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Another arrow struck squarely into the flames, and Hugh seized his chance. Lifting the burning log, he waved it under the destrier’s nose. The animal screamed and reared. Sir Lyndon dropped his mace and shield and clutched at the saddle. The horse bucked forward before Sir Lyndon could regain his seat, and with a clang of armor, Sir Lyndon hit the ground.

Now the battle was even. Hugh advanced on his former friend, the flaming brand still outthrust. As the arrow ignited, smoke began to rise, the kind of smoke green wood and fresh leaves would cause.

“Get it away.” Sir Lyndon flailed his arms. “For the love of God, Hugh, take it away!” He tried to rub his face with his hands and brought his metal gauntlets back bloody.

Hugh stood astonished. What was wrong with the man?

“Whatever you say, Hugh. I’ll do whatever you want.” He ran backward crazily, like a dog stricken with a foaming mouth. “If you ever loved me, spare me now.”

Hugh hesitated, not understanding the source of Sir Lyndon’s anguish.

Sir Lyndon brayed in agony, his eyes closed as if he dared not open them. “Remember our battles together. Remember and give me another chance.”

“Oh, I’ll spare you!” In disgust, Hugh cast the log into the fire. “But what is wrong with you?” Then he forgot his own question. A riderless horse stood nearby.

Opportunity. He recognized it well. He ran, gathering speed, and leaped into the saddle. The animal bucked; he fought it to a standstill, then turned back to take care of Sir Lyndon.

But Sir Lyndon was nowhere in sight. And another laden arrow whistled through the air and landed in the fire.

Hugh glanced up at the keep and saw Burdett adjusting his aim toward the second fire where archers still stood and waited to do their duty. Then, as if Burdett spotted danger, he ducked behind the battlements with his long bow in hand.

Just in time. An arrow dispatched from the area of the second fire struck the place where he’d been standing. Now only Edlyn leaned out, pulling at the vines that twined around the stones, presenting the perfect target.

For the first time in the battle, Pembridge rode out from behind his bodyguard. He shouted at his archer. “Shoot her!”

The archer raised his arrow and narrowed his eyes.

Hugh roared at Edlyn, then raced his destrier toward the archer. He wouldn’t make it in time. He knew he wouldn’t make it in time, but he had to. He had to.

But before he could loose the arrow, the enemy archer fell in a drift of smoke.

Burdett leaped out of hiding and dragged Edlyn down.

Deprived of his prey, Pembridge galloped toward the fire and seized a bow, aiming it right at Hugh. From so close a distance, the arrow would pierce the chain-mail armor that protected him. Hugh braced for the impact, but before Pembridge could strike, a swirl of wind encircled Pembridge with smoke.

He shrieked as if the devil had him by the throat. Dropping the bow, he directed his mount toward the gatehouse.

What mischief was this? Hugh wondered. Then a random gust spread the noxious fumes over the men who fought and over to him.

Without any instruction from Hugh, his untried destrier pranced backward. “By our lady!” Hugh sawed at the reins as the smoke crept into his helmet. His chest burned. His skin stung. His eyes itched. He wanted to rub the pain away, but his chain-mail gloves made it impossible. He tried to get away, but it was too late. The poison clung to his skin and filled his lungs. If any able warrior were to attack now, Hugh would be lost.

But there were no able warriors. Those wretched arrows had fed agony into all three fires, and the smoke spread it throughout the bailey. Men were running, yelling, crying like newborn babes. Hugh guided his horse through the low, narrow gatehouse entry and out into the scorched outer bailey. Gratefully, he took a breath, then another and another. “Air.” He coughed and squinted, trying to see through eyes raw and running with tears. “Fresh air.”

Then the tears cleared his vision, and he saw him—Pembridge, alone, with only his weapons and his wit to defend him.

That wouldn’t be nearly enough.

Pembridge saw Hugh, too, through eyes just as swollen, and he grinned with mad delight.

“A resourceful trick, my lord of nothing,” he called. “My Edlyn has ever been resourceful.” He gestured with his arm like a wizard conjuring his demons. “But not as resourceful as me.” On his summoning, fresh knights rode through the outer gatehouse and filled the bailey.

Hugh stared.

Richard and his gang of thieves returned his stare, and at the very back of the pack was that skinny old ferryman, Almund, glaring at them all.

“You see,” Pembridge said, “when you want allies to do evil, you must appeal to the lowest of creatures, offer them plunder, and they will do your will.”

Something inside Hugh, some fragment of faith and honor, broke with a snap. He didn’t want Richard to be the Judas. He wanted to believe the man when he insinuated he would forsake his thieving for a chance to start anew. He thought—dear God, he really thought—Richard had given Edlyn her freedom because he saw the beauty and innocence in her and wanted to nurture it.