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churned and she tasted bile. She swallowed hard. She must think of nothing except the necessity of the task ahead. If she did not succeed, her people would be killed.
    Light spilled from an open window, casting a rectangular block of light on the shrubs around the building. Morrigan avoided it and snuck to the stone wall of the castle fortress. She pressed her shoulder against the rough, stone wall and crept closer to the open window.
    “Will ye be needing anything else tonight, Yer Grace?” spoke a female voice from inside the window.
    “Nay, thank ye. I’ll sit and read a while before I retire. Leave the candles, there’s a good lass,” replied an elderly, male voice.
    Keeping to the side in the shadows to avoid being seen, Morrigan surveyed the room. An elderly man was sitting with his back to her, leaning slightly forward. The bishop made a perfect target. Could it really be so easy?
    Slowly she pulled a bolt from her quiver and held her crossbow in place with her foot to draw the bow. She loaded the crossbow with a shaky hand and took aim at the bishop. She took a deep, silent breath of the cold, night air. One twitch of her finger would send her to hell eternal.
    Morrigan hunched her shoulders and stared at the ground. She could not do it. And yet, her people would die if she did not act. The mothers, the children, the babe whose life she had so painfully saved. No, she could not let them die. The bishop was old. He had lived a good life, or at least a long one. It must be done. There was no other choice.
    She held up the bow again. All she needed to do was pull the trigger. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. She must do it. She must. Her eyes shut, she placed her finger on the trigger.
    Suddenly, something hit her in the stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her crossbow triggered, firing the blot harmlessly into the castle wall. She fell backward onto the ground, someone forcing her down, covering her mouth. Fighting for breath, she knocked the man hard on the side of his head and tried to wriggle free. He grabbed her wrist before she could grab her knife and held a blade of his own to her throat.
    “Hello? Is someone there?” called the bishop.
    Instinctively, Morrigan froze, as did the man who held her.
    “Ye be needing me, Yer Grace?” asked a woman’s voice.
    “Och nay, sorry. I thought I heard something outside.” The bishop’s shadow loomed large in the window of light.
    “Probably some animal,” said the woman. “Here, let’s close the shutters afore ye be hurt by some wild thing.”
    The light dimmed, but Morrigan remained still. She would toss off her attacker soon enough, but first she wanted to make sure the bishop had stepped away from the window.
    Her attacker also seemed to be waiting. He smelled of woodsmoke and something familiar. She was engulfed by the vague memory of something pleasant.
    Things were getting out of control. In a swift move, Morrigan reached up with her legs, grabbed the man’s head between her ankles, and flung him and his knife from her. In a flash, she scrambled to her feet.
    The man lunged forward, knife in hand, but stopped himself with a jerk. In the dim light his face became recognizable. “Morrigan,” his lips spoke her name without sound.
    It was Jacques the minstrel.
    Morrigan dove for the crossbow and came up pointing it at the wayward minstrel. He dropped his knife and slowly raised his hands. Only then did Morrigan realize she was pointing an unloaded crossbow at him. Why did he not cry out or run away? She slung back her crossbow and drew her sword. Still he made no movement. Her mind was spinning. What was he doing there?
    She blinked hard to dispel him, but he was no apparition. It was the minstrel. The first man she had kissed. The only man she had kissed. The man who had since warmed her dreams. The man who just saw her try to kill the bishop. What was she going to do with him now?
    She gestured him back toward the gloom of the outer wall