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“I always do, my lord. I always do.”

Hugh studied Sir Philip. He was a quiet man, older, and at his age nothing could make him Hugh’s best fighting knight. He had lost his youthful quick reflexes and he had only one eye. Yet Sir Philip still lived, he still fought, and Hugh had come to treasure his thoughtful advice, both before and after battle. Hugh needed to raise Sir Philip’s status in the hierarchy of his knights, but for now he said only, “Where have the enemy retreated?”

Sir Philip opened his mouth, but Sir Lyndon hastened to reply first. “The barons who support Simon de Montfort scattered. De Montfort himself is in the area of his stronghold at Kenilworth. Most of the others have moved to the north. Richard remains close—he’s besieging Castle Juxon.”

“I told Juxon to strengthen his defenses. I hope he listened,” Hugh said dispassionately. The earl of Juxon was the kind of nobleman he most disliked. Juxon had been born with lands and through his own negligence allowed them to fall into ruin. He squawked loudly that the prince should protect him since he had remained loyal, yet he sent less than the minimum of knight service he owed while he lounged in his great hall impregnating his serving girls. Nay, he’d get no assistance from Hugh, who’d got his winnings the hard way.

“Easy pickings.” Sir Lyndon dismissed Castle Juxon. “Richard is the most ruthless mercenary I’ve ever had the misfortune to face, and the earl—he’s a fool.”

“I’ll not argue with you there.” A movement at the edge of the forest brought Hugh to his feet. Wharton approached at a run, and Wharton wouldn’t run for less than an emergency.

Shoving Lyndon aside, Hugh met Wharton just outside the circle of his knights. Wharton panted in huge gasps, his great chest working like a bellows. “Master…master…they’ve got her.”

Hugh grew cold at the ragged note of panic in Wharton’s voice, and he wrapped his hands around Wharton’s arms. “Who’s got her?”

“Thieves. Rogues. Mercenaries. Got her. Took her. Headed south.”

Hugh dropped Wharton as if he were a cold-blooded snake. Captured? Edlyn was captured? Impossible! She was a woman under his protection, and he would never have failed so fully.

“Master.”

But he had. Fear exploded in his chest. His fingers tingled with it, his head swelled.

“Master.”

And rage—God’s glove, how he wanted to bellow his rage, to paw the ground and charge off after her.

“Master.”

Hugh looked down at Wharton.

“Ye may slit me throat fer failure, if ye wish.”

At the sight of Wharton’s bared neck, Hugh gained control. Bellowing, pawing the ground, giving vent to his emotions would accomplish nothing. His men all stood now, staring at Wharton and at him, prepared to go to battle on his command. They’d done it before, this sudden preparation to attack or defend, and they all understood what Hugh would do, and their duty, without words.

As confidently as if emotion had never touched him, Hugh said, “Let’s go rescue my lady, then.”

They stirred into motion. Someone gave Wharton a drink and his stool while Dewey and Lyndon—usually it was Dewey and Wharton—brought Hugh his hauberk and weapons and prepared him for battle. Someone had gone to get his destrier, too, he knew, and the thought of settling into the saddle of that mad warhorse calmed him as nothing else could do.

But when they brought him his gentle traveling palfrey instead, he found the rage had not retreated so very far. In a tight, controlled voice, he asked, “What do you expect me to do with that?”

“Can’t ride a destrier where we’re goin’,” Wharton said. His breath had been restored, but he kept his message brief. “Anyway, we lost your Devlin during the battle.”

“Dead?” Hugh demanded.

“Aye, master.”

Another strike against the rebels. Devlin had been the best destrier he’d ever owned, and he wanted to catch the worms who had murdered his magnificent beast. But since he couldn’t, he would take out his ire on the men who had dared steal his wife.

His wife. His fists clenched. Edlyn.

As soon as Dewey had finished belting the sword around Hugh’s waist, Hugh said, “Follow me, then, for I’m going to rip the hearts out of these renegades with my bare hands, and their bloody carcasses will warn all men not to ever steal a woman for fear she is my wife.”

The fire flickered in the clearing, burning bright in spite of the mist of rain that had descended with the night. Hugh crept through the underbrush, climbed over boulders, every sense on the alert, and focused on that one light in the dense dark of the forest. There he would find his wife, and he feared for her fate with a deep and abiding fear.

Would he find her raped by an endless parade of men who valued women less than sheep? Would he find her beaten, taken to task for her unending impertinence, and treated to the taste of a man’s brutal fist?

Would he find her dead?