"For the sake of God, Kit... nay, for the sake of our friendship—just sign the damned paper!"

Christopher felt the tension behind his forehead tighten and pull. His eyes were hot and dry as they fastened on the king.

The famous Tudor temper was about to explode. He could see it in Henry's hard, glittering stare, in the tight way he held his mouth. He had seen it happen hundreds of times in his thirty-four years, but never before had the rage been directed at him.

He searched the face before him again, hoping for some trace of his friend, of golden Prince Hal, with whom he had ridden and laughed and sung innumerable ballads over innumerable tankards of ale.

But his friend was gone, and in his place was a king. The golden hair was streaked with gray, the face was hard, and bitter lines traced the once-happy eyes. Hal was for-evermore gone, and in his place sat his most sovereign lord King Henry the Eighth, ruler of England and Ireland, de­fender of the faith ... and if Kit signed the accursed paper before him, head of the church.

It was not so much the disavowal of the pope that rankled Christopher as the falseness of it. Henry wanted his divorce. The pope, quite reasonably, had refused. And so there would be no pope, nor priests, nor monks, nor nuns in their convents. The church would be cast aside by the king in the same way he had cast aside his childhood toys. The way he had cast aside his wife and daughter.

He was no saint, Christopher Radbourne, and no martyr; but he was honest, and he was true. And he much misliked being bullied.

"May I remind you of the penalties, if you refuse, my lord?"

At the sound of the cloying voice, Kit shot a hard look at Cardinal Wolsey, who sat behind the king (as he ever did, these days) looking like nothing so much as a suet pudding in red velvet.

Kit didn't bother to restrain a sneer. "It is not so easy for some of us, my lord, to cast off loyalties of years." He deliberately turned away from the cardinal, back to the king. "I beg of you, Your Grace... for the sake of the years I have been your friend, and the truth I have always shown you ... do not ask me to sign this thing."

The Tudor temper raged into the king's face with a crim­son flood, and might have erupted if Wolsey had not spo­ken again.

"We need no more Thomas Moores, young man."

If the thought of Thomas Moore, sitting in his cell in the tower, awaiting death for refusing to sign the Oath of Su­premacy, was intended to shake Christopher, Wolsey had overplayed his hand.

Instead, it shook the king. Bitterness and sorrow flooded the hard eyes, and for a moment, Kit caught a glimpse of the young man he had once known.

Wolsey started to speak again, but Henry silenced him with an upraised hand. He sat like that for a moment, sor­row on his face, the rings on his finger sparkling in the candlelight.

"No," he said. "We will have no more Thomas Moores."

He met Christopher's eyes for the first time in all that long night, fully and sadly. "A king," he said finally,  "can ill afford enemies, Kit. But, by God, a king has only one friend, and that is his crown."

And then, while Wolsey stood glowering and Kit stood silently, carefully devoid of expression and waiting for the blow to fall, Henry gestured to his secretary, whose scratch­ing quill recorded the fateful words the king spoke next.

' 'I, Henry, king of England, Wales, and Ireland, by the grace of God, et cetera, do order the following. That having incurred the King's wrath, Christopher Radbourne shall re­move himself from our presence at Hatfield, and further­more remove himself from the city of London, and the county of Kent, not to return until the king's pleasure."

Christopher's face began a slow burn, as the years of loyalty and friendship were cast aside.

Then the king spoke again, uttering the words that would change his life forever.

"And more, I strip you of all lands and titles I have heretofore granted you, including Earl of Sherborn and La-throp, all your holdings and incomes thereof, and also your holdings in Radbourne Green, Langdon, and East Putnam."

Everything, gone. Kit stood like a ship buffeted by a storm, hollow and floating.

"Out of our grace and mercy, we allow you to re­tain ..." The king hesitated, frowning, his plump jeweled fingers sorting through a stack of papers. Deeds and titles of holdings flashed before Kit's eyes.

"... your estate at North Farwindale and any incomes thereof. And may God have mercy on your soul."

Christopher bowed with careful dignity, accepting the paper handed to him. He did not trust himself to speak.

He left the room with head high, not breathing until he heard the doors close softly behind him.

He had entered the room a rich man, a favorite confidant of the king, and left a veritable pauper. Except for this ... this...

He squinted at the paper in his hand.

"God's nightgown!" he bellowed. "Walter!"

His manservant appeared, pale and tense with waiting. "Sir?"

