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Colin stood with his backside against the ship’s railing and wondered how it was that a piece of wood so thick and well-constructed could feel as if it had all the firmness of silk.

It seemed to buck and sway with every gust of breeze, with every swell and dip of the sea.

Indeed, the whole of the ocean about him seemed to be nothing but a billowing surge.

Yet the captain seemed to be highly pleased with such a pleasant and uneventful crossing.

Colin turned and quite casually heaved up his guts over the railing. Then he resumed his nonchalant pose against the side of the deck, dragged his sleeve surreptitiously across his mouth, and looked about him to see if anyone had noticed his moment of weakness.

Nay, no one, not even the puking fool beside him who couldn’t seem to do aught but clutch the railing and spill his insides into the aforementioned billowing surge.

Colin would have clapped a hand companionably on the lad’s shoulder, but he knew his own strength.

It would be just Henri’s luck that Colin’s gesture of camaraderie would be what flipped the boy over the side—though Colin suspected that at the moment, Henri would have considered that kind of death a sweet release from the torment he currently passed through.

He watched in sympathy and a goodly bit of amazement, both that the poor lad was so ill and that a lad could be ill for so long.

“No sea legs,” observed a deckhand as he sauntered by in a most annoyingly comfortable fashion.

Colin would have sworn at him, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be spewing forth more than words, so he contented himself with a fierce scowl thrown at the man’s back.

How was it these sea lads managed to acquire those legs they spoke of?

He suspected that there had been a time when that man had been just as green as Colin and Henri were.

Or perhaps he knew that the voyage was soon to be over.

Colin was certain they had been at sea for the better part of a day.

He squinted into the setting sun and frowned.

Surely it couldn’t take more than a single day to travel from the upper coast of England to a convenient port in France.

He vaguely remembered the journey not being so long the last time, but he’d also traveled from Dover then, and his haste had been greater.

He suspected that his lack of enthusiasm for this particular quest was contributing greatly to the length of the journey.

He looked to his left to find that Henri’s retching had subsided and he himself had subsided into a heap on the deck.

Colin squatted down next to him and leaned over, just to make certain the lad still breathed.

Aye, there was moaning aplenty, soft though it might have been.

Colin heartily agreed with the sentiment, though not with the voicing of it.

He was fast coming to the realization that he should view heights and the sea with the same amount of aversion.

Should he manage to find the lady Aliénore, he would drag her back to England and never again set foot on a ship.

If the wench had a desire to see her family, she could go on her own.

The thought of Aliénore sent another wave of nausea through him that had nothing to do with the ocean.

By the saints, was he doomed to wander the earth forever, searching for errant brides until he was too old to enjoy his inheritance?

He couldn’t be so fortunate as to have found her dead and buried.

The only thing good to come of the past se’nnight was that he was now free of Sybil. That one would have never survived marriage to him anyway. Let Peter have her and see to her endless demands for sustenance.

A particularly nasty wave sent the ship heaving and Colin sprawling onto his backside. By the saints, how did these lads bear this? And how did Jason and Etienne bear it belowdecks ?

He’d only managed to poke his head down the hatch once—with the subsequent inevitable and disastrous results—long enough to ascertain that Jason was sleeping the sleep of the unrighteous and uncaring, and that Sir Etienne had drunken himself into a stupor.

And given that at that moment, they’d only been at sea for a pair of hours, that was saying something.

“W-where ... are ... we ...”

Colin realized that the lump of rags next to him was speaking. He considered giving the lad the truth, then discarded the idea immediately. No sense in making his misery worse than it already was.

“Near France,” Colin said. That was partially true. The ship was near France. So was Scotland, on the right sort of map. No sense in quibbling over details that would only grieve the lad.

“The saints ... be ... oh, nay—”

The sentiment was cut off by Henri crawling up the railing and heaving again.

Unfortunately for the lad, there was apparently nothing left to rid himself of.

He merely retched miserably and quite futilely.

Colin clapped his hand over his mouth in reply and forced himself to breathe normally until his gorge had subsided back down where it belonged, in his manly nether regions.

And when Henri was doing nothing more than clinging to the rail and weeping miserably, Colin pulled him back down by his tunic. Henri curled up and wept a bit more.

Colin couldn’t blame the lad, though he did raise his eyebrows—carefully, of course, lest he upset the delicate balance his humors seemed to have acquired just recently—at the unmanliness of the sobbing.

In fact, it sounded a goodly bit like the kind of blubbering a woman would indulge in when she was nearing the end of her tether.

Colin paused.

Indeed, it sounded a damned bit too much like womanly weeping.

The lad stirred him himself from his rags long enough to lay his head on Colin’s leg and weep some more.

Colin could do nothing but stare down in horror at the boy, who seemed to find him a perfect substitute for his mother.

He was torn between wanting to pat the boy on the head and itching to give him a healthy shove back into common sense.

But as he considered his alternatives, he realized that Henri’s weeping was beginning to abate. Colin looked at his hand and watched as the traitorous appendage reached out and, with a gentleness Colin surely didn’t know he possessed, patted the lad on the head.

The boy sniffled heartily a time or two, then seemed to fall quite suddenly and without hesitation into a deep and apparently blissful sleep.

The ship heaved again, but the only thing it did was to shift Henri so that his face was pointing skyward.

Colin stared down at the creature using him so guilelessly as a pillow and wondered how it was that such a womanly lad had managed to get himself through so much of life with such unmanly features and unmanly attributes.

He was surprised that someone hadn’t beaten the delicate ways out of the boy long before now. It might have aided him in the lists.

Odder still that Henri had never really been in the lists.

Colin had never known a boy who hadn’t been desperate to hold a sword in his hands, fling himself into his training, and thereby become a man, a warrior to be reckoned with.

