with him, he would have had to admit he loved you, and I do not think he was prepared to admit it, even to himself.”
“Then how can you be so sure?” she demanded.
Friar’s grin was self-effacing. “I recognize the symptoms … in both of you.”
“Both! You are mad! I do not love him. I do not even like him! What is more, I doubt it would draw a tear if I never saw him or heard his name—whatever it might be—ever again!”
Friar studied the adamantly squared shoulders she presented to him, and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Then you will not want to know he will be here, inside Bloodmoor, the day of the wedding.”
“He is coming here?” she gasped. “To the castle? But how …? When …?”
“How is not important,” Alaric began, but was cut off by an exclamation of dismay.
“Not important! Lord Wardieu has given orders everyone must be stopped, questioned, and his identity verified before being admitted to the castle grounds. You have seen the number of guards who patrol the walls and towers—they have already been doubled since we arrived, and there was talk today of taking even stronger measures to avoid any unwanted surprises.”
Friar nodded as if they were all valid arguments he had heard before. “He is counting on La Seyne’s presence to see him through the sentry checks. Mirebeau has four score men under his command, a few more will not be noticed.”
“La Seyne,” she despaired. “Is he as mad as everyone else?”
“Madder,” Friar agreed grimly. A short inner debate took place behind the dark brown eyes before he took her hands gently in his and added, “My lady, we have all known, from the instant Lucien learned of his brother’s presence here at Bloodmoor Keep, he would not—could not—rest until one or both of them were dead. He is arrogant and proud and stubborn, and when he gets a thing in his head, it is devilish hard to dislodge it or turn him on a new course. Death does that to you, and he came as close to dying as a man can come without touching the hand of God. There is nothing you or I can do to stop this thing from happening. Nothing at all.”
Servanne continued gazing up into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, her own filling with bright, fierce tears of denial. She jerked her hands out of his and backed up several steps.
“La Seyne,” she cried. “La Seyne could stop it by killing De Gournay himself.”
A second small battle was waged in the depths of Friar’s eyes before he answered. “La Seyne will be pleased to hear the Dragon has accepted his challenge, but it will be Lucien who rides onto the field to face his brother.”
“What?” Servanne’s voice was scarcely more than a ragged breath. “What did you say?”
“La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John, and when it is concluded—”
“Business? What business?”
“It … is not my place to tell you, my lady. It would not be safe for you to know. Suffice it to say the tournament and challenge will serve to keep the Dragon’s attention diverted elsewhere. Already he has abandoned his guests to concentrate on the practice fields, and word of the match has spread outside the castle walls, sure to bring great crowds to the castle—crowds he could no more keep outside the walls than a paper dam could control a tide. Crowds bring confusion, and confusion breeds mistakes.”
“Everything has been so carefully thought out, has it not?” she said bleakly. “Even to sending you here in your bishop’s robes to warm my heart with promises of love and loyalty. But what if he fails? What if, after all his clever scheming and manipulating, he is no match for De Gournay? What if the wrong man survives to walk off the field? You and La Seyne and your merry band of havoc-makers will ride away and seek other noble horizons to conquer … but what will become of those you leave behind? What will become of me?”
“Lucien has already made provisions—”
“Provisions! He has made provisions!” Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again on an oath of incredulity. “He … has made provisions without even troubling to ask if I wanted them?”
“He assumed …” Friar began, his voice trailing off uncomfortably.
“He assumed? When did he start taking it upon himself to assume what I would or would not want?”
Friar’s complexion darkened perceptibly.
“I see. Because he bedded me, he thinks he now owns