The courier's horse covered the road at an easy canter. It was a beautiful afternoon, middle fall, sunny but pleasantly cool. The leaves of the grove had half-turned and just barely begun to fall over the road.

The two bandits - the courier assumed they were bandits - came out of the trees just behind him. He kicked his horse into a full gallop, and for a time drew away from them, but the gelding had been on the road most of the day, and tired quickly. The two riders grew closer - and then two more appeared in front of him. Being no fool, the courier drew the exhausted horse to a stop.

"I carry no money," the courier said clearly as the horsemen gathered around him. They were all well-dressed and well-armed, perhaps not bandits after all. "I have only a message. Let me pass."

The tallest of the riders was also, apparently, the leader. "Let's have the message."

"You have no right to it."

The tall man drew his sword. "The message," he repeated, in a bored tone. When the courier hesitated further, he placed the tip of his blade at the man's throat. "Now, if you please." The courier reached for the message.

"Mullens," one of the other riders said quietly.

A fifth horseman, this one much better dressed and traveling at a more leisurely pace, came up the road and joined them. "Problem?"

The tall one took the message and put his blade away. "We caught him riding across your land, sir."

"This is the King's road!" the courier protested swiftly.

"Yes, quite." Mullens took the letter and kicked his horse on up the road a few paces, covering his actions with his own body. The address of the message made him growl. The wax seal was not tight; he flicked it open, scanned the message swiftly, then licked his thumb and stuck the wax back down. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to the courier. "You are right, of course. My apologies - my men had no right to detain you. But with so many ruffians on the road these days, you'll understand our need for caution."

He held the letter out, and the courier snatched it nervously. "I'll be on my way, then."

"My men will see you safe to the end of my holdings," Mullens announced, in a tone that allowed no argument. "It's a short ride from there to your destination."

Not happily, the courier tucked the message away and started off. The four riders trailed behind him.

Alone, John Mullens pondered his most recent bit of news. Then, smiling rather wickedly, he started for home.

In the courtyard of the keep at Covington Cross, the younger sons of Thomas Grey were beating each other with sticks.

More accurately, they were fighting with staffs. They would have preferred swordplay, but their father had forbidden it the week before, while his physician was stitching a long gash in Richard's shoulder. So he and Cedric now circled each other with long, slender poles, sometimes clashing, jabbing, feinting, trying to get through each other's guard.

Then Richard spun his pole, went low, and caught his younger brother behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him. Cedric landed squarely on his butt with a grunt.

"Let me try," Eleanor said brightly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Richard answered. "You're a girl."

"That doesn't mean I can't beat you."

"No," Cedric answered, still sitting on the ground, "it means he's afraid you can."

"Well, she can surely beat you, little brother."

Above them, a window opened and Thomas leaned out. "Where's Armus?" he called.

"He's in one of his moods," Richard answered. "We haven't seen him all morning."

"You might look in his room," Eleanor offered.

Their father scowled and withdrew into the castle.

"I wonder what he's done now," Richard mused. He turned and pulled Cedric to his feet. "Again, little brother?"

Without answered, Cedric attacked.

Thomas Grey stood in the corridor for a long moment, taping the message against his hand. He was very aware that this matter needed to be handled carefully. His younger sons could be boisterous, difficult, but neither could match Armus in a test of pure stubbornness. Armus was no longer a boy. He was a grown man, and though the gentlest of men, he was also an independent thinker. Worse, Thomas rarely knew what his eldest was thinking. And this, he guessed, Armus was not going to like.

Still, it needed to be done, for a variety of reasons.

He knocked on the door, pushing it open at the same time. "Armus?"

The boy - the man - was sitting next to his open window, staring out. He had a book in his lap, unopened. He was so still, so serious, that for a moment Thomas was worried. "Armus? What's wrong? Are you not well?"

Armus moved, shaking himself out of his thoughts gladly. "I'm fine, Father. Did you want something?"

Thomas forced cheerfulness into his voice. "I've had a letter this morning from an old friend. Harold Devlin, of White Cliff."

"On the Channel."

"Yes. It seems that the Devlins host a celebration each fall, a harvest festival, and he's invited us to join them this year. The whole family."

