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cried.
    Out of nowhere, a crossbow bolt struck the guardsman in the arm; he dropped his sword with a shout of pain.
    “Marquet!”
    Marquet froze, as he recognized the voice that called his name. He turned slowly, and his men turned with him, to see the figure of Navarre standing like a deadly shadow at the courtyard entrance. His broadsword swung ready in his right hand, and a loaded crossbow rested in the crook of his left arm.
    Marquet’s eyes widened as they confirmed what his ears had told him. Phillipe slid to the ground as the guardsmen let him go, too stunned even to move. The yard around him was deathly still.
    “One of my men told me you were back,” Marquet snarled, his eyes never leaving Navarre. “I wanted to cut out his tongue for lying, because I knew you weren’t that stupid.” He glanced at Jehan. “Forgive me, Jehan. You are restored to your former rank.”
    Navarre shifted slightly, gestured to Phillipe. “You. Get out of here.”
    “Yes, sir,” Phillipe mumbled. “Thank you, sir . . .” Pulling himself together, he stumbled to his feet and ran out of the courtyard.

C H A P T E R

Five
    N avarre stood like an obsidian statue, blocking the courtyard entrance while the young thief ran past him into the street. Then he called out abruptly, “Marquet. Look at me.” Marquet’s eyes came back to him from watching the boy flee. They burned with deadly hatred—almost as deadly as his own hatred for Marquet. He gazed at the man who had stolen the life that was his by right, and helped to destroy everything that had ever had any meaning for him: Marquet, the sadistic, craven bully; the Bishop’s willing henchman. “I promised God my face would be the last thing you ever saw.”
    But as he lifted his crossbow a guard rose from behind an overturned table, aiming his own weapon, and fired. Navarre caught the motion from the corner of his eye, turned and fired almost simultaneously. The guard’s arrow whizzed past him, inches from his face. His own bolt did not miss. The man crashed down behind the table with a cry.
    Navarre spun back, searching for Marquet—and found himself face to face with another guard, a man he recognized. The guard raised his sword; lowered it again as their eyes met, his face filling with uncertainty and deep regret. “Captain,” he murmured to Navarre, “I . . .”
    Marquet’s heavy boot slammed savagely into the guard’s back, shoving him forward, impaling him on his former commander’s sword. Marquet leaped aside, roaring at his men to attack. To a man they obeyed.
    Navarre fought with the furious intensity of someone obsessed, as if this fight were all that he had been living for. But even with his almost inhuman reflexes, he was only one man, armed with one sword, against more than a dozen. The guards pressed him hard on every side, cutting off any retreat, driving him back through the mass of fleeing patrons toward the fire. He ran another man through—not one that he knew, this time. Sparks flew from the clash of steel on steel; his sword arm ached from the shock of a hundred blows. But his skill never faltered. He gave ground slowly, and one by one there were fewer attackers to surround him.
    But Marquet was a man equally obsessed. His nemesis had returned, and set free the prisoner whose life was worth more to the Bishop than his own. Navarre had come back, to reclaim all that was rightfully his; and Marquet’s hatred doubled with his secret fear. He elbowed his way through the panic-stricken crowd, as Navarre was forced back to the very edge of the firepit, barely clear of the flames.
    Navarre looked up to see Marquet advancing, murder in his eyes. Navarre killed another man almost instinctively, shoved him at Marquet as he pulled his sword free. Continuing the arc of his motion, he swung his sword at Marquet’s head. His sword glanced along the captain’s helmet, slicing off the golden eagle wings, the insignia of his rank. Marquet’s face contorted