wound and her raging fever. His gaze shifted to his son; how could Armus allow her to grow so exhausted? But he knew, too well. Lady Margaret was soft-spoken and obedient -- and she did largely whatever she wanted to.

The lord shook his head. Another strong-willed child; just what he needed under his roof.

Meg had taken perhaps three bites of her soup. Then she put her spoon down and pushed her bowl away.

"Not hungry?" her husband inquired solicitously.

She shrugged. "It's a little too salty."

"Hmm. I thought it was quite tasty."

Meg slid the bowl closer to him without a word, and Armus, having finished his own soup, started in on hers.

Thomas shook his head again. How could the boy *not know*? For Heaven's sake, look at the girl. But then, he looked through the eyes of experience, and his son did not. He sighed.

Armus glanced at him. "Something wrong, Father?"

"No, no." The silence at the table lengthened, and he tried to revive conversation. "So, what have the rest of you been doing all afternoon?"

The four Grey children glanced at each other, uneasily. "I, uh, I sharpened my sword," Richard finally said, lamely.

Thomas nodded. "Well, not as useful as tending the sick, but at least it's something. Cedric?"

His youngest son glanced up, startled. "I -- I helped him."

"I see." Thomas' tone made it perfectly clear that he didn't. "Armus?"

At least his eldest had something more to say. "I read most of that Roman history book I got from the peddler last month. It's really fascinating, although I don't know that the translation is terribly accurate. For example, it says . . . "

Thomas raised a hand. "Perhaps later. Eleanor?"

His daughter, quick-witted as always, shook her head. "I didn't think the translation was very good, either."

Her father scowled, and Eleanor smiled sweetly.

She was rescued by the servants, one gathering the soup bowls and two others bringing the main courses. "Ham again?" Eleanor exclaimed. "We already had ham once this week!"

Meg straightened. "I know, but it's been so cold, the huntsman . . . "

"We're having ham," Thomas announced regally, "because I happen to *like* ham and I requested it."

"Oh."

The chastened silence returned. "Duggins says he may bring us some pigeons tomorrow," Meg offered as an apology.

"Who's Duggins?" Eleanor asked.

"The falconer," her father answered, with a frown. "Or he was, years ago. I haven't seen him for months. I thought he'd gone to live with his daughter."

Meg shrugged. "He came back. Said it was too noisy." She frowned. "That worries me a bit, since he's deaf as a post."

"We have a falconer?" Cedric asked eagerly. "Do we have any falcons? I could fly a falcon."

Richard laughed. "Have you ever *met* a falcon? They're nasty, ill-tempered, hard to handle . . . "

Thomas was quite unaware that he was rubbing his right ear, feeling a wound that had healed decades before. "Duggins has a great talent. The birds love him." He considered a moment. "It is a knack that I, unfortunately, never acquired."

"I'd like to meet him," Cedric continued. He held his arm out, bent at the elbow, level to the table. "I think I'd look quite stunning with a falcon."

"*You* think you'd look quite stunning in your skivvies," Eleanor teased.

"Eleanor," her father reproved gently.

"Well he does."

"That is not language I expect to hear at my dinner table. Or, from you, anywhere else, for that matter."

"Yes, Eleanor," Richard mocked gently. "We expect more decorum from you."

"Richard."

"I've got your decorum . . . "

"Eleanor!"

Thomas' bark died away into silence, which lingered.

"I wish it would snow," Meg finally said, quietly.

The whole table breathed a sigh of relief to be back on a safe topic. "It's too cold to snow," Armus answered.

"I don't understand that," she admitted.

"The air is so cold that it won't hold any moisture. That's why the night skies are so clear. No clouds, no mist, nothing. When it gets a little warmer, then it will snow."

His wife nodded, wistfully.

"It must snow at White Cliff," Richard observed.

Meg shook her head. "It does sometimes, but it never sticks. The ocean keeps the ground too warm. I want real snow."

"You'll have it, soon enough," Armus promised.

"And by spring, you'll be just like the rest of us," Cedric added, "ready to puke if you see one more . . . "

"*Cedric*!" Thomas roared.

"What?" Cedric asked innocently, genuinely unaware that his choice of words was more inappropriate than his sister's had been. Then he caught on. "Sorry, Father."

But it was too late for apologies. All the frustrations of the past few days, all the small annoyances and minor inconveniences, welled up in their father and came out as a lordly decree. Thomas set down his knife, pushed his plate away quietly, firmly, with deadly calm. "Enough."

"Father . . . " Armus began, very quietly.

Thomas held a hand up for silence. "Enough," he repeated. "I cannot believe the way that my children behave." As he spoke, he stared at each of them in turn, excluding only Meg. "Just because it's cold outside, you lay about doing nothing. You are indolent, lazy . . . and now rude. I won't have it. I will not."

He rose grandly to his feet. "This family has grown sloppy. Perhaps I am to blame for that. Perhaps I have been inattentive to your behavior. But it stops now. This year, this family will have a traditional Christmas. And each of you will contribute to the celebration. For starters, each of you will contribute to the plenty of the table."

The children glanced around at each other, nervously.

"Cedric," Thomas went on, "you have an interest in falconry. Very well. In the morning you will go to Duggins, you will get a falcon and you will learn how to fly it. And you will bring pigeon or duck or some other winged creature for our Christmas dinner."

Cedric shrugged his agreement. It seemed to him an easy enough task. Might even be fun.

"Richard. You have often claimed to be the best hunter in the family. You will go and bring back a deer, or whatever other large game you can find in the forest."

Richard smiled. "Gladly, Father," he answered confidently.

"Armus. The woodsman has cut a yule log and left it to dry at the hunting lodge. You will go and fetch it back to the castle."

"All right."

"You will take your wife with you," Thomas continued, "you will keep her away from the sick and the wounded and the kitchen staff, and you will see to it that she gets some rest."

Meg's face flushed pink.

"Wait a minute," Cedric protested. "We have to go hunting, and he gets to lay around the hunting lodge?"

Richard leaned over and whispered something to him.

"That's a *duty*?" Cedric asked incredulously.

"Cedric, shut up," Armus said firmly.

Meg had gone from pink to red.

"Wait a minute," Eleanor protested. "If Meg's gone, who's going to see to the kitchen?"

Every eye at the table settled on her. Thomas half-smiled. "You are a grown woman, Eleanor," he answered calmly. "I'm sure you can manage."

"I . . . but . . . "

"And what," Armus asked carefully, "are you going to do, Father?"

Thomas grinned, almost wickedly. "I've already done it. I've delegated." He spun on an elegant heel and strode out.

The silence persisted for some time after his departure. "This won't be so bad," Armus finally ventured.

"Not for you," Richard countered. He shrugged. "One deer. No problem. I'll be back by noon."

"I'm going to look fine with a falcon," Cedric offered. "Very fine."

Eleanor just shook her head. "This is a nightmare."

**

"We should leave at first light," Armus said, climbing into bed.

Meg peered over the top of the covers at him. "Why?"

He considered. "We should leave midmorning, after sleeping late and having a hearty breakfast," he amended.

"I love you when you're sensible."

**

Armus woke to the soft click of the bedroom door that told him his wife had yet again slipped out of his bed. He sighed in the darkness. Through a narrow gap in the drapes, he could see that the night sky was still black; his body guessed that it was two or three in the morning.

Another man, with another wife, might have suspected her of having a lover. But Armus was not that big a fool. Meg would be down checking on the peasant girl, and then she'd be back, shivering in the night cold, trying not to wake him. Or she wouldn't be back, which would mean the girl had taken a turn for the worse. Armus had come to learn that his wife had an uncanny knack for knowing when someone needed her. It was a bit unnerving at times. Oh, easy enough to explain how she knew when Cedric staggered home drunk one night and cracked his head on the archway in the main hall -- everyone in the castle had heard that. But when little Nate from the kitchen sliced his hand on an old nail in the henhouse, and Meg reached the kitchen before the injured boy did -- that was a little spooky.

Armus sat up and fluffed his pillow. His thoughts strayed for a moment to Rachel, Richard's love, now long gone. The girl had been accused of witchcraft, persecuted by superstitious fools. And might not Meg, were she not wellborn and well-married, be accused of exactly the same thing? When in truth there might be some perfectly logical explanation. Mother's ear, a knack women developed for hearing their children over impossible distances, was widely known and accepted; purely instinctive, necessary to protect the young. Perhaps Meg's gift was some variation of that . . .

He sighed again. Unwittingly, he'd let himself think about Meg and motherhood at the same time. And that reminded him of his father's directive. How *could* Thomas have been so tactless? And what in the world did his father expect, anyhow? It wasn't as if they could run off to the hunting lodge for one night and then return to announce that Meg was certainly pregnant. It didn't work that way, and his father damn well knew it . .

Still, Armus thought wryly, far be it for him to ignore an order from the lord of the manor.

If nothing else, it would be nice to get away. And Meg *was* tired of late, though by no means as exhausted as she had been when she'd first arrived at Covington Cross. He frowned, remembering her in their first weeks of marriage, physically and emotionally drained, underweight and pale and given to nightmares more even horrific than Armus' own. He had thrown his whole heart into taking care of her, making sure that she ate, that she rested, that she knew she was adored every waking moment. And distracting her as best he could from her memories of White Cliff -- the wounded she had tended, the dying and the dead, the countless young men who had been sacrificed for the pride of their King.

She was much better now. She still had nightmares, even as he did, but they were rare, weeks apart, and they seemed to be losing their intensity. She was generally well-rested. Her too-slender body was filling out, her too-pale skin now the healthy fair of an English lady. She laughed more and blushed less. And though she slid quickly into her role as lady of the castle, she somehow also made time for Armus. Time for slow afternoons of lovemaking, time for evenings of chess and conversation. Time for walks in the garden and rides in the forest. Time to read his favorite books so she could discuss them with him. Time to learn his favorite dishes, and to teach him hers. Time with just the two of them, that he greatly savored.

He wasn't at all sure he wanted to share her with children, not just yet. Still, Sir Thomas had ordered, and Armus was ever his obedient son. He chuckled in the darkness. It couldn't hurt to try. And perhaps, too, it wouldn't hurt to get an early start, since she was already awake.

The click of the door told him that Meg had returned.

He reached for her as she shed her robe and slipped into the bed. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Mh-hum," she murmured back. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I don't mind," he assured her. He laced his long legs over her chilled limbs, nestled her head against his shoulder, warming her nose on his neck, feeling the cold of her fingers through his nightshirt. He waited, feeling her uncoil in his warmth. Then he lifted his head to kiss her.

Meg was already fast asleep.

**

"Are you Duggins?" Cedric asked cheerfully.

The old man ignored him.

Remembering what Meg had said about his hearing, Cedric called again, much louder, "Are you Duggins?"

The old man turned slowly. "Don't yell. Scares the birds."

"Are you Duggins?"

"Reckon I am, same as yesterday. About time you came back."

"Pardon?" Cedric looked around the mews with some distaste. It was rather a grand name, mews, so what amounted to a little shed on the roof full of bird crap. "I've never been here before."

Duggins nodded. "You're supposed to come every day, like your father said, Thomas. You'll never improve if you don't."

Cedric grinned uneasily. "I'm not Thomas, old timer. I'm his son, Cedric."

"Huh?"

"Cedric," he repeated, louder.

"Don't yell. Scares the birds." The old falconer looked him up and down. "His son, you say? I thought that big fellow was his son."

"That's Armus, my brother."

"Huh?"

"Armus!"

"Don't yell. Scares the birds. I thought you said you were Cedric."

Cedric sighed. "I am Cedric. The big one is my brother Armus."

"You're brothers?"

"Yes."

"You and that big fellow?"

"Yes."

The old man considered. "Different mothers?"

"What? No."

"Huh. Different fathers, then."

"No!" Cedric protested.

"Huh?"

The young noble dropped his chin to his chest in aggravation. After a moment, he tried again. "I've come for a bird."

"Come to the right place, then."

"I want to learn to fly a falcon."

Duggins' eyes narrowed. "Tried that before, Thomas. Lost her in the woods."

"I'm not Thomas!" Cedric shouted.

"Don't yell. Scares the birds."

"A falcon," Cedric said desperately. "I want a falcon. Do you have one or not?"

"A falcon?"

"Yes."

"Might hard to handle, falcons are."

Cedric sighed. "Please," he begged, "do you have a falcon I can learn to fly?"

"Aye. Got a falcon." The old man gestured. "Back here. But don't yell."

"Scares the birds, I know."

Duggins shook his head. "Hurts my ears."

The falcon sat on a perch in the very back of the shed, hooded but alert and regal.

Cedric extended his hand carefully and brushed the smooth feathers of the bird's chest.

"He's a beauty."

"Huh?"

"He's a beauty!"

"She."

"What?"

"Deaf, boy? He's a she. Males are no good to hunt. They just want to fight. Only the girls are any good at providing. Remember that, if you ever go to war."

"Um . . . I will," Cedric answered in confusion. "Can we take her out now?"

Duggins grunted. "She's man-trained, but she don't know how to hunt. You'll have to teach her."

"Good, good," Cedric answered, still stroking the bird. "Then she'll be mine, won't she?"

"She'll hunt for you. Don't make her yours. Remember that, if you ever get married."

Cedric frowned, still more confused. "I will."

"All right. First thing, Thomas, remember, you have to have gibbets."

"I'm *Cedric*."

"Huh?"

The youngest Grey just shook his head. "What are gibbets?"

"Gibbets, gibbets. You go fetch them. I'm too old for them stairs."

"Okay," Cedric answered slowly. "Where do I get them?"

The old man glanced at him impatiently. "From the kitchen, same as last time."

"Oh. All right. I'll be right back."

"Huh?"

"I said, I'll be right back!"

"Don't yell. Scares the birds."

**

If Meg can do this, Eleanor thought stubbornly, I can do this.

She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her fists on his hips in an unconscious imitation of her father's favorite posture. Things were quiet, for the moment; just a two maids washing up the breakfast dishes. Breakfast, at least, had gone fine. Of course, Meg didn't do much with breakfast, except when there were guests. But that was beside the point. Eleanor nodded decisively. Yes, that was beside the point.

The family had barely spoken at breakfast. Armus and Meg hadn't even come down. Eleanor guessed that they were getting an early start on their assigned 'duty'. She smirked. Like they needed any orders for *that*. In the past weeks, Eleanor had almost fallen over them three different times, in three different unlikely corners of the castle. Demure, Richard had called Meg a while back. Ha!

Marta came into the main kitchen, wiping her hands from her own breakfast. "Lady Eleanor," she said, surprised. "Is there something I can get for you?"

Eleanor stepped a little closer to the cook. "My father has put me in charge of the Christmas feast," she said quietly.

Marta seemed to pale, but perhaps that was a trick of light. "And . . . Lady Meg?"

"Escaping to the hunting cabin with her husband."

"Oh. I see." Marta wiped her hands on her apron again. "Well. Not to worry, my lady, we'll get along just fine."

"Thank you," Eleanor breathed. Then, more briskly, "All right, then. What do we need to get done?"

"We need to make the sweets today," Marta answered at once. "The cakes and pies and tarts and such. And the bread. Then tomorrow we'll work on the main dishes, when we know what kind of meat we have to deal with."

"Things will stay fresh?" Eleanor asked.

"Oh, yes, miss. We'll set them outside, in the cold. They'll be fine."

"Good." Eleanor nodded, her confidence growing. She remembered her father's key word from dinner -- delegate. "Everyone knows what they should be doing, then?"

"Aye, miss."

"Good, good. I think then that I'll make another pudding. I'm sure I could get it right this time."

Marta nodded, keeping her face carefully neutral. "Very well, miss."

Eleanor nodded to herself again. She could do this. She was sure she could do this.

**

Sir Thomas, carrying a mid-sized sack, hummed cheerfully to himself as he made his way to the pantry. The storage room was simply stuffed with foods for the winter, potatoes and apples in sacks, mushrooms and onions drying on long strings hung from the ceiling, strings of herbs, bundles of carrots, barrels of grains. Plenty, everywhere. And on the back wall, on heavily-reinforced shelves the breadth and height of the pantry, Meg's strawberry preserves.

Thomas smiled to himself, taking down a number of crocks and jars and filling his sack with them. Some weeks after the wedding, Meg had met a farmer in the village who sold her strawberries and complained that he had so many berries in his field that they would rot before he could harvested them all. A practical girl and, Thomas suspected, an incurable overachiever, Meg had, with his permission, exported half of the household staff to his fields. She went with them, and at the end of the day brought back three wagons full of the delicious fruit. The staff took home all they could carry, and the next day they began making preserves. And pies. And shortcakes. And wine.

Before the kitchen tables were cleared, another farmer appeared at the castle gates, with a similar dilemma.

In the end, Thomas had been obliged to send his sons riding in all directions is search of enough crocks and containers to hold the preserves. The kitchen reeked of strawberries for weeks, and the Greys ate the fresh fruit until they couldn't bear the sight of it any more. It was a very, very good harvest.

And thankfully, Meg had had the sense to have the shelves reinforced *before* they collapsed under the weight.

Thomas had sent preserves to everyone this Christmas. To White Cliff, to court, everywhere. And he had still not made a visible dent in the supply.

As Thomas packed his little bag, Armus came into the pantry, carrying a similar sack, his half-full. "Oh, hello, Father." He took his own crock of preserves, just one, before moving on to other things.

"I thought you'd gone," Thomas answered.

"We slept in," Armus answered. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm? Oh, the sack. I thought I'd share our bounty with some of the villagers this evening. Spirit of Christmas, you know."

Armus nodded, with an arched eyebrow that he implied he knew quite well. "Hmm."

"I do this every year," Thomas protested.

"Of course, Father." Armus did not add, and last year you ended up spending the night at Lady Elizabeth's. If it improved his father's mood, he was all for it. Still, he couldn't keep the grin down.

"I *do*," Thomas insisted.

"I know you do," Armus replied. He was tempted to tease him further, but resisted. He dropped a string of mushrooms into his bag. "Can I speak to you a minute, Father? About Meg?"

Ah, Thomas thought, at last. "Of course. Anything wrong?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. It's just . . . she's been very quiet lately. Distracted."

Ah, Thomas thought, *not* just yet. "I hadn't noticed."

"I think she's homesick."

"Homesick?" Thomas asked carefully, trying not to laugh outright.

"Yes. It's her first Christmas away from home . . . "

"Her home is here."

"You know what I mean. Away from White Cliff. I think it's more difficult than she expected."

Thomas turned to stare at the shelf full of preserves again, as if he were contemplating how many he should take. The quirky smile kept teasing the corners of his mouth. Homesick? How could anyone be so dim? Clearly all that book learning had some limitations. "Has she said anything?"

"No. But she wouldn't, would she?"

"Hmm."

"So I was thinking," Armus continued quickly, "that if the weather stays warmer -- and clear -- then perhaps after Christmas I could take her to White Cliff. Just for a visit. I thought it would cheer her up."

Thomas nodded, still looking intently at the preserves.

"It that all right?" Armus pursued.

"Oh." For the first time, Thomas realized that his son was asking permission. "It's, uh, it's fine. If she wants to go, that is. I'm sure Harold would be glad to see you."

"Thank you, Father."

Thomas shrugged cheerfully. Easy enough to grant this. He had grave doubts that Meg would want to make the trip anyhow. And he was fairly certain that Armus would outright forbid it, after the holiday. But far be it for Thomas to stand in their way.

Unable to hide the grin any longer, Thomas left the pantry and went to raid the mountain of baked goods.

**

"I need gibbets."

Eleanor glanced at her brother. "You need what?"

"Gibbets, gibbets. For the falcon. Where are they?"

"How would I know?" she demanded. "What's a gibbet?"

"You know," Cedric answered. "Gibbets. For the falcon."

They stared at each other blankly. "In the can by the door," Marta called helpfully.

"Oh," they said in unison.

Cedric walked to the door. "There's nothing here," he complained.

"By the door. In the can."

"There's nothing here," Cedric repeated. He bent and lifted a small crock. "Just these guts in here."

"Gibbets," Marta said again.

"These?" Cedric demanded. "They eat *these*?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Duggins says they love them"

Cedric curled a lip. "I think I'm going to puke."

Eleanor smiled sweetly. "Your bird awaits, Cedric dear."

**

Armus brought the horses out to the courtyard, expecting to wait, but Meg joined him almost immediately. She was wearing her breeches against the cold, a shirt and vest and jacket under her cloak, and gloves, and she had a single pair of saddlebags slung over her shoulder. "That's all?" Armus asked, securing the bags on her horse.

"We're only going for one night," Meg answered reasonably.

Armus grinned. It was damn hard not to adore a woman who could pack in five minutes and travel so lightly. And she was awfully cute, in her breeches. She's worn them often when they were first married, far less since their trip to White Cliff. Eleanor accused her brother of forbidding them. Armus ignored her. He knew very well why Meg preferred skirts these days. She had discovered, with him, exactly how much discretion that many yards of fabric could provide.

But today, Armus reflected, it was too cold for such discrete activities. At least until they were safely inside the cabin.

"Maybe . . ." Meg ventured, ". . . should I take the crossbow?"

