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her.
    Bernart stepped to Gabriel's side. "I see some things have not changed."
    Gabriel knew what Bernart referred to—his ability to find favor with women when he stood in the midst of men far more handsome and moneyed. "Some things," he agreed.
    Bernart looked away, but not before Gabriel glimpsed the darkness that flashed in his old friend's eyes. The hairs on the back of Gabriel's neck prickled.
    Several minutes passed. "A chamber has been prepared for you," Bernart said. "I would be pleased if you would stay in the donjon as my guest."
    Now the hairs on the backs of Gabriel's hands stood erect. Though Tremoral's castle was more grand than most, its private accommodations were limited, and those few chambers were surely reserved for the great lords and their ladies. All other participants would be expected to pitch tents outside the walls or bed down in the hall. "Forgive me if I am surprised by your invitation."
    Bernart shrugged. "We were once great friends."
    "Once."
    The words Bernart summoned must have been more bitter than the meanest ale. "And now, again, I would be your friend. If you will allow it."
    What gain did he seek in having the one he blamed for his capture at Acre beneath his roof? Did he think to sneak up on Gabriel while he slept and slip a knife in his back? Nay, too obvious. Likely he wished to establish goodwill so that whatever he planned for the battlefield would appear innocent—an accident. But Gabriel had no intention of accommodating him. He returned his gaze to Nesta.
    She smiled, then turned away.
    Ah, but she tempted him. A sennight without a woman—
    "Gabriel?" Bernart prompted.
    He snatched his mind out of his braies. Friends? The man must think him a fool. "I come to tourney," he said, staring after the wench, "and that is all."
    Silence rushed in to fill the void. Finally Bernart asked, "You desire her?" He jutted his chin to where Nesta poured ale for the men at the hearth. "I remember how you like your women. For certain, she will please you."
    Obviously Bernart had not forgotten their younger days when they had sought and enjoyed the pleasures of women—before Juliana had demanded his vow of chastity.
    "If you like her, you may have her," Bernart said.
    The words wrenched Gabriel back to the reality of the woman offered him. So different from Juliana. Dark against light. Though he'd told himself it was only for the winnings he came to Tremoral, it was a lie. But now that he had seen Juliana and felt the force of her hatred, perhaps he could finally put her from him.
    "She scratches and bites," Bernart said, "but I do not think you will mind."
    So, though he had remained true to Juliana throughout the Crusade, now that they were wed he freely scattered his seed. Strange he had no children running about, legitimate or otherwise.
    "I tell you, though," Bernart continued, "she is particular about where she makes love and will not allow you to take her against a wall."
    Gabriel doubted that. From what he'd seen in Nesta's eyes, where she opened her thighs was of no matter. Wondering how she fit with Bernart's scheme, Gabriel studied his old friend's face.
    Bernart looked across the hall. "Your chamber is on the second floor at the top of the stairs."
    It would be nice to sleep in a bed, as he had not done so for some time. And to satisfy this need. Knowing Bernart had previously enjoyed Nesta caused her to lose much of her appeal, though it usually did not bother him to bed a woman known to other men, but she would do. "I accept your offer."
    "I am pleased."

    Bernart staggered beneath the sting of Juliana's palm. He clapped a hand to his fiery cheek and met her accusing stare.
    "How could you?" She trembled with anger.
    She had been waiting for him, just as he had known she would, but had prayed she would not. He glanced at where Alaiz slept on a pallet at the foot of the bed, dismissed her presence, then stepped into the lord's solar. "You are acting the shrew, Juliana." He closed