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S ir Etienne stood with his back against a tree and stared at the monastery before him.

He wasn’t overly fond of such places, and not just because there was so much religion going on inside.

What he couldn’t understand was why a man would trade wenching for prayer.

And prayers all day long and through the night.

Daft, it was, and he pitied the lads who were forced into it.

Being one of the lads who had escaped such forcing, of course.

Not that his sire hadn’t tried. He had, with both words and fists.

His mother had pleaded with tears. Being the third son of a broken-down, unskilled knight who’d been given his spurs out of some misguided sense of pity by an obscure lord in an unimportant part of France, Sir Etienne had known from the very start that any greatness he obtained, he would obtain on his own.

And the path to that greatness would never come by means of a monk’s tonsure.

A pity his parents were dead, else he could have returned with Berkhamshire’s gold and shown them what he’d become.

His brothers wouldn’t care. One was rotting in his grave thanks to an axe wound in his side and the other was rotting in a tiny monastery in that same unimportant part of France he’d never left.

Sir Etienne paused and considered. Perhaps a gift to that place wouldn’t be such a poor idea. After all, even men of great stature had the occasional need of a prayer for their souls.

But first, to obtain his wealth.

Which was why he stood where he was, listening to the restive movements of the handful of lads he had left to him who waited in the trees for his instructions. Fewer lads than he would have liked, of course, but a man made do.

It had been a difficult journey.

The pillaging in France had gone well, for the most part, with only a pair of casualties in his own little army.

The goods and coin had easily been enough to secure them all passage to England, but damn most of the lads if they hadn’t scampered in the night, leaving him with just three.

Fortunately, those three had been lads ready for adventure and dazzled with the idea of vast riches to come their way.

Not that Sir Etienne ever would have shared those riches, but he’d seen no point in telling them that.

The crossing had been uneventful. The true entertainment had only begun several days into the journey to Harrowden.

He’d been riding along, dreaming of what he would do with his gold, when he’d stumbled upon a small band of ruffians about their usual work of taking advantage of an apparently solitary traveler.

Who turned out to be none other than Marie of Solonge.

Sir Etienne had watched with great interest as she’d killed three of the ten men who faced her.

He’d finally gotten down off his horse, wondering if he should end the skirmish—just so he could have her himself, of course; not for any other reason—when one of the men had shoved her.

Sir Etienne had seen her recover from worse things, but apparently her journeyings hadn’t been easy. She had tripped and fallen.

Face first into their rather large fire.

The results had been, in a word, revolting.

She’d screamed and screamed until Sir Etienne honestly couldn’t bear it anymore.

He’d put her out of her misery by catching her under the chin—or what was left of it—and rendering her senseless.

And he’d gone so far as to kick dirt on her clothing to put out the fire.

The woman was going to die anyway, what with those wounds, but there was no sense in setting the entire countryside on fire whilst she was about her business of it.

He’d turned to face the ruffians, dispatched a pair of them when they looked to him for sport, and then bargained with the other eight.

The lure of riches worked like a wonder, every time.

The additions to his little band had also provided him with reliable directions to Harrowden.

He could have found the place himself, naturally, but he had other pressing items vying for his attention and had little energy to spare on trivial details.

So he’d saved his strength, firmed up his plans, and ridden quite cheerfully halfway across England to where his future lay.

Or at least the means to his future.

The front gates were open, but still he waited where he was.

Then he saw motion there. He faded instantly back into the shadows and held up his hand for silence.

Who should walk out of that gate but Colin of Berkhamshire himself and his manly, though certainly very beautiful, bride, Aliénore of Solonge.

Sir Etienne could scarce believe his luck.

He waited for a guard to follow, but there was none. Could this be possible? Were they truly that foolish, that they trusted the adequate but uninspired sword skills of the Butcher?

Apparently so.

Sir Etienne smiled. This was going to be much easier than he’d dared hope.