"It's two days' ride."

"Well, yes, I know," Thomas agreed. "But there's not much work to be done here just now. It would be a nice change of pace."

Armus nodded agreeably. "There'll be fresh seafood on the coast."

"Good, then it's settled," Thomas said, greatly relieved.

The relief did not escape his son. "There's something else, isn't there?" Armus asked seriously. His father hesitated. "Father?"

Thomas sighed. "This isn't easy for me, Armus."

"It's not easy for me, either, and I don't even know what it is."

The elder Grey paced the length of the room, composing his words carefully before he returned to his son. "Armus, have you given any thought to your future?"

"Why?" Armus asked suspiciously.

"Harold's youngest daughter, Margaret . . . "

His son immediately saw where he was leading. "Oh, dear God, no."

"She's a lovely girl, Harold says," Thomas inserted quickly, "Sweet-tempered, sensible, accomplished . . . "

"He can hardly be expected to tell you she has the face and the disposition of a wild boar," Armus countered. "And in any case, I have no wish to be married."

"It wouldn't be right away, of course," Grey continued as if his son had not spoken. "Harold's just suggesting that you meet at the festival, and if it goes well, then in a year or two . . . "

"Father, please."

Thomas sighed. "Armus, I'm worried about you. You're alone far too much."

"I like being alone."

"And that's exactly why I worry," Thomas answered. "You brood, you worry over things that cannot be changed. The Crusades are over for you, Armus. Put them behind you, get on with your life."

Armus stood, slamming his book down, turning angrily toward the window. He had always known it would come to this. He was the oldest son, he had to marry, to have heirs, and the sooner the better. He had always known this day would come - he just hadn't expected it to be today. He wasn't ready, he wasn't . . . still, perhaps he could buy himself some time. He turned back to his father. "All right. I'll meet her."

"You will?" Thomas answered in surprise.

Armus shrugged. "I know you, Father. Now that you've got this idea you won't let this go. If it's not this . . . what's her name?"

"Margaret."

" ... Margaret, it'll be someone else. A procession of someone elses. But," he added sternly, "I'm only going to meet her. There's to be no talk of weddings. Agreed?"

"Of course, of course."

"And if I don't like her - or if she doesn't like me - that's the end of the matter."

"Absolutely," Thomas agreed, delighted to won even this much so easily.

Armus sighed. "When do we leave?"

The castle at White Cliff was full enough of confusion on any normal day; Harold Devlin had ten children, all but one married, and twelve grandchildren, and though they did not all live within the castle walls any more, they visited often. All of them came home for the harvest festival, plus nobles from everywhere, dissolving the place into complete but happy pandemonium for the space of a week.

And this year, with a potential groom for Margaret on the horizon, was worse than usual.

So it was not without some displeasure that Harold learned that John Mullens had arrived. Still, he gathered his wife and put on his most welcoming face and went down to meet him.

"Hello, John. We weren't expecting you. You remember Marie, of course."

Mullens bowed over her hand. "You're as lovely as ever, Lady."

"You're welcome, of course, John," Harold continued, "but what brings you here?"

"Why, you do, Harold," Mullens answered with feigned surprise. "Haven't you told me a hundred times that the harvest festival at White Cliff was not to be missed? That I must come and enjoy myself? And here I am."

Devlin nodded gravely. "You should know, John, that Thomas Grey and his family will also be our guests during the festival."

"Will they? I'm surprised. I thought they never left that pile of rocks and dirt . . . "

"They will be our guests," Devlin repeated. "I know there have been hard feelings between you, but I'll have no fighting under my roof."

Mullens shrugged. "For myself, I will promise to take no action against them while they are your guests, save in my own defense. But perhaps it would be better if I came another year."

"Nonsense. I'll have your word, and theirs, and that will be the end of it."

A young woman entered the hall. She was elegantly dressed, a great beauty, with her dress just a little too tight, a little too low. She took Mullens in at a glance - a glance that was a little too frank. "Is this Margaret, then?" Mullens asked.

"Our niece," Marie answered tightly. "Alicia, meet John Mullens. He'll be staying with us for the festival."

