Prologue

       Bordeaux, France

       August 10, 1375

      “Which ones are we going to steal?” asked Maslin.

      Bernard de Lauren glared at his henchman. “None if you keep shouting our intent for all and sundry to hear.”

      “You couldn’t hear a catapult being launched over the din of so many beasts galloping about,” Maslin grumbled, but he stooped from his great height to whisper the words in Bernard’s ear.

      Though he hated to be corrected, especially by a hireling, Bernard silently conceded the point. Between the thunder of so many steel-shod hooves and the whoops of the knights putting them through their paces, it was hard to hear. Still…He glanced surreptitiously at the other spectators.

      Seasoned knights, veterans of the English campaigns in France, stood alongside youths eager to win a rich purse in the tourney being held two weeks hence to celebrate the peace treaty between France and England. The men’s attention was firmly fixed on the mock battle being staged so they might judge the merits of the stock Ruarke Sommerville had offered for sale.

      Bernard had been judging, too, but he hadn’t come to buy.

      “Sommerville charges a fortune for these grays, but from what I’ve seen, they’re worth every livre,” Maslin said.

      “If a man intended to buy. Which I don’t. I’d not enrich these cursed English by one sou.” Bernard spat the last word.

      Maslin winced but resisted warning his volatile master against such open displays of hatred whilst they were in English territory. Bernard was not rational when it came to the English. Despite the peace treaty just concluded, the English would doubtless leap at the chance to hang the infamous Bernard de Lauren did they realize he was here. For the thousandth time since embarking on this scheme, Maslin wished it hadn’t been necessary to leave the rest of their men leagues away in Toulouse. However, Bernard could hardly have upheld his image as an honorable knight come to attend the tourney if he’d appeared with his band of cutthroats at his back.

      “ ’Twill be pleasant to even the score by stealing from a knight who played such a major role in conquering our country,” Maslin said. “Despite this peace treaty, King Charles may even restore your sire’s titles when he hears how you bested Ruarke.”

      “What care I for Charles’s favor or an empty title? I want money and revenge against these English bastards. Had they not killed my father and put it about I was a traitor, I’d not have been forced to change my name and hide inside Crenley Keep.”

      Actually, Maslin knew Frenchmen had killed Odell de Lauren after he had attacked them. And as to the rest, reputedly Odell had been ruthless beyond belief, and Bernard had taken up where the old man had left off. ‘Twas the main reason Maslin and his brothers worked for Bernard, or Jean Cluny as he was known to his extensive band of outlaws. Though Bernard scoffed at what they’d gained, few brigands lived as well as they did. “This peace with the English will cut mightily into our livelihood. ‘Twill be difficult now to raid the farms of the Languedoc or waylay rich merchants on the roads and blame the attacks on the English.”

      “Aye.” Bernard spat onto the grassy plain. “A pox on them and their peace. We’ll starve do we not find another source of revenue. With the profit from these horses, I’ll buy lands of my own and tenants to farm them.”

      “First we must get the horses. And it won’t be easy.”

      “I know. We’ve spent the past three days watching them.”

      Actually Maslin had sat in the rain and thus knew how closely guarded was this valuable horseflesh. The grazing pastures were ringed by Sommerville’s tents, and at night the patrols guarding the horses were doubled. Nor would they be easily overpowered. Ruarke had retired from soldiering some years before, but he had put his considerable expertise to use. His men trained daily on these very grounds, honing their skills under the exacting eye of the man King Edward had declared the greatest knight in his realm. “It won’t be easy at all. Mayhap we should wait until after the tourney, then follow some of the victors and relieve them of their prizes.”

      Bernard scratched at the whiskers on his pointed chin. He was still a handsome man, but forty years of hard living had marked him. His skin was pasty, his eyes red-rimmed. “The idea has merit, but I want Ruarke Sommerville’s horses.”

      “What did he do to make you hate him above his countrymen?”

      “‘Tis not who he is, but what.” Bernard transferred his scowl from Sommerville’s silken tents to the young men fighting their mock battle. Equipped with the finest armaments, their mail so highly polished it gleamed in the autumn sun, they fought with wooden swords and brightly painted shields. “All this was bought and paid for with booty wrested from France.”

      Maslin nodded, familiar with the story. Ruarke had left England an impoverished third son and returned a hero laden with plunder. Though he’d refused the grand titles his grateful king would have granted, ‘twas rumored Ruarke was the wealthiest man in England. “We also turned a tidy profit from the war.”

      “Tidy profit?” Bernard snarled. “All the rich prizes were snapped up by the English. I mean to make my fortune ere peace settles over the land and stifles it. And Sommerville’s horses will make a fine start. Why, I may even keep one. Mayhap that huge stallion he rides.”

      A roar from the onlookers drew Bernard’s attention back to the field. The battle had ceased, and the war-horses were lined up for closer inspection.

      “Have you seen one that interests you?” asked a deep voice, and Bernard found himself facing the very man he’d come to rob.

      Clad in a black wool tunic finer than Bernard’s feast-day best, Ruarke Sommerville sat tall in the saddle, staring down his haughty nose at Bernard. Despite his, what, three and forty years, Ruarke had the bearing of a man half that age. His broad shoulders and thick chest tapered down to a lean belly. The tiny lines fanning out from sharp brown eyes and a hint of silver in his sandy hair were the only signs of aging.

      “They are fine specimens,” Bernard said, his hatred increasing.

      Ruarke’s expression grew distant and wary. “You come from the South of France.”

      “How can you tell?” Bernard asked, masking his apprehension.

      “My wife is from there, so I recognized your accent.”

      “Ah. I was born in Narbonne,” Bernard lied. “But I’ve lived outside Paris for many years. My name is Jean Cl-Clarmont,” he stammered. Jesu, he was so rattled he’d nearly forgotten there might be men here who’d recognize his false name as readily as his birth name. “And this is my groom, Maslin Sauveur.”

      Ruarke inclined his head, but his eyes lingered overlong on Maslin’s scarred face and serviceable sword, and Bernard could read the disbelief in them.

      “The cessation of hostilities have forced many of us to find new occupations,” Bernard said smoothly. “Yourself, as well. Who would think to find the hero of Poitiers turned horse breeder?”