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unfamiliar word.
    “Almond sugar,” the man said pleasantly enough. He held out a pasty-looking morsel. “Would you like some?”
    She turned up her nose in resentment. The horse snatched at the tidbit.
    “Where did you learn to ride like that?” her captor asked.
    Juliana hesitated, wondering which lie to tell. If she admitted she had polished her considerable skills with the gypsies, it would endanger the band, for the Romany people were rarely welcome among gentlefolk. Unexpectedly, she heard herself blurting out the truth. “I learned from my father’s riding master. In Novgorod, a kingdom of Russia north of Muscovy.”
    The man lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Not only a horse thief, but a lunatic, as well. How long has it been since you escaped Bedlam?”
    “Not only a bully, but a braying ass, too,” she shot back.
    “Lord Wimberleigh!” A man in palace livery came pounding along the road. “You’ve collared the horse thief, then.”
    “It appears that I have, Sir Bodely.”
    “Well done, my lord, and you gave His Majesty a few moments of diversion in the process. Though I trow he’ll not look kindly on losing the bet.”
    “Your prisoner, Sir Bodely,” Wimberleigh said with a mocking bow. He grinned at Juliana. “The palace warden’s thief taker, at your service.”
    Sir Bodely’s brows beetled together. “A wench, is it? Looks gypsy to me.” With swift, jerky movements, he bound her hands with coarse rope and gave the discarded reins to Lord Wimberleigh.
    From a belt overhung with an ale-swiller’s gut were the tools of the thief-taker’s trade: a black whip, manacles, and hobbles.
    Wimberleigh’s gaze fixed on the savage utensils. His eyes turned flinty, and beneath his billowing sleeves, his shoulders hunched. He turned away. “I’d best be on my way, then.”
    In a red haze of fury and fear, Juliana called out, “Are all great lords as cowardly as you, sir?”
    His back stiffened, and he swung around to regard her with the respect he might afford a spider. “Were you addressing me?”
    “You are the only cowardly lord present at the moment.”
    His eyebrows slid upward. “So. You find me cowardly, do you?”
    Gingerly she lifted her bound hands. “You are quick to accuse me of stealing your horse, yet you balk at staying to see me punished. What is the penalty for my crime? Hanging? Or perhaps since I failed in my endeavor, I shall merely have my nostrils slit or a hand or an ear cut off. A true man would not lack the stomach to watch.”
    His squarish jaw tightened. He addressed the palace official. “Will the wench have a chance to face her accuser in a court of law?”
    Juliana held her breath. The law always reads against the gypsy . Laszlo had drummed that lesson into her head. But despite the past five years, she was not a gypsy. She was of noble birth. Her kin had been great princes and rulers. She would convince the court of her true identity and soon have the insolent Wimberleigh groveling at her feet.
    The brassy blare of a horn scattered her thoughts. Out of the gates came a party of mounted noblemen, their persons arrayed even more sumptuously than Lord Wimberleigh’s. Retainers swarmed around the gentlemen, boys trotting at their stirrups, a few clutching lead reins.
    Sir Bodely doubled over in an obeisance so deep it looked painful. Even Wimberleigh bowed. Juliana simply stared, and with unerring instinct she picked out the king of England.
    He rode a roan hunter. His saddle was huge, no doubt specially constructed to accommodate his ponderous weight. Henry of England was as impressive as Grand Prince Vasily had been. Like a proper boyar, the Englishking wore a full beard. His raiments glittered with gold and silver threads, and his mantle was edged with the black fur of the civet cat.
    “My lord of Wimberleigh.” The king’s voice was cold and full of hate. “It seems you made the better wager. I thought your mare a lost cause.”
    A wager?
    Juliana felt a hot stab