"A pleasure, sir," she answered at a purr.

"All mine, I assure you," Mullens answered. He lingered a long moment over her hand, taking full advantage of the view her dress offered.

"We'll have someone show you to your room," Harold Devlin said stiffly.

"Oh, I'll do that, Uncle," Alicia offered pertly.

Reluctantly, Devlin nodded. "All right. Dinner will be served shortly."

Mullens watched them out of sight, then turned back to the lovely woman who was still staring at him overtly. "So you're the Alicia they talk about."

She pouted prettily. "And what do they say?"

"That you make mischief for its own sake." Among other things.

"Does that worry you?" Alicia challenged.

"Not at all," Mullens assured her. "In fact, I find it a delightful character trait. I'm something of a mischief maker myself."

"Perhaps we should compare methods."

"Hmmm," Mullens answered. "Better still, perhaps we could combine our efforts."

Alicia took his arm. "And to think, I was afraid this festival would be a bore."

The road was broad and flat, easy to ride three or four abreast. The younger members of the Grey household, of course, were doing nothing of the sort. They were playing an improvised game of ambush, riding up behind each other and trying to knock or pull each other off their horses. Armus lagged a good twenty paces behind the group, just in front of the coach, silent and brooding again.

In a temporary lull in the game, Richard and Cedric rode side by side. "Do you think," Cedric asked, "that women on the coast are different from women inland?"

Richard shrugged. "Women are women. It's how they look at men that's different."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I imagine that most of the men at White Cliff are sailors and the like, a rough crowd. Compared to them, we're the perfect inland gentlemen. We're likely to be very popular."

Cedric grinned. "You really think so?"

"Well . . . I'll be popular," Richard amended. "I can't speak for you. Maybe someone there will like little boys . . . "

His brother's arm shot out and pushed him, hard. Laughing, Richard kicked his horse into a canter and rode away, with Cedric in hot pursuit.

Thomas checked his horse and dropped back to ride next to his eldest. For the moment, Eleanor joined them.

"Lovely day for the ride, isn't it?" Thomas asked.

Armus scowled. "It's bad enough you're making me go, Father. Don't try to make me enjoy it."

"You're going about this all wrong," Thomas argued. "She may be a very pleasant young woman."

"Then I'll be very pleasantly surprised."

Thomas sighed. "You know, Armus, I've been thinking. Please don't take this the wrong way, but . . . perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell Margaret, at least not right off . . . "

"What I did in the Crusades?" Armus snapped. "Or rather, what I didn't do? Are you ashamed of me?"

"No, Armus, I am not," his father answered firmly. "You did what you felt was right, and I respect that. It's just that this young lady, growing up on the coast, was probably raised on tales of great battles and such - without ever understanding what battle is really like."

Armus shook his head. "And how long to you recommend that I keep this little secret, Father? Until after the wedding?"

"No, no. Only until she gets to know you a bit . . . just think about it, Armus. Do whatever you think is best." And then, glad for the excuse, he shouted, "Cedric! Stop that before someone gets hurt!"

He rode ahead again, leaving Armus with his thoughts - and his sister.

"What?" Armus snapped.

"Nothing," Eleanor answered quickly. But she continued to stare.

"Eleanor, what?"

The girl shrugged. "I was just thinking . . . what if she's wonderful? What if she's lovely and kind and intelligent, and you miss her because you've already got your mind made up?"

Armus sighed. "Eleanor, if she was Venus herself I don't think I could care for her. I don't have the heart for it any more. And besides, what do you care?"

Eleanor shrugged again. "I'm just a romantic, I guess."

"No," her brother countered. "You're thinking that if I marry this girl, then you're off the hook as the lady of the house without having to tolerate Lady Elizabeth in the role."

"That's a terrible thing to say!"

"The more terrible because it's true." Armus chuckled. "Consider this, little sister: Lady Margaret may be far more objectionable to you than Elizabeth ever was."

"You'd never marry anyone like that," Eleanor protested.

Now Armus shrugged. "I might, just to torture you."

Eleanor stared at him, pretty sure - but by no means certain - that he was joking. Then she threw her head up and kicked her horse to catch up with the others.