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fanfare rippled through the morning air.
    Carey spat out the plume of the feathered quill he was nibbling, his gaze shifting to the castle on the hill. The metallic rumble of the drawbridge being lowered underscored the brassy invitation of the trumpet.
    As if drawn by its siren lure, Austyn emerged from their faded tent into the dappled sunshine. Carey promptly sat on his parchment and tucked the quill behind his ear, fully expecting to be chided for not devoting his free time to polishing his master’s chain mail or some other practical task. His first glimpse of Austyn’s face banished all such concerns from his mind and brought him halfway to his feet.
    Carey had been dodging retching, moaning Englishmen all morning, men sickened to pale husks of themselves by their overindulgence in ale, wenches, and revelry, but none of them bore the haunted look of the damned as Sir Austyn of Gavenmore did. To Carey’s knowledge, his master had indulged in none of those vices. He had returned early to the tent, declining to discuss the outcome of his quest, and retired without a word. It appeared he had not slept, but had spent the night wrestling demons and losing.
    The skin of his brow was pale, his eyes burning hollows. Yet the mouth beneath his dark mustache was set in sullen determination. Carey had seen that particular twist of his lips only once before, when he’d discovered a nine-year-old Austyn struggling to carry his mother’s body down the narrow, winding stairs of Caer Gavenmore without bumping her limp head on the wall.
    Carey held his breath without realizing it, anticipating the gruff command to prepare the horses so they could begin the long journey home.
    Austyn strode past him without a word, heading toward the castle.
    Scrambling to gather ink and parchment, Carey hastened after him, trotting to match his long strides. “We’re staying?” he dared.
    Carey’s boldness earned him a brusque nod. “Aye. We can’t keep living as we have forever—riding from tourney to tourney, fighting and clawing for every ounce of English gold they’ll surrender to us. What if I should lose a purse, or worse yet, a limb? What if I were to die on the jousting field? What would happen to Caer Gavenmore then?” He shook his head.
    “I’ll not leave this place without that dowry. My father has been punished enough by that damned curse.
Ill
rot in hell before 111 see him robbed of his freedom and everything he holds dear.” Austyn’s resolution failed to soften the fierceness of his expression. A twitching acrobat flipped out of his path, forgoing his penny payment to seek less hazardous turf.
    The acrobat wasn’t the only one looking askance at Austyn. Their passage among the ranks of the English streaming up the hill earned him more than a few wary stares, nudges, and knowing mutters of “Gavenmore.” The Welsh giant towered head and shoulders over even the tallest of them. His current demeanor only contributed to his air of menace. He looked like a man about to sell his soul to Satan without reaping any of the benefits.
    Carey’s curiosity mounted. “Was the lady truly so fair?”
    Austyn shuddered, never breaking stride. “ Twas like looking into the face of my own death.”
    “Eyes?”
    ‘Two of them. So blue as to be almost violet”
    “Brow?”
    “Fair as virgin snow.”
    Carey unrolled his parchment, juggling ink and paper. “Nose?”
    Austyn lifted a self-conscious finger to his own nose, battered from too many blows taken in a helm. “Straight.”
    Drawing the quill from behind his ear, Carey wiped a smudge of ink from his temple before starting to scribble. “Voice?”
    “Drizzles over your ears like sun-warmed mead.”
    “Oh, that” s good. Thafs very good. What of her hair?”
    Ausfyn slipped a hand into his hauberk, drawing forth a sable curl that unrolled past his knees. Carey stopped writing, swallowing hard. “Sweet Christ, Aus-tyn? Did you leave her any?”
    Austyn’s glare as he tucked