Armus shrugged. "I'll get it." He trotted across to the armory and brought it. It was a light weapon, smaller than Eleanor's, not really much more than a toy. Eleanor had spent the summer instructing her in its use. She reported, with satisfaction, that Meg was technically proficient and fairly accurate, but still quite slow. Which bothered Armus not at all. It was unlikely that Meg would ever have the opportunity to use the weapon except to shoot targets. In any real danger, from a human being, he doubted that she could pull the trigger. The crossbow was merely a hobby for Meg, much to Eleanor's chagrin.

He strapped the crossbow on the pack horse, on top of the bedding. Besides these few items, a parcel of food, and some water, the pack horse carried only a harness, suitable for dragging the yule log back to the castle.

Meg was already on her horse. Armus swung up onto his. "Ready, love?" He nudged the horse toward the gate.

"No," she answered.

Puzzled, Armus turned the horse back . "What have we forgotten?"

"Kiss," she answered primly.

Armus grinned, then leaned across to kiss her lightly. She snagged his scarf and pulled him back for a better kiss. "Okay," she pronounced. "Now I'm ready." And yet she hesitated, looking back toward the castle. "I feel like I'm abandoning her."

"Eleanor?"

"Marta."

**

Sir Thomas stood at the very top of his castle, looking around him in great satisfaction. The snow was beginning to fall, in large, soft flakes, and the ground far beneath him was dusted with white already. The trees, too, had taken on a white gleam. It was going to be a beautiful landscape by sunset. And better still . . .

The pigeon fluttered in his hands. Thomas loosened his grip just a bit, still keeping the bird's wings firmly against its sides. He turned the pigeon and checked that the message was securely attached to its leg. Turning the bird upright, he stroked its soft gray head. He'd been skeptical, when Elizabeth had first suggested this idea. But it worked like a charm.

Thomas raised his hands and released the pigeon. It fluttered, then flew smoothly, in three widening circles above him. The lord of the castle watched it with great appreciation. Such a simple bird, and yet beautiful and useful at once.

The attack came without warning, from above. A firm 'thunk' in midair, half a chirp from the pigeon, and the falcon was winging away with its motionless prey.

Thomas felt his mouth fall open. He closed it resolutely. What in the world . . . who would dare . . . in his castle . . .

The falcon flew back over his head, still carrying the pretty gray pigeon, and dropped to the battlement on the far side of the castle. Cursing under his breath, cursing the snow that slicked the stones, Thomas strode after it.

Before he was halfway there, Cedric burst around to tower, all grinning enthusiasm, with the falcon on his arm and the poor dead pigeon in his hand. "Father! Good, you're here. Did you see, Father? Her first kill!"

Thomas closed his eyes tightly for a moment, biting his lip. When he could speak without screaming, he walked slowly toward his youngest son. "Cedric. What are you doing here?"

The boy glanced at him, confused. "Flying the falcon, Father, like you told me. Isn't she a beauty? And a natural hunter, Duggins says. You should have seen the kill. It was amazing. The pigeon didn't stand a chance."

"I know," Thomas answered faintly. He held his hand out.

"Uh . . . you need a glove, really," Cedric answered uneasily. "She's kind of nervous still, tends to hang on too tight . . . "

"The pigeon," his father answered tightly.

"Oh. Oh." Cedric held out the dead bird, then pulled it back. "Funniest thing, Father, there's not a mark on it, see? Do you think birds die of fright?"

"Or aggravation." Thomas held his hand out again, and again Cedric extended the bird -- only to pull it back.

"Look, it's got one of those message cases!" the boy finally observed. He looked up at Thomas nervously. "Do you think it was someone's homing pigeon?"

"That would seem to be the case," Thomas confirmed tensely.

"Oh." Cedric was crestfallen. "I didn't mean to do that. Poor little thing, just doing his job and . . . and then . . . oh, well. At least it wasn't one of ours. Wonder where it came from, though. Do you think there's a message in here?"

"Give me that!" Thomas snapped, snatching the carcass away from him. He tore the message case off the bird's leg, and tossed the body over the battlement.

"But, Father . . . "Cedric protested, confused.

"I'll just send a damn messenger," Thomas growled under his breath, stalking off the battlement.

Cedric stared after him. Then he glanced at the falcon.

The bird, taking the glance as invitation, lunged at his eye.

**

They arrived at the cabin just before midday.

The snow began to fall, very lightly. Meg checked her horse and looked up, her face light with wonder. Watching her, Armus shook his head. Cedric was right, of course; before winter was over, she'd loathe the snow as much as the rest of them. But for the moment, she was very, very pretty.

He dismounted and left his horse standing while he opened the door to the small stable at the side of the cabin. It smelled dusty and stale, but it would keep the horses dry through the night. The woodsman, who had stacked dried firewood outside the cabin, had also left a portion of hay for the horses. Armus unloaded the pack horse first and led him into the large single stall, really more of a small paddock. By the time he went back outside, Meg had taken the saddle bags off both of the riding horses and ungirthed both saddles -- but made no attempt to take the saddles off. Pleased that she was finally taking his advice to let him do the heavier work, Armus put the tack away and put the other horses in the stall. They hadn't been ridden hard enough to need rubdowns, but he threw them some hay and took the water bucket outside with him.

The water in the rain barrel was frozen as far down as he could see. Armus frowned. They'd brought drinking water from the castle, but he'd have to go and fetch some for the horses from the lake. Well, might as well get Meg settled first. He grabbed the gear and went around to the front of the cabin, where his wife was waiting, still gazing up into the falling snow, beaming.

He pushed the door open carefully. The cabin stood unoccupied for long periods, especially in the winter, and though the woodsman had probably checked the place, there was always the chance of vagrants or wild animals. But all seemed in order, and he stood back to let Meg in.

The cabin was largely as he remembered it: dark, chilly, rough and rustic. The familiar, tattered old bearskin spread in front of the fire, the rough table and its rickety benches. One change was very obvious to Armus, though. On the far wall, where there had once been six small cots, there were now four cots and one rather sumptuous double bed. The knight frowned, flushing a bit. Could his father have been any *more* obvious about the intent of this trip? But then he reconsidered, noting the light layer of dust on the bed. Evidently it had been here for some time. Perhaps his father had other uses for the cabin. "Humph," he said quietly, setting down the gear.

Meg squeaked.

Armus spun, alarmed, his hand on his sword, but she was already shaking her head, smiling in embarrassment. "Mouse," she said, pointing.

At the far end of the hearth, a brown mouse sat on its haunches, watching them nervously. Armus stomped his foot and the creature scampered into a hole and disappeared. "You want me to try to catch him?" Armus answered.

Meg shook her head. "No. He just startled me."

Armus took the saddlebags from her and set them beside the other gear. Then he took his wife gently in his two hands and lifted her to stand on the hearth. She was still a little shorter than he, but tall enough that he could kiss her without stooping, which he did, leisurely and at length. "Welcome to the hunting cabin, my lady."

"I like it," she murmured against his mouth. "It's very . . . private."

"Well, that is the idea." He nuzzled her gently, noted that her nose was cold. "I'll get the fire started."

"Hmm," she answered, her arms tightening around his neck, her lips finding his again. "I think you already did."

Reluctantly, grinning, Armus pulled away from her and brought in some firewood. While he worked on the fire, Meg puttered around the cabin, unrolling the tick on the big bed, laying out the bedding they'd brought, securing the food on a hook high above the floor. Armus glanced at her, bemused, as he struck sparks into the kindling. She was not the shy little maiden he'd married. Not any more. Not since White Cliff . . .

White Cliff, he mused, smiling to himself as the fire caught. The battlements at White Cliff, where he had first kissed her and where . . . he made himself stop right there, because if he thought any more about that, he was never going to get the fire built.

The kindling caught nicely, and Armus lay several small branches on top of it, watching carefully until they, too, caught.

One of the horses screamed.

Armus straightened swiftly, drawing his sword as he went. "Stay here," he called to Meg as he moved out of the cabin.

He heard another equine shriek, as well as considerable snorting and stomping, as he made his way to the shed. He threw the door open and stepped inside, willing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The horses were crowded to the left side of the stall, stamping and shuffling for position and staring at something to the right. A heavy, pungent odor reached Armus even before he saw the shape shuffling in the far corner, and he knew exactly what it was.

"What is that?" Meg whispered behind him.

"Badger," Armus answered tersely. "I told you to stay inside."

"Can I see?"

Warily, Armus put his sword away and moved along the outside of the stall to the back wall of the shed. He gestured for Meg to join him, helped her climb up the rails until she could see clearly over the top. "There," he pointed. "In the corner."

She watched for a moment. "They're *big*," she said in surprise.

"Yes. They don't usually bother people, but they can be dangerous when you corner them. I've seen them tear hunting dogs to shreds."

The horses, more accustomed to the strange creature's presence, and reassured by the humans, began to settle. "Stay here," Armus said firmly. He went into the stall quietly, patting the horses, moving between them, studying the ground. As he expected, the badger hole was in the back corner. The badger was cut off from its escape by the horses.

Calmly, firmly, Armus push the pack horse's rump until it shifted to the front of the stall. He pushed it again, and it took two hesitant steps in Meg's direction. "Call him," he said, and Meg clucked gently. The horse hesitated, then moved closer to her -- and to the badger. Armus shifted the other horses in the same way, until the badger had a clear run to its den. The creature hissed and snarled at him, then gathered its courage and fled, disappearing slickly into the dark little cave of its home.

Armus looked around, found a large, flat rock, and put it over the den's entrance.

"Is it trapped now?" Meg asked.

He shook his head. "It'll have a dozen other entrances. But it won't use this one again, and I don't want a horse breaking a leg in that hole." He pushed the horses out of his way and left the stall. "Well. That was exciting."

"Do you ever hunt them?" Meg asked as they walked back outside.

"Once or twice," Armus admitted. "They're not good to eat, though. And I'm not much on hunting just for sport."

Meg nodded, pushing the cabin door open -- and falling back as a cloud of smoke billowed out.

"Stay here," Armus insisted as he plunged into the cabin. He groped his way through the smoke to the fireplace. He already knew what was wrong; he'd opened the flue, but clearly the chimney was blocked. The fire was low, smoldering and smoking. He stuck his arm around the hot stones and up into the chimney, but could find nothing. He dropped back, coughing, drew his sword, and poked around the chimney with it. The smoke billowed from the dying fire, stinging his eyes until the tears ran from them. Nothing.

"Damn!" Armus bellowed. He went back to the door, where the smoke had cleared some. Meg was standing just inside, her arms out to him -- and in her hands the water skins from the castle, both uncorked. Armus spared an instant to thank God for his useful wife as he coughed his way back to the hearth and squirted the fire out.

They left the door open, and some of the smoke blew out. The rest gathered in a low cloud in the peak of the cabin's roof. Armus sighed at the soggy mess that had been going to be his cozy fire. The sigh brought on another wave of coughing.

Meg took his arm and led him outside. "Sit," she said, pushing him toward the woodpile.

Armus sat, wiping his eyes, trying to catch his breath. Another spasm of coughing took him, subsided, rose again. Finally, wheezing, he sat back and managed a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I should have checked . . . "

"Shh," Meg answered quietly. She smoothed his hair back, kissed the smoky tears off his cheeks, drew his head down on her shoulder and wrapped her arms around it. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Armus assured her. He rested there another moment, comforted on her breasts. They were firm and full; she'd gained a little weight since their marriage, and most of it seemed to have settled right here. And so warm and smooth under his touch . . . Armus sighed. "It would have been a lot less frustrating," he ventured, sitting up, "to stay at the castle and just lock the door."

Meg chuckled. "We can go back," she suggested.

"No," Armus said firmly. He slid to his feet. "All right. Let's try the fire again."

**

"Lady Eleanor?"

Eleanor looked up from the boiling pudding. It was her fourth attempt; every time, just at this stage, someone interrupted her and the pudding scalded. "I'm *busy*," she said firmly.

"Aye, miss," the man said. "But there's a crate just arrived for Lady Margaret."

"A crate?" Eleanor repeated.

"Aye. From White Cliff, it is."

"What's in it?"

"We didn't open it."

Frowning, Eleanor stepped toward him. The spoon promptly slid into the pudding and disappeared, and the pudding attempted to boil over. "Damn!" the young woman said, loud enough to turn every head in the kitchen. She snatched up another spoon and attempted to retrieve the first.

"The crate, my lady?" the man insisted.

"Just . . . just . . . put it by the door there," Eleanor answered with an impatient shake of her head.

"Yes, miss."

**

Richard had planned to leave the castle after lunch. His quest, after all, was to bring back a single deer. Barely a challenge for a hunter of his skill. An hour in the forest, maybe two -- he'd be back in plenty of time for dinner.

But as he went up the main stairway, he encountered his father, coming down. Thomas had snowflakes melting in his hair, and a curious little packet in his hand, and he seemed disturbed. "Something wrong, Father?"

Thomas unexpectedly glared at him. "No," he snapped. "Why should anything be wrong?"

"What's that?" Richard asked, gesturing to the tiny parcel. "A message?"

"No." Thomas stashed the bundle up his sleeve. "Haven't you gone yet?"

"Evidently not."

"It's snowing, you know."

"So I gathered," Richard answered. "Have you been outside?"

"No. Yes, I was on the roof."

"Why?"

Thomas' mood darkened further. "I will not be interrogated in my own castle!" he shouted. "Go and shoot me a damn deer."

His son immediately grew defensive. "What did I do?" he protested.

"Nothing!" Thomas stormed. "That's the problem."

And then he stomped off before Richard could reply.

Sullen, Richard got his cloak and headed for the armory for his bow. It was snowing, very lightly, but it was also much warmer than it had been the day before. What was his father so angry about? Richard was pretty sure he hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe he was still angry from dinner last night. Being cooped up in the castle hadn't improved anybody's mood. And that stupid fight he'd had with Cedric hadn't helped. But it *had* been Cedric's fault . . .

. . . and Richard had been winning when Thomas broke it up . . .

His mood lightening, Richard crossed to the stable and asked for his horse. While he waited, he went to the kitchen door. Lunch wouldn't be ready, but maybe he could snag some bread and leftovers, Meg usually had something handy to eat . . .

The kitchen door stood open, and within was smoke and chaos.

Alarmed, Richard propped his bow against the wall and went inside. Just clear of the door, he ran squarely into a large wooden crate. He paused, rubbing his thigh, grateful for the sake of his future children that the crate wasn't just a little taller. The smoke, he could see now, came from a single pot on the stove, the contents of which were flaming. Eleanor was throwing flour at the flames in useless little handfuls.

"Bucket of water?" Richard offered gallantly.

Eleanor glared at him. "And put the whole stove out?"

He snagged a lid from another pot and adroitly dropped it over the flames. After a moment, he lifted it carefully. The flames were gone.

Eleanor peered into the pot beside him. "Thanks a lot. Now you've ruined it."

Richard shrugged. "I think it was ruined before I got here. Where's Meg?"

"They left. I thought you had, too."

Her brother nodded, looking around the kitchen. There was, he decided, little chance of snagging a meal, and even less chance that whatever he snagged would be edible. "Just going," he said evenly. "Probably won't be back until after supper."

"I'll save you a plate," Eleanor answered.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Out!"

Grinning, Richard went. He paused at the door. "What's in this crate?"

Eleanor didn't even glance up. "What crate?"

**

They used a shovel from the stable to scrape the wet remnants of the first fire onto an old rug. Then Armus stretched out on his back on the damp hearth and again stuck his sword into the chimney. After a bit of probing, he hit something solid. A little wiggling brought the whole thing -- an old squirrel's nest -- down into the fireplace. As he prepared to drag it out, Meg said, "Leave it. We'll use it for kindling."

Armus he had to admit it was a good idea. The nest, after all, was made up of twigs and dead leaves and bits of fur. It was dry enough, except on the very top. As soon as he struck a spark, the nest caught fire. He tossed bigger sticks on it, watching closely until he was sure the smoke was drawing nicely up the chimney. Then he added small logs.

Finally, wearily, he sat back on the bearskin. A nice warmth began to radiate through the cabin. Meg shed her cloak and came to sit with him. "Hungry?"

He considered. It was certainly past midday, and he *was* hungry. At the moment, he was also too tired to be amorous. "I am," he admitted.

She climbed to her feet and got down the pack. They ate a cold lunch, bread and cheese, slices of ham leftover from dinner, and apples, sitting in front of the fire. "Nice," Meg pronounced, and Armus grunted his agreement. He sat a moment more, enjoying the warmth. Then he climbed wearily to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Meg asked.

"To fetch water," Armus answered, digging the short hatchet out of his gear. "For us, and for the horses." He paused, then also took the small bag that contained his fishing gear. "I might as well see about catching some supper while I'm at it."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Meg offered.

Armus looked at her. She was clearly warm and comfortable by the fire, and though she offered to accompany him, she made no move. "You are welcome to," he answered, "but you seem very cozy where you are."

She smiled contentedly. "Maybe I'll hang the blankets to air out."

"All right. I won't be long."

**

Richard Grey hated gaudy taverns.

From the outside, His Lordship's Helm looked very much like a tavern he would hate.

The door, the window frames, the sign were all painted a cheerful green. And above the door . . .

Richard circled slowly, eyeing the thing. It was obviously meant to be a helm, but it was outrageously large, twice as big as even Armus would have needed, and made of cheap, thin tin. It had also been painted green, but the paint was already peeling in large patches. It was hideous.

The tavern had been open for several weeks, but Richard hadn't been in. He had been visiting the Magpie's Nest since his first drink, and he liked it there. He saw no reason to change. In fact, he saw no reason that a village this size needed two taverns. Still, it wouldn't hurt to look around.

Besides, he was planning on having his supper at the Nest, after his successful hunt, and so thought it better that he have dinner here. Wouldn't do to have the villagers gossiping about the castle kitchen . . .

And there might be pretty girls here.

Still eyeing the helm with approbation, Richard went inside.

**

The girl stood quietly, watching the stag. The stag gazed back at her, completely unconcerned.

Nell frowned in wonder. The deer would run from any other person. And yet he just stood and stared at her. Perhaps he knew she had no weapon.

Perhaps he didn't know she was a person.

Dismissing her, the stag lowered its head to the sparse, snow-tipped grass to graze. Nell remained still, just watching him. The way his shoulder muscles rippled under his smooth fur as he moved. The power in his motionless flanks. The dainty placement of his sharp cloven hooves. The heaviness of his antlers.

The antlers would fall soon, Nell knew. The rut was over, and he had no further need of them. Maybe she could find them on the forest floor. Antlers brought a good price in the village.

The stag threw his head up, ears pricked, nostrils flaring. Nell turned her head slowly and looked around, but she couldn't see what had alarmed him. When she turned back, the stag had vanished into the woods.

And then she heard the wagon.

As silent as her deer friend, the girl slipped through the trees to the edge of the road.

She was careful to keep herself hidden; she wasn't supposed to be in the woods alone any more, her father said. Nell thought it was ridiculous. She'd been running the forest since she was a toddler. But suddenly her father thought she was a young lady, and ought to be escorted everywhere. As if anyone would threaten *her*.

Besides, her appearance sometimes caused horses to bolt.

The wagon came around the bend. It wasn't a wagon at all, but a two-wheeled cart, drawn by a single pony. The driver was alone. Grinning in delight, Nell stepped out into the road.

Og swung down before the pony had even stopped. "Nell! I was hoping I'd see you!"

Nell ran into his arms and kissed him. "I thought you couldn't get away today."

"I can't. I mean, I am, but," he gestured back to the cart, "I'm working. Had to deliver

wood to the cabin."

"The hunting cabin?" she asked. "Who's going there?"

Her lover shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe nobody. You know how my father is. If there's no work, he makes something up. Oh, Nell, I've missed you."

"And you," she answered, blushing a bit. "Can we meet tonight?"

"At the cave?" he asked eagerly.

"At sunset."

"I'll be there."

They kissed again, and went their several ways, with a promise of later, more satisfactory, meeting.

**

"Lady Eleanor?"

Eleanor sighed. "Come in, Ramsey."

The groom stood uncertainly in the outer doorway. "Marta says I'm not to track up her kitchen . . . "

Eleanor glanced at him. As usual, his boots were covered with horse droppings. She could smell him from where she stood. "Sound advice, Ramsey." She dried her hands and walked over to him. "What is it?"

The groom made a face. "It's Sarah, miss. She's out again."

"How this time?" Eleanor groaned.

"I don't know. But she's already run into the gate twice."

Eleanor groaned again. "All right. I'm coming." She grabbed a thin brown shawl from a hook by the door and followed the groom out to the stables.

As he'd said, the gray Arabian mare was running around the outer paddock in a raw panic, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. She didn't like the snow. As Eleanor watched, she plowed into the fence again.

"Saints preserve us," Eleanor muttered, climbing into the paddock with the mare.

The Arabians, a matched pair, had been a wedding gift from the King himself. The stallion was a beautifully mannered beast, smooth-gaited, even-tempered. But the mare . . .

A week after the wedding, they had set out to go riding, Meg and Armus, Richard and Eleanor. Meg was wearing breeches for the first time -- just for riding, she insisted, but Eleanor didn't care; Richard's money from their bet was already lining her pocket. The mare saddled nicely enough. Meg climbed on. The mare ran into a tree.

"Should have turned her," Eleanor advised.

"I *tried* to turn her," Meg protested.

