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Perhaps she needed to hear from Madeline’s lips what really happened.

Perhaps she needed to make her own judgement about her sister and not rely on Havilland and Jamison, the only two people who had witnessed Madeline’s treachery.

Not that she believed they would lie to her, but perhaps there was another explanation.

Somehow, Amaline didn’t truly believe that there was, because she was sure that Madeline was capable of what she had been accused of, but something inside of her demanded to speak with Madeline.

She had to hear from Madeline’s own lips about her treachery.

Lost in her thoughts of turmoil, Amaline stood up from her chair and Havilland immediately put her hand on Amaline’s arm.

“Where are you going, Ammie?” she asked.

Flustered, confused, and upset, Amaline struggled to come up with an excuse that Havilland would believe. She knew if she told her where she was really going, Havilland would deny her. Therefore, she lied.

“I… I must use the privy,” she said. “I will hurry back.”

Havilland had no reason not to believe her so she smiled at her sister and watched the girl leap off the platform, losing herself in the crowd of men that was standing around the arena.

But that was as far as her attention for Amaline went.

As her sister went off to relieve herself, Havilland turned back to watch Jamison take a second shot at the archery target and hit it dead center.

The men cheered and she clapped loudly, proud of the man as she had never been proud of anything in her life.

She’d never known what it was to be proud of someone who had shown her such affection, such attention.

Having never had to protect her heart before, the only thing Havilland could do was give it over freely.

Jamison, in her eyes, had proven himself.

Perhaps they’d had a rough start, but Jamison had more than made up for it.

The Scotsman known as The Red Lion had done the impossible… he had won her heart.

So Havilland watched as Jamison continued to hit the center of the target as other men were eliminated.

She had cheered louder and louder with each win until, finally, he was matched against Tobias for the victory.

When it was just the two knights, the bets were flying fast and furious, and men were betting heavily on Jamison.

He and Tobias drew straw lengths to see who would go first and it was Tobias, so Jamison stood back graciously and watched as Tobias set himself up for the first round.

There would be three total and the man closest to the center target, or within the center target, would win.

Jamison leaned against the platform as Tobias lined up his first shot, turning to wink at Havilland more than once.

She smiled openly at him, so openly that the men watching the exchange were beginning to whisper.

Many of the soldiers at Four Crosses had watched Havilland and her sisters grow up so to realize she was fond of a de Lohr knight sent gossip spreading through the groups of men like a wildfire.

Not only was Madeline missing, as many had noticed and commented on, but now Havilland was evidently sweet on the big Highlander. Already, the day was quite eventful.

Tobias launched his arrow and hit the target, but not dead center.

Jamison collected his bow and arrow, planted his big feet, and fired off an arrow that hit dead center in the middle of the target.

Tobias, not to be outdone, launched his second arrow and was slightly off center.

Jamison shot his second arrow and hit his first one, splintering it. The crowd went mad.

Inflamed, Tobias launched his third arrow and hit the center mark again, but at the edge of it.

Jamison, with a grin on his face, launched his last arrow and landed it slightly below his other two, but still nearly dead-on center.

The man that Tobias had appointed the marshal of the games declared Jamison the obvious winner and men cheered in response.

Once again, Tobias emerged the loser and his mood was growing more foul by the moment.

What he had viewed as a chance to win Havilland away from Jamison was turning into an embarrassment for him.

Jamison wasn’t oblivious to Tobias’ shame but he had no idea what was truly behind it.

After being declared the winner, he didn’t rejoice or shout his triumph for all to hear, but rather made his way over to the platform where Havilland was sitting.

She was sitting straight in her chair, watching him eagerly as he approached.

With a grin, he leapt up onto the platform, took her hand, and kissed it.

“Yer favor brought me luck,” he said. “Ye have me thanks.”

Havilland smiled up at him, her handsome victor. “You have a good deal of skill with a bow,” she said. “I wish I could have competed, too.”

His smile faded. “Are ye not enjoying yerself watching the games?”

She nodded quickly. “I am,” she assured him. “But… well, it seems strange to be sitting here and not participating.”

He chuckled. “Fine ladies dunna usually participate in men’s games,” he said. “They watch from the lists and cheer on their men.”

She wriggled her eyebrows in an ironic gesture. “I suppose that is something I must become accustomed to,” she said. “What will you be doing next?”

Jamison looked out at the arena where men were removing the archery targets and gathering the arrows that had fallen or were loose. He could also see, at the far end, that the marshal and his helpers were bringing out a length of hemp rope.

“The hammer throw,” he told her. “I’ve been throwin’ hammers since I was a wee lad. I will destroy these English who think they can best me.”

He said it rather dramatically and Havilland laughed softly. “I look forward to it.”

He turned to look at her, grinning because she was. “Of course ye do,” he said, “because I shall triumph again. Where is yer sister? She will want to see me triumph as well.”

Havilland looked around. “She had some business to attend to,” she said, politely phrasing the nature of her sister’s absence. “She will return soon.”

Jamison simply nodded, looking over to the edge of the arena where the men were gathering to begin the hammer throw.

Tobias had confiscated all of the blacksmith’s hammers for this event and there were six of them, long-handled hammers with heavy iron heads.

Jamison gave Havilland’s hand a squeeze before releasing it.

“On tae the next event,” he told her, fingering the favor that was still in his belt. “Ye’ve brought me fortune, m’lady. I expect ye will bring me more.”

Havilland could only smile in return. In fact, it seemed that she had been doing an awful lot of smiling at the man.

She couldn’t seem to do anything else. As she opened her mouth to reply, a shout to Jamison stopped her.

Both she and Jamison turned to see one of the gatehouse sentries coming towards them.

Jamison was immediately fixed on the man.

“What is it?” he asked.

The sentry had to push through a group of men in order to reach Jamison. “Riders, my lord,” he said. “The commander on watch has asked me to summon you and Sir Tobias.”

Jamison forgot about the hammer toss for the moment. He was already moving in the direction of the gatehouse. “How many riders?” he asked.

“Three, my lord.”

Jamison frowned. “That is not a great number,” he said. “I see no reason tae panic. Can ye make out any colors or standards?”

The sentry nodded. “The commander on watch says to tell you that the men are wearing what you are.”

Puzzled, Jamison cocked his head. “What is that?”

The soldier pointed at his brecan . “That.”

Jamison was running for the gatehouse without another word.

*

It had been a simple matter for Amaline to enter the gatehouse and descend the stairs leading to the vault because the direction of the entry faced the bailey even though the cells themselves were underneath the gatehouse.

Therefore, she could avoid the men inside the gatehouse for the most part.

More than that, the sentries on duty seemed to be watching incoming riders.

She had heard their shouts and had seen their interest, and she had used it to her advantage.

With them occupied, it was nothing at all for Amaline to slip down the narrow, slippery stairs into the vault that smelled like earth and rot.

The vault of Four Crosses was a very large hole that had been carved out in the earth of Wales, a hole big enough for two tiny cells and little more.

The floors weren’t even; they tended to slope and the ground was slippery and unstable in places.

Water ran down the eastern wall and pooled in a green puddle.

A single iron sconce had been hammered into that wall, holding a fatted torch that billowed up thick black smoke into the low ceiling. The air down here was bad, anyway, and the smoke didn’t help.

Amaline was frightened to be down there, frightened of what she’d find.

The torch didn’t light the area very well and she stood at the base of the stairs for a moment, her eyes growing accustomed to the light.

Gradually, the cells became clear and she could see a figure in the cell closest to her, lying on a pile of fresh straw with a couple of heavy blankets over it.

The figure had its back turned to the door but knowing it was Madeline, Amaline rushed up to the iron bars.

“Madeline?” she whispered loudly.

The figure jerked and suddenly sat up. Amaline found herself looking into Madeline’s red-rimmed eyes. When Madeline saw her youngest sister, she rushed to the iron grate and grasped Amaline’s hands.

“Ammie!” she gasped. “You have come to me!”

Amaline nodded uncertainly. “Aye… I wanted to see you.”

Madeline squeezed her hands, hard. “Oh, Ammie, I am so frightened!”