was the one who had been struck, and not by a wooden plank but by a twelve-inch-long crossbow bolt. The iron head had split through the padding of flesh between her thumb and forefinger and buried itself in the wood planking, pinning her helplessly to the boat.
A wave washed over her head, filling her eyes, nose, and mouth with salt water. Without the strength or ability to resist, she was carried along with the tiny vessel as it was pushed relentlessly toward the waiting danger on the shore. The sandy bottom fell out from beneath her feet and she was dragged down by the current, down into a void of muted sound and roiling darkness.
Nicolaa de la Haye was a few short paces behind Etienne Wardieu when he stepped out from behind the shield of rocks, and she raised her voice with his in calling for the guards to put up their bows and swords. The trap had worked perfectly. The wolf was caught in the snare and it only remained for the Dragon to have the pleasure of dealing the killing stroke himself.
Nicolaa’s excitement had been growing to a fever pitch from the moment the sentries had confirmed seeing two men on the cliff. She had insisted on accompanying Etienne and his guard to the beach and she had spurred her horse with equal vehemence, carving up the shale and sand, galloping through still tidal pools with the fury of vengeance shooting plumes of spray ten feet in their wake.
Within a hundred yards of the sheltered cove, he had reined in his horse and positioned his men among the rocks and boulders lining the beach. They had not had long to test their patience before the low, black shape of a longboat had slid around the reef and sidled into the shallower water. Recognizing Eduard on the oars had only reinforced the Dragon’s rage and hatred; hearing the boy cry out and dive heedlessly into the surf to meet his father had altered the Dragon’s face into a mask of murderous malevolence.
Nicolaa could have laughed out loud at the ludicrous attempt Lucien Wardieu had made to outwit her glorious Dragon knight. The girl was drowning, the other two would-be rescuers were going nowhere fast. The Wolf had struggled to his feet in the knee-deep water and now stood facing his brother, their two profiles etched in black against the blood-red sky. The fifth participant in this most enjoyable farce was floundering against the force of the waves, fighting the pain and nausea to reach one of the dead guards whose sword lay temptingly within his grasp.
Striding toward him, Nicolaa drew her own short falchion and arched a raven brow in mild surprise.
“Well, well, well. Bishop Gautier … we were wondering what had become of you.”
Gil Golden knew she had no time to waste on subtlety. Servanne was helpless, pinned to the side of the boat, and Eduard was using all of his remaining strength just to keep his nose and mouth above water. With her lips moving around a silent apology, Gil reached over the gunwale and took hold of the end of the crossbow bolt. She snapped off the feather fletching and, praying the salt water had already numbed the wound beyond any additional agony, she jerked Servanne’s hand back, sliding it off the broken end of the shaft.
The boat lurched onto a sandbar, stranding the three in shallow water as the wave receded. It was then, as Gil braced herself to keep from falling headlong into the surf herself, that she saw Nicolaa de la Haye stalking Alaric. He had managed to crawl to a dead guard and had retrieved the man’s sword, but as he started to haul himself upright, Nicolaa kicked his legs out from beneath him and he went down hard. He clutched his upper shoulder as he rolled with the pain, his fingers splayed on either side of the protruding arrow shaft.
Gil stared long and hard at the woman she had loathed with every breath of her being for the past five years. Nicolaa and one of her lovers had been attending the Lincoln Fair, where Gil’s father—an expert bowyer and fletcher—had set up a booth to display his wares. Because Gil had looked pretty enough to earn a wink from the handsome soldier, Nicolaa had ordered her arrested and accused her of thievery. Gil’s father had come to her defense, and for his trouble, had been slain on the spot. Gil’s mother