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Bretta raced up the stairs to the keep, bursting through the heavy oaken door and running into the great hall. “Lady Caryn! The wardcorne just called out. ’E comes, milady. Ye lord husband and his men return home!”

A wave of relief rolled over her. “Can he see them yet? He is certain Lord Ral is among them?”

“’E seen the banner, ’e did—the lord’s black dragon on a field o’ bloodred. There was naught else ’e could make out.”

Caryn glanced toward the door, suddenly uneasy, her stomach beginning to churn.

What if something had happened? What if Ral were injured?

What if he were maimed or mayhap even…? No!

She would not think the unthinkable. He was safe and he was well.

Geoffrey had only been curious, and the questions she had answered…

dear God, the trust she had broken… it amounted to naught but a young knight’s eager thirst for battle.

The men were returned and nothing untoward had happened. She would speak to Geoffrey, learn the truth of what had occurred that last eve.

She vaguely heard Bretta’s frantic urgings. “Ye’d best hurry, milady. ’E’ll be here soon, ’e will. Ye want t’ look ye best fer him.” They had been working together in the storeroom all morning, anything to keep her mind off Ral and the dangers he faced in his battle with the Ferret and his men.

“Hurry, milady!”

Caryn looked down at her tunic. It was old and faded, and her hair—sweet Mary, she looked like an urchin!

Lifting her gown up out of the way, she whirled around and raced for the stairs.

In minutes, she returned, dressed in her forest green tunic with a buttercup chainse, her hair neatly brushed and pulled back with tortoiseshell combs, just the way Ral liked it.

At the door to the bailey, she took a long calming breath, then started down the stairs. She stopped before she reached the bottom, noticing the servants no longer looked excited, their expression now solemn, some of the women close to tears.

“Sweet God, what is it?”

“A man from the village has run ahead of the others,” someone said. “Only half the men return. There are many wounded. The rest are feared dead.”

Caryn reeled as if she’d been struck by a fist. “What… what of Lord Ral?”

“’Tis was naught but bits and pieces, I heard. The man spoke to your steward.”

With eyes that seemed oddly out of focus, Caryn searched for Richard. He was standing among a group of peasants, Ambra at his side, staring toward the drawbridge. Woodenly, she made her way toward them.

“I would know, Richard, what… what news it is the villein has brought.”

He turned in her direction. “Lady Caryn. I was about to seek you out.” He steeled himself then told her much the same story the villein had, adding, “The Ferret has been captured. ’Tis said that a group of Braxston knights travel with Lambert and Hugh to King William. They mean to claim the king’s reward.”

“And Lord Ral? ”

“Injured, I fear, though ’tis said the wound is not a grave one.”

Caryn swayed on her feet, and Richard’s arm shot out to steady her. “You must not fear, my lady.”

“I am sorry, Richard.” She forced some stiffness into her spine and prayed with every ounce of her will that Ral was truly all right and that whatever had happened the night she spoke to Geoffrey had nothing to do with the death of his men.

Richard said nothing further and neither did she. They just stood gazing toward the drawbridge, watching the black dragon pennant as it occasionally bobbed above the castle wall, signaling the Dark Knight’s arrival and what was left of his men.

By now the bailey was filled with servants, all of them watching and waiting, praying for friends and husbands they loved.

Caryn’s breath caught as Satan crossed the drawbridge, Ral sitting straight in the saddle, his shoulders erect though his black hair was mussed by the breeze and his face looked incredibly weary. He rode with his shield hanging down from his saddle, his conical helm clamped under a powerful arm.

Ral drew rein on Satan, and Caryn found herself hurriedly moving toward him. There was blood on his mail, and where his tunic rode high on one leg she could see a length of cloth had been tied around his thigh. It too was darkened with blood.

Caryn made a sound in her throat and stepped forward as her husband dismounted.

She stopped when she saw his face. Mother of God, it appeared carved in stone.

His jaw was clamped, the muscles drawn taut across his cheeks, his eyes the palest, iciest gray she had ever seen.

Several days’ growth of beard made him look like the name he once carried—the Dark Knight, Ral the Relentless.

Her stomach clenched as he strode toward her, his expression deadly, not an ounce of warmth in his face. Frantically, she looked behind him, searching for Geoffrey, praying the truth being shouted in her head was somehow wrong.

