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B aldwin rode away from Glenhaven as dawn crept across the sky.

His destrier’s hooves made little sound on the dew-dampened earth, a rhythm that matched the troubled beating of his heart.

He needed solitude, needed to escape the confines of the stone walls that seemed to press in upon him with each passing day.

The mist hung low over the lake, tendrils of white curling above the water like ghostly fingers reaching for the heavens.

Birdsong pierced the silence, tentative at first, then bolder as the sun climbed higher.

Baldwin drew his mount to a halt at the water’s edge, the beast’s breath forming small clouds in the cool morning air.

He dismounted with practiced ease, removing his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt before running a hand through dark hair that had grown too long of late. His cloak settled around him as he found a flat stone near the water’s edge, the heavy fabric pooling like shadow.

The events of recent days weighed upon him heavier than any armor he had ever donned as he stared out over the still water, watching as the mist began to retreat.

Beth’s near poisoning, Roland’s injury, the ambush.

All bore Cedric’s mark. How far would the man’s envy push him?

How much danger would he bring to Beth and to Glenhaven before this bitter feud found its end?

“Perhaps had I handled matters differently,” Baldwin murmured to the silent lake, “Cedric’s heart would not hold such darkness.”

He rested his elbows upon his knees, remembering when Cedric had been his friend and how quickly friendship could turn to bitter rivalry.

The summer sun beat down upon the training yard, relentless in its heat.

Baldwin, six-and-ten and already showing promise of the man he would become, circled his opponent with careful steps.

Sweat dampened his tunic, plastered his hair to his forehead, but his grip on his practice sword remained firm.

“Come, Devereux,” Cedric called, his own sword held high. “Or do you fear to strike?”

Baldwin did not take the bait. Lord Mortimer, the master who had taken them both as squires, valued patience in battle above all else. Rashness led to death, he often said. So Baldwin waited, watching for the telltale shift in Cedric’s weight that would betray his next move.

There, a slight lean to the left. Baldwin stepped right as Cedric lunged, bringing his own weapon down in a controlled arc that caught Cedric across the shoulder. The blow was not hard enough to injure, but more than sufficient to score a point.

“Well struck,” Lord Mortimer called from the edge of the yard. “Devereux wins again.”

Cedric’s face darkened with a flush that owed nothing to the heat. He threw his practice sword to the ground with such force that the wooden blade cracked. “He always wins,” he snarled, stalking away.

Baldwin made to follow, but Lord Mortimer’s hand upon his shoulder stopped him. “Let him go, lad. Some men cannot bear to lose with grace.”

Later that evening, as they supped in the great hall, Lord Mortimer made an announcement that caused Cedric’s cup to freeze halfway to his lips.

“A tournament,” the lord proclaimed, “for my squires and those of neighboring lands. The victor shall receive a fine destrier and shall be first among you to earn his spurs.”

Baldwin felt excitement rise within him, but it was tempered by the look of naked hunger on Cedric’s face. His friend and cousin, for they had been friends once, stared at Lord Mortimer as a starving man might gaze upon a feast.

The days that followed saw both young men training from dawn until dusk.

Baldwin’s natural talent with sword and lance continued to serve him well, but Cedric worked with a determination that bordered on desperation.

He needed this victory, needed the recognition it would bring.

His father, a minor lord with little land and less influence, had made it clear that Cedric must distinguish himself or face a life of obscurity.

The morning of the tournament dawned clear and bright. Baldwin checked his armor, his weapons, his horse, all seemed in order. He was fastening the final buckle of his saddle when Cedric approached.

“May the best man win, cousin,” Cedric said, extending his hand.

Baldwin clasped it firmly. “Indeed. You’ve trained hard. You may well best me today.”

Something flickered in Cedric’s eyes, doubt, perhaps, or guilt, but it was gone so quickly Baldwin thought he might have imagined it.

The tournament began with feats of horsemanship, followed by combat with sword and shield. Baldwin performed well, as did Cedric, and by midday they found themselves among the final four competitors. The afternoon would bring the joust, the event that would determine the victor.

He mounted his horse, settling into the saddle with the ease of long practice. He took up his lance, tested its weight, and nodded to his squire, a boy of twelve who looked upon Baldwin with undisguised admiration.

“Your opponent is ready, sir,” the boy said.

Baldwin lowered his visor and guided his mount toward the lists. The crowd’s roar filled his ears as he took his position. Across the field, his opponent, a squire from a neighboring estate, did the same.

At Lord Mortimer’s signal, Baldwin urged his horse forward, lance couched beneath his arm. The distance between the riders closed rapidly. Baldwin aimed for his opponent’s shield, braced for impact?—

The saddle shifted. He felt it give way beneath him, felt himself sliding sideways even as his lance struck true.

He tried to right himself, but it was too late.

He tumbled from the horse, landing hard upon the packed earth of the tournament field.

Pain shot through his shoulder, his head struck the ground, and for a moment the world went dark.

When awareness returned, Lord Mortimer was kneeling beside him, his face grim. “Can you stand, lad?”

Baldwin nodded, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Treachery,” Lord Mortimer said, his voice low and hard. “Someone cut your saddle straps.”

A search of the stables revealed a knife hidden among Cedric’s belongings. A knife with a bit of leather still clinging to its blade. When confronted, Cedric denied the accusation, but his face betrayed him. The fear in his eyes, the tremble of his hands, he might as well have confessed aloud.

Lord Mortimer’s judgment was swift and merciless. Before the assembled crowd, he stripped Cedric of his position in the tournament and declared that his knighthood would be delayed by a full year. The humiliation was complete when Mortimer turned his back on Cedric, addressing Baldwin instead.

“You shall receive the prize,” he declared, “for you would have won it fairly had treachery not intervened.”

Baldwin tried to refuse, tried to suggest that the tournament continue without him, but Lord Mortimer would not be swayed. The destrier, a magnificent black stallion, became his, as did the honor of being first among the squires to earn his spurs.

His cousin never forgave him. In his mind, Baldwin had exposed him, had stolen the victory and recognition he so desperately craved. The friendship that had once existed between them died that day, replaced by a bitterness that grew with each passing year.

Baldwin came back to himself with a start, the memory fading as a fish jumped in the lake before him, sending ripples across the still surface. The water, once calm, now grew restless as a breeze stirred the air, mirroring the unease that had settled once more in his chest.

He understood now, with a clarity that had eluded him for years, the depth of Cedric’s envy.

It had never been about the tournament, not really.

It was about the respect Baldwin commanded without effort, the natural authority that Cedric had always struggled to attain.

The humiliation of that long- ago day had festered within Cedric, turning to poison that now threatened not only Baldwin but all he held dear.

Including Beth.

Baldwin rose to his feet, his decision made. He would confront Cedric, would end this feud one way or another. No more would he allow the man’s jealousy to endanger those under his protection. No more would he permit Cedric’s hatred to cast its shadow over Glenhaven.

“No further harm will come by his hand,” Baldwin vowed to the silent lake. “Not ever again.”

He mounted his horse and turned the beast toward home, toward Glenhaven, toward Beth. The morning mist had dissipated now, burned away by the faint autumn sun. The path before him lay clear and bright, and Baldwin rode toward it with renewed determination.

The time for reflection was past. The time for action had come.