away, but the Wolf knew every line and filigreed coil of thread as if they were tattooed on his eyes. Nothing of the Dragon’s features could be seen beneath the conical steel helm and trunk-shaped nasal, but a hint of wheat-coloured hair wisped out from beneath the mail bascinet and lay against a ruggedly tanned jaw.
“I could skewer him like a cherry pip from here,” Gil offered and ran a loving hand along the arch of her longbow.
“Keep your arrows in your quiver unless I say otherwise,” the Wolf countered evenly. “Any man who disobeys will die by mine own hand.”
Gil scowled and pulled her felt cap lower over her coppery curls.
The Black Wolf of Lincoln took a step away from the wall of the abbey—a step matched on the opposite side of the field as the Dragon nudged his horse forward again. The Wolf’s long stride cleaved through the waves of knee-deep grass, his passage leaving a line of downtrodden green in his wake. The Dragon’s destrier waded into the same sea of green, his hooves crushing a much wider path, his sawtoothed body cloth hissing like a thousand snakes as it swept over the grass.
The two converged on the centre of the field, halting close enough for conversation, far enough to emphasize their mutual wariness.
The Wolf’s gaze had remained steady on the face of his adversary through most of the short trek, but as the chiseled features became clearer, more defined, he could not resist the impulse to assess his enemy down to the toes of the pointed, iron-ribbed boots he wore.
The same reflex caused the piercing azure eyes to stray from their intent focus and the Dragon gauged the remarkable breadth of the chest beneath the gleaming black wolf pelts, the impressive power in the bold, fluid stride, and the total absence of any sign of injury or aftereffects from wounds that should have left the man dead and turned to dust on the sands of Palestine.
Eyes glowering with a quiet look of speculation rose once again to a gaze as frigid and emotionless as Arctic ice.
“It has been a long time,” the Wolf said. “The years have served you well.”
There was no reaction in the brittle hardness of Wardieu’s countenance, no tremor of response in the stern ridge of his jaw.
“What?” The Wolf smiled faintly. “Is there not even charity enough in you to offer similar praise for my own humble appearance? Admittedly, it is not as grand as it might have been under different circumstances, but—”
“What is it you want?” Wardieu interrupted bluntly. “Why have you come back to Lincoln after all these years?”
“I do grow weary of answering that question,” the Wolf sighed. “Why should I not come back? Lincoln is my home.”
A fine, chalk-white rim of tension compressed the taut lips. “Bloodmoor belongs to me. You will not find a man in all of England willing to challenge my possession.”
“One stands before you now,” said the Wolf.
The blue eyes flicked past the broad shoulders and returned almost immediately, laden with scorn. “A wolf’s head and his band of thieves and cutthroats? Is it your intention to walk up to the gates of Bloodmoor and announce yourself, or shall you and your men place the castle under siege?”
“It is my intention to reclaim what is mine.”
“And I say again, there are none who would believe your claim. I am Lucien Wardieu. I have played host to Richard, King of England. I have fought by his side and won the acclaim of my peers.”
“And the brother? The coward bred of a Wardieu whore and weaned on greed and corruption? Dare I ask what became of him?”
The Dragon’s smile was slower to form, appearing in deference to the rage throbbing at his temples. “Etienne Wardieu died some fourteen years ago, mourned by few, remembered fondly by none. It seems there was some taint of treachery associated with his name—to do with an attempt to implicate his father on charges of treason. Part of my unflagging efforts over the years has been to exonerate the name of Robert Wardieu, and to restore the De Gournay name to its former prominence. In that respect, the name of Lucien Wardieu ranks high in royal esteem and you would have greater success declaring yourself to be Richard the Lionheart.”
“I come to claim only what is mine to claim.”
“Attempt to do so and there is not a man in Lincoln who would waste a second thought before striking you dead on