“If you search for your lover, he is dead.” The words cracked harshly across the bailey. “Along with twenty other good men.”

Lover? Geoffrey wasn’t her lover. “I-I do not understand.”

“Do you not? I think that you do.” He cast his helm to his squire and stepped in front of her, his eyes piercing as she had never seen them, slicing into her, accusing her without the need for words.

“I think that you have conspired with Geoffrey, that your words have caused death and injury to my men. I think that once more you have betrayed me.”

“No!” But even as she said the words, Caryn knew, at least in part, it was the truth. Tears stung, welled in her eyes and blurred her vision.

“You deny that you broke my trust? That you told Geoffrey about the Ferret?”

How could she deny it? Ral had trusted her and she had betrayed that trust. She hadn’t meant to—dear God, she would never do anything to hurt him. Yet twenty brave men were dead, and even now her husband’s blood dripped onto the earth.

“I would hear you say it.” The slash of his blade could not have cut deeper than the bitterness in his voice. “Did you speak to Geoffrey? Did you reveal my plans for the Ferret?”

“I-I did not mean to, I—”

“Did you tell him!”

She blinked and the tears began to trinkle down her cheeks. “Aye. I am the one who told him.”

He struck her such a blow that she reeled and slammed into the dirt. The salty taste of blood filled her mouth but Caryn welcomed it. She wished for its like and more, for in truth, she knew she deserved it.

She struggled to her feet and forced herself to look at him, certain he would strike her again, hoping in a way that he would.

Instead, she saw a face contorted with the same pain she was feeling, a man stricken with such conflicting emotions it was tearing him in two.

She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him and give him ease.

She wanted to fall onto her knees and beg his forgiveness.

Instead she did nothing.

One look in those cold unfeeling eyes and she knew there was no forgiveness there.

Ral had steeled himself against her. The expression he now wore was the same one he had ridden in with: anger, disillusionment, and bitter despair. Even those emotions were soon banished, leaving nothing but emptiness and cold determination.

“Is there aught you wish to say?” he asked.

So much and so little. She could do naught but shake her head.

“Since the day of our betrothal you have implored me for your freedom. You have sought it above all else. From this day forward, Caryn of Ivesham, you shall have it.”

Caryn said nothing. Her throat had closed up and tears streamed hotly down her cheeks. Her chest ached until she could barely breathe, and her heart hurt as if it had been cleaved in two.

Towering above her, Ral’s lips curved into a hard, unforgiving line that made him look even more fearsome.

“For some months now, Lynette has made her home at Pontefact. My friends there will also take you in. You may join the ranks of my lemen… or you may return to the convent. The choice is yours. Which is it to be?”

The decision was not a difficult one to make. Freedom, the gift she had once craved above all else, meant nothing to her now. Nothing without Ral and the home she had come to love.

“I would return to the sisters.” Mayhap she would find peace of a sort there, discover a way to forgive herself for the deaths of Ral’s men.

He frowned at that, surprised a little by her choice. “You are certain that is your wish?”

“Aye, my lord.”

He stiffened. “Then so be it. Pack your things and make yourself ready to leave. Girart will see you safely to the convent.” He turned away from her then, his back erect, ignoring his cut and bleeding leg as he walked off toward his men.

She watched his tall frame striding away from her, his broad shoulders straight though he was obviously so weary, and knew more love for him in that moment than she had ever felt before.

“Ral…” He stopped, his back going even more rigid, but he did not turn around. “Your leg… I… please… you must let someone tend it. Isolda can—” But he only started walking, his long tired strides carrying him farther away.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there. Seconds that seemed hours. Minutes that seemed an eternity.

“Come, my pet. We must make ready.” Marta’s bony hands bit into her shoulders, forcing her to move, forcing her to place one foot in front of the other.

Caryn said nothing, just let the old woman guide her upstairs, then stood at the window while Marta packed a handful of her belongings. She would need little at the convent.

What she needed most in the world she had already lost.

***

With Girart and two of Ral’s men to lead the way, Caryn rode her small gray palfry along the road to the convent. She remembered little of the journey, seeing the landscape through a film of tears, crying in silence, her heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces.