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Adam squinted through the slit of his jousting helm.

A fortnight had passed since he’d shown up at Perth as the Pope’s emissary. Long enough for the king to forget his face. Still, it was wise to keep his identity secret. Particularly since most of his clan was here to celebrate Gellir’s marriage with a royal tournament.

He eyed up his opponent across the list.

It was his cousin Brand, mounted on his destrier, impatient for battle. Even with a great helm covering his face and his lance at rest, Brand had an ominous presence that made him look ready to kill.

But Adam wasn’t afraid. Brand’s growl was worse than his bite. Besides, Brand had recently discovered that ladies preferred knights who were merciful over those who were ruthless. Adam was confident Brand would cause him no intentional harm. Not at a friendly wedding tournament.

There was a good chance Brand would knock him off his horse. Adam had had to purchase an inferior beast he’d never jousted on before. And jousting wasn’t his best event. He preferred contests that required dexterity and speed rather than brute force.

He also preferred to fight under an assumed name. Which was why today he’d been introduced only as Le Goupil, the Fox, of Paris. He had donned weathered leather and pitted armor, a helm swathed in russet silk, and a dark blue surcoat featuring a snarling fox.

Competing anonymously allowed him to engage in the challenge of combat without the risk of bringing dishonor to the Rivenloch name.

He’d already come to terms with the fact that he would never be the warrior his cousins were. He would probably never even best his older sister, Feiyan, who had trained with their mother’s master from the Orient, Sung Li.

Adam certainly had no wish to disappoint his parents at a public tournament, especially one overseen by the king. If he competed as Adam la Nuit, he’d be judged by Rivenloch standards. But fighting as an unknown, he might be praised for his talents.

Adam did have considerable combat skills.

He was observant. He learned by studying.

By mimicking the battle techniques of his kin—Gellir’s fine swordsmanship, Feiyan’s dexterity, Hew’s skill with an axe, Jenefer’s archery—he had come close to mastering them.

So it was a rewarding challenge to do battle with his cousins.

He had to admit he also derived a certain satisfaction from deceiving his clan with his many costumes.

“Sir Brand Cameliard o’ Rivenloch,” the herald announced.

An enormous cheer went up from the clan as Brand lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

“Ridin’ against Le Goupil o’ Paris . ”

Adam lifted his hand. There were a few polite shouts of encouragement.

Then both riders watched for the herald to drop the silk that would begin the joust.

The scarf drifted down, and Adam spurred his horse forward.

It was over in one pass.

All Adam could remember afterward, lying in the dust on his back with the wind knocked out of him, was a brief thunder of hooves, a jarring blow to his chest, and the sensation of flying over his horse’s arse.

Brand leaped from his horse, tore off his helm, and rushed over, offering him a hand.

Adam took it gladly. Wrenched upright again, he was able to cough and catch his breath.

Brand clapped him companionably on the back, then waved his hand to accept the men’s cheers and the ladies’ impressed sighs at his honorable behavior.

It was customary for a man who unhorsed his opponent to claim the horse as his prize. But Brand had access to dozens of horses in the Rivenloch stables. They were far finer than the one Adam had purchased. So Brand made another virtuous gesture.

“I wish to give the animal I’ve won to the newly made bride and knight, Lady Merraid.”

The women erupted in another round of jubilant cries.

That was clever, Adam decided. Clever and amusing. Growing up, his cousin had taken no interest in the fairer sex. Brand had deemed lasses inferior, useless, and troublesome. It was only in the past few months he’d decided they might be worth his time and attention.

The gift was perfect. Merraid was delighted to own her first horse. And Gellir was pleased with his brother’s gesture.

Seeing their faces shining with joy, Adam was truly glad he’d been able to play a part in bringing them together.

They came forward to claim her prize. Neither of them recognized Adam in his helm. But Merraid took the horse’s reins and placed a hand on Adam’s arm.

“Thank ye, sir. I shall treat her with kindness.”

Adam bowed his head.

Gellir came near enough to murmur, “You rode well, sir. Not many can stand against my brother’s lance.”

Adam, who never ceased to be amazed when his own kin couldn’t recognize him, watched them lead the horse away. Then he limped from the lists, wondering if he’d ever find a love like Merraid and Gellir shared. If he’d ever have a grand wedding with a tournament like this.

He grimaced as a sharp pain cut across his ribs.

It might have been from the impact of Brand’s lance.

Or it might have been his heart flinching in response at the painful truth.

Adam would never find a bride.

No woman would ever fall in love with him.

Not only was he forgettable. He wasn’t the same man from day to day.

How could a woman want a man when she’d never know who he truly was?

“Jehan from Rouen!” the herald announced.

Beneath her hood of forest green, Eve adjusted the brown linen cloth over her face so only her eyes were showing.

Then she strode forward with the bold steps and outthrust chest of a cocky lad, waving at the crowd with her free hand.

Her woolen cloak covered a nut brown tunic and hose.

A leather bracer protected her left forearm.

A pair of worn boots two inches too big completed her garb.

Slung over one shoulder was a yew longbow and a quiver of arrows.

To all appearances, she was who she claimed to be. Jehan from Rouen. A young French archer.

Today she didn’t intend to be invisible.

Today she planned to win an archery prize.

Since this was a Rivenloch tournament, and since King Malcolm himself was hosting, the prizes had been quite generous. The winner of this competition would receive a gold medallion engraved with a longbow. The second place would win a similar medallion of silver.

Thus far, Eve had advanced through the ranks of archers. Now she was left with one final opponent. Jenefer mac Giric of Rivenloch.

Eve didn’t stand a chance of winning. Jenefer of Rivenloch was legendary for her skills. But Eve was a fairly good shot. She would be content to come in second.

Stopping at the limit line, she swung the bow off her shoulder, eyeing the straw target.

In boring stretches at the convent, to the abbess’s dismay, Eve often made a habit of practicing with a bow, shooting at rotten wine barrels, carcasses left over from supper, and once, at a straw effigy she’d made of a local priest who had ruthlessly impregnated a number of novices.

For his transgressions, the priest had paid no penance. At least not in this life. For her sin of crafting the effigy, however, Eve had been commanded to make a pilgrimage to St. Andrews. A pilgrimage that had turned out to be more enjoyable than punitive.

What the abbess didn’t know about Eve’s archery practice was that she perfected her skills in order to hunt deer in the forest for the hungry crofters.

The king’s law would have called it poaching.

But Eve saw the surplus of deer and her talent with a bow as God’s way of providing for his faithful servants.

Eve plucked an arrow from her quiver and nocked it into the bowstring. Due to her size, she couldn’t wield a heavy warrior’s bow. But what she lacked in power, she made up for in accuracy. She hoped to prove that now. She inhaled, then held her breath.

In one smooth motion, she lifted the bow, pulled back the bowstring, and let loose the arrow.

It landed a scant inch from the center.

The crowd applauded.

“Jenefer mac Giric o’ Rivenloch,” the herald announced.

Because Jenefer was a battlefield archer, she was accustomed to hitting targets on the run. With almost no preparation, she stepped to the line and shot. The arrow sailed straight and hit dead center.

Her clanfolk cheered.

Eve hoped she’d never meet Jenefer in battle. She stepped up to take her second shot, reminding herself of her motivation for winning.

She meant to deliver her prize to Prior Isaac at nearby Scone Priory.

She’d made a visit to the priory last year, hoping to meet with the prior regarding funds for the convent’s library.

While she was waiting for an audience, she happened to note the coldness of the nave and the lack of peat on the hearth.

In her efforts to correct the situation, Eve started a fire that quickly escaped the hearth and burned out of control.

A fire which ended up destroying several tomes and documents, including the original foundation charter of the priory.

She’d naturally fled. Not for her own sake. But for that of her convent. She wouldn’t dream of bringing that kind of shame upon them.

Still, she carried the weight of that debt on her shoulders. So today, if she won a silver or—even better—a gold medallion, she intended to compensate the prior for his losses in the form of a donation from an anonymous wealthy patron.

With holy purpose in her heart, she drew back her bow. This time the arrow arced and dropped, striking so close to Jenefer’s that the fletching quivered.

The crowd oohed. Now the match was afoot.

Undaunted, Jenefer stepped to the line, scowling at the target, and nocked her arrow.

What she didn’t realize—and what Eve could see clearly—was a bee had landed on her shooting arm and was crawling its way toward her hand.

Eve wanted to call out, to warn her. But it was too late. Jenefer had already planted her feet and was raising the bow to her cheek.