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stopped by a stream to unwrap his jar of ointment. Bless the good monks at St. Anselm Priory for their healing concoction. He winced when he splashed cold water on his face. Damned cuts and scrapes stung.
    After patting away the moisture, he applied the cream. Sparingly. Just a little performed miracles, although the monks disliked anyone saying so. Only God performed miracles, they adjured.
    And only God knew what the monks used in the mixture—they damn well guarded its secrets from everyone else.
    The liquefied balm warmed, tingled like hundreds of tiny fingernails massaging the skin. Giles settled back on his heels and closed his eyes. Muscles eased, face to the sky, he relaxed. An afternoon breeze rose, laden with an earthy tang of the stream’s damp bank, the forest’s dried leaves. He inhaled. Tranquility.
    No smoke of burning villages and cremating bodies. No odor of blood or rotting animal carcasses. No desiccated garbage moistened by human misery in city streets.
    He smelled peace. He smelled his dreams.
    For Giles, peace was only that—a dream. He knew one way of life. Fighting. A knight who sold his sword boasted no stability, no manor to call home. If he occasionally wondered what a real family would be like, the mood passed. Wife and children were not for a mercenary. His men were his family. They depended on him.
    In his mind he saw snapping green eyes. A soft mouth that moved—briefly—beneath his. An irrepressible spirit. A woman like that could manage a home anywhere. For an instant, he glimpsed that life—Emelin following him on campaign; Emelin waiting for his return from perilous missions.
    Emelin weeping at the mission from which he never returned.
    The musings slammed to a halt. None of it would ever happen. She was a lady. He could never expose her to his dark life. His stomach coiled as he thought of her scorn, her ridicule, if she discovered half the things he’d done.
    No. That dream was best left alone. But Lady Emelin would have the chance to find an admirable man to make her happy, once she was free again. He could at least guarantee she’d be free again. He wished he might guarantee her happiness.
    Enough. It wasn’t like his thoughts to wander. Perhaps the blow to his head had scattered his wits.
    He sucked in another breath and rose. Time to travel.
    He’d secured the pack behind Nuit’s saddle, when the gelding gave a soft “whuffle” and swung its head toward the path they’d left earlier. Tilting his head, Giles listened. There. A sound. A mere trace in the distance.
    He brushed his hand across the mount’s nose, the signal for silence. Nuit nodded, flipping his mane. Giles led him into the shadows thrown by a tangle of bushes and saplings close to the creek.
    Not a good cover. He hoped none of the oncoming riders chanced to look closely. The black he trusted to be quiet. He didn’t know how the other horses would react.
    Sure enough, when the forward mounts broke past, the closest tossed its head and whinnied. The one behind sidestepped as the slight breeze carried the scents of unknown human and horse.
    Cursing, the leader roweled his spur across his gray’s flank. Giles spotted dark blotches along the side of the mount. Blood. Damn the cruel bastard for mistreatment of his animal.
    The figure twisted around to shout, “What the hell? Rollins, Bailey, did you scout ahead as I ordered?”
    Through a break in the bush, Giles caught a glimpse of the knight. The man’s face had a vicious set.
    Then from nowhere, a coney dashed across the road.
    “There’s the culprit, Sir Garley,” cried one of the men. “By God, if I’d been faster, we’d have us a meal.” Laughter rippled through the riders.
    Even the leader unscrewed his cruel mouth for a sour smile. “We’ll eat well enough when we arrive, never fear. My soon-to-be brother sets a heavy table.”
    “I hope he can provide something to warm my bed, as well,” called another of the troop. Others roared agreement,