"Let me try."

And so the most confident horsewoman in the district climbed onto the mare. And jumped off just before the horse hit the side of the barn.

Richard tried. Armus tried.

The four of them stood and watched the mare contentedly grazing at the end of her reins. "It's not as if she's vicious," Richard observed.

"No," Eleanor agreed, remembering her epic battles with Damascus's temper. "She's a very pleasant little horse."

"Just . . . stupid," Armus finished. "She doesn't have the sense to stop before she runs into something."

"I think I'll call her Sarah," Meg contributed.

"Don't you have a sister named Sarah?" Eleanor asked.

Meg simply nodded. Armus chuckled. They found Meg another horse. Sarah became a broodmare.

But if Sarah was dumb about stopping, she was annoyingly clever about opening doors. Nothing they had tried could keep her inside for long. At least once a week, and sometimes more, she opened her stall and went for a run in the paddock. Being alone there frightened her, and she ran into the fence.

Eleanor walked to the center of the paddock and stood very still. The mare stopped charging around and stared at her. "That's it," she whispered to the mare. "Come on, you stupid four-footed dung-ridden addle brain. Come on over here."

Encouraged by her tone, the mare took a step closer. "That's it," Eleanor said again. "A little closer, you half-witted spastic. Come here."

The mare walked up to her as if she'd done nothing wrong. Eleanor patted her nose, then laced her fingers into her mane. The mare nuzzled her vest, then took the edge of the shawl between her teeth like a baby sucking a sugar teat. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?" Eleanor murmured fondly. She led the mare gently back to the stables.

When she emerged, having double-locked the stall door yet again, Ramsey was waiting for her. "Thank you, Miss."

"No trouble."

"Marta wants you in the kitchen, miss, right away. Something about the pot smoking again."

"The pot . . . damn it!" Shawl flying, Eleanor raced back toward the castle.

**

"I don't * know* how he does it," Trout protested, rather loudly. "I just know that he does, every single year."

Daniels looked skeptical. "You're saying this girl just magically appears?"

"No, no, not like that, not poof or anything. She just turns up. You'll see. One year it was a broken-down carriage, and another year she got lost on her way home from convent school . . . "

"The same girl?"

"No! I told you, a different girl, but every year . . . " Trout glanced around. The other scattered noontime patrons of the inn were looking at him. Chagrined, he lowered his voice. "Every year, at Christmas, a young woman shows up and throws herself at the Baron."

Daniels laughed out loud. "I don't believe you."

"Wait and see," Trout said smugly.

"It's only two days until Christmas."

"So she should be here any time. You mark my words, it'll be soon, some pretty young thing will turn up at the gate on some excuse, and before the feasting's done she'll wind up in the Baron's bed."

Daniels considered him for a moment, then laughed. "You're pulling my leg again."

"I am not. I swear on my mother's grave . . . " Trout paused, glancing toward the door. "Him," he pronounced in a soft growl.

Daniels twisted around. Standing in the doorway, looking around like he owned the place, stood Richard Grey. Daniels groaned. "I thought they'd stay at the old place."

Trout shook his head. "A man just can't have a peaceful drink in this village any more."

Richard looked around the new tavern in relief. It was not gaudy. It was, in fact, very much like its older competitor, except that everything was new and rough instead of old and rough. The interior smelled more of whitewash than stale ale -- but that would fade soon enough. At the bar, the innkeeper -- who bore more than a passing likeness to the owner of the Magpie's Nest, smiled in greeting. Richard moved to the bar.

"Good morrow, sir," the innkeeper said warmly. "Welcome to His Lordship's Helm."

"Thank you."

"And what can I get for the good sir?"

"Something to eat?" Richard inquired.

"Aye, the girl's made a lovely shepherd's pie, if that suits."

"That sounds fine."

"Some ale with that?"

Richard nodded. The innkeeper moved off, and Richard leaned one elbow on the bar, turning to look around the little tavern again. It was *very* much like the Magpie's Nest. He couldn't imagine how the owner thought if could compete. Still, he thought, it would give him a place to go when the Nest was redolent with the reek of Mullen's men . . .

With a mild start, Richard realized that he was looking at two of them.

The one he knew only because the man wore the colors of Torsun-Narr. But the other, Richard had met face-to-face -- and blade-to-blade -- in the Gypsy camp, the day of the wedding.

Their eyes locked across the width of the room. Richard tensed, flexed his fingers, ready to grab his sword at the first provocation. The other man was obviously thinking the same thing. The glare held.

"Your ale, sir," the innkeeper said at his elbow.

Richard flicked a glance his way. "Thank you." When he looked back, Mullen's men had returned to their drinks. Warily, Richard turned to his. He kept his body angled toward them, ready to defend against any move they made.

But he wasn't, despite what his father thought, going to provoke a fight.

The girl who brought his meal was more that pretty enough to distract him from thoughts of fighting. "Hello," she said, setting down the plate. "I'm Elsa."

"Hello," Richard answer. "I'm Richard."

"I know."

"Have we met?"

"No." She leaned her elbows on the bar, casually revealing rather more cleavage than was strictly proper. "I just moved here. But girls talk, you know." She reached out and softly curled a lock of his hair around her fingers. "As soon as I saw these curls, I knew who you must be."

"Oh." Richard leaned his own elbow, affording himself yet a better view. "And what else did they say about me?"

She straightened, not displeased by his attention. "That you're a fresh one. Your dinner's getting cold."

"My . . . what?"

Elsa gestured to the plate. "Eat your dinner. I'll come back and talk to you when I can." With a distinctly deliberate swish of her hips, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Transfixed, Richard took a bite of the shepherd's pie. It was dry, the crust was heavy, and the meat was chewy. Richard Grey cared not at all.

**

The cabin was well-located, just over the hill from a deep lake. Armus trudged over the path he had walked a thousand times as a boy, snapping off a slender stick as he went. The lake was completely frozen over, as he'd expected after. It was also dusted with a light coating of snow. He ventured cautiously out onto the ice. It was slippery, but didn't even creak beneath his weight. He stopped about thirty feet from the shore and set down his gear.

Chopping the hole took rather longer than he'd expected; the ice was a good three inches thick. By the time he was done, he was out of breath. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with an ice-covered glove, which immediately gave him a cold headache. Shaking it off, he tied his fishing line to the stick and lowered it into the water, placing the stick crosswise over the hole to secure it.

He didn't actually care for ice fishing, as it involved being outdoors for long, boring periods in the middle of winter. But he had it in his mind that his wife was homesick, and that perhaps a meal of fresh fish would cheer her up. And he had to make the hole anyhow, to draw water. He lowered the water skins into the water one at a time, then took a long drink of the icy water. The cold headache returned.

Armus reached for the horses' water bucket, and suddenly his stick arched downward toward the water. He drew the line up and found a nice fish, longer than his hand, wriggling angrily on his hook. Pleased, he took the fish off and set it on the ice, well away from the open water. He didn't even need to re-bait the hook before dropping it back into the water.

By the time he'd filled the water bucket, he had another fish. By the time he'd hauled the water to the horses and returned, there was a third. The next dozen came in quick succession.

Armus grinned, stringing the fish together. After the wretched morning, maybe his luck was finally turned. He took the fish and his gear and headed back to the cabin. If he was going to be lucky now, he knew exactly who he wanted to be lucky with.

He hung the stringer of fish on a hook outside the door and went in. Meg had rigged slender lines in three directions in the cabin, and draped the blankets over them to air. But she was no where in sight. Frowning with concern, Armus took another step inside and lifted one of the blankets to look around.

His wife was curled on the skin in front of the fire, under her cloak, fast asleep.

Armus considered her for a moment. She was very pretty, sleeping there, her skin glowing in the firelight, her hair sparkling and loose around her shoulders. He wanted to go and nestle next to her, to wake her with kisses, to warm her in a different way . . .

And yet . . .

Even by firelight he could see the paleness of her skin, the dark circles under her eyes.

Her breathing was slow and deep; she wasn't dozing, but deeply asleep. And he remembered how many nights in a row she had slipped out of his bed to check on the wounded girl, how early she rose to see to breakfast for the household. His father was right about this: the woman was exhausted. A long nap on a winter afternoon would do her a world of good.

And they had the whole night, and all of the next day, for other pursuits . . .

Smiling fondly, Armus quietly hung the water bottles and went out to clean his catch.

**

The girl brought a second tankard of ale just as Richard drained the first. "Thank you," he said, warming up his next line. Then, with a start, he realized it was not the girl who'd brought his dinner. "You're not Elsa," he observed.

The girl, who was just as pretty as the first, smiled. "No, I'm Rowena. I'm the oldest."

"And most experienced?" Richard guessed.

"Some might say so," she answered without hesitation.

"I'm Richard."

"I know." She slid around the bar and stood with her elbow against his. "What brings you out on such a snowy day?"

Richard smiled charmingly. "Hunting," he answered. "I've been commanded to fetch a deer home for Christmas dinner."

Rowena smiled back. "Well. *I* can be very dear."

"I bet you can."

"Shame," she continued, her fingers trailing up his sleeve, "to be tramping around the woods when you could be . . . warm and safe here."

Richard all but purred. "Well, I suppose I *could* say that there was no game to be found. But if anyone *sees* me here . . . "

"Then you must not be seen," Rowena agreed at once.

"I saw him first!" Elsa shrieked behind them.

Rowena gripped his upper arm firmly. "Go away, little sister."

"You go away! I saw him first!"

Richard glanced nervously between them. Neither of them seemed to notice him now, except that Rowena's fingers were digging into his arm. "Ladies, please . . . "

"What's all the shouting about?"

He turned. A third young woman stood behind the bar. She bore a striking resemblance to the first two. "I'm Richard," he announced. "Who are you?"

She smiled warmly, ignoring her sisters' attempted possession of him. "I'm Melody," she answered, with coyly downcast eyes. "I'm the youngest."

"Ah," he sighed. "And the most gifted."

"So they say."

"I saw him first," Elsa said stubbornly. She moved closer to where Richard sat, and put her hand on his shoulder. When she leaned, her cleavage was directly in line with his eyes.

"Yes, but *we* were talking," Rowena argued.

"Talking, ha! I know what you were doing, you . . . "

"Ladies, please," Richard protested. He rose smoothly to his feet, shedding both older sisters as he went. "There's no need to argue. Can't we all get along here?"

"I won't get along with that man-stealer!" Elsa shrilled.

"You're the man-stealer!" Rowena shot back.

Richard was beginning to feel like a roast of beef caught between hungry hounds -- and he didn't much like it. He glanced at Melody for help.

She just shrugged, in that shy-coy way. "I'm so sorry, good sir. They're always like this. I'm sure a gentleman of your refinement would much prefer the company . . . "

"You stay out of this!" her older sisters yelled in unison.

"Well he *would*!" Melody insisted.

Rowena grabbed his hand, hard. "I'm sure he *knows* what he would prefer."

Elsa grabbed his other hand. "Yes, I'm sure he does."

Melody leaned her elbows on the bar, offering him a familiar view down her bodice. "Yes, dear Richard. What *do* you prefer?"

Richard considered, growing paler by the minute. "Reinforcements," he muttered under his breath. "Tactical retreat."

"What?"

"Deer," he said, more loudly. "I need to shoot a deer."

"But Richard . . . "

He shook his hands loose, slugged back his ale, dropped some coins, and headed for the door, ignoring their protests -- running for his life.

**

By the middle of the afternoon, Eleanor was exhausted.

The heat, the hard work of kneading, lifting, peeling -- she was exhausted. She couldn't imagine how the kitchen maids did it all day every day. Just a little rest, she thought. Just a few minutes.

She slipped through the door next to the big hearth, into the old storeroom. It had never been used to store much, since it was too warm, but under Meg's guidance it had been converted to a perfectly idea infirmary. There was a cupboard for bandages and poultices and such, a table for the physician's work, and three slender beds. Because it was behind the kitchen chimney, the room was always warm, and there was nearly always someone in the kitchen who could keep an ear out for the sick or wounded. And when the room was not in use, the kitchen staff sometimes used the beds for naps.

Which was what Eleanor was doing now.

She stretched out on top of the blankets of the nearest bed. Just a few minutes of rest, she thought, and then she'd go back to pie making. Her arms and shoulders ached. Also her back and feet and legs. She groaned, rolling onto her side. How did Meg ever manage it?

Eleanor sighed. She adored her sister-in-law, she truly did. Meg was sweet and kind and helpful and hard-working, and she made Armus ridiculously happy, and she had taken over running the household just as Eleanor had hoped she would, and she kept Thomas off of Eleanor's back . . .

The problem was, Meg was now running the household, acting as the lady of the castle, while Eleanor was still treated like a child.

Meg had keys, and the household purse. Eleanor had an allowance. Meg had responsibility for the kitchen staff, the household staff. Eleanor, who had studiously avoided those responsibilities, now found that she had none.

Eleanor had her father's love. But Meg had his respect.

It did not sit well with Eleanor. And it didn't help any that she had wholeheartedly helped to create the situation.

Still, Eleanor thought as she rolled over again, at least it wasn't Elizabeth running things at Covington Cross . . .

She bit her lip at that notion. Because now that Thomas had someone to run his household, he had more time to *visit* his neighbor. And worse, he was beginning to act like he had a duty to do so.

"Damn it," Eleanor said aloud, sitting up. She was going to supervise this Christmas dinner, every single dish of it, and she was going to do it right. She was going to show them all that she could manage it, if it killed her.

"Lady Eleanor?"

"Yes, Marta?"

"Were you resting?"

"No, no. Just checking on things in here. Never know when we might need the infirmary." Eleanor climbed to her feet.

"Yes, miss."

"Something you needed, Marta?"

"About dinner."

"I thought we'd do the main dishes tomorrow."

"Yes, miss. Dinner for *tonight*."

Eleanor sighed. She'd completely forgotten that she needed to feed the castle *tonight*. "What was planned?"

"Well . . . Lady Meg usually decides after breakfast."

It was now the middle of the afternoon. And nothing had been decided or prepared. "What can we cook in the time we have?" Eleanor asked.

Marta considered. "We could roast chickens."

"Do that."

"Yes, miss. I'll find a man to kill them for us."

"Don't bother," Eleanor called. "I'm in the mood to kill something anyhow."

**

Meg woke in the middle of the afternoon. She stretched languidly, then sat up and looked at Armus, who was sitting at the table, reading a book. "I'm sorry. Have you been back long?"

"Couple hours," he allowed.

"You should have woken me." She climbed stiffly to her feet. "Catch anything?"

"Couple dozen. They're outside the door."

"Hmm." She ducked under the clothesline, took his book and put it on the table, and sat on his lap. "So they'll keep a while."

Armus regarded her, pleased. "A while."

"Good." She draped both arms around his neck, laced her fingers through his fair hair, and drew him into a long, passionate kiss.

Armus smiled lazily when she drew back. "Want to go play in the snow?"

"Maybe later." She kissed him once more, then slid to her feet. "Could you build up the fire a little?"

"Well, I could if you'd come back over here."

Meg laughed, taking one of the blankets off the line and moving toward the bed with it. "*That* fire," she said, with a nod of her head.

"Oh." Pleasantly warmed with anticipation, Armus went and built up the fire.

"Armus," Meg said quietly.

Armus turned from the fireplace. His young wife had backed away from the bed, all the way to the cabin wall, and she was staring at the bed as if she were afraid it might come after her. "Meg?"

"There's something under there."

"What?"

She pointed toward the bed. "There's something under there."

"Rat, probably."

"Bigger."

Concerned, Armus moved between her and the bed. "You're sure?"

"Way bigger," Meg answered with certainty.

"Stay there," he ordered. He drew his side knife from his belt and moved forward.

"Be careful," his wife advised.

Armus paused to glance at her. It was not like Meg to make stupid comments. He drew his sword, lay it on the bed with the hilt at his fingertips. Then he dropped to his knees and looked under the bed.

A bandit in a striped mask stared back at him. And hissed. And attacked.

Armus backed frantically away from the bed, scrambling to his feet. The creature clung to his head, its front claws digging into his forehead at the hairline, its back legs scrabbling frantically at his chin. He managed to get his hands around the creature's mid-section, but it simply wriggled away, its smooth fur slipping through his fingers. Changing tactics, he grabbed its front legs and tried to peel the creature off.

He had never heard a badger make noises like that.

Blinded by the attack, he tripped and landed hard on the floor next to the bed. He was aware of Meg shouting, and then of more claws, now in his back. The mate, no doubt. He rolled. The creature growled furiously and dug in deeper.

He decided that the badger on his face was more of a threat than the one on his back. His position gave him an idea. He rolled chest-down, lifted his head, and slammed his face, badger-first, into the floor. It seemed to stun the animal; it hung limply and he was able to pry its claws out of his face.

Then he felt teeth against the back of his neck.

Before he could roll again, he heard a too-familiar metallic swish and was struck by a blow that slammed him to the floor again. Fortunately, the unconscious badger was still there to cushion his face. The one on his back fell away.

Cautiously, slowly, Armus turned over. The badger slid from his back. He gazed up at his wife -- who stood over him with his sword in both her tiny hands.

He swallowed. "Thank you, Meg," he said, uncertainly.

**

Eleanor strode across the kitchen, hit the puddle on the floor, and slid wildly. She caught herself on the crate, at the cost of wedging a large splinter in her palm. "Damn!" She looked down. The puddle was huge, spreading from the crate nearly to the back door. "Where is all this water coming from?"

The kitchen maids glanced her way, but no one answered. Eleanor examined the crate more closely. It was big, hip-high to her, equally wide and deep. The lid was nailed on, but all around were drill holes the size of her palm. And the water, clearly, was coming from the crate.

For the first time, it occurred to Eleanor that whatever had been sent from White Cliff was alive. "Let's get this open," she said slowly.

**

The girl ran through the forest, her feet slipping on the ice-covered ground, her skirts snagging on the bare branches no matter how high she hitched them. Her cloak streamed out behind her, no good against the cold. Behind her, she could hear the horses of her pursuers.

Breathless, trembling with exhaustion, she looked frantically for a place to hide. A cave, or a hollow tree, anything. Just so she could stop and catch her breath.

Damn the luck, that the cabin wasn't empty. She'd scouted it carefully, assured herself that it was empty before she went into the village. But when she'd run back today, trailed by the sheriff, there was smoke coming from the chimney. Damn it all!

Her hand fell to the pocket of her skirt. It was extra-deep, hanging nearly to her knees, and heavy with the coins she'd stolen. With every step the coins banged against her leg. Far from annoying her, the battering urged her faster. It was the heaviest pocket she'd ever had, and she would be damned if she would give it up.

The cold air burned in her lungs. Her feet slipped again, and again, as her legs grew too tired to carry her any further. She had to find a place to hide, she had to . . .

The trees broke, and she was on short grass. Tended lawns, around a small pond, too round to be natural. And beyond, an open gate . . . a castle.

The girl checked at the tree line, looking around carefully. She didn't know where she was. It wasn't Covington Cross; she'd scouted that castle, decided it was too busy to rob, and had been running in the opposite direction. She'd been a fool, she reflected, moving into a new territory without learning her way around better. This might be a perfect refuge . . . but then again . . .

The horses grew closer behind her. The girl looked around frantically. Give me a sign, she thought frantically, I need a sign . . .

Impossibly, a peacock appeared at the gate. It walked regally out onto the lawn, flaring its tail feathers, radiant blue and purples in the white snow. It uttered an unearthly cry. Behind it, two plain little pen hens followed.

The peacock called again. Behind it, a man shouted, "Shut up, you blue-tailed devil!"

That was more of a sign than the girl had hoped for. She sprinted onto the lawn -- slipped again, landing hard on her hands, but recovering, running, just as the horses broke from the woods behind her. She ran hard, hoping that the man would come out, meet her half way . . .

He did. Hearing the horses, the man stepped through the gate. He was older, slender, dressed in black from head to toe, black hair, black goatee, dark eyes. Noble. The girl flung herself at his feet. "Save me!" she cried.

The horsemen rode up in a loose circle behind her.

Mullens looked down at the girl. She had thrown her arms around his ankles and clung there in a heap, panting. The cloak concealed much, but it didn't matter. He looked up. "Sheriff?"

"Good morrow, Baron. This young woman is a thief."

"Hmm." He looked down again. "Is that true, girl?"

She looked up, her pretty face streaked with tears. "I swear, my lord, I stole nothing."

"She claims she is innocent, Sheriff."

The sheriff shrugged. "They always do."

"True, they do. But such a pretty, honest face -- you cannot truly believe that this innocent child is a criminal."

"Your pardon, my lord, but the shopkeeper saw her with her hand in the till . . . "

"Which he left unattended? Is it not possible that the shopkeeper took his own money, and then reported it stolen?"

"Uh . . . why would he do that?" the sheriff inquired.

"To keep it out of his wife's hands?"

The sheriff sighed. He'd been through this before, with Baron Mullens. "I find that unlikely, good sir."

Mullens looked down again. The girl had released his ankles and was kneeling at his feet, gazing up at him with a mixture of hope and speculation. She had raven-black hair and big brown eyes, and she was very pretty, even through the dirt. He raised one eyebrow at her, and smiled reassuringly. "It's nearly Christmas, my good man. Leave the child here with me. I'll see to it that she doesn't steal anything more -- if she has, in fact, stolen anything at all. And after the yule, I will see it that she's out of your jurisdiction."

