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Sir Philip he didn’t know well either. He was a private man, not given to confidences, and while Hugh thought him reliable, he couldn’t help but wonder if any man was reliable enough to trust with Edlyn.

That was why, he told himself, he’d left Sir Lyndon at Roxford Castle, too. If only Sir Lyndon had fulfilled the promise of their early years together. If only he would acknowledge his mistakes and leave his bitterness behind. His offer to remain behind as second-in-command was a beginning. But now, as Hugh waited on the eve of battle, it occurred to him that if Sir Lyndon wished to make mischief, he had placed himself in a prime position.

The fears preying on Hugh’s mind only strengthened his resolve. He had to defeat the rebel forces.

His hands ached to hold a sword, yet across on the opposite hill, he could see the tents of the enemy lined up in colorful rows. Before each tent waved a flag with the symbol of its owner sewn on in bright silks. Lions, griffins, and eagles reared their heads, but to one Hugh’s gaze kept straying.

A stag on a background of black and red proved one thing. The Maxwells were here.

“My lord.” Dewey stood at his elbow. “Sir Herbert wishes to know where he should place his archers.”

Hugh’s gaze never left the tents. “I already told him.”

“I know, my lord, but he seems nervous.”

With a sigh, Hugh turned and went toward Sir Herbert’s tent. A good knight and one of the king’s faithful barons, Sir Herbert was inclined to fret on the eve of battle, and Hugh knew it was worth his while to reassure him.

Then Hugh returned to his place on the hill. The sun had set while he calmed Sir Herbert’s fears, and now he could see aught of the other camp but the fires of the enemy.

Many were the flames, and many were the knights squatting around them. It wouldn’t be an easy fight, not at all, and he looked forward to it.

About that, anyway, Edlyn was right. He did like to fight. What man wouldn’t? The scent of destrier between his thighs, the sight of an armored knight charging him, the clash of arms all around…ah, it roused his blood. No mere woman could understand.

Still, an intelligent man did what he could to ensure victory, even if his actions didn’t involve killing.

His gaze returned to the place where he knew the Maxwells waited.

“M’ lord, I got a group o’ foot soldiers who’ve never seen battle before, an’ they’re making themselves half ill with fear.” Wharton’s voice came from the dark void beside Hugh. “Could ye come an’ put th’ fear o’ deserting into them before they flee?”

“I’ll come,” Hugh answered. It was always thus the night before a battle. Every man looked up at the stars and feared he would never see them again. Every man feared he would end a legless beggar on the street, reminding passersby of a long ago battle and pleading for a few pence. Every man feared he’d left his wife for the last time.

Edlyn…

Hugh calmed the foot soldiers easily. They were good men, but untried, and when he demonstrated a few tricks with the quarterstaff and the lance, they stopped quaking and began practicing. He left Wharton supervising their training and walked through his camp, greeting his knights, speaking with his lords, reassuring everyone the royal commander was there and knew his duty.

But even as he walked, his mind returned to the camp across the way.

The Maxwells.

He’d lived in their drafty, primitive castle in Scotland for over a year. They’d taught him Scottish tracking techniques. He taught them English fighting tricks. He’d drunk their ale and learned their songs, but tomorrow he would face them on the battlefield and kill them.

It was part of a knight’s life and nothing new. So why did he think there could be a better way?

He couldn’t help but remember Edlyn, captured by the bandits and feeding them noxious herbs. And Edlyn, trapped in Richard’s castle, singing her way to freedom. Edlyn didn’t understand fighting, but she did understand how to weigh the balance in her direction.

He liked not such womanish tricks, yet the sight of that white flag haunted him. He had to defeat this army so his forces could rescue the king and place him once more on the throne. He had to get home for Edlyn.

Hugh heard Wharton’s hoarse voice calling him and swerved away. Dewey spoke not far from Wharton, and Hugh swerved again. He made his way to the supply wagon, and while the man in charge gossiped with his helpers, he hoisted a barrel of ale onto his shoulders and tromped off into the night.

19

“You cannot send to my lord to tell him of our dilemma.” The evening rushlights were lit as Edlyn spun a thread from her spindle.

Beside her, Neda watched and muttered in disgust as the thread got fatter, then thinner, then fatter again.

Edlyn ignored her critique and said, “It would distract him from battle, and that I cannot allow.”

“But my lady, our situation is dire!” Burdett paced across Edlyn’s bedchamber and ignored his wife’s murmured instructions to his lady.