it.”
“Omen,” Riston snorted. “Everything is a bad omen to you.”
Clive spit a bloody wad onto the ground below and replaced his gauntlet. “Of course. If you had half brain, you’d understand this.”
Riston rolled his eyes. “ You are as skittish as a woman.”
As the two knights embarked on an insult-filled conversation, the third knight watched the approaching figure with the gaze of a hawk sighting prey. His eyes were gray, the color of the angry sky above, and wisps of fine blond hair escaped from beneath his helm to tickle his forehead. He did not keep with the Norman custom of fine-shaving his face, instead choosing to cultivate a well-manicured beard. In fact, the thick hedge of blond whiskers only served to enhance his square jaw and masculine face. He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet and sporting arms the size of oak branches.
“It’s a woman,” the massive knight said, his voice rumbling like the distant thunder.
“How can you tell, Dennis?”
“She has long hair.”
Riston squinted. His sight was poor at long distances. “I thought it was a scarf around her head.”
“A curly scarf?” Clive delighted in making him feel like a moron. “You are as blind as a mole, de Titouan. Absolutely useless.”
Dennis ignored them both. “Rist, fetch her.”
Riston made a face, preparing to argue, but he knew well the perils of arguing with his liege. It took an act of God to work Dennis d’ Vant into a rage, but it could be done. And Riston had no desire to be the recipient of a trencher-sized hand to his head. Nonetheless, with an insubordinate sigh, he spurred his charger into the meadow.
“ Do not forget to kill her!” Clive called after him helpfully.
The army had come to a halt. Dennis watched as Riston easily overtook the stumbling figure, but he knew that Riston would not harm the woman in spite of Clive’s paranoid demand. Riston rode a circle around the now-stationery figure, apparently in some sort of conversation with her.
From this distance, Dennis could see that the woman was clad only in a gown with no other sort of protection; no gloves, no overcoat, no head protection. He serious wondered why she running about in the middle of a field, miles from the nearest post. It was an odd mystery.
Suddenly, Riston reined his horse sharply to the left and took off in the direction of the distant trees. It seemed to Dennis that there was panic to his movements and instinctively, he followed. Clive was not far behind; where one of the trio went, the other two usually followed.
Dennis ’ silver charger thundered across the frozen earth. Bucephalus, as the steed was called, was a mighty beast with his master’s even-temper and legendary power. They rumbled past the sobbing, flush-faced woman and Dennis turned long enough to indicate to Clive with hand signals not to let the woman out of his sight.
Continuing across the dead landscape, he could see Riston well ahead, pulling his horse to slow near the edge of the frozen forest and Dennis immediately caught sight of a crimson pile on the ground. Riston was already dismounted and on his knees by the time Dennis arrived.
“Who is it?” Dennis demanded, dismounting before his charger came to a complete halt.
Riston did not answer for a moment; it was obvious that a woman lay before him and he gingerly rolled her over, gazing seriously into her white face. Her eyes were closed, her body freezing to the touch. He felt for a pulse in her wrist before gazing up at Dennis.
“Your future wife.”
Dennis’ face did not change expression, though his eyes flickered. It was apparent, for a moment, he did not know what to say.
“What?” he finally hissed.
Riston put his hands around the woman, half-pulling her into his arms. “That woman in the meadow,” he jerked his head back towards the road, “is her cousin. This is the Lady Ryan Elizabeth De Bretagne.”
Dennis could not believe it. “She should be at