The sheriff sighed again. Half the morning, running after this wench, and she was going to spend the holiday snug in the Baron's castle. Still, there was nothing to be done. "As you wish, sir. But call us if she gives you any trouble."

"She'll give me no trouble," Mullen assured him. He looked down at the girl. "Will you, my dear?"

"Oh, no, sir. None at all."

"There's a good girl," Mullens rumbled. He jerked his head toward the gate. "Inside with you."

Grateful and quick, the girl scrambled into the yard. Mullens stayed where he was, until the sheriff took his leave and rode away. Only then did he let the expectant grin spread across his face.

At the far side of the pond, and peacock screamed. Mullens grimaced -- he hated that sound -- and strode through the gate.

The girl was waiting just inside. "Oh, thank you, good sir," she gushed. "I can't tell you . . . I was so frightened . . . "

Mullens strode past her, and the girl skipped to keep up. "What's your name, girl?"

"Uh . . . Constance, sir."

"Constance?" Mullens smirked. "Not bloody likely. But it will do." He walked into the main hall of the castle, trailing the girl behind him. "Trout!"

Trout came out of the guardroom, with Daniels at his heels. "My lord?"

Mullens jerked his thumb at the girl. "This is Constance, she says. She's likely a thief, so keep an eye on her."

"I swear to you, my lord," the girl protested earnestly, "I never stole anything . . . "

"And if I search you right now," Mullen said coldly, "I'll find no more coins than would be likely on a girl like you?"

Constance froze. She did not answer.

"I thought so," Mullens growled. He took a step nearly to the girl, and then another, until he was all but touching her. "Make no mistake, girl, I know what you are. I simply don't care. A few coins from an shopkeeper -- what is that to me?"

"Th-thank you, sir," she stammered.

Mullens looked her up and down, slowly. Then he nodded to himself. "Trout?"

"My lord?"

"Have the wench scrubbed and brought to my quarters."

"My . . . lord?"

Mullens was already striding away.

"My lord?" Trout called after him, faintly. He turned to Daniels. "Can he do that?"

Daniels shrugged. "He's lord of the castle, I guess he can."

"I thought only the King could do that."

"I think that's only with virgins."

They turned as one to the girl. "Are you, uh, are you a virgin?"

Constance smirked. "Men! Show me where the tub is."

**

Eleanor peered into the crate a bit nervously. It was half empty. What remained were chunks of ice and some kind of dark green plant. Gingerly, she reached in and lifted a bit of the plant. It came up in a long string -- seaweed. Seaweed?

"Why would someone send a box of ice and seaweed all the way from White Cliff?" she mused to herself. Perhaps there was some secret to the seaweed, perhaps Meg knew some way to cook it, some costal treat . . . she shook the weed off her hand, wiped the residual slime on her vest. She doubted it.

"To keep something fresh?" Marta suggested.

"To keep . . . " Eleanor repeated. Wincing, she reached down and lifted more of the seaweed away. There was ice beneath it. She pushed the ice away.

A creature grabbed her finger and pinched it, hard.

Startled, Eleanor flung her hand against the side of the crate, bruising her knuckles but dislodging her attacker. The creature scuttled sideways over the ice and glared up at her, some obscene little monster, no bigger than her hand, but covered in hard armor and sporting two huge forearms with vicious pinchers.

Beside her, a maid squealed and clutched at her. "What is it? What is it?"

"It's a crab," Eleanor answered wearily. The crate was half-empty. Which meant . . . she glanced down at the far side. As she'd expected -- and feared -- one of the ugly little creatures was pushing am air holes. As she watched, it plopped to the floor and scuttled under the nearest cupboard.

"Oh, damn."

The maid screamed.

Eleanor drew herself up tall. "Marta. Assemble the servants. Anyone who's not absolutely crucial in their jobs, I want them here now. And quietly. I don't want my father to hear a word of this."

"Yes, my lady," Marta answered at once. "But . . . the chicken?"

"I'll get the chicken," Eleanor assured her. "You get the troops . . . servants. *Quietly*."

"Yes, miss."

Eleanor watched grimly while still another of the little monsters slipped out of the crate and scampered under the stove. Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't much in the kitchen, that was true, but it was *her* kitchen, nonetheless. And she was damn well not going to let her father find out . . .

. . . that the castle had been breeched.

**

Richard moved carefully, quietly, confidently. The snow was falling more heavily now, and the deer left beautifully clear prints on the ground. They were barely filled in; Richard knew he was close. He paused long enough to take his bow off his shoulder, though he didn't reach for an arrow just yet. Moving again, he came to the edge of the woods.

Across the clearing, he could see the ice-covered lake. Beyond, he thought he could see smoke from the cabin's chimney. He smiled briefly, considering dropping by for a visit. But he put the thought aside. Somehow, he didn't imagine that Armus would find it nearly as amusing as he did.

A movement to the left caught his eye. Richard waited. The wind gusted, blowing a spray of snow into his face. Annoying, but also reassuring -- he was downwind of the stag.

As he'd hoped, the deer stepped out onto the clearing and looked around. Richard waited motionless. It began to paw at the snow, digging for grass. Still too far for a clean shot. If he moved closer, the deer would bolt. But perhaps it would graze toward him. Patience was key. Which was why he would always be a better hunter than Cedric, who grew impatient, or Armus, who got bored. Richard knew how to wait.

He settled his shoulder against a tree trunk. A glance over his shoulder assured him that his horse still stood obediently at the road. He waited.

Unbeckoned, his thoughts returned to the inn, and the innkeeper's daughters. Richard didn't know what to make of them. Of course, it was flattering to have three pretty girls fighting over him. But how would it do him any good? It would be damn hard to cut one of them out of the herd. And more difficult still to keep the others from finding out about it. Difficult, he thought with a small grin, but not impossible. Challenging. He liked a challenge. But who should he try first? He was most inclined toward Melody, simply because she hadn't grabbed him. But there was also much to be said for Rowena's experience. And then again, Elsa was the prettiest.

A dim plan was forming in his mind, something to do with Cedric. Cedric as a distraction, or to take one of them off Richard's hands, at least temporarily. Of course, if he had Armus to bring into play as well, it would be that much simpler . . . but he didn't, so he let that idea go. But Cedric, Cedric would be willing, even eager, to help him out in this delicate matter. So really, he need only decide which daughter he wanted to keep for himself. No point in throwing the wrong one to his little brother . . .

The stag lifted its head and looked around. Then it drifted back into the forest.

"Damn," Richard muttered. Nothing had alarmed the deer; it hadn't bolted. It just wasn't finding grass here.

Checking on the horse one more time -- a whistle would call it to him, when he was ready -- he moved out into the clearing after the deer. The shortest route to where the deer had entered the woods was straight across the ice. Of course, the deer might see him, out in the open, but Richard doubted the creature would look back. He started out, his eyes focused on that spot. There would be tracks, of course. Easy to pick up the tracks. He reached back for an arrow . . .

The ice under his left foot gave way with an unnatural crackle, and his leg plunged into the icy water all the way to his knee.

**

The servants lined up in the kitchen, waiting nervously in two straight rows.

Eleanor took a deep breath and ran her hand back over her hair to smooth it. She'd tried to wash the chicken blood out in the infirmary washbasin, but her hand still came away faint pink. For the first time, Eleanor was deeply grateful for the natural chestnut color of her hair. Wiping her hand on her skirt, she turned to the assemblage.

"All right," she said calmly. "I know you're nervous. But there's nothing to be afraid of. These things are not devils or giant bugs or anything like this. They're shellfish. They're *food*, understand? Like the chickens in the yard and the deer in the forest. These things are just food. Understand?"

The assemblage shuffled. "We heard they have claws," one of the men said.

"They do have claws," Eleanor agreed. "And they can pinch you. But that's all. Just a pinch. They don't even draw blood. I know, because I've been pinched."

"Where do we look?" a kitchen girl asked.

"Look everywhere," Eleanor answered. "They seem to like it warm and dark, so start by the fireplaces. Search every room, every drawer, every crevice. If you're frightened -- and there's no need to be -- then pair up with someone. When you find them, bring them back to the kitchen and throw them in this pot. Make sure the lid is on tight. Understood? Any more questions? Then get to work. I want this castle cleared before my father finds out."

Watching them go, Eleanor was not heartened to note that they all went in pairs.

**

Cedric felt like a perfect idiot. How in the hell was he supposed to catch one bird, in all this forest? And yet he trudged through the thickening snow determinedly. He was *not* going back to the castle without that falcon.

"Falcon!" he called. "Falcon! I have gibbets!" He paused, opened the pouch at his side, and drew out a length of chicken guts. It had warmed against his leg, and was beginning to stink. "Falcon! Gibbets!" He waved the length in the air, hoping to make the most of the odor. "Falcon!"

Finally, he came to the edge of the lake. He brushed the snow off a big rock -- the rock they dove off, in the summer -- and sat down despondently. He loved that bird. Or, at least, he thought he might love her, given the chance. Why did she have to fly off like that? And why wasn't Duggins any more help?

And why did he keep calling him Thomas?

Still, Duggins had been certain that the bird would come to him. Man-trained, Duggins said. Meant that the bird had no fear of men, that she would come for a snack. Wouldn't like being out in the snow, either, Duggins said.

Cedric twirled the chicken gut absently through the air, glad of his gloves. He wondered how much he *really* could like the bird, if she ate things like this. At least she wasn't like a dog, who'd be wanting to lick his face in gratitude. Cedric shuddered at the notion. Twirled the guts around tight, then reversed the swing, letting them trail out again . . .

The falcon snatched the guts from his startled fingers and perched on the next rock, glaring at him as she ate.

"There you are, pretty girl," Cedric said quietly. He inched toward her. The bird tensed, prepared to fly. He sat back and reached for the smelly pouch. "More gibbets, girl? Are you still hungry?"

The falcon cocked her head to the left. "Does that mean yes?" Cedric pondered aloud. "But I'm not going to throw it to you. You'll have to come and get it." He slid to his feet and held the scrap of meat out.

The bird flew at him. Cedric closed his hand. Furious, the falcon screamed, then came back and perched again, Cedric held his arm out, opened his hand again. "Come on, pretty girl. Come and get it."

The falcon stared at him for a long moment. Then it flew again, straight to his arm. Cedric could feel the bite of its talons through his glove. The bird ate from his hand. And stayed perched.

"Good girl," Cedric crooned. He groped with his free hand for the hood. Not in his jacket pocket. Not tucked in his glove. Damn, where was it? "Good girl," he said again, as soothing as he could.

The falcon spread her wings.

Frantic to keep the bird close, Cedric lowered his arm. The bird, seeking to be high enough to take off, walked talon-by-talon up his arm and perched on his shoulder. "Good girl," Cedric murmured again. He found the hood at last, tucked into the glove she'd been perched on. Holding it open, he moved toward her head.

The falcon pecked, looking for gibbets. It snatched the hood instead. Finding it inedible, she shook her head angrily and threw it to the ground.

"Ah, girl . . . " Cedric began, trying to squat to retrieve the hood.

The falcon screeched in his ear. Then, denied her gibbet, she grabbed his ear and tried to rip it off his head.

Cedric screamed, flailing at the bird. She made one more attempt at the ear, then gave up and flew off.

Cedric tore his glove off and pressed it to his ear. It was immediately covered with hot, wet blood. He felt the ear carefully, trying to determine how bad the damage was. More blood. Lots of ragged skin. Pain.

He stood still for a moment, trying to think. But he already knew what he had to do.

**

When he trudged back from abandoning the badgers -- sack and all, trusting that they would find their way out -- Armus found his wife waiting outside the cabin, sitting on the woodpile, looking up into the heavy snow.

"More badgers?" he asked wearily.

Meg shook her head, smiling. "Poor darling," she murmured sympathetically. "No, I was just looking at the snow."

Armus grunted, neatly summarizing his feeling about snow.

"Come inside," Meg said, her face falling. "I made some soup."

She slid to her feet. Armus caught her arm, his mood lightening. "In a minute," he answered. "Come play in the snow."

The smile she gave him didn't have any effect on the snow, but it melted away the last of his bad mood.

Meg was delighted by the snow. She played like a child in it, running and sliding across the smooth ground, flopping down on her back to make snow angels, catching snowflakes on her tongue. Laughing in pure joy. Armus watched her, bemused. He'd never met anyone who *liked* snow before; to him and those around him, it was largely an annoyance. But Meg so infectiously reveled in it that he was soon playing with her, teaching her the fine art of snowball-making and throwing, making giant snow angels next to her diminutive ones. And laughing. He'd never known anyone who could make him laugh the way Meg could.

Eventually, however, he noted that her cheeks and ears were bright red, and that his own fingers were growing numb. "Time to go in, Meg."

She twirled around, her cloak flying out around her. "But it's fun!"

"It will still be here tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She skittered across the snowy grass between them and jumped at him. Armus caught her with practiced ease and held her easily, his two hands around her waist, lifting her so that she could kiss him. Her arms draped easily over his shoulders, content to let him support her weight. "Thank you," she said warmly.

"For what?"

"For making it snow."

Armus laughed. "I wish I could take the credit, my love, but . . . "

Meg shook her head emphatically. "You told me you would make it snow for me, and you have. Thank you."

There was no arguing with her. Armus didn't try. He simply shifted her in his arms and carried her into the cabin.

They shed their snow-covered outer clothes at the door. Meg snagged one of the blankets and plopped down on the fur in front of the fire. Armus joined her, sitting behind her with his legs outstretched, supporting her back against his chest while the warmth washed over them both. "So now you've had your snow," he said, brushing the last melting flakes off her hair.

"It's wonderful, Armus."

"Happy?"

"Completely," she sighed, settling closer against him.

"I have something that will make you happier."

"Mmm," Meg agreed. "But maybe we should let it thaw a bit first."

"Not *that*," Armus protested. She half-turned, laughing, and he kissed her impish mouth. "Listen, wife, I'm being serious here. I've spoken to my father, and we can leave for White Cliff the day after Christmas."

"What?"

Armus smiled gently. "I know it's difficult, Meg, your first Christmas away from home . . . "

"My home is with you," she protested quickly.

"I know, but . . . "

"And we were just there in the fall . . . "

"I know that, too. I don't mind, Meg, really I don't. I know you're homesick . . . "

"I'm not, Armus."

"But you've been so quiet lately, so -- distant."

Her hazel eyes grew serious. "Have I?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. But it's not about White Cliff, I promise. I'm happy here, Armus. And this *is* my home."

"Then what troubles you?"

Meg hesitated. "I've just had a lot on my mind," she answered at length.

Her husband studied her, worried. "Anything I can help with?"

"Armus, stop," she answered with a reassuring smile. "It's nothing to worry over, I promise."

"All right," he agreed unhappily. The had reached the understanding long ago that they could talk about anything, but that they would not try coerce the other into talking. It was a reasonable arrangement, and fair -- but at the moment, Armus regretted it bitterly.

And she knew that, of course. "Beloved," she said quietly, "if I tell you, it will spoil your Christmas surprise."

"All right," he agreed again. And added, a bit petulantly, "But I made it snow early for you."

Meg laughed. "You did, didn't you?" She squirmed around until she was fully facing him, in the loose circle of both his arms and his legs. "All right. I've been -- distracted -- of late, because I'm thinking about the child I carry."

Armus stared at her. "What?" he asked faintly.

"We're going to have a baby," Meg restated. She waited, growing more nervous in each second of silence. "Armus?"

"I heard you," he answered distantly. He shook his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He had not moved, had not taken his eyes off her face. "I . . . you're sure?"

She laughed nervously. "I'm sure."

"Well." He tried to swallow, and found that his mouth was completely dry. "Father will be pleased."

Meg flinched. "I was hoping *you'd* be pleased."

"I am," he answered, by reflex. He heard the lack of feeling in his own voice, and licked his lips, tried again to swallow. It took some effort to remember even to breathe. "Of course I am, Meg, I'm . . . I'm . . . you're *sure*?"

"I am *sure*," she answered, rather sharply this time.

Armus nodded faintly. "You shouldn't be here," he blurted suddenly.

"What?"

He glanced swiftly around the crude, drafty cabin. "This is no place for a woman in your condition. You should be back at the castle, where you can be looked after. What if something happens out here? What if something happens to the baby?"

Meg shook her head. "Armus," she said quietly, "if something happens to this baby at this point, it won't matter where I am. There is no help for it. But," she continued, more brightly, "nothing is going to happen. The baby is fine, I'm fine, and I'm perfectly safe here."

"No," Armus insisted. "We have to go back. You can't stay here . . . "

"Armus," she insisted, "I'm *fine*."

"I know you are, love." He took her face in his hands and kissed her, very gently. "I just think . . ."

"Armus. I am no more fragile now than I was five minutes ago. I'm pregnant, not sick."

"But Meg . . . "

The door flew open. Snow danced and whirled on the cloud of cold air that filled the fire- warmed cabin, and from the near-dark a darker figure, curiously hunched to one side. Armus turned, pushing Meg behind him, reaching for his knife, looking for his ax.

"Armus?"

The knight froze. "Cedric?" he demanded. "This better be good."

His brother answered shakily, "I think I'm bleeding."

**

"Eleanor?"

Eleanor spun guiltily at the sound of her father's voice. "Uh . . . yes, Father?"

Thomas frowned. "What are you doing?"

She was half-hidden behind the long curtains in his study. "I . . . oh, this. I thought I felt a draft through here. I was checking that the window wasn't ajar."

Her father raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh. And was it?"

"No, no. Must just have been a gust of wind." Desperate to change the subject, she said. "You've got your cloak, I see. Are you off then?"

"Yes. Shortly. I'm waiting for my horse, actually." He leaned back, resting his hips against the edge of his desk, his sword clanking. "How are things going in the kitchen?"

"Fine," Eleanor answered swiftly. "Just fine. We, uh, we had a few bad moments, this morning, but that's to be expected. Everything's fine."

To her horror, Eleanor spotted a crab climbing laboriously over the edge of the desk behind her father. "You know," she continued swiftly, moving closer to him, "I really appreciate this opportunity, Father. I know I complained about it, but really, in the long run, I think this will be a good experience for me."

Thomas folded his arms over his chest. "Eleanor, what are you up to?"

"Me? Nothing. Why would you ask that?"

The crab hesitated, waving its evil claws in the air. Then it scuttled silently in Thomas' direction.

"Because I know you, my dear."

If he doesn't move, Eleanor thought frantically, it's going to run straight up his backside. She moved closer still and took her father's hands, in what she hoped passed for a show of affection. She pulled his arms unfolded, then tried to draw him away from the desk. He didn't budge. "Father," she protested. "Why is it whenever I try to do something good, you suspect me of ulterior motives?"

"I don't know," Thomas answered sardonically. "Why *is* that?"

The crab was barely a hand's width from him now. Eleanor tugged at his hands again. Unaware of the danger, Thomas didn't budge.

"I'm going to change my ways, Father," Eleanor announced. "Call it an early new year's resolution. I'm going to try to be more -- conventional. More like Meg."

"You are." Thomas' tone said he wasn't buying a word of it.

"You don't have to believe me," Eleanor answered archly. She changed tactics, released his hands, and moved in to hug him instead. "You just wait and see."

Thomas chuckled. He didn't believe her, but he did return the embrace -- quite unaware that her hands had reached behind him and shoved the crab off the desk and onto the floor. "All right, my dear. I'll wait and see. But for now, I have to go."

Eleanor straightened, catching her breath. "All right, Father." She reached up and adjusted his scarf for him. "Be careful. Have a safe trip."

"I'm only going to the village, and maybe to some of the neighbors."

Her eyes flashed. She knew, too well, what neighbors he was going to visit. But then reason asserted itself: The longer he was gone, the better. Still, couldn't be too obvious about it, either. She smiled tightly. "Give Lady Elizabeth my greetings."

"Lady . . . oh, yes, perhaps I will stop by there," Thomas answered with barely feigned innocence.

"Perhaps," Eleanor answered. "Well. I'd better get back to the kitchen."

Thomas nodded. "Don't wait up."

Eleanor merely nodded. She leaned on the desk, waiting in a bored manner while he walked out. Then she swiftly dropped to her knees, intent on catching her quarry.

The crab was gone.

**

"You're tracking mud everywhere," Marianne complained.

Ramsey glanced down at his boots. "It's not mud," he answered honestly.

"Even worse."

"Fine way to talk to your protector."

The maid smirked. "I don't need protection."

"Have you seen these monsters?" Ramsey asked warningly, as she peered into a hamper.

Marianne jumped back, slamming the hamper. "Monsters?"

"They have claws, you know. Great pincing claws, bigger than their bodies."

"They *do*?"

"Yes, of course they do. Why do you think they sent me to search with you? You can't catch these monsters on your own, you know." Ramsey drew his utility knife. "But don't worry, my dear. I stand ready to protect you."

"Oh," Marianne breathed, deeply impressed. She moved closer.

Ramsey smiled encouragingly. "I'd do anything to protect *you*, Marianne."

She flustered. "You would?"

"You didn't know? I've always been . . . well, this isn't the time to talk. We must find the creatures. But later, when the danger has passed . . . perhaps you would meet me in the stables? And I could tell you how long I've adored you from afar?"

