"Ready, my lord." The squire steadied the eager stallion.

"Excellent." Hugh turned away from Eduard.

"My lord Hugh." Benedict limped around the corner of the tent just as Hugh set one booted foot into the stirrup. He was panting for breath.

"My lord. I cannot find her."

Hugh paused. "She is not in the tent?"

"Nay, my lord." Benedict came to a halt and braced himself with his staff. "Mayhap she is browsing through the peddlers' stalls. She is not overfond of jousts and such."

"I instructed her to watch the sport in the company of the other ladies."

"I know, my lord." Benedict looked anxious. "You must make allowances for my sister, sir. Alice is not in the habit of following instructions. She prefers to go about matters in her own fashion."

"So it would seem." Hugh settled himself into the saddle and reached down to take the lance from one of his men. He glanced at the frail strip of bright green ribbon that fluttered near the point of the weapon.

"My lord, I pray you will be tolerant of her nature," Benedict pleaded. "She has never taken guidance well. Especially from men."

"Then 'tis time she learned to do so." Hugh glanced down the length of the field. Vincent of Rivenhall was mounting beneath a red banner.

In spite of his irritation with Alice, Hugh was becoming increasingly uneasy. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck was not caused by anticipation of the coming clash with Vincent.

Something was wrong.

He had assumed that Alice had failed to take her place among the onlookers out of sheer pique. Hugh was well aware that she had not cared to be told that she must attend the jousts. He assured himself that she was sulking and determined to deal with the matter later. After he had gone against Vincent of Rivenhall.

Hugh and Vincent were forbidden the satisfaction of open aggression against each other because of their mutual allegiance to Erasmus of Thornewood. Erasmus had no intention of allowing his best knights to expend their energy and squander their incomes warring against each other. The two were obliged to limit their encounters to those rare occasions when they found themselves on the same jousting field. At such times the old feud could be conducted under the guise of sport.

The last time they had engaged in mock combat, Hugh had felled Vincent with a single blow of his lance. As the joust had been a major event sponsored by two great barons, there had been no tame limits on the ransoms. The victorious knights had been free to claim whatever they could get from their victims.

Everyone had fully expected Hugh to set a high price on Vincent of Rivenhall. At the very least he could have claimed his opponent's expensive war-horse and armor.

Hugh had taken nothing. Instead, he had quit the field, leaving Vincent on the ground as though he were of no account. The insult had been outrageous and unmistakable. Ballads had been sung about it and another tale had been added to the growing legend of Hugh the Relentless.

No one but Hugh and his sole confidant, Dunstan, knew the real truth. There had been no need to strip Vincent of his costly armor and horse. Hugh had plotted a far more subtle and infinitely more effective stratagem against Vincent of Rivenhall, one that would unfold in the fullness of time. Another six months or a year at most.

The final triumph would be complete. Hugh was convinced that it would calm the storm winds that swirled across his soul. He would know peace at last.

In the meantime these occasional meetings on the jousting field served to whet the appetite of the Bringer of Storms.

Hugh tucked his helm under his arm and looked down at Benedict. "Take two of the grooms and look for your sister among the peddlers' tents."

"Aye, my lord." Benedict started to turn away. He hesitated. "Sir, I must ask you what you intend to do with Alice when she is found."

"That is Alice's problem, not yours."

"But, my lord—"

"I said, that is between Alice and myself. Go, Benedict. You have a task to fulfill."

"Aye, my lord." Reluctantly, Benedict turned to make his way back through the crowd of men clustered near the refuge tents.

Hugh prepared to address the small company of men who rode beneath his black banner. They faced him eagerly. There was always money to be made when they took the field with Hugh the Relentless.

Hugh had discovered early on that there was a secret to winning tournaments as well as battles. The secret was discipline and a sound stratagem. It never failed to amaze him how few men practiced those arts.

Knights were, by nature, a rash, enthusiastic lot who thundered out onto the jousting field or into actual combat with no thought to anything except individual glory and booty. They were encouraged to do so by their peers who vied for the same honor and loot and by the troubadours who sang songs about their heroism. And then, of course, there were the ladies. They preferred to bestow their favors upon the heroes of the ballads.

Such undisciplined antics made for amusing poems, in Hugh's opinion, but they also made victory in either mock or real combat a haphazard event.

Hugh preferred his victories to be predictable. Discipline and adherence to the stratagem that he had determined before the conflict were the keys to predictability. He had made them the cornerstones of the techniques he used to train his men.

Men-at-arms and knights who put their own lust for glory and plunder before their willingness to follow Hugh's orders did not last long in his employ.

"You will maintain orderly ranks and follow the stratagem that we discussed earlier," Hugh said to his men. "Is that plain?"

Dunstan grinned as he donned his helm. "Aye, m'lord. Never fear, we're ready to follow your plan."

The others grinned acknowledgment.

"Remember," Hugh cautioned. "Vincent of Rivenhall is mine. You will occupy yourselves with his men."

There were sober nods in response. All of Hugh's men knew of the ill feelings that existed between their lord and Vincent of Rivenhall. The feud was no secret.

Satisfied that all was in readiness, Hugh started to mount his war-horse. He would deal with Alice later.

"My lord, wait," Benedict yelled.

Hugh looked back impatiently. He saw raw fear on Benedict's face. "What is it?"

"This boy, Fulk, says he knows where Alice is." Benedict pointed to a dusty youth of about his own age. "He says that two men with daggers have gone in pursuit of her. He says he will tell us where to find her. For a price."

It occurred to Hugh somewhat belatedly that the reason Alice was not sitting with the spectators or sulking in her tent was because she had gone in search of Gilbert the troubadour.

Surely she would not have been so reckless.

But even as Hugh tried to reassure himself, a cold feeling settled deep inside his guts.

An image of the hapless Clydemere peddler lying, throat slit, in a pool of blood, temporarily clouded his vision.

Hugh looked at the grinning Fulk. "Is this true?"

"Aye, me fine lord." Fulk's grin widened. "I'm a merchant, ye see. I trade in information or anything else that comes me way. I'll be happy to tell ye where the red-haired lady is. But ye best hurry if you're planning to rescue her afore those two footpads catch up with her."

Hugh ruthlessly quashed the rage and fear that threatened to well up within him. He forced all evidence of emotion from his mind and his voice. "Speak."

"Well, now, as to that, me lord, first we must set the price."

"The price," Hugh said softly, "is your life. Speak the truth now or prepare to pay."

Fulk stopped grinning.