The only souls he’d known who weren’t interested in such noble pursuits had been women—and even then he’d known a pair of them who weren’t above either hoisting a sword or learning a few lethal moves with a knife.

Henri was completely beyond the confines of his previous experience. A lad who didn’t long for manly things?

Unless ... the lad wasn’t a lad at all.

Colin shook aside the thought before it began. The boy was merely overindulged and protected. Perhaps his mother had mothered him overmuch and left him with a permanent weakness. Perhaps his sire had wished for a daughter and poor Henri had been forced to fill that role.

Walk in her shoes, as it were.

A shaft of setting sunlight fell onto Henri’s upturned face and illuminated features that no lad would have been proud to have called his own.

Many a woman would have, however.

Before Colin could stop himself, he had reached out and carefully poked at the lad’s cheek.

Soft.

Too soft.

Taking his courage in hand, Colin dragged his finger with utmost care down the lad’s cheek, checking for any hope of a beard, any sign however slight that there was a manly bit of adornment just waiting to burst forth and make its presence known.

There was ... nothing.

Just a smooth face that rivaled young William of Blackmour’s for softness.

Colin felt the truth descend with certainty, and with that certainty a heaviness that at once reassured him and terrified him. Sir Henri was definitely not what he seemed. He possessed innumerable feminine traits, not to his shame, but to his credit.

By the saints, the boy was a girl.

Colin spared a brief moment for a sigh of relief that his instincts had not failed him. He’d been lusting after a girl after all. The saints be praised he could still spot one, even when she was sporting mail and hoisting a sword.

But that sense of reprieve left him almost immediately. The boy with his head on Colin’s leg was exactly what he seemed to be: a girl dressing up as a lad.

But if that was the case, who was she?

And why was she hiding in a mail shirt?

Worse yet, why was Etienne tormenting her?

The moment the last thought crossed his mind, Colin felt a rage sweep through him that left him shaking. He remembered vividly just how horrendous Henri had looked after his, nay, her beating at Etienne’s hands.

Colin wished he’d killed the whoreson instead of merely roughing him up a bit.

That made him wonder further why Henri—and he would really have to come up with a better name for the girl—was so anxious to protect Etienne now. Did the man hold something over her?

Her identity, perhaps?

But why should that matter? The girl was very likely nothing more than a servant escaping a miserable life.

At least Colin supposed that a servant could conceive such a plan, but this girl would then be like no peasant he’d ever encountered.

Their worlds extended no farther than the boundaries of their fields.

Most never went beyond their villages during the whole of their lives.

That this girl should not only have decided to flee, but also have stolen a knight’s gear and had the cheek to try to pass herself off as a knight for the saints only knew how long, was something indeed.

Colin looked down at her with the stirrings of admiration in his breast. Aye, here was a wench to be reckoned with, never mind that she couldn’t save her life with her blade if her life depended on that skill.

Though, now knowing what she was, he supposed he could excuse a few of her failings. After all, few women knew which end of a sword pointed away from them. That Henri had actually learned that, and not only that but a few strokes of offense, said much for her skill.

But who was she?

Colin found himself brushing the hair back from her face with a gentleness that surprised him. Then again, the girl likely deserved whatever gentleness might come her way. What a life she’d had. How had she managed it?

He wondered how long she had been at Maignelay-sur-mer.

Long enough to have become Sybil’s keeper, obviously.

Long enough to have been discovered if she hadn’t been very careful—and very clever.

That she hadn’t only spoke more fully of her wit and courage.

Why, it might even be a kind of courage and wit that he possessed himself.

In lesser quantities, of course—for she was a woman, after all—but of that same ilk.

A pity he couldn’t have found such a bride as this.

He pursed his lips and pushed aside that thought.

His bride was likely buried in a shallow grave, or rotting under a pile of leaves in the forest, or, worse yet, alive and merely awaiting a rescue.

It was she that Colin had to think on, she who held his birthright in her weak, cowardly hands.

And it was she whom he would be saddled with for the rest of his days, did he but manage to find her alive and drag her back to England.

A pity, though, about the wench on his leg. There was the kind of woman he might have found himself bound to and not regretting it.

Would she consent to being a member of his guard for the rest of her days?

Though that would mean that he couldn’t reveal what he knew of her. And what kind of life would that be for her? Forever in hiding, forever trying to be something she wasn’t, forever likely wanting more than she had?

Well, however her wants and desires went, he could at least keep her secret for her. Aye, that was the thing to do. He could pretend that he didn’t know what she was. Indeed, he could continue her training and see that she at least had some skill to go along with her ruse.

And he could watch Etienne more closely and see if he couldn’t divine what it was the man held over her.

Her being a girl instead of a boy was likely the answer to that, though Colin found himself quite curious to find out if there was more to it.

Whatever the case, he would at least see if he couldn’t keep Etienne from the girl and spare her any further thrashings.

Though now knowing what she was, he wondered if he could possibly stand aside.

He greatly suspected that Etienne would find himself in a shallow grave did he but raise a hand against the girl again.

How would the wench take to a bit of fighting that perhaps wasn’t as noble and knightly as what Colin had been teaching her so far?

He remembered vaguely promising Jason that one day the wench would be his equal, despite her slightness of frame.

Indeed, he could make her that, but it would require time, and perhaps time was what he didn’t have to give her.

Nay, unchivalrous combat would be what he would have to teach her.

He could put his finer sensibilities to the side for that long.

Her life might depend on it.

Then again, who was to say he wouldn’t always be there to protect her?

He leaned his head back against the railing, rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.

A girl. But a truly marvelous one, to be sure. One he couldn’t have, obviously.

What with the way his life was proceeding at present, he shouldn’t have been surprised.