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Blood from his wounds trickled into Hugh’s mouth. His sword dragged at his arm like a bag of milled flour, and he used it, he thought, with no more than a miller’s expertise. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, and still he couldn’t get enough air. Worse, his destrier showed the same exhaustion.

His best knights were battling against impossible odds, each man pressed by at least three of the enemy. He had ordered Dewey to abandon them early in the battle, but whether the lad had made it out, he didn’t know. Wharton had stayed close to Hugh, defending his back, until the sheer weight of numbers had separated them. Hugh himself wanted nothing more than to strike the death blow to Pembridge, but Pembridge stayed well behind his bodyguard and fought only with a mocking lift of the visor on his helm. Sure of their victory, Pembridge’s archers tended their fires and prepared to plunge the tar-tipped arrows into the flames.

It was only a matter of time until the keep fell. It was only a matter of time before Hugh and his men lay dead. Only a matter of time until his dreams had died. Dreams of a castle of his own, tended by the wife he loved…

Glancing up, Hugh caught sight of her on the battlements of the keep.

Amazing, when she looked so much like other women, that he knew her from a distance even while in the heat of battle. Yet the woman he knew to be Edlyn met his gaze and waved a long, leafy branch. She showed the same exuberance waving that plant as she had shown waving her white flag, and he wondered at the significance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword swing toward him, and he barely blocked it with his shield.

Staring at Edlyn would get him killed. Better he should fight for her.

Lost in the blood lust of battle, he scarcely noticed a sudden stirring among the group of Pembridge’s archers who clustered around the nearest fire. Not until Pembridge started shouting in febrile denunciation did he lift his head long enough to notice them fleeing. They rubbed their eyes, coughed, and blundered toward the gate as if they could tolerate no longer the winds of war.

Curiosity poured a measure of his old strength into his veins, and Hugh dispatched the two knights who fought to capture him and moved toward the fire—a fire abandoned already by the men who should be tending it.

It appeared to be nothing but a smoldering pile of ill-lit logs and still green branches, but as he watched he thought he saw a feather rise on a heat current, then curl into ash and blow away.

Plunging through the melee of bodies and weapons, a knight on horseback crashed into Hugh’s destrier with all his might. With a snarl, Hugh turned to fight—and beneath the open-faced helmet, he saw his old friend, Sir Lyndon.

He recognized betrayal.

“Lyndon.” The name whistled from between his tightly pursed lips.

The rapid journey and the previous battle had fatigued Hugh.

Not so Sir Lyndon. He grinned with fresh eagerness. “Well met, dear lord! Did you not expect to find me lifting a sword?”

“Not against me.”

Sir Lyndon’s smile disappeared. “Then you’re a fool. I stayed at your side like a faithful dog for years, waiting for the day you would win your reward and share the bounty with me. Instead, you married that woman and turned your back on your faithful companions.”

Sir Lyndon just didn’t understand, but Hugh wanted to make him. He didn’t want to kill the man who had fought at his side through so many battles. “I told you that should you prove yourself of penitent mind—”

“Prove myself? To you? I had proved myself too many times to allow you to test me again.”

Sir Lyndon’s sudden tension foreshadowed a blow, and Hugh deflected it easily with his shield.

“You’re a knight. Your honor—”

“Honor is for those who can afford it.” Sir Lyndon swung his sword.

Hugh moved to deflect it, but he mistook the object of Sir Lyndon’s ire. The sharp blade sliced through Hugh’s destrier right at the neck, severing the artery. The great beast sank to its knees, and Hugh scrambled to free himself from the stirrups.

“You see? Only noble fools can afford honor”—Sir Lyndon’s voice rang with mockery, and he grasped his mace—“my lord.”

As Hugh watched, the stallion died in a crimson pool, and Sir Lyndon urged his destrier closer. The smell of blood maddened the stallion, and maddened Sir Lyndon, too, it seemed, for both struck out. Hugh clumsily dodged the flying hooves, and the studded iron ball swung with deadly intent. Hugh didn’t want to die with his skull crushed by a mace. He didn’t want to die by being trampled by a horse. Not in the bailey of his own castle. Not defeated by his old friend turned bitter enemy.

Hugh was the better warrior, but Sir Lyndon held all the advantages. Coming at him, Sir Lyndon used his superior position ruthlessly. Guiding the horse with his knees, he shoved Hugh back toward the fire. Hugh was caught between the mace wielded so deftly and the flames that licked at his heels. When the fire was right at his rear and Sir Lyndon was right at his front, he knew only a miracle could save him.

Sir Lyndon lifted his arm to deliver the death blow. Hugh went to his knees, raised his shield, and braced himself—and heard a whistle and a thump close by his calf. He glanced down. An arrow had buried itself deep in the wood. He had no time to worry about the twisted growth of green leaves and twigs that clung to it. Sir Lyndon and his destrier lurched back, and Hugh used the distraction to rise and put distance between them.

Recovering from his surprise, Sir Lyndon taunted him. “Like everything else in this wretched castle, the archers are damn poor.”

Another arrow zipped through the air and landed directly into the fire, casting a spray of sparks into the air.

Alarmed by the flames, Sir Lyndon’s horse pranced out of control.