"I had no idea . . . "

"I'm shy . . . say you'll meet me."

"Of course I'll meet you . . . "

"Good, Then let's finish our hunt. The soon we're done, the sooner we're on to pleasanter things."

**

"Head wounds," Meg grumped, examining what remained of Cedric's ear. "Always head wounds with this family. Would it be so bad, just once, to take an injury below the chin?"

"I'll try to remember." Armus answered tersely. "How bad is it?"

Meg shook her head. "I can't tell. It looks like it's mostly all here, but it's frozen out of shape. Just as well, I suppose; the cold stopped a lot of the bleeding."

"It burns," Cedric offered.

"If your ears are burning, little brother, it's because you're hearing all the things I'm managing not to say about you at this moment," Armus advised him coldly.

"It's not my fault," Cedric protested. "The falcon flew off and I was trying to catch it, and then it came back, but then it bit me and flew off again and I was in the middle of the forest and I didn't think I could make it back to the castle . . . and even if I could, just Eleanor would be there and she wouldn't know what to do . . . " He looked anxiously at his sister-in-law. "Can you fix it?"

Meg smoothed his hair back affectionately. "I can fix it, Cedric."

"I'm not sure you should be doing this," Armus said quietly. "Dealing with all this blood, in your . . . you know."

"Armus," Meg answered firmly, "stop it."

"In her what?" Cedric asked.

"Condition," she supplied. "I'm pregnant."

"You're what?"

"*Meg*," Armus protested. "Don't you think we ought to tell Father first?"

"He already knows."

"You're what?" Cedric repeated.

"You told Father before you told me?"

"I didn't have to tell him. He knew before I did."

"You're what?"

"Pregnant," Armus snapped. "How did he know?"

Meg shrugged. "He took one look at me when we got back from White Cliff and he knew."

"White . . . White Cliff?"

Meg smiled, shrugging. "Harvest festival, remember?"

Armus did, with embarrassing accuracy. "This child was conceived at White Cliff?"

"You're pregnant?" Cedric demanded.

"Yes," Meg answered, to both questions.

"On the battlements, no doubt!" Armus all but shouted.

She shrugged. "That would be my guess."

"You had s --- you made love on the battlements at White Cliff?" Cedric demanded eagerly.

The other two stopped then, just looking at each other over Cedric's head. This was far, far more than they had meant to reveal -- to anyone, but perhaps least of all Cedric -- about their private life. Meg began to blush. Armus squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed of himself. Of course, if Cedric hadn't been here at this particular moment, if they had had the privacy they were promised . . . which didn't change the fact that he had been a careless boob one bit . . . of course, if Meg hadn't knocked him so completely off balance -- White Cliff, the harvest festival had been in September, it was now late December, how long had she known? He reached for his cloak.

"Where you going?" Cedric asked.

Armus shook his head. "I'm going fishing."

**

"Lady Eleanor?"

"*What*?" she all but screamed. She dropped two more crabs into the pot, slammed down the heavy lid and wheeled toward the door. "What is it now?"

"Uh . . . miss . . . your brother's horse?" The boy stood nervously in the kitchen doorway, not venturing past the threshold.

"Which one?"

"Which horse?"

"Which *brother*?"

"Oh. Richard. Sir Richard, I mean. His horse came back."

"And?"

"Well, and he's not with it."

"Richard, you mean?"

"Yes, miss."

Eleanor sighed deeply. As if she didn't have *enough* to do today. "Is it injured or anything?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Excuse me." Another boy pushed past the first one, bearing an armful of firewood. He dumped it in the box next to the stove and went back out.

Eleanor ran her fingers through her hair. It was vaguely sticky. Lord, but she wished she had time for a real bath. Well, maybe after the little monsters were rounded up. "Is his bow on the saddle?"

"No, miss."

She pondered a minute more. The boy began to rock from foot to foot in nervousness. The firewood boy returned again. "All right," Eleanor said. "You know where the Magpie's Nest is?"

"No, miss."

"I do," the firewood boy volunteered.

"What's your name?"

"Og, my lady. Osgarth."

Eleanor felt her eyebrows climbing. "Can you be spared for a bit, Og?"

"Oh, yes, miss, as soon as the wood box is filled."

"Good. Finish up, and then take Richard's horse and go down to the Magpie. I'm sure he's there, somewhere. If he's not in the tavern, then he's upstairs."

The boy nodded. "He might be at the Helm, too, miss."

"The what?" Eleanor remembered the new tavern. "Oh. Right. Well, he'll be at one or the other. If he's not, just wait for him. He'll turn up."

"Yes, miss."

Og shook his head to himself as he went for another load of wood. Now he was going to miss his meeting with Nell -- or at least be late for it. He should have just kept his mouth shut. Still, it would give him a chance to speak with Sir Richard for a moment, at least, and it had brought him to Lady Eleanor's attention, however briefly. Nell would understand: A boy with no prospects had to do whatever he could.

**

Thomas rode to the first of the cottages, the rosy glow of a candle in the window lighting his way. As he dismounted, he heard muffled giggles from inside the hut. He grinned to himself. Custom was that on this night all parties would pass unseen. But no matter how strongly parents sent the children to bed, they always tried to espy "Father Christmas" on his rounds.

All in all good fun, Sir Thomas thought.

Beside each home a small stone hearth stood apart from the building. In the summer the villagers used these outdoor kitchens for cooking and preserving foods. Now, in winter, the fire was out and a small lamp burned on the hearth stone. At least the spirit of giving didn't have to really slide down the chimney he thought.

He rummaged in his bag for the gifts. "A crock of preserves, yes, hmm . . ." This was the crofters house and his wife had twins this fall. He added a small bag of coins. Now to take the traditional gift in return . . . .

Beside the lamp was a plate covered with a cloth. Next to it was a pretty cup, probably saved year to year just for this occasion. The plate held some small cakes, brown and filled with honey and nuts. Sir Thomas grinned again. He had wisely refrained from entering the kitchen since Meg left, and he really hadn't eaten much all day. He popped one of the little morsels into his mouth, and promptly choked on a kernel. Coughing and teary-eyed, he grabbed the cup and downed the water. He one got one gasping breath and started choking again. The cup had been full of sweet, strong strawberry wine.

Finally, he got his breath back and walked back to his horse. The horse looked at him quizzically. "Don't ask," he said. "At least that's one done."

The next house had a larger cup. Thomas told himself that he could manage another little nip to ward off the cold . . .

The fifth cottage had a cup and a small stone jug . . .

"Bloody hell," Thomas swore, trying to stuff one more jug into his saddlebag. "I can't cart all these little bottles around." He couldn't remember how many little nips he'd had, but he certainly wasn't cold. "I can't leave it behind. Terribly rude. But if I pour it out, it will show in the snow." Usually he just put the cakes in the bag and poured out any water or milk, but this year they were arse deep in berries. He sent silence thanks to his patron saint that they weren't leaving out preserves for him. The horse huffed and bobbed its head as if looking for a drink itself. "Right," Thomas said, "a bucket. I need a bucket or something." Father Christmas gathered his drowning wits and his dignity and lead the horse into the snow.

**

Richard opened his eyes and, with the aid of ten generations of fine breeding and a lifetime of experience in difficult situations, managed not to scream.

The troll had eaten his foot.

He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. He was inside a small room -- no, a cave, he realized. He was half-sitting against the stone wall, with a hot campfire to his right, and at his feet . . .

The troll had eaten his foot.

Richard shook his head impatiently. He was too old to believe in trolls. Of course, the last thing he remembered was believing implicitly in Death Incarnate. His boot lay drying beside him, and his foot -- the one that had been frozen in ice -- disappeared into the creature's shirt.

The creature, his instinct told him, was female. Female *what*, he was unsure. It -- she -- had her head down, and he could see only a nasty snarl of black hair emerging from a coarse black cape.

He tried to wiggle his toes, and found that he could feel nothing from the knee down. Which meant, of course . . .

The troll had eaten his foot.

Carefully, Richard tried to draw his foot back.

The creature looked up at him. And smiled -- he thought. She was not a troll. But she was the ugliest woman Richard had ever seen. And she clutched his foot through her shirt, tight against her belly . . .

"Didn't mean to startle you, sir," she said quietly.

Richard blinked again. But he was, after all, Richard Grey. He pushed himself up with his hands, trying to sit straighter. "Have we met?"

Her grin -- it was pretty definitely a grin -- broadened. "Didn't think you'd remember. I chopped you out of the ice. But you was pretty much out of your mind."

"Ah." And then, "Can I have my foot back?"

"You should leave it a bit, sir. Not meaning nothing by it, you understand, but you took wicked cold in that ice."

"It, er, it feels much better now," Richard lied. In truth, no matter how he concentrated, he could not feel his foot at all. "Just let it rest by the fire a bit, it'll be good as new."

"It's still frozen hard, sir," the woman argued.

"Please," Richard insisted. He used his hands to move his leg away from her. Giving up, the woman turned her back and modestly tucked her shirt back in. Fearing that he'd insulted her, Richard continued, "I'm Richard. What's your name?"

The woman turned back. "Nell. I'm Nell."

"I'm very glad to meet you, Nell."

She shrugged. "I reckon you are. But you'd still rather lose that foot than let me warm it for you."

"It's *fine*," Richard insisted. "Look, good as new. Where are we?"

"Just above the lake," Nell answered. "It was as far as I could drag you."

Richard shook his head. He remembered, vaguely, the walk across the lake. The biting cold, the certainty that he was already dead or was about to be and the bitter unfairness of that. The clinging. He had clung to her, and she had dragged him . . . he shuddered in remembrance.

Nell shook her head sadly. "Wasn't so bad, sir. I was hid under my cloak."

She knew she was ugly, Richard thought. Well, how could she not know? But her calm acceptance of it -- and her expectation that he would be repelled by it -- rubbed him the wrong way. "I was sure I was going to die out there," he said, by way of explanation. "All because of my father."

"Sir Thomas made the hole in the ice?"

"Well . . . no. But he might as well have." Richard shrugged. "It's a long story. You could have taken me to the cabin. My brother's there."

"Oh. I didn't know." The woman gathered her cloak. "I'll take you now, if you like. It's not far . . . "

It was tempting. He wasn't at all comfortable here alone with this woman. And then the very notion irritated him again. He was not *that* shallow -- was he? "No. Thank you, but no." Besides, Armus would kill him for interrupting. Richard grinned to himself. Might be worth it, at that. But . . . no. "I'll just warm up here a few more minutes, and then I'll go home."

"All right." Nell sat back on her heels and waited.

Nervous in the silence, Richard glanced around the cave. It was small, cozy with the fire. On the far wall a heap of blankets made a bed. There was nothing else in the cave. "Lucky you knew about this cave."

The woman shrugged. "Og found it for us."

"Og?"

"The woodcutter's boy."

"Oh, I see." He didn't see, at all, but he didn't want to. "You don't live here, do you?"

"No, sir. I live with my father, keep house for him."

"Oh. And how did you happen to be out on the lake tonight, in the snow?"

Nell's face fell. "Well, I was . . . truth is, sir . . . I'll tell you, sir, only please can you not tell another? I was here to meet Og. You know, to meet. And he came, but he couldn't stay, had to do some errand for the castle folk. So he left me the ax to walk home with. You know, in case. But you can't tell anyone. I'm not supposed to see him. My father won't accept Og."

Richard frowned. "Why not?"

"Got no prospects."

"Oh." Who was her father, Richard wondered, and what kind of maniac was he? If anyone, anyone at all, had offered to take a daughter this ugly off his hands, he ought to be jumping at the chance. The young knight shook his head. "Fathers," he said, with feeling. "They can be difficult to understand."

"Yes."

"Yes. Well. I am grateful for the rescue, whatever the reason. Is there anything I could do to persuade your father?"

"You don't need to do that," Nell protested quickly.

"Nell," Richard said firmly. "What can I do to help you and Og?"

The woman stared at him. "You *are* a nice one, aren't you? In spite of all that red hair. Just like the girls at the tavern said."

Almost against his will, Richard grinned. "Which tavern?" he inquired.

"The old one. They don't let my kind in the new one."

"Your kind?"

Nell shrugged. "You know. Ugly."

Richard sat up straighter still. "They won't let you in the Helm because you're ugly? Because they say you're ugly?"

She smiled wryly. "I *am* ugly, sir, there's no getting around that. They say I'll be bad for business."

"They haven't seen bad for business yet," Richard vowed. "Tell me where you live. I swear to you, after the holiday I'll take you to the Helm myself and we'll just see who they won't let in."

Nell was back to grinning again, but shyly. "You don't have to do that, sir . . . "

"I do, and I will. I've given you my word. Now, about this Og."

She sighed. "Well, it's not easy to explain. He's a second son, you see . . . "

Richard settled back. "I understand *that* well enough," he sighed. "Go on."

The snow fell, and he heard the sad tale of the unlikely and forbidden love of Nell and Og.

**

Armus strode toward the lake in the heavy snow, not feeling the cold wind through the stinging blush of his cheeks. How could he? How could he have said *that*, and in front of Cedric, of all people? How could he be so . . . so . . .

And then his mind released that guilt and swung back to Meg. If the child had been conceived at White Cliff -- and she was sure it had been -- then she was more than a little pregnant. That had been mid-September. It was now late December. Which meant that she was into her fourth month. How could he have been so blind? How could he have paid so little attention to her, that he didn't realize before this?

And the most obvious sign -- oh, but he knew how he'd missed that. Meg's courses followed the new moon, within a day either way. In October he'd been in the lower holdings with his father. He remembered, because he'd glanced at the night sky and thought, well, at least I'm not missing anything back home. And then he'd felt like a heel for thinking it -- there was, after all, more to his wife than that to miss. And in November, Armus had had the flu, along with half of the other people in district. And December . . . he couldn't remember the new moon in December. It had been cloudy . . .

He hadn't been paying attention.

How could she not have told him?

And White Cliff . . . Armus stopped in his tracks. Of course it had been White Cliff. Of course it had been the battlements. How could it not be? How could such an encounter *not* end in a child? For God's sake, how could he not have known?

They had gone to the harvest festival, just the two of them. It had been wonderful. Free from the tension that their courtship had presented the year before, they had enjoyed the festival, and each other, thoroughly. In addition, Armus had spent time with her family, getting to know them and finding that he had a great deal in common with some of them.

The day they arrived, after dinner, he found himself in one corner of the great hall with Michael, Meg's oldest brother. His wife had had a baby that summer, and Meg was off in the opposite corner admiring the child. "She's not pregnant yet, is she?" Michael asked casually.

The question had startled Armus in its bluntness. "Not that I know of," he'd answered as casually as he could.

Michael simply nodded. "Count your blessings. Caroline got pregnant on our wedding night -- and then vomited every time I looked at her for the next nine months."

Armus chuckled. "And yet you seem very fond of Jeremy."

"It took me a while to warm up to him, believe me." Michael shook his head. "But my mother's daughters, now, none of them seem to catch before they've been married a year or two."

"Except Sarah, of course," Armus said, and then wished he hadn't. Nothing like giving offense to the oldest son of the household before the festival had even begun.

But Michael took no offense, merely rolled his eyes. Armus realized, suddenly, that the other man considered him a family member in a very real sense, that what would have been outrageous gossip with an outsider was simply conversation between them. It was an oddly gratifying realization. "That one," Michael said with a sigh. "She's pregnant again, you know."

"I didn't realize."

"You will when she gets here. She's as big as a house."

Two of the other brothers wandered over -- James, Armus was certain, and the other he was pretty sure was Edward, one of the other in-laws. "Sarah?" James asked, overhearing this last. Michael nodded. "She's still coming?"

Michael shrugged. "You know how she is. She's made up her mind she's coming to the festival, even if she has the baby along the road somewhere."

"There's no arguing with her," Edward agreed. "There's no arguing with any of them, in that condition."

James turned to Armus. "Meg hasn't caught yet?"

Armus just shook his head, understanding now that it wasn't meant to be a prying question, just family chatter.

"Devlin girls never do," James said, repeating what Michael had just said. "Not right away. Don't know why."

"I think they just need to feel settled first," Edward ventured. "They need to be sure of themselves. Laurel didn't get pregnant the first four years we were married, but that was when my father was so sick, remember? She was so upset all the time -- and then right after he died, she got pregnant with Charles."

A servant came around with ale then, and they drank together and talked for some time. It was a remarkable conversation, from Armus' point of view. He had never discussed women and pregnancy and marriage with men of his own age, not like this. Oh, the soldiers had talked, on Crusade, but that was entirely different -- and not worth repeating. This was a respectful and intelligent conversation, young married men trying to help each other solve the greatest mysteries in their lives -- their wives.

It came to Armus, later on, that he had missed out on certain things by virtue of being the oldest. The kind of guidance he got from these men, the reassurances and the advice, he could never have gotten from his younger brothers, nor discussed so openly with his father. Though he would have married Meg for nothing more than herself, he very much appreciated the benefits she brought with her -- a whole new family, and one that he very quickly came to treasure.

Much later, he realized that Meg had left. He excused himself, thinking to find her in their chamber. She wasn't there, but he knew where to look next.

As expected, she was standing on the battlements, looking out into the night, over the sea. Armus closed the door loudly, and she turned, smiled, then turned back as he came up behind her.

"Do you want to be alone?" he asked quietly.

"No." She drew his arms around her, settled back against his chest. "I'm glad you came. Good talk?"

"Surprisingly good," Armus allowed. "I am a much wiser husband for knowing your brothers."

Meg chuckled. "Don't believe everything they tell you."

"Hmm." Armus rocked her gently in his arms. It was peaceful here, after the noise of the hall. Pleasant. "I like this place. It has good memories."

She nodded, and then giggled, uncertainly. "Yes. I was just . . . remembering."

"Are you blushing?"

"No."

But her tone said she was, and Armus leaned around her to see. "What are you blushing about? All I did up here was kiss you."

"I know," she admitted, her blush deepening. "It's not remembering what you did. It's remembering what I wanted you to do." She twisted back around, looking resolutely out to sea.

Armus felt his mouth drop open. "Are you telling me . . . my sweet wholesome virgin girl . . . "

Meg nodded, still giggling, still embarrassed. "My body was innocent. My thoughts . . . I'm sorry. You're shocked."

He turned her around. "I am perfectly astonished," he admitted. "I had no idea." And then, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"You would have said no anyhow."

Armus considered. He *had* said no, at the end of that memorable week -- but that had been in her bedchamber, with her ferocious nurse just outside the door and literally every eye in the castle watching them. That first night, when only they knew, when they were alone and the taste her virgin kisses was still new on his tongue -- *that* night, he wasn't so sure he'd have been willing -- or able -- to turn her down, if he'd had any hint . . .

And *here*, of all places . . .

The very notion was arousing him. "Can you tell me?"

She blushed more furiously. "No."

Armus sighed. They had been married half a year. They were enormously happy together. As a lovemaking partner, Meg was nearly always willing, and very enthusiastic. But there remained a certain shyness about her. Richard said she was demure, and though Armus had protested at the time, he was inclined to agree. He had wished, secretly, that she might sometimes be a little more aggressive, that she might start things occasionally, that she might seduce *him* once in a while. And perhaps she would, in time. He had tried not to push her, to let her find her own way.

But by the gods, he ached to know what she'd been thinking the first time he kissed her.

He nodded his understanding.

Her eyes took a sudden light, warming in his understanding. "Can I show you?" she asked, very quietly.

Armus felt his mouth go dry. "I . . . if you like."

Meg hesitated one more minute. Then she took his hand and led him to the far side of the tower. It was darker here, away from the torches, but still open, concealed from the doorway only by the curve of the wall. Risky, Armus thought, but said nothing. She pointed to a stone bench, and Armus sat down.

"Here?" he asked nervously.

"Shh." Her eyes were wide and dark and nervous, but her movements grew more certain. She stepped back, reached under her skirt, and slipped her undergarments off. Then she moved closer to where Armus waited.

He reached for her. She caught his hands and pushed them gently away, pushed them behind his back and held them there until she was certain he understood that they were to remain there. Then she released his hands and reached for his body . . .

It was one of the briefest lovemaking sessions they'd ever had, and easily the most intense.

When it was over, they straightened their clothes and raced back to their bedchamber, where they made love again, and again, until they fell into an exhausted sleep.

And after that night, Meg's shyness vanished. It was as if making love on the battlements of her father's castle had removed the last remembered remnant of her maidenhood. She moved instantly from demure to merely discreet. She gave her creativity free rein, and Armus was astonished -- and gratified -- at just how creative she could be.

And all that time, she had been carrying his child.

Armus shook his head as he reached the fishing hole. How could he not have known?

He gazed down at the hole. His tidy little fishing hole has been hacked wide open, by something with a very large blade. There was a confusion of tracks, trailing off to the far side of the lake, at least one dragging.

And there was a scarf. Heavy silk, deep red, shot with green and gold threads. Covington colors. The scarf that Meg had made for Richard for his birthday.

Cursing, Armus dropped his fishing gear and ran along the tracks.

When he'd taken four strides, his boot slid on the snow and he fell heavily on his butt.

**

"Da," Elsa said nervous, "you better come see this."

