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composed. Lionel Ashton was not even handsome. Indeed, not to put too fine a point upon it, he was ugly. And yet there was something about him that stirred Pippa in a way that she knew in her blood she must not attempt to explore or understand.
    “Well, sir, would you?” she challenged.
    “You refer to the king's reputation for womanizing?”
    Pippa made no answer and after a minute he continued in a detached tone, “Philip is no saint. But your queen was well aware of that fact. I would suggest her husband's reputation is for her and her alone to worry about.”
    It was, Pippa decided, a snub. However, snubs rarely troubled her. “On the contrary, sir, it is a matter for all loyal Englishmen.” She dropped him a curtsy and turned away.
    He moved from the sundial and took her hand, tucking it neatly into his arm. “Since we've now become acquainted, madam, pray allow me to walk a little with you. The pleasaunce is particularly agreeable at this time of day.”
    Pippa experienced a sudden flash of panic. There was nothing wrong with her accepting the escort of a gentleman of the court. Nothing for anyone to object to. Stuart wouldn't give it a second thought. And yet with the same instinct as before she knew she must not walk with Lionel Ashton. In the pleasaunce or anywhere else.
    “Forgive me,” she murmured, pulling her hand free. “I have the headache . . . the heat . . . I have no wish to walk. . . .” Breathlessly she hurried away towards the arched entrance to the courtyard.
    Lionel Ashton watched her go, his hands resting lightly on his hips where hung his sheathed rapier and dagger. Pippa didn't look back but if she had done she would have been frightened by his expression. His eyes were now iron-hard, filled with anger and contempt, and something else. Something very like dismay.
    He turned on his heel and made his way to the lists where two lines of dismounted courtiers, one line wearing the colors of Spain, the other Tudor green and white, advanced and retreated amid the thud and splintering of their canes.
    Stuart Nielson was standing at the far side of the ground, still in the leather padded doublet he had worn for the joust. Full armor was not considered necessary when one played only with sticks. He stood alone, and Lionel wondered if it was through choice or because his usual companions were too embarrassed for him after his mortifying loss. Not that the reason interested Lionel in the least.
    He made his way towards Stuart, who saw him coming and turned hastily back to the tented enclosure where the participants prepared themselves for their bouts. Lionel increased his pace.
    “Lord Nielson, a word with you.”
    Stuart seemed to hesitate, and then he stopped. He waited for the other man to reach him. “Well?” There was no invitation in the sharp question.
    “A hard loss, I gather,” Lionel offered, his voice soft. “Perhaps you have no need to immolate yourself quite so thoroughly.”
    Stuart stared at him, his aquamarine eyes both hostile and frightened. “What do you mean?”
    “Why, only that you could give Philip a little more challenge while achieving your objective.” Lionel was looking out over the lists rather than at Stuart. His tone was remote.
    “What difference does it make?” Stuart demanded harshly. “I accept and obey my orders.
All
of them.”
    “Yes . . . yes, so you do, most admirably,” Lionel said in the same remote tone.
    Stuart flushed angrily. The dismissive contempt in the other's manner was unmistakable even though they had still not exchanged a glance.
    “There are no signs as yet?” Lionel asked.
    Stuart's flush deepened. “Not that I'm aware.” He paused, then continued on a note almost of bluster, “But it would be wise to desist for a few days.”
    Lionel swung his head slowly towards him. “Why so?”
    Stuart's hand rested unconsciously on his sword hilt and his face now was as pale as it had been suffused before. “There are difficulties,” he