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“Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer,” Ali said promptly, wishing she could decide what was the worse of the tortures: having Lord Berkhamshire breathing down on her, or Sybil crushing the life from her.

She spared effort for a wish that she weren’t quaking so hard that she was coming close to flinging Sybil off her without aid.

Lord Colin grunted, straightened, and walked off, leaving a waft of odd-smelling air behind him. Ali sniffed, unable to decide if the man had doused himself in ale or rolled in the herb garden. ’Twas rumored he had a most foul smell. Mayhap he tried to cover that with something less foul.

“The lists,” he called to any who would listen. Ali watched him point at Sir Etienne. “You’re of that company. Let us see what you’re made of, eh?”

Ali didn’t even have the brief satisfaction of seeing Sir Etienne hesitate.

He merely shrugged negligently and followed Lord Colin to the lists.

Perhaps he was too stupid to realize whom he stood to face.

Either that, or he thought far too much of his own skill.

Ali suspected it was a great deal of both.

For herself, she was left with a picture of complete menace as her first impression of her one-time betrothed.

Never mind those crinkles around his eyes; there was no mercy in him.

She imagined that he only laughed when he was putting someone to the sword.

She closed her eyes and let fly heavenward a heartfelt prayer that she’d never been forced to wed with him.

Ali soon found Sybil removed from her own flattened self. Sybil and her ladies were led inside the hall, leaving Ali to struggle to her feet herself. She had scarce managed to gain them before she found herself confronted by a sight far worse than the Butcher of Berkhamshire.

The Dragon himself stood there, with a young knight at his side. But all he said was, “Best be about your duties, lad.”

Ali waited for him to spew out the truth of her identity, but apparently he either hadn’t troubled himself with discovering it, or he planned to announce it at another time, for he said nothing else to her.

She gaped at him for a moment or two in surprise, then managed to shut her mouth.

“Aye, my lord,” she whispered. “Thank you, my lord.”

Blackmour nodded curtly before he turned to the young man at his side and turned him away to speak in low tones to him.

“Keep an eye on that Sir Etienne,” Blackmour said. “I’ve no liking for what I saw today.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the young man, who waited until his master had walked away, then turned to Ali with a friendly smile. “And you are?”

Aliénore of Solonge was so far forward on her tongue, she had to bite the words back. She swallowed, then tried again.

“Sir Henri,” she said.

The man facing her lifted one eyebrow in surprise. “A knight, are you?”

“Knighted young,” she said. “For valor,” she added, choking over the words.

The other man seemed to be trying not to smile. “Jason of Artane,” he said, “at your service. Knighted early enough as well, though merely for many hours spent sweating in the lists, not for any great deed of valor.”

She swallowed with difficulty. Artane? Jason of Artane?

By the saints, the de Piagets of Artane were patrons of the priory near her home!

She ducked her head, on the off chance he might somehow, beyond reason or logic, recognize her.

This was, after all, Blackmour. The saints only knew if the entire keep was bewitched or not.

“Sir Henri?”

She looked at Jason and nodded in her most manly fashion. “My thanks,” she said gruffly.

“The stables are that way,” he said, pointing over her head. “You’ll likely want to see to your lady’s horseflesh.”

“Of course.”

He paused, looked at her closely, then shook his head. “I am,” he muttered to himself, “beginning to imagine things. Aye, that’s it.”

Ali turned away before he could decide that he wasn’t imagining things. He had looked at her far too closely for her taste. His master might have the benefit of unwholesome magic to aid him, but she suspected that Jason of Artane needed nothing but his own two eyes to divine any and all secrets.

All the more reason to flee.

As quickly as possible.

She gathered up the reins to a pair of horses and headed toward the stables.

She deposited the beasts with the grumbling stable master, then stepped back out into the courtyard and headed without hesitation toward the gates.

Perhaps the best thing for her to do was simply walk out whilst there was a goodly bit of confusion in the courtyard.

Sybil was being fussed over inside, the Dragon had disappeared, and she knew that Lord Colin was no doubt grinding Sir Etienne into the dust in the lists.

Aye, this was the perfect time to make good her escape.

She came to a teetering halt and watched in dismay as the portcullis slammed home with a ring that rivaled any death knell she’d ever heard.

Her chest felt as if a large hand were squeezing it so tightly that there was no room for breath, no room for her heart, no room for any life inside her body.

“Sir knight,” the stable master bellowed. “Bring me your other horses!”

Ali turned and numbly went to fetch more horseflesh.

Trapped, again.

By the saints, how was she to survive this prison?