The innkeeper made his way quickly to the window. "What is it?"

"I think he's stealing the helm."

"We'll just see about that." Brusquely, the innkeeper marched to the door and threw it open. "You, there, what are you doing?"

The horse, whose rump was squarely before the innkeeper's face, turned its face toward him and snorted.

"What's that?" a voice asked above him.

The innkeeper looked up. Sir Thomas looked down at him, smiling in a friendly manner.

"My lord?"

"Yes, that's me," Thomas answered cheerfully.

"You're standing on your horse."

"Yes, I know." His foot slipped, and the horse quickly adjusted. "I couldn't reach otherwise."

"Reach . . . sir? Why are you taking the helm down?" It had taken the innkeeper, his brother, and two boys all of an afternoon to mount the thing over the doorway.

"S'mine," Grey answered logically.

"Um . . . no, sir."

"S'got my name on it," the knight argued. He succeeded in dislodging the helm, and it crashed to the ground on the far side of the horse. "I need it."

The innkeeper nodded gravely. He watched, prepared to catch the man if necessary as he clambered down off his horse. "Need it for what, sir?"

"Wine."

"Hmm?" From the smell of him, his lordship had had plenty of wine.

"Got all these little jugs," Thomas explained. He opened his bag and showed him. "Little jugs of wine. Can't leave them, wouldn't be polite. Don't have room for any more. Got 'em stuffed in my jacket, too."

"Ah."

"So I need something to empty them all into."

"But . . . the helm has holes in it."

Thomas swept the oversized helm off the ground and examined it intently. "Why, so it does."

"But if you come inside, I have a very nice tankard that would fill the bill nicely."

"Inside the inn?"

"Yes, my lord."

Thomas considered for a long moment. "A grand idea! Lead on, man."

They went inside. "Elsa," the innkeeper called, "fetch the big tankard."

His daughter looked startled. "The *big* tankard?"

"You heard me, girl. Fetch it quick. And then," he went on, taking the bulging bag from Sir Thomas, "empty all of these into it."

The girl looked into the bag. "All of them?"

"Yes, my dear," Thomas answered for him, "Every last one!" He tucked the helm under his arm and looked around. "Very nice, my good man. Cozy-like. I like it."

The few remaining patrons -- four men at one table, a young man alone at another -- watched him with great interest. So did the innkeeper's other daughters, who had drifted out of the back room and now stood behind the bar. "You," the innkeeper said, gesturing at them, "help your sister."

"Father?" Elsa called. "These two aren't wine. I think they're mead."

"No matter," Thomas called back. "Pour them in anyhow." He stepped over and began to unload his pockets. "Your daughters?" he asked.

The innkeeper nodded gravely. "For my sins, three girls."

Thomas nodded sympathetically. "I have four sons," he answered gravely. "And only one daughter. She's more trouble than all of them put together."

"You're Richard's father, aren't you?" Rowena asked.

"Rowena!" her father snapped.

But Thomas took no offense. "You know Richard? Well, of course you know Richard, look at you." He glanced at the man. "He hasn't done anything untoward, has he?"

The innkeeper shook his head. "Oh, no sir." He eyed his ornamental helm, tucked under the knight's arm. Sighed. He had no hope of getting it back.

"All done, sir," Elsa called, emptying the last of the little containers. The tankard, which was as tall as a man's forearm and big around as a maiden's waist, was full nearly to the brim. "What should I do with these?" she asked, gesturing at the empties.

"Oh, keep them," Thomas replied grandly. "You'll find some use for them."

The innkeeper considered. They were awfully tiny, none of them would hold more than a single drink. But maybe if he strung three or four -- even six -- together, they'd be a convenient way for his customers to take his ale home to drink. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, I must be off. More gifts to deliver. Spirit of Christmas, you know. Father Christmas. Oh, here, I've given you nothing."

"There's no need, sir . . . "

"Nonsense!" Thomas proclaimed. He stomped out into the night and quickly reappeared, carrying three little crocks of preserves and a bag of coins. "For the ladies," he said, presenting the strawberries. "Wonderful for the complexion, I'm told. And for the father of three girls -- God bless you, good sir, with no more -- a bit of coin. Always handy, I've found, with girls in the house."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Now then. What do I owe you for the tankard?"

The innkeeper was stymied. The tankard had been a bit of window-dressing, like the helm. He'd never expected anyone to actually drink from it. And had no idea what to charge for it. "Nothing, sir. A gift. From the inn. Please -- use it in good health."

Thomas nodded, pleased. "Thank you, I will. Thank you." He hoisted the tankard and started for the door.

"Um, sir . . . the helm?"

The lord glanced down at the helm, which was still tucked awkwardly under his arm. "Thank you for reminding me." He set the tankard on the end of the bar and stuck the impossibly large helm on his head. "Much better," he announced, his voice echoing through the slits. "Much better." And claiming the tankard again, he left.

The innkeeper walked out to the road to watch him go, silently praying that the lord wouldn't fall off his horse while he was still in sight. By some miracle, he didn't. The innkeeper was inclined to credit the horse.

Sighing, he drifted back inside.

The young man who'd been drinking quietly alone got up and went out.

The innkeeper's brother came in. "Good night, brother. Was that Sir Thomas on the road?"

The innkeeper sighed. "Yes, brother. And it'll be a miracle if he makes it home safe."

"You got him drunk?"

"Not me. He was drunk when he got here, and will be drunker still before he's a league down the road." He shook his head. "I don't know, brother. Is it just the holiday that makes them behave so?"

His brother -- who owned the Magpie's Nest, and who was a half-owner of the Helm -- shook his head. "Sorry, no. They're always like this."

"How do you manage?"

The brother smirked. "I opened another tavern, brother. Now I only see them half as much."

**

"Do you think," Agnes worried, "that they'd come this far from the kitchen?"

"I don't know," Ramsey answered. "But Lady Eleanor did say we should look everywhere."

The maid nodded, pulling open another drawer. Ramsey grabbed her arm and pulled her back sharply. "Oh, sorry," he said, releasing her. "I thought I saw something move. Sorry. Just nerves."

The maid giggled nervously. "Imagine, a man like you being frightened by a little crab."

"A little crab? Have you seen these monsters? They have claws, you know, great pincer claws, bigger than their bodies . . . "

The maid sidled closer, and Ramsey fought down a grin.

**

Meg stirred the water in the basin with her fingertip. She added a little more hot water from the kettle, then nodded her satisfaction. Setting the basin down on the table at Cedric's elbow, she looked around for a clean rag or cloth. Finding nothing, she gave a philosophical little sigh, then took out her dirk and cut the bottom ruffle off her petticoat, which lay on the bed with the single skirt she'd brought.

Cedric watched the proceedings in nervous silence. He allowed Meg to tip his head sideways, giving her a better view of his damaged ear while she dabbed it with the wet cloth. "I came at a bad time," he guessed.

Meg nodded. "Yes, you did." She took the cloth away and examined the ear more closely. "Does it still sting?"

"Yes," Cedric admitted. "It burns."

"That's the cold. It will ease up in a minute." She shrugged. "And then we'll have pain," she added quietly.

Cedric flinched. "Where did Armus go?"

"Fishing."

"No, really."

Meg sighed. "He went to think," she explained patiently.

She dipped the cloth in the basin again, and the water turned pink. Cedric eyed the blood uneasily. "Is it okay?" he asked timidly.

"It'll be fine, Cedric," Meg assured him. "I don't think it's as bad as it looks, even, and it doesn't look . . ."

Cedric leaned away from her. "No, I mean, it is okay for you to . . . in your . . . all this . . . "

His sister-in-law sighed impatiently. "Sit still," she answered, with mild sharpness.

He sat, as still as he could, while she washed more and more blood from the wound. The burning went away, and the ear began to ache. Meg's touch remained gentle, but Cedric sensed a certain brusqueness in her manner that he wasn't used to. "I'm the youngest, you know," he said, by way of explanation.

"Hmm?"

"I'm the youngest. I've never been around anybody who was . . . was . . . "

"Pregnant," Meg supplied.

"Uh-huh. I'm not really sure how I'm supposed to treat you."

She sighed, exasperated. "Men. I'm not any different than I was this morning, Cedric. I'm pregnant, I'm not sick. I'm just the same, except that you know about it now."

"Oh."

Meg's fingers slowed, then stopped, one resting lightly on the top of his head, the other holding the cloth against his ear. "I'm sorry, Cedric. I'm not angry with you."

He twisted his head, trying to look at her. "Are you angry with Armus?" he asked in surprise.

Meg firmly turned his head back around with her free hand. "A little, I guess. I just . . . " She stopped there, letting her words trail away.

Cedric sat patiently for another minute. "He never had a pregnant wife before," he finally ventured carefully.

Her touch hesitated again. Then, to Cedric's great relief, she actually chuckled. "Ah, Cedric," she said. She leaned and kissed him on the top of his head. "Sometimes you are much wise."

Cedric grinned. "You really think so?"

"Not very often, but sometimes."

"Thanks. I think." Somehow, Cedric thought, they were comforting words from a woman who was stuffing her petticoat in his ear.

**

Sir Thomas hummed a merry tune he had last heard from the lads at the tavern. His Lordship's Helm. A stout name for a stout inn. Remembering the inn, he swung his right hand in front of the helmet's visor. Sure enough, the huge pewter tankard was locked in his right glove.

When he tried to drink, the mug rang against the helm and slopped a wash of strong spirits through the slits. "Whoopsie," he muttered, "forgot to raise the drawbridge." His left hand slapped up the visor. "Jump the turnstile." The tankard tilted a huge gulp. "Down the gate," he burped, slipping the visor shut. "And onward, ever onward." He flapped his spurless feet. The bells tinkled. Christmas bells. He had no idea where they'd come from. "Tastes like apples and strawberries," he murmured as the horse walked the road to Elizabeth's manor.

Behind him, Og followed at a discreet distance, riding Richard's horse.

**

The tracks led to the far side of the lake, up the bank, and into the woods. Armus followed as swiftly as he could, greatly hindered by the snow, which had begun to drift. He was worried that the tracks would fade away as the snow blew, but once he reached the trees they grew clearer, sheltered. Some hundred yards past the shore, the track began to climb a rocky hill, then vanished around a corner.

Armus paused, listening. Over the shushing of the snow, he thought he heard a crackling, perhaps of a fire. He drew his sword slowly, quietly, then rounded the corner and ducked to enter the low cave he found there.

And found himself with the tip of his brother's sword at his throat.

"Richard," he said quietly, "how goes the hunt?"

Richard sighed. "Not as well as I had hoped, Brother." He lowered the sword and sank back to the floor. His left foot was bare. The cave was empty except for a queer little pallet bed and a fire on the ground.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nell brought me."

"Nell, huh?" Armus said, with a knowledgeable lift of an eyebrow.

"No," Richard answered firmly. "Not even close. She's . . . well, you'll see. But she did chop me out of the ice."

Armus nodded. "I saw the hole. Are you injured?"

"I don't think so. Only I can't feel my foot."

Relieved at having found his brother safe, Armus began to be annoyed at having found his brother at all. "I suppose we might as well have Meg look at it."

Richard shrugged. "No. Just let me warm up a bit, and I'll head back to the castle. Wouldn't want to interrupt your . . . duties."

His brother scowled. "Cedric's already there, interrupting, and it doesn't matter anyhow, Meg's already pregnant."

"Oh. Well, in that case . . . " Richard reached for his stocking. "What happened to Cedric?"

"The falcon tried to bite his ear off."

"That was inevitable," Richard chuckled. "I wondered, you know. About Meg."

"What?"

"Well, she's . . . I mean, her figure, it's, um . . . filling out." He gestured with both hands. "So I wondered."

Armus glared at him. "You've been looking at my wife's breasts?"

"They've been kind of hard to miss."

Armus stood up, smacking his head against the low sidewall of the cave. "I ought to leave you here to freeze," he seethed.

Richard frowned up at him. He shook his head. "It's not like I did anything about it, Armus. I just *noticed*."

"You might have said something," Armus answered after a moment.

"Somehow I didn't think your wife's breasts were a topic we ought to be discussing." Richard shoved his foot back into his boot, with some effort. "And yet, here we are. You *had* noticed, right?"

"Of course I noticed," Armus growled. He glared into the fire for a moment. When they got back from the harvest festival, Meg had complained that her breasts were sore, and they'd seemed swollen and hot to Armus' touch. But she had blamed it on the long ride, which seemed reasonable, and in a few days it seemed to subside, and Armus had put it out of his mind . . .

A clattering outside the cave snapped him back to reality. He reached for his sword, but Richard, struggling to his feet, put a hand over his. "It's just Nell," he said.

A black-cloaked figure came into the cave. She threw her hood back, but did not straighten -- and after a moment, Armus realized that she *was* standing up straight. She was the smallest woman he had ever seen. And, without question, the ugliest. He glanced at his brother, trying to suppress a grin.

Richard shrugged. "Any port in a storm," he said quietly. "Nell, this is my brother Armus. He's going to take me back to the hunting lodge."

Nell bobbed a little curtsey. "All right then. You can take the blankets, if you need 'em."

"We'll be fine," Armus assured her. "What about you? You can't stay here."

"Oh, no, I'll go on home, I will. Now that I know you're safe."

"Where do you live?" Armus asked, rather relieved that she didn't reside in the cave.

"In the gamekeeper's house, of course. He's my pa."

"Ah."

"That's a long way, in the dark," Richard ventured. "A woman alone in the forest?"

Armus glared at him.

"Oh, don't worry about me," Nell said quickly. "I'll be fine. I've still got the ax. And it's not like anyone would want me. There's no blind folk in the forest."

Armus flinched at the little woman's matter-of-fact summary of the situation. "I won't hear of it," he pronounced. "You'll come to the cabin with us, and someone will see you safely home."

"But, Sir . . . "

"Nell, don't argue with me." He said it with just enough pompous spin to convince her. "Richard? Can you walk?"

"Of course." His brother took a step toward him, stumbled, and nearly fell. "Well, I thought I could."

"I'll help you," Nell volunteered quickly.

"I'll help him," Armus corrected smoothly. "I'm much bigger, after all. Can you find the path around the lake? The ice is too slick for this."

"Sure, I know the path," Nell said, with an eager nod of her head. "I know just where it is."

She slipped out of the cave, with the men following her heavily. "Any port, huh?" Armus asked quietly.

Richard just shivered.

**

Somewhere down the corridor, Eleanor shouted.

Emily jumped. "Shh," Ramsey whispered, smoothing her hair, drawing her head down against his chest. "She won't find us here."

The maid stared up at him. "But . . . I should be about my duties. I shouldn't even be here."

"Oh, dear," the groom answered with a little pout. "I quite thought you were enjoying yourself."

"I was, I was," Emily assured him quickly. "But I have to go."

"Of course." The perfect lover, if not a gentleman, he helped her to straighten her skirts. "There, now. Keep the rosy glow off your cheeks and no one will ever know."

Emily smiled uncertainly and let herself out of the closet.

Sighing in satisfaction, Ramsey reached for his own clothes. His hose were in a bunch around his ankles. He pulled them up, shifting from foot to foot. The crotch seemed rather too smug. Downright crowded, considering.

He reached with both hands to make the adjustment. His fingers encountered something hard. Not hard like a man shouldn't be, so soon after a housemaid. Hard like armor.

"Oh God," Ramsey whispered in terror.

Too, too late.

His girlishly-pitched scream carried well into the hallways.

Eleanor, backed by three maids, ran toward the sound. She yanked the door open, took one look at the man -- specifically at his state of undress and the placement of his hands -- and then did what every well-bred noble woman should do.

She averted her eyes, and closed the door.

**

Armus kicked the cabin door open with some satisfaction and half-dragged his brother inside. "As you requested, my lady," he announced, "a wound below the chin."

Meg jumped up from her chair in front of the fire and went to help Richard over to it. "What happened to *you*?"

"I fell in the lake," he snarled, sitting heavily. "Some fool cut a hole in the ice and didn't mark it."

Armus looked very pointedly in the other direction.

"And then I got stuck, and the ice froze . . . she cut me out with an ax," Richard finished, pointing.

Meg glanced up. She hadn't even noticed the small . . . woman? . . . that had accompanied them into the cabin. "Oh. Thank you," she called, uncertainly. She tugged at Richard's boot. It didn't even budge. She tried again, harder.

"Stop that!" Armus ordered sternly. He moved her aside and tried to one-hand the boot off. It wouldn't budge for him, either. Growling, he turned his back to his brother, dragged his foot up between his legs, and pulled on the boot with both hands. It moved perhaps half an inch. "Damn," he commented under his breath.

"The leather's shrinking, 'cause it got wet," Nell said quietly.

Meg shook her head. "Cut it off."

"What?" Armus demanded.

"No!" Richard insisted. "I just got these boots this summer!"

"They're ruined anyhow," Meg argued. "They'll never fit you again."

"They'd fit me," Cedric offered.

"You stay out of this," Meg snapped. "Armus, cut the damn boot off."

"Fine!" he snapped back. He drew his dagger and grabbed the boot again. Richard groaned, more in dismay than in pain, as he wedged the slender blade between the boot top and his brother's calf. But the further he cut, the further the boot bulged open. The flesh beneath, all the way to the knee, was grossly swollen.

Easing the ruined leather away, Armus glanced up at his wife. Her eyes were serious, not angry -- completely ignoring him, looking only at the foot. She made a small head-shake of dismissal, and he backed away, letting her get in to look at the foot. Gently, she eased the stocking down. Beneath, the flesh of Richard's leg was dead white, badly swollen. It had a light scattering of black spots. Armus had seen limbs like that before. They'd been attached to dead men.

Meg gestured for one of the wooden chairs from the table. Cedric brought it, silently. She set it in front of Richard and carefully raised his foot to rest on it. "Does anything hurt?" she asked quietly.

"No," he answered, rather cheerfully. "I can't feel anything at all."

Gently, Meg tried to bend each of the toes, then to flex the ankle. Quiet unconsciously, she bit her lower lip in concern. Then she looked up at the girl. "What's your name?"

"Nell, miss," the girl answered.

"You found him? Then what did you do?"

The girl came a little closer. "I took him back to my cave, miss. And I made a fire."

"Your cave?" Cedric interrupted. "Don't you have a home?" He was staring at her as if she was some fascinating, repulsive creature that had wandered in from the woods.

"I do, but . . . it's further, and the cave's nice and cozy, we meet there sometimes . . . "

"We?" Cedric asked, incredulous.

"Og. The woodcutter's boy. He's . . . "

"The foot," Meg interrupted sharply. "You built a fire and then what?"

"I took his boot off and put his foot on my stomach. It wasn't nearly so swollen then, though. That looks bad."

Meg sighed.

Armus said, "I'll get the horses."

"What for?"

"So we can get *out* of here, Meg. Cedric's wounded, Richard's wounded, you're pregnant, we are *not* spending the night out here."

Meg sat back on her heels and stared at him.

"Congratulations, by the way," Richard offered, mindful of his toes in her suddenly tense hands.

"Thank you," she answered, not even looking at him. "Stay put." She rolled to her feet, grabbed her husband's hand, and dragged him toward the door. "We need to talk."

"I'll get our . . . "

"Now." She went out the door, not pausing for her cloak, and dragged Armus behind her.

"Are you mad?" he asked, the instant the door closed. "You'll catch your death of cold out here . . .

"Listen to me. I know I should have told you about the baby sooner, and I know you haven't had much time to think about it and I know you want to take care of me. I understand all of that. But I need you to think with your head for a minute, and not your heart. Richard's leg is swollen because it has no circulation. And unless we can get it started again, he's going to lose the leg."

Armus stared at her, letting the words sink in. Lose the leg? Proud and handsome Richard, a cripple for the rest of his life? He'd been so wrapped up in his own concerns -- and, too, because there was no blood, he'd written off his brother's frostbite as a minor matter -- but it wasn't. It was, judging from the look in his wife's eyes, very, very serious. "Lose the leg?" he repeated numbly.

"I don't know that it will come to that . . . "

"I can ride to the castle, get the physician . . . "

Meg nodded. "You may have to. Give me an hour, let's see where we stand."

"I don't think we can get a wagon through this snow . . . Lady Elizabeth has a sleigh, we could borrow that . . . "

"Armus . . . "

"I've got to find Father . . . "

"Armus! Stop. Just stop for a minute. Breathe. Think. Listen to me. Everything we need is here."

With great effort, Armus managed to do so. His head cleared a little; he noted that the snow was melting on Meg's shoulders, the damp no doubt seeping through her shirt. Snowflakes bright against her dark hair. He lowered his head, still thinking to breathe. Less emotion, she'd asked for. She needed his mind, and she needed it sharp and clear. After a moment, he nodded. "All right. What do we need to do?"

**

Mullens sat in the armchair next to his bed, leaning back into the high cushion, his eyes narrow, his fingered steepled in front of him. There was a quiet knock at the door.

"Come," he called.

The girl -- Constance, or whatever her name was -- slid into the room uncertainly. She shut the door and stood with her back against it. "Good sir?"

"You are very lovely," Mullens said, without moving. She was. Her black hair was loose over her shoulders. She wore a thin silk nightgown, Torsunn-Narr gray, under a closely-wrapped bed gown of the same fabric, sashed with a red belt. None of the clothing did anything to conceal her body; on the contrary, they accented every delicious curve.

