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He had just pushed away from the wall when whom should he see but those three practitioners of the dark and unwholesome-tasting arts who seemed hell-bent on turning him into a husband.

Colin briefly considered tying them up and sending them to his sire.

Since the four of them—the witches and his sire—had the most nefarious designs on his happiness, perhaps they deserved to plot and scheme together.

At least that way Colin wouldn’t have these old women underfoot and overhead, flinging all manner of suspicious herbs upon him.

He steeled himself for another vicious assault.

Nothing, though, came flying at him in the form of herbs. Nemain did give him a poke with an extremely long and bony finger, but at least it was hers, and not someone else’s. With Nemain, a body never knew.

“Move,” she said without preamble or any such nicety. “We’re here to spell the girl into compliance.”

Colin blinked. “What?”

“Compliance,” she repeated. “Willingness. A burning desire to become your bride.”

“Can you do that?” he asked.

Nemain looked him up and down, then pursed her lips. “An extremely difficult case,” she said bluntly. “But I’ve brought a variety of very strong herbs. If it can be done, I’ll see to it.”

Colin wasn’t sure if he should be flattered that they were taking up his cause, or insulted that Nemain apparently considered success nigh onto impossible.

“And I’ve brought my own special brew,” Magda said brightly, waving her spoon about and coming very close to taking off the end of Colin’s nose with it.

Colin suppressed a shudder. He’d tasted several brews made by that one and found them all to be, without fail, burnt and undrinkable.

He looked at Berengaria, wondering if it would be foolish to hope for aid from that quarter.

She held in her hands a very comforting-looking sack of something.

He leaned forward and sniffed. It smelled passable.

“Courage herbs,” Berengaria said with a smile. “To make her equal to her task.”

“Are you going to sprinkle them on her?” Colin asked. He’d had the same thing done to him, of course, and it certainly hadn’t made him any more likely a prospect as a husband.

“Nay, my lord,” Berengaria said. “They’ll be put into her wine.”

“It will take more than wine with a crust of courage on top to give this girl what she needs to face her doom,” Nemain said heavily.

“Brews steeped for long periods of time to infuse them with their maximum strength are needful. Nothing less.” She looked at Colin.

“You’d best be off. We don’t want you frightening the girl into insensibility when she opens the door. ”

“She won’t open the door,” Colin said.

“Aye, she will,” Nemain said. “Perhaps you forget our vast powers.”

“I’ll let her sniff my brew under the door, and the pleasant smell of it will draw her forth,” Magda said, holding forth a jug and popping off the cloth on top. “Here, my lord. You smell and see if it wouldn’t lure you from the most secure hiding place.”

Colin had no choice but to sniff, given that the jug was shoved as closely under his nose as a woman half his size could manage.

The smell of it fair knocked him to his knees.

Nemain pulled Magda away. “Lord Colin can use yours in battle when he wishes to fell his enemies without his blade. Now, move yourself, you silly nun, and let me be about my business.”

Colin’s nose was so polluted by the stench that he couldn’t even smell himself.

And if that wasn’t enough to give a man pause, he didn’t know what was.

He was just considering the location of the next foulest stench in the keep so he might repair there and hopefully recover some sense of smell, when he found his hands full of herb sack.

“Try that, my lord,” Berengaria said. “And see what you think.”

Grateful for something else to smell, Colin sniffed deeply.

And then he sneezed so thoroughly as to knock Magda over with the force of it.

Her foul brew flowed around the broken shards of her jug. Colin watched, his hand over his nose, as the brew began to flow beneath the solar door.

Nemain looked at Berengaria. “Hrumph.”

“Knocking may be unnecessary now,” Berengaria said. She looked at Colin. “If you will, my lord ...”

Colin didn’t have to hear that again. He handed her back her herbs, then turned and quickly made his way down the passageway. If nothing else, perhaps Sybil would have to quit the chamber to save her nose. Who knew where that would lead?

He strode down the passageway with as much haste as was seemly and made his way through the great hall and out into the lists where there were men doing things he could understand.

There were far too many nefarious schemes and vociferous opinions floating about inside the keep for his taste.

What he wanted was a bit of swordplay, then perhaps a hearty meal to soothe him.

And no more bloody talk of marriage for the day.

He walked out onto the field only to be greeted by Sir Etienne’s booming laugh.

He scowled. This was another one who would have to go as soon as possible.

Colin couldn’t abide men who boasted of skill they didn’t have.

He could only hope Lord Humbert of Maignelay-sur-mer would take the buffoon back.

Colin most certainly did not want him as a wedding gift.

“Your lord must trust you,” said a man near to Sir Etienne, “to escort his daughter so far.”

Sir Etienne snorted. “She’s no temptation. And her maids are silly twits.”

Colin looked at the man’s back with narrowed eyes. Perhaps Sir Etienne wouldn’t be offering his opinion so freely if he’d but known who was listening to him.

“Your lord of Maignelay didn’t fear attack from ruffians?” another asked. “Odd, that he should send you so far with no men to guard her.”

“He has another man,” another said. “The young knight. He seems useful enough.”

Sir Etienne laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “That girl? Nay, he was sent along to play nursemaid. ‘Tis only I with skill—and ’tis mighty skill indeed, as you might imagine. Just me to guard Maignelay’s precious treasure.”

“My sympathies,” a knight said. “Saddled with such wenches and a useless lad as well. Have you not tried to train the boy?”

“Train him?” Sir Etienne snorted. “Train him to do what? Not to scamper away every time someone looks crossly at him?”

Another knight laughed. “Rather you should beat the fear out of him. Unless that task is too heavy for you.”

“I’ll see to training the lad when it suits me,” Sir Etienne said sharply. “Now, who’s for the lists? To be sure, none of you has seen my equal.”

Colin had heard far too much. Sybil’s little keeper was inept and terrified, true, but the saints pity the lad if he had the misfortune of a master such as Sir Etienne.

Perhaps if Sir Etienne had a better idea of his own failings as a swordsman, he might not be so eager to take on the instructing of another.

And Colin himself was never one to shy away from giving instruction when it was warranted, and to be certain this oaf was in sore need of a lesson or two.

He cleared his throat. “I’m for a bit of swordplay.”

Sir Etienne turned around in a most leisurely fashion. “Ah, Sir Colin,” he said, “you have returned for more?”

Colin pursed his lips, not sure if he were more irritated by Sir Etienne disdaining his proper title as lord or his complete lack of respect for Colin’s skill.

Perhaps the afternoon stood to be far more interesting and fulfilling than the morning had been. Colin smiled pleasantly, flexed his fingers, and drew his sword. After all, whilst wooing brides was certainly not his strength, swordplay was.

Best be about something he could do well before he had to return to his unpleasant duties of luring, capturing, and, the saints preserve him, wedding of that cowardly wench locked in Gillian’s solar.