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from me while I languished in the Emperor’s prison?’  He spoke in French of course, and old French at that, but Tamar could understand him, and so, to his surprise, could Denny. It must be the power of the Athame, he thought.  
    ‘No, my liege,’ said Tamar.  Subservience came easily to her, after so many years of servitude.
    ‘I say you are!’ thundered Richard.  He was an impressive figure, every inch the archetypal king, tall and fair, and regal, and a right chump.  He stepped down from the dais and drew his sword.  He thrust it at Tamar, as the one who had spoken.  ‘You will tell the truth,’ he said.  ‘You will tell me everything.’  He stepped back.  ‘In time,’ he added.
    ‘Can’t you, you know, bat your eyes at him or something?’ hissed Denny.
    ‘I don’t think it would do any good,’ she hissed back.  ‘I think you’d have more luck than I would, at that.’ 
    ‘What?  Richard the Lionheart, really?’ he shook his head.  ‘That wasn’t in any of the history books.’
    ‘He never made a secret of it,’ she told him.  ‘Well I mean, look at him, who’s going to mess with him?’  Of course he didn’t advertise it either, but mostly people knew. –  Except his wife,’ she added as an afterthought.
    ‘SILENCE!’ thundered the King.  He waved a hand, and a minstrel began to play. 
    ‘Now that’s torture,’ said Denny.  ‘If he keeps that up, I’ll tell him anything he wants to hear.’
    ‘That’s how torture usually works,’ agreed Tamar. 
    The King looked hard at Denny and leaned over to say something to one of his courtiers.
    ‘What do you think he’s saying?’ hissed Denny.
    Tamar shrugged.  ‘Have that boy washed, and brought to my tent?’ she suggested. 
    ‘That’s not funny.’ 
    ‘Take them away,’ said the King, impatiently.  They were hustled out of the hall, and chained up outside, unfortunately in plain sight of far too many curious eyes.
    ‘And where is Sir Antoine?’ they heard the King demand as they were shoved out the door.
    * * *
     It is called displacement. When something is full, then adding more only makes it overflow.
    Hecate and Stiles were dealing with the overflow.
    As represented, in this case, by the intolerably belligerent Sir Antoine D’Arcy. A man who would easily make up the total mass of Denny and Tamar combined – and perhaps a small dog too.
    He had arrived in much the same manner as Stiles had on his return from the deleted file. That is to say – unexpectedly.
    He had then, on perceiving his surroundings, let out a bellow of protest – as you might expect – and charged Stiles like a maddened buffalo, sword drawn and screaming defiance.
    Hecate sighed; she had no idea who this maniac was or why he had suddenly appeared,   but explanations could wait. The first thing to do was to prevent him from skewering Stiles on the end of his sword.
    * * *
    ‘Well, this is great,’ said Denny.  ‘The latest thing in manacles.’
    ‘I know.  Whatever happened to an old fashioned dungeon?  Nice and cosy – and private .  It’s funny; this just isn’t Richards’s style.’ 
    ‘Well, you have to admit, we are a couple of shady characters – what do you mean, not his style?  How the hell would you know?’
    ‘I just mean he never did things this way – from what I heard at the time.’ 
    ‘Well, look, why don’t we just get out of here?  People believed in magic in these days, didn’t they?  What could it hurt?’
    ‘I think two people just vanishing into thin air, might be too much for them.  The most they would have encountered before this would have been the odd witch, and they were very careful. We’ve caused enough trouble just by getting caught, who knows what the repercussions will be from that.’
    ‘I bet Askphrit’s not worrying about that. I bet he’d just …’
    ‘Well, I’m not Askphrit, and I’m not changing history any more than I can help.’
    ‘I didn’t mean …