She ran her hand over the silk sleeve of her garment. "The belt doesn't really match," she commented.

"It's not a belt," Mullens answered. "It's a ribbon."

The girl smiled faintly. "Am I to be a gift, then?"

Mullens stood up, but did not approach her. "If you want to be," he answered. "Or you can go. I'm sure the sheriff is long gone by now." He walked over to his dresser and began to undress with his back to her. He slipped off his purse and fob, putting them in a small wooden box. Then he folded his belt neatly and put it on the dresser. He turned back to her, unfastening his cuffs. "Well?"

Constance gazed back at him, her lips pouting a little. "I've never been a gift before. Who does the unwrapping?"

John Mullens smiled gently and gestured. The girl moved toward him, not too fast, letting the silk flow around her as she slid against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her waist, took her jaw firmly in the other hand, and forced her to look up at him. "Last chance to change your mind."

In reply, she lifted her lips to his.

Outside, in the gathering dark, the peacock screamed.

"God," Mullens muttered against her mouth, "I hate those birds."

Constance untied the ribbon and dropped it to the floor.

**

Lady Elizabeth was known as a kind mistress.

Her castle was small enough that a few servants could keep it easily. The small but rich run of fertile river land set with tenant farms provided a plenty of foods for the holding. It didn't hurt, of course, that their friendly neighbor gave them a favorable rate at his mill. All in all, it was a comfortable posting for an old campaigner. Sergeant Bob Dunkins was well pleased with the quiet life after long years of soldiering.

The comfortable routine and hearty food had rounded his once sparse frame. Truth to tell, there were more fine comforts to be had from Widow Crowley's kitchen than pies and puddings. If the other staff knew of the happy end to many of his late night rounds, they had the good sense not to voice it. In all, a very satisfactory post.

Still, snug wasn't slack. He still had sense to bolt the door against need. He'd seen that need often enough, with the Saracens screaming like devils as they charged. So he didn't settle into his chair without seeing every shutter bolted and every outer door shut and barred. Often as not, he sat up the first of the night in the small guard room. The portcullis was up but the wheel that held it stood firm against the chock. A hammer lay beside it and a stroke would have the heavy bars fall.

Contented with his rounds, Durkins settled back at the gate. The snow had turned heavy now, and no one but a madman would be abroad. Bob planned only a quick dram in the snug guardhouse, before he turned in for the night. Snug and safe, his work done and the household at peace.

Then he heard the singing.

Ah, God, he thought, going out into the snow, to the main gate. His hedgehog was in place; no one was coming in without his permission. But the horseman grew closer, and closer still, and then he heard the gentle tinkle of bells.

Bells?

A monster came out of the darkness and snow. A knight on a horse, but with a giant's head and a giant's tankard. It stopped just before the gate and shouted, evil echos in the quiet night, words he could not decipher.

It sounded, through the distortion of the helm, like the monster was claiming to be Father

Christmas.

**

The first thing Meg did was take a length of thread from her needlework and measure around the fattest part of Richard's calf. She tied a knot in the thread to mark the measure, then turned the thread around and used the other end to measure his ankle.

"What's that for?" Richard asked.

"To see how fast the swelling goes down," Meg answered calmly.

Watching her, Armus nodded his approval. It was too serious a matter for guesswork. But her tone was so even, her manner so calm, that he doubted his brother knew how critical it was.

Nell moved closer. "How can I help?"

Meg glanced up at her. "Thank you, Nell," she said, even before she'd asked for anything. "Could you empty that basin for me, and fill it with snow again?"

"You're going to pack my leg in snow?" Richard asked.

"No," Meg answered, "I think you've done enough of that for one evening."

"How can *I* help?" Armus asked

His wife considered. "Supper?"

"Sure."

Nell returned with the snow. Meg took the kettle from the fire and poured just a little of the steaming water in. The snow melted at once, of course, and she stirred the resulting water with her finger, then added more hot water.

"I thought you shouldn't put hot water on frostbite," Nell said, watching her.

"It's not hot," Meg answered. "Here, touch. We're going to start cool -- very cool -- and warm up gradually." She already knew there were no clean rags in the cabin; she set about tearing the rest of her petticoat into strips. "How do you know about that?"

Nell shrugged, embarrassed by the matter-of-fact attention. "Well, I live out here, you know. I learn things. And my Pa, he knows an awful lot."

"Her father is the gamekeeper," Richard offered.

Armus examined the soup that Meg had started much earlier. It had cooked all afternoon; the fish and mushrooms had turned soft and mushy. And yet it smelled too good to throw it out. Instead, he took it over to the table and beat it until it was smooth. He put it back to keep warm by the fire, and cut the rest of the fish filets into small pieces. He cooked them, with more mushrooms and sliced carrots, in a skillet until they were done. Then he threw them into the soup-turned-stew. While it brewed together, he turned his attention to making biscuits.

Meg soaked the strips of cloth in the water and wrapped them around Richard's leg in layers, starting at the knee and covered to his toes. "Still feel okay?"

Richard shrugged. "Doesn't feel at all."

"Hmm." Meg went and rummaged through her pack. She frowned, not finding what she wanted. "Armus, is there a willow tree by the lake?"

"I think so."

"There is," Nell answered confidently. "On the north side. Two of them, in fact. You need willow bark?"

Meg nodded. "I think we will, before long."

"I'll go," the girl offered at once.

"Cedric will go," Armus amended quickly. "And he can see to the horses while he's out there."

"But . . . but I'm injured," Cedric protested. His brother just looked at him. "All right, I'm going," he muttered. "But if my ear starts to bleed again . . . "

With the biscuits baking, Armus sat back to watch. Meg added a little hot water to the basin, then re-soaked the rags and re-wrapped the leg. Richard seemed comfortable enough, and unconcerned. They'd gotten Nell talking about her lover -- a concept that perplexed Armus a bit -- and her chatter filled the cabin with inconsequential ease. The skin of the leg didn't change any, as far as Armus could see, but Meg went on with the treatment calmly, methodically, patiently. Gently.

She was going to be a fine mother.

With a small sigh, Armus realized that he still hadn't apologized for his earlier behavior. Nor had he told her -- *really* told her -- how delighted he was with her news. Now hardly seemed the time; she was so focused on Richard that she'd forgotten all about him. And yet he needed to say something, and to do it soon.

Cedric returned just as the biscuits finished cooking. He was shivering, and covered with snow. "Have you *seen* it out there?" he demanded. "It's a blizzard!"

Armus went to the door and looked out. The wind was whipping the snow down now in hard, drifting sheets. He couldn't see all the way to the horse shed. There was a deep drift where the road should have been. With a sigh, he closed the door again.

They were stuck for the night.

**

"Dunk him."

"My lady?"

Lady Elizabeth shook her head impatiently. "There's nothing else for it, Durkins. Dunk him."

"Yes, my lady." And without malice -- but without regret, either, the sergeant took the Lord of Covington Cross by the back of his shirt and ducked his head in the ice water.

Thomas came up spluttering and angry. "Hey! What's the idea!"

"Well, he speaks, at least," Elizabeth observed dryly. "Hello, Thomas."

"Elizabeth!" He took her hand and drew it to his mouth. "My God, but you are beautiful. I had a hell of a time finding your house tonight."

"I imagine you did," she answered archly, pulling her hand back. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Drink? I haven't been drinking. Just a little wine. Oh, and two little jugs of mead. But *little*." He demonstrated with his fingers. "Tiny little jugs of wine."

"How many tiny little jugs?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"How many?"

Thomas considered the question for a moment. "Oh, well, all of them, of course. Wouldn't be polite to leave them." His gaze drifted off to the far wall. "You have tapestries," he observed.

Elizabeth sighed. "We've had them for years, Thomas."

"They're lovely," he said warmly. "But not as lovely as you." He took her hand and tried to kiss it again.

Elizabeth drew her hand back, and used it to gesture to Durkins. "Duck him again."

**

After dinner, Meg measured the leg again. The swelling was down, the width of her pinky finger. "Good," she said, with considerable relief.

"That's good?" Richard asked. "This is going to take forever."

She nodded. "About three days, before it's all gone. But it's a good start." She walked past him, absently ruffling his hair.

"Meg," Richard said firmly. "This is serious, isn't it?"

She paused. "It can be," she answered lightly. "But you'll be fine."

"Meg."

She glanced at Armus, questioning. He nodded, just once. Reluctantly, she went and sat on the hearth, facing Richard. "It can be *very* serious. You can lose the leg, if we can't get the circulation back. But that's not going to happen, Richard. The swelling's already going down. It'll be fine."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Richard demanded.

"Just to alarm you?" Meg answered. "When there was nothing you could do about it?"

"You should have told me!" he shouted.

"Richard . . . " Armus began warningly.

Meg waved off his defense. "You're right. I should have told you." She seemed suddenly close to tears. "I seem to have a knack for not telling people things at the right time."

Richard had been spoiling for a fight. Confronted with tears instead, he immediately folded. "I'm sorry, Meg. I don't mean to yell at you. It's just . . . it's starting to ache. A lot."

She popped to her feet. "Why didn't you say so? I can help that, some." She went to the table and began to crunch the willow bark into a mug.

Richard glanced at his brother, who was watching the two of them with concern. "Sorry," he said quietly.

Arms shrugged. "Not your fault. Mine, mostly."

Meg fetched the kettle and poured boiling water over the bark. "All right," she asked, more calmly, "what gave me away?"

"The hair thing," Richard answered promptly, with a little grin. "You do the hair thing with Cedric all the time, but never with me. Except when I dislocated my shoulder last summer, you did it then."

"Oh." Meg stirred the willow tea. "I didn't realize I did that." She looked at Armus. "Honey?"

"Yes, love?"

She almost laughed. "Do we *have* any honey?"

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, I brought a little." He got down the food pack and produced it.

Even with the honey, the brew tasted awful. Richard grimaced and chugged it down. And then he waited patiently for the pain to stop.

**

Thomas woke with a start. "Meg's pregnant," he announced.

"You told me," Elizabeth answered.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. He was lying on a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth. In her sitting room. She was sitting in a tall chair beside him. "I did?"

"Four or five times," she answered wearily.

"I should go home."

"All right."

"In a minute," he answered. Then he settled back down on the floor and fell asleep.

**

It was very, very late at night -- or very early in the morning. Richard had been sleeping, still sitting upright in the chair, but he woke when the wind stopped blowing. The blizzard had blown itself out.

The cabin was quiet. Nell and Cedric were each curled up on little beds; Armus sprawled and snoring lightly on the big bed. Meg sat up beside Richard, also asleep.

Richard's leg hurt less, but now it was starting to itch.

He reached to scratch it -- and Meg's hands caught his. "Don't," she said softly. "You'll

make it worse."

"But it *itches*," Richard protested. The itching grew more fierce by the second.

"I know. I can help. Please don't scratch."

She moved quickly across the cabin and grabbed her skirt, then came back and draped it over his leg. She began to rub over the fabric, very lightly, very quickly. It barely took the edge off the itch. The fabric was too silky, her touch too light.

"It *itches*," Richard complained again.

"I know it does," Meg answered again. "But please, please don't scratch."

Richard made himself sit back. His fingers dug deeply into the arms of the chair, and he gritted his teeth in the effort to control himself. The light touch helped, but not enough. Just one good scratch, just five seconds . . .

Meg began to sing, very quietly.

The tune, Richard supposed, was soothing enough. And vaguely familiar. No, very familiar. He knew that song. He listened more closely, concentrating on catching her soft words. This tiny quest distracted him briefly from the itch. And when he realized *what* she was singing . . .

"And we fa la a daily till spring rang around yea we fa la a daily till the spring."

Richard laughed out loud. "You shouldn't know songs like that."

Meg glanced up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. "I grew up with sailors, remember? I know verses of that song you've never even heard."

"No you don't."

"I do."

The itch seemed to subside slightly, under her hands and under Richard's sudden fascination with this unexpected facet of his sister-in-law. He wondered if Armus knew about this. "Teach me the verses."

And Lady Margaret Marisa Devlin Grey, who would have sold her soul to keep him from gouging scratches into his half-frozen flesh, cheerfully spent the rest of the night singing dirty ditties.

**

"Twelve dozen, less one," Marianne said with weary satisfaction. "That should be the lot of them."

Eleanor plopped unceremoniously at the kitchen table. "What time is it?"

"Near to dawn," the maid answered.

"Go to bed."

"Miss?"

"Go to bed. Get a little sleep while you can."

"Yes, miss." She considered the covered kettle for a moment. "What are we going to do with *them*, miss?"

Eleanor gazed at the pot. Beside it were several others, all full of crabs. They had spent most of the previous day and all of the night catching them. But she was reasonably confident they had them all. Except that one.

"My lady?" Marianne prompted gently.

"We're going to boil them," Eleanor vowed softly. "We're going to boil them alive."

**

Armus woke, but lay very still, listening to the soft voices, the quiet laugher, the singing. His heart ached sharply. He should have stayed awake with her. He'd missed her laughing.

He climbed out of bed and went over to the fire. They stopped singing. Richard looked guilty; Meg just looked glad to see him. "How's the leg?"

"Better," Richard answered promptly. "It itched like crazy for a while, but it's better now."

"And the swelling's way down," Meg continued. Her eyes locked on her husband's for a minute, and she barely nodded.

He understood. They were out of the woods. "Good, good." He clapped his hand on his brother's shoulder for a moment. "And you got her to teach you all her songs."

Richard grinned sheepishly. "I would never in a million years have guessed that *she* knew songs like *that*."

"My wife is full of surprises," Armus answered. He stooped and kissed her quickly on the cheek. "Breakfast?"

"I'll get it," she said, standing up and stretching.

"No," Armus corrected. "Do you want some breakfast? If you do, I'll make it."

"Breakfast?" Cedric said sleepily. He staggered over, his dark hair standing on end to one side of his head. "I'm starving."

"Said the magic word," Richard chuckled. "Woke sleeping beauty."

Armus grinned. "Ah, he's a growing boy. All right, breakfast then. Cedric, build up the fire, will you? Make it good and hot, and I'll see what I can come up with."

Grumbling, Cedric pulled on his boots and went out for firewood. "It stopped snowing," he announced when returned. "It's not even light yet, you know."

All their stirring woke Nell. She staggered over, a little shyly. "I should go now."

"Oh, stay for breakfast," Armus invited.

"He's really a good cook," Richard confirmed. "You should stay."

Cedric threw four good-sized logs on the fire. It sputtered a bit, then decided to burn them and flared very hot. The flames shot well into the chimney.

The family chatted pleasantly, about nothing, Nell joining in, and Armus mixed batter and cleaned out the skillet. And then, unexpectedly, a loud 'crack' sounded from outside, from the top of the chimney.

"What was that?" Cedric asked.

"The chimney exploded," Nell answered.

There was a sound then like rain on the roof, or perhaps more like hail. Pieces of the chimney, blown high, falling back.

And then the roof began to burn in a dozen places.

**

Eleanor sat at the table in the small dining room. Her breakfast -- simple gruel and toast, but she had made it herself, with almost no coaching -- cooled in front of her. She was too exhausted to eat.

She looked slowly around the room. She was alone.

She wasn't worried about any of her missing family members. Her father, she was certain, was at Lady Elizabeth's. Armus and Meg were accounted for. Richard was doubtless still at the tavern, and Cedric was almost certain to be with him by now. William was far far away and not expected for breakfast. She was alone with her gruel.

And, surprisingly, she found that she enjoyed it. It was quiet. Peaceful.

She looked around once more. The only Grey in the castle. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. The only Grey, and therefore the oldest Grey, the senior member of the household.

Eleanor stood up and moved her breakfast to the head of the table. Slowly, savoring the moment, she settled into her father's chair.

It was a very comfortable chair.

**

The cabin burned to the ground without hesitation.

Across the road, the Grey sons perched on the yule log and watched. There was nothing else to do. Even if the lake had been open water, they couldn't have hauled enough to save the building. As it was -- there was nothing to do but watch.

At least they were warm, and the log was conveniently upwind.

"We should head back to the castle," Meg finally said.

"I don't want to," Cedric answered immediately. "I want to run away and join the army."

Richard nodded sagely. "Father loved this cabin."

"At least we're all safe," Armus answered, unconvinced. He gazed at Meg and sighed. "I can't believe you went back in there after your needlepoint."

"Do you know how long I've been working on that?" she protested.

"Do you know how easily the roof could have come down on your head?" he shot back.

"Like you care."

"What?"

Richard sat up. "Um . . . hate to interrupt, but we really need to think about getting back."

"What do you mean by that?" Armus insisted.

Meg ignored him. "I want that foot up," she told Richard, pointedly. "I don't know how we're going to manage it, but it's important."

"I can't very well ride with one foot in the air."

"I could go back and get a cart," Cedric suggested.

"And we just sit here in the cold for two hours waiting for you?" Richard challenged.

"He can sit on the log," Armus said flatly. "We have to drag the damn thing back anyhow. We saved the harness. We'll drag it, and he can sit on top." He turned to his wife. "And you, too."

"Me? Why?"

"Because I don't think you should be riding astride a horse, in your condition. It can't be good for the baby."

She stared at him for a moment. "That's without a doubt the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"It is *not* stupid. Just because I'm more concerned about this child than you are . . . "

"You are not!"

"And while we're on the topic, I don't think that tight breeches are probably good for the child, either. Don't you have a skirt you can put on?"

"I do, but your brothers are wearing it!"

There was a long, long, *long* silence. The fire crackled cheerily.

"We should go," Richard finally ventured, quietly.

"Right," Armus answered. "Let's go."

They barely heard the hooves over the fire. "Oh, no," Cedric murmured.

"Hey," Richard said, more brightly, "that's my horse!"

"Who's riding it?"

The rider threw himself off the horse, and into Nell's arms.

"Og, I presume," Richard answered.

"I saw the flames," Og said breathlessly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right," Nell answered. "Oh, Og, I've had the *best* night."

Og turned, finally noticing the others. They were staring at the couple as if they were quite mad. "Your cabin burned down," he said.

"We noticed," Armus answered. "Cedric, help me with this log."

While they moved to harness the horse, Richard patted the log beside him in invitation. Meg sat down. "What is it?"

"Look," Richard began, in his most charming manner, "I know Armus has been a complete boob about this baby, and I don't blame you at all for being angry with him. If I were you, I'd be furious. But -- he's got a point about your riding horses . . . "

He stopped, because Meg had popped to her feet. "That's *it*! That is absolutely *it*."

"What did you say to her?" Armus demanded of his brother.

Richard threw his hands up. "I was just trying to help . . . "

"I'm just going to walk back," Meg announced firmly. She went to the pile of gear, hastily rescued from the cabin, and grabbed her tiny crossbow.

"What, in the dark?" Armus protested.

"It's nearly dawn."

"By yourself?"

She gestured towards the woods with the weapon. "I'm sure I'll be safer out there alone then I will be with you three."

"Hey, what'd I do?" Cedric protested.

"Shut up," Armus snapped.

"Meg," Richard called, "be reasonable . . . "

"No." She stomped her foot. "I'm too pregnant to be reasonable!" She turned and stomped off through the snow.

"Quarrels," Cedric called after her.

She whirled. "Yes, Cedric. Even the happiest couples have them sometimes."

"No," he answered gingerly. "Quarrels for the crossbow." He held the quiver out to her.

Meg stomped back to the group, snatched the quiver, and stomped off again.

When she had disappeared into the forest, Richard glanced at his older brother. "You're not really going to let her go, are you?"

Armus shrugged angrily. "She's a grown woman, and more intelligent than most. She can take care of herself."

"She's pregnant, Armus, and pretty obviously not thinking clearly."

Armus glared at him.

From the woods, from exactly where Meg had gone, there came a series of alarming noises: A heavy rustle. A short, startled cry. An animal grunt. The hissing twang of a crossbow firing. Another grunt. A heavy crash.

Armus was already running; Cedric followed, but couldn't come close to keeping up.

Meg stood with her back to them, the crossbow dangling at her side.

At her feet, the stag lay dead, a quarrel buried in the center of its chest.

"Meg . . . " Armus breathed.

She turned, her face calm and unreadable. "He startled me," she said simply.

And then was swallowed up in her husband's embrace.

**

They were, Armus reflected as they rode into the dawn, probably the most unusual caravan even to travel the forest road.

Cedric rode in front, on Meg's horse, on the single saddle they'd been able to save, dragging the hastily-gutted buck behind him. Og followed, riding double with Nell, leading the pack horse. Behind them, the yule log dragged a wide swath in the snow. Richard perched on the log, on top of the old bearskin, with his foot wrapped in Meg's skirt and dutifully propped up.

Behind them, twenty yards back, Armus rode his own horse, bareback, with Meg in front of him. She sat very quietly in the circle of his arms, content to let him handle the reins. Killing the deer had effectively taken the wind out of the sails of her temper, at least for the moment.

And his, Armus realized.

He gather the reins on one hand and let the other fold across her waist. Through the layers of her clothes, through the laces of her breeches, he could feel the undeniable thickening of her waist, the unmistakable -- now that he knew -- rounding of her belly. It occurred to him that he was rather taking liberties with his recently-angry wife. But she wrapped her own arms over his, holding his touch.

"There," he said quietly, "sleeps the next heir of Covington Cross."

Meg chuckled. "Or his older sister," she reminded him.

Encouraged, he tightened his embrace a bit. "Could we name her Anne?"

"Can we name him Robert?"

They rode in silence for a bit. "That was easy," Armus observed.

"About time something was," Meg agreed amiably.

"I've handled this badly," Armus admitted. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I should have told you sooner."

"Why didn't you?"

A moment of hesitation. "I wasn't sure, at first, and then . . . I needed time to get used to the idea, and then it was so close to Christmas, I thought . . . " She paused again, and straightened a bit. "I was happy. I didn't want things to change between us."

"Nothing's changed," Armus protested quickly.

"Everything's changed," Meg answered, rather sadly.

"Not everything," he promised. He leaned to kiss her cheek. "I still love you more than my life."

Meg turned her head to catch his lips briefly. "I know."

"Two things I need to say," Armus said. "One I should have said hours ago -- and the other I probably shouldn't say at all, but I have to, once, and then I'll never say it again. I'm scared out of my mind that I'll lose you."

Meg nodded again, not offering any of the standard assurances or platitudes, just letting him know that she understood.

"The other is that am I happy and honored beyond words that you're carrying my child. And I should have said that right from the start, and I would have if I were not such a boob."

"You're not," Meg assured him. "And you would have gotten to that, if we hadn't been interrupted."

He sighed, glancing ahead at his brothers. "I used to try to lose Richard in the woods, you know. But he always found his way home."

Meg laughed. Then she half-turned again. "Armus, this is going to be fine. The baby, me, you -- we'll all be fine."

He believed her.

After a time, Armus said, "I don't know how I came to take you for granted so quickly. I swore I never would, and yet . . . I thought I knew all about you. And I find you've been keeping this enormous secret. I wonder what else I don't know about you."

"Oh, hundreds of things," Meg answered. "How else can I keep your interest?"

"My interest," Armus informed her gravely, "has never wavered for an instant." He considered. "Of these hundreds of things . . . are there any that I should know right now?"

His wife chuckled. "Well, maybe one."

"What's that?"

"There are five sets of twins in my immediate family."

Armus groaned out loud.

Cedric suddenly checked his horse and turned back to them. "Armus! Richard, look! She's coming back!"

His mare stepped on one of the deer's antlers. It snapped briskly. The horse shied, reared, and dumped her rider neatly in snow. She tried to bolt then, stepped on the line that secured the deer behind her, and froze in terror.

The falcon, bearing something twice its size, swept over them and dropped its prey. Then it circled and perched on the deer carcass, blinking regally at Cedric.

"What is it?" Richard called.

Armus jumped off his horse and waded through the snow up to where Cedric had landed. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," Cedric answered. "Look, Armus. She's waiting for me. Look at her!"

"Uh-huh," his brother grunted, unimpressed. He grabbed Cedric's arm and hauled him to his feet.

Og also dismounted, and untangled the nervous mare. "Here you are, sir. Fine bird you got there."

"Isn't she?" Cedric agreed enthusiastically. "Did you see how she watched over me until I got up?"

Og whistled quietly. The falcon immediately flew up and perched on his arm. "Yes, sir. A fine lady she is."

"What did she catch?" Richard called.

"I'll get it," Og said. He shook his arm, and the falcon took to wing again. Then he trudged over to the fallen prey. "It's a peahen, sir."

"A what?" Richard demanded.

"You know, like a peacock, only a lady one. A peahen."

"There aren't any pea hens in the forest," Armus said, puzzled.

"There's this one, sir," Og answered simply. "It has a collar."

"A *what*?"

"A collar, sir." Og brought the hen over to Armus and Cedric. "See, here? This little ribbon thing?"

They saw the narrow, dark ribbon that looped around the hen's neck. And the small gold medallion that hung from it. Gingerly, Armus took the tiny ornament between his fingers. He and Cedric shared a look. "Oh, bloody hell," Armus breathed.

"It's not my fault," Cedric protested quickly.

"It's your falcon."

"But it's barely trained. I've only had her one day. It's not my fault."

"Get on your horse."

"Armus, it's not my fault!"

The eldest brother nodded wearily. "Let's just get home before anything else happens."

"But, Armus . . . "

His brother was already trudging away, holding the bird by its broken neck. "What is it?" Richard demanded.

Armus paused beside the yule log sled and handed him the bird. "One of Baron Mullen's prized peafowl stock," he answered dryly.

"Are you sure?" But Richard had already found the medallion. "Oh, bloody hell," he repeated.

Armus shook his head again and went back to his horse.

Twenty minutes later, the falcon caught up with them again. Again she bore some heavy prey. She swooped low over the procession, then climbed as she circled, and dropped her prey from thirty feet, directly over Cedric. He dodged the falling object, then tried to catch it -- falling off his horse again in the process.

The falcon landed on the dead deer again, watching him until he climbed to his feet. Then it flew to perch on Og's shoulder.

"Did you see that?" Cedric called excitedly. "How she watches over me, to make sure I'm all right? Have you ever seen so much devotion in a bird?"

Richard gestured, and Armus rode up next to him. "Is it me," Richard asked softly, "or do you think the bird's waiting to peck his eyes out?"

"Without a doubt," Armus answered. Louder, he called, "What did she bring you this time, little brother?"

"Ah . . . another peahen," Cedric answered reluctantly.

"With a collar?"

"Uh . . . yes."

The bird flew off again.

"The next time she lands," Armus said wearily, "try to keep hold of her."

"Yes, sir," Og answered. "But she's a fine little hunter."

Richard grunted. "How many birds does Mullens have, anyhow?"

The answer turned out to be, at least one more. Just as they approached the gates of the castle, the falcon dropped the peacock from great height on Cedric. It his him on the head, bounced onto the horse's rump. The trailing feathers sent the horse into a frenzy. Cedric stayed with her this time, until she wrapped her legs in the drag line again and fell over sideways.

The youngest Grey climbed shakily to his feet. Og helped him untangle the mare, who stood sweating and trembling and rolling her eyes. "Are you all right?" Armus demanded.

Cedric nodded. "I think . . . I think she's trying to kill me."

"The horse?"

"The bird. It's not *funny*, Armus."

"Of course not," Armus answered, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. "Why don't you just lead the mare in from here?"

"I think I will," Cedric agreed.

The falcon came and perched on Og's shoulder again. Cedric noted that she made no attempt to remove his ear -- or any other part of his anatomy. "I've got her, sir," Og announced. "Should I put her in for a rest?"

Resigned, Cedric pointed him to the mews.

As he went, Nell sighed. "Doesn't he look elegant, with that falcon on his arm?"

**

Eleanor met them in the front hall. She surveyed her family quickly: Richard with one bare white foot, limping heavily, leaning on Armus; Cedric with a bloody bandage on one side of his head; Armus with peculiar little wounds all around his face; Meg with a peacock by the neck in one hand, two pea hens in the other. Eleanor sighed. Just another homecoming with the Grey family.

"I'll take those," she said, claiming the birds. Around their necks, ribbons dangled golden crests. "Aren't these Mullens' peacocks?"

The group groaned.

"Are you all right?" she demanded.

Armus spoke. "Cedric's missing part of his ear. Richard has frostbite in his foot. Meg's pregnant. I'm a boob. We burned down the hunting lodge."

Eleanor blinked. Twice. "There's a fire in the sitting room," she finally advised. "I'll have breakfast brought in." As the group shuffled that way, she called after them, "Be careful where you sit. We've got crabs."

They turned as one to look at her, but no one even asked.

**

The young man appeared at the gate shortly after dawn. "I've come to see Sir Thomas home," he announced. He was leading the knight's horse behind his own.

"About bloody time," Durkins replied crankily. He was getting too damn old, in his opinion, to be sitting up all night at the gate. "Stay here. I'll fetch him, if he can walk yet."

Og waited patiently. He wasn't sure he should be doing this; he certainly didn't have any orders about it. But his father was always telling him he needed to show some spirit, think for himself. And this seemed like the most useful thing he could do at the moment.

Besides, he wanted to be on the lord's good side -- now that he had a position within Covington Cross itself. He was the brand-new assistant falconer. Subject, of course, to Sir Thomas' approval. And he could think of no better way to encourage that approval than to bring the knight his horse.

**

Armus popped the last of the crab fritters into the fire and chewed with relish; as a meal, the little monsters were almost worth the trouble they'd caused. Meg checked on Cedric's ear, then on Richard's foot, which was propped on a bench. Satisfied, she returned to sit on her husband's lap, leaning back against his shoulder. Armus kissed her forehead, cradling her gently in his arms.

Richard watched them with interest. Armus and his wife didn't usually show affection in front of other people, though he guessed that this was how they behaved in private. Of course, they didn't usually argue in front of other people, either. It was as if events had exhausted them beyond being so horribly proper. Richard, for one, approved of the change. The formality had been wearing thin.

"What?" Meg inquired mildly.

With a start, Richard realized that his expression had given him away. "Nothing. It's just . . . nice to see." He shifted, wiggling his toes. "Marriage has always sounded a bit like a sentence to me. But seeing you two . . . " he shrugged. "I'm starting to think I need to find myself a nice convent girl and give it a try."

"What would you do with a nice convent girl?" Meg asked lightly.

Richard almost blushed. "Well, you know, what one *does* with a wife . . . "

Meg shook her head gently, for once not blushing herself. "And the second week, when she bores you out of your mind?"

"Take a mistress," Cedric suggested.

Eleanor kicked him in the shin.

"No convent girl?" Richard mused. "What do you suggest?"

His sister-in-law shifted, settling higher against Armus' shoulder. "You need somebody who challenges you. Somebody who can hold your interest."

"Where do I find her? And how do I recognize her?"

Meg considered. "If you ever meet a woman who knocks you off your horse and then laughs in your face, marry her at once."

Richard laughed. "With Father's approval, of course."

"You find the girl, I'll get the approval for you."

"They can't be easy to find."

"Oh, I know a few," Meg mused. "Shall I send for one?"

"Uh, no," Richard answered nervously. "Not just yet,"

"Tell me when you're ready."

The companionable silence returned. Armus reached up to stroke his wife's hair; she nestled closer. "Father should be back," Armus observed.

"I'm sure he's . . . safe," Richard answered.

"Warm," Cedric answered.

"I hate her," Eleanor contributed.

They fell silent again.

"I suppose I need something along the same line as Richard," Eleanor admitted. "Someone who's a challenge."

"No," Meg answered simply.

"No?"

"You need someone stable, someone who gives foundation to your spirit. Someone older, maybe. Someone who can enjoy you, instead of trying to tame you. Someone . . . with the soul of a poet."

"A poet?" Eleanor answered. She was amused by the notion, but also oddly pleased. "Do you know one of them?"

Meg thought about it. "Perhaps . . . the Spaniard."

"The Spaniard?"

"No Spaniards," Armus said firmly. "Father will never have it."

"Hmm," Meg answered serenely. "Now?"

"No," Eleanor answered quickly. "But I would like to hear more about him, some time."

"What about me?" Cedric asked eagerly. "What do I need?"

Meg smiled warmly, "You, sweet, need another three or four years to make up your mind."

"Oh," he said, disappointed.

"Time to explore your options," Meg altered gently.

Cedric looked up, considerably cheered by this directive.

"Discreetly," Meg added.

"Of course."

Silence fell again.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Richard observed. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"You never asked."

Richard shook his head. "Like that ever stopped anyone in *this* family. What else do you think about?"

Meg shrugged. "Lots of things."

"About us?" Cedric demanded.

"Occasionally."

"You should say something," Richard said. "We need advice. Sometimes."

"I'll remember that."

The front door opened and closed, and footsteps shuffled in the front hall, a bit uncertainly. Sir Thomas walked passed the open door with an uncharacteristic wobble.

"Hello, Father," Armus called cheerfully.

Thomas stopped, startled. He came back to the door, grinning broadly. "Armus. I didn't expect you." Then he saw the rest of them, and the grin turned to an confused frown. He counted them silently, moving his lips, then counted again on his fingers. "Oh," he observed, "you're all here. Is everyone all right?"

They glanced amongst themselves. Armus was silently elected. "Richard has frostbite," he announced, "Cedric's missing part of his ear, I've been attacked by badgers, Meg's pregnant, the lodge burned to the ground, and the castle has crabs."

"Oh." Thomas considered for a moment, still frowning in deep concentration. "Well. Carry on, then. And good night." He gathered his dignity around him, as well as he could, and left.

His children watched him go, startled speechless.

"Well," Richard said quietly, when he'd recovered a bit, "and I thought it was just a figure of speech."

"Drunk as a lord?" Armus asked.

Richard nodded. They listened as the footsteps trailed up the stairs. There was a pause, a thud, and a rather soldierly curse before the footsteps resumed.

And then, though they tried valiantly not to, the children began to laugh.

**

John Mullens sat down at the head of his table. He was a tremendously contented man.

At his right, his daughter waited with a dutiful smile. The food was plentiful and smelled delicious. The wench, Constance, was gone, as was his household purse and his fob. But Mullens had expected that. The fob was plated, not gold; the purse was old and had held but a few coins, less than he would have been willing to pay for the two days of entertainment the wench had provided. Best of all, the damn birds were silent.

"My lord?" Trout called nervously from the doorway.

John Mullens allowed himself a small frown. Well, every silver lining had its cloud. "I'm having dinner, Trout."

"Yes, my lord, but . . . this was left at the front door." He held a large basket, draped with

soft fabric.

Mullens frowned. "It's not a baby, is it?"

"No, sir."

"Bring it."

Trout brought the basket to the table and set it down. Then he hovered. "You may go," Mullens ordered.

"Uh . . . yes, my lord."

Curious, Mullens folded back the soft fabric. Inside the basket lay four crocks of preserves, neatly labeled, and three bottles of wine, with no labels at all. Mullens held one of the bottles up to the light; the color told him that it was probably strawberry. The whole region had been codpiece deep in strawberries this year. There was no note, no clue at all as to who might have sent the gift. But Mullens didn't care. He replaced the bottle carefully, grinning with absolute joy.

Around the necks of the wine bottles were the medallions that had graced the necks of his hated peacock and its hens.

A very good Christmas gift, indeed.

**

Thomas was just settling down to sleep when he felt the light touch on his chest. Puzzled, he opened his eyes.

The crab sat just above his heart, looking back at him, waving its pincers in the air in a menacing manner.

Thomas groaned. "Shouldn't have drunk the mead," he muttered. He rolled over, flipping the crab to the floor, pulled the blanket over his head, and went to sleep.

**

And so it was that at Christmas Eve mass, the woodcutter's second son was wed to the gamekeeper's extraordinarily plain daughter, not in the simple country church but in the grand family chapel of the castle of Covington Cross, and that the witnesses to the wedding including no less that the Lord of the Castle himself, with all his children.

It had been arranged that Og would become Duggin's assistant. It was a reasonable choice, given that Cedric's falcon loved him and that Duggins seemed to like the boy. The fathers agreed to move into one cabin together; they had always been good friends, in a laconic way, and the other cabin was given to the newlyweds, on the condition that Nell would keep house for both households.

It was, all in all, a highly satisfactory arrangement for everyone involved. Only Sir Thomas could have objected, and then only because he was expected to kiss the bride -- but by the time he reached the chapel, late and badly hung over, it was too late to protest. He closed his eyes and kissed the delighted girl on the cheek. Then he staggered back to the castle.

The new couple was packed off home in a wagon loaded with dishes from the same feast the Greys were sitting down to.

Thomas settled at the head of the table carefully. He had rediscovered a number of the lessons from his youth that day; foremost among them was that if he made no sudden movements, the pain in his head remained at a dull ache rather than a stabbing throb. And so he sat most regally, very still, his chin up and level. And he wished he could not smell the food.

The children came and sat noisily around him, chatting about the wedding. The servants began bringing the dishes in. A haunch of venison. A platter of fish fillets. Two roasted pea hens, nestled next to each other on a single tray. Half a dozen roasted pigeons. Thomas felt his stomach churn at the wonderful smells.

Marta appeared at his elbow. She set a tankard in front of him, and a plate of toasted bread, barely glazed with butter. Thomas lifted the tankard and sniffed it carefully. It was hot to the touch.

"Meg's magical hangover cure," Richard offered, watching him with an amused glint in his eye. "It's very effective."

Thomas nearly snarled. "I suppose you've had occasion to know."

His second son shrugged. "Now and then. But then, *I'm* not the Lord of the Manor."

Thomas did snarl then.

"Try it, Father," Meg urged, hurrying in -- late again -- to her place at the table. "It will help."

Carefully, he sipped the brew. It tasted like nothing he'd ever had, but it wasn't unpleasant. Some kind of herbs, brewed in hot water. Lots of honey. And, judging by the glow it lit in his stomach, a bit of whiskey. He took a longer drink.

Fortified, he turned back to Richard. "I hear you burned down my hunting lodge."

"*I* didn't," Richard protested quickly. "Cedric was the one who made the fire so big . . . "

"Armus told me to!" Cedric protested.

"Because Richard fell in a hole in the ice," Armus defended swiftly.

"Because *you* cut a hole in the ice and didn't mark it!" Richard shot back.

Thomas held his hands up, half-pleading, half-ordering peace. "The lodge is gone, nonetheless. My father and I built that lodge, when my grandfather was still alive." He warmed up to the tale, feeling the healing effects of Meg's brew. "We cut each of the logs, mixed the mud, even planed the planks for the floor."

"Sorry, Father," Armus offered tentatively.

"Ah, no matter," Thomas responded, hoisting his drink yet again. "We'll just build another. All of us, together. It will give us something to do in the spring. A family effort, as it were."

The Grey children groaned.

"It sounds like fun," Meg said, rather too brightly. "We can camp out at the site, in tents, and hunt every morning and eat what we catch . . . " She caught her husband's glance. "What?"

"Since when do you like hunting?"

"Since every damn furry creature in the forest growled at me or hissed at me or attacked me."

Armus continued to stare at her, aghast. Richard began to laugh.

"What?" Armus demanded.

"Mother," Richard gasped, his laughter escalating. "The sheet over her head. Yelling 'boo' at the servants. Remember?"

Armus began to laugh just as hard, to the confusion of everyone else.

"What are you talking about?" Thomas demanded.

Armus tried to catch his breath. "When Mother was first pregnant with Cedric, she'd put a sheet over her head and sneak up on the servants and yell 'boo' at them."

"She did not!" Thomas protested. "I don't remember that."

"You were at court," Richard answered, wiping tears from his eyes. "And it was only about a week, and then she settled down -- but we knew right then that Cedric was going to be a strange one."

"I am not strange!" Cedric protested.

"What," Meg inquired, "does this have to do with going camping and building a new lodge?"

The brothers sobered, but neither would answer.

"They think you're mildly off because you're pregnant," Eleanor answered.

"I am *not*!"

"Of course not," Armus tried to soothe. "Of course not. It's just that you've never shown any interest in any of that before . . . "

"I'm *tired* of being cooped up in this castle," she said with what sounded astonishingly like a pout.

"Yes, dearest," Armus tried again, taking her hand and squeezing it.

The others shot looks around the table. Oh, yes. She was definitely a little off.

"This child," Thomas began. He stopped, took a long drink. "It's very good, my dear, thank you. When are we expecting this child?"

"Late May," Meg answered promptly. "Maybe early June."

There was a short pause while everyone counted on their fingers. "Ah," Thomas finally said. "That's wonderful. I'm very pleased, you know. I don't think I mentioned it before, but I am."

Her cheeks colored faintly. "Thank you."

He drained the tankard. His headache had nearly vanished, replaced by a familiar, pleasant glow. "I am in the mood," he announced, "to grant a boon." He stood up. "On the occasion of the announcement of the imminent arrival of my first grandchild, Lady Margaret, you may ask for anything."

"Me?" she answered.

"It's my child, too," Armus muttered.

"And you have teased your wife at the dinner table, else you might have been included," Thomas answered. "Meg. Anything within my power to grant you, is yours."

Her blush deepened. She glanced around the table. Her husband's siblings stared at her with anticipation and mild envy. It was a rare thing, this offer, and they all knew it. Meg swallowed. "My lord, there is nothing I wish that I do not have."

"How about an imagination?" Eleanor suggested. "I can think of half a dozen things . . . "

Thomas silenced her with a gesture. "Surely, Meg, there is *something* you would wish for."

She shook her head. "No, my lord, there's . . . " She paused, and a funny, almost mischievous smile crossed her lips.

Of all the Greys, only Armus had seen that smile before. And he knew exactly what it meant. He drew his feet up under him and placed both hands flat on the table, ready to flee or fight as needed.

Meg glanced over the heavily-laden table, and at each of the family members. Eleanor, looking vaguely proud but deeply tired; she'd been up for two days. Cedric with a small bandage peeking out from under his dark hair. Richard, who could not wear shoes at all, but was instead in house slippers -- one his, one borrowed from Armus. Armus with his face ringed in claw marks. And finally at Thomas, who still could not confidently move his head. "Please don't take this wrong," she began. "Eleanor, you've done a wonderful job. Really, you have. But . . . " She paused, and the smile broadened dangerously. "But next year from Christmas, could we just have a nice ham?"

THE END