Kit handed him the deed with the same distaste with which he would have handled a dead rat.

"Where, in the name of God, is this Farwindale?" he asked, as if he were asking the way to the bowels of hell.

And when he saw it, three weeks later, he thought he might as well have.

"I should have gone to the tower."

Kit stared at the castle with stark horror. Actually, castle was the wrong word. It may have been a castle at one time, but the whole of it would not have contained the stables from his estates at Radbourne. The thick walls and crum­bling stones of the watchtowers looked as if they hadn't been repaired since the days of the Norman Conquest. The small moat was choked with reeds and green muck.

The surrounding trees had grown up and over the mossy walls, so that any invader (though who would ever want to invade such a squalid place was beyond Kit's comprehen­sion) need only have climbed through the forest brambles and up through the overhanging branches.

Rain poured from the gray northern skies, and over the crumbling towers of the keep and the heavy trees surround­ing it. It streamed over Kit's head, soaking his heavy cape so that the fur collar smelled like a wet dog. He pulled his useless cap from his dark hair, regarded the pathetic strings that had once been a jaunty plume, and hurled it into the mud.

Walter, with his horse shifting impatiently beneath him, looked from his master to the castle, and then back again.

"I'm sure, sir, that there has been an error," he ventured at last, wiping a raindrop from the end of his long nose.

"I daresay," Kit agreed. "A terrible error. And do you know who has wrought this error, Walter? God."

Walter turned his head quickly, his expression plainly saying that Kit had lost his reason. "Sir?" he quavered.

"Yes, Walter, the fault is the Almighty's. You see, on the seventh day, He rested, thinking his work well done. He had made man, and beast, and light to grow the trees and flowers. He had given us the earth, with all its beau­ties and abundance. But, Walter..." Kit drew a deep breath, and all his anger raged forth in a bellow. "He forgot about the north country!"

Walter's horse stepped back, and Walter himself wisely decided to keep silent.

"Damn the north, I say, and everyone in it. Of all the foul, despicable, Godforsaken places in this world, there is nothing as foul as the north. Damned rain and damned mud and damned useless cow paths they call roads—"

"Sir—" Walter ventured.

"And stupid moors and stinking bogs and Godforsaken forests that any man in his right mind would have hacked down years ago—"

"Sir—"

"But they didn't, did they? And do you know why? Be­cause they're northerners, Walter. Stupid, sheep-eating, muck-raking, rain-pissing-down-on-their-thick-heads north­erners. They'd probably still be running through the trees and painting themselves blue, but they're so stupid they've forgotten how. And do you know, Walter, what a north­erner would say, if you told him this?"

Speechless at this tirade, Walter shook his head.

"It doesn't matter, Walter, because if he said anything, I couldn't understand a bloody word he said!"

Having vented his rage against the weather, fate, the north, and God in general, Kit slid from his horse, and promptly sank to his ankles in mud.

"Well," he said at last. "Shall we go in, and see what manner of hospitable greeting awaits us? You may want to lead your horse across the bridge; it looks none too steady."

Kit led his shivering horse toward the decrepit wooden gates, and then stopped and looked back. "Are you com­ing?"

Behind Walter, the few servants who had traveled north to share his banishment huddled together, like a herd of wet sheep. Seven servants, where there had once been hun­dreds, and all of them peering out from beneath their wet hoods with faces that accused him of betrayal.

He could hardly blame them.

"Come along," he called, trying to look confident. "It cannot be as bad as it seems. Surely, there must be a stew­ard within, and a warm fire. Some food and wine, perhaps, to raise our spirits."

His false cheer began ebbing away as he walked beneath the arch of the gatehouse, and to the courtyard within.

Wild grasses and weeds grew between the broken cob­blestones, and the windows of the keep were dark and empty. No stableboy came to take his horse, no welcoming torch appeared at the door.

An air of abandoned melancholy hung over the place, as dark and oppressive as the falling rain.

For a moment he stood there, beneath the skies that were as dark as twilight, even at midday, and then he drew a heavy bream and went to the huge wooden doors.

Thorns had grown up over the broad steps, brown bram­bles that snagged at his fine leather boots and woolen hose.

"God's teeth!" he exclaimed, and drew his sword. He hacked viciously at the vines until he had cleared a path. ' 'Does no person tend to this? Where in the bloody hell are the servants?"

The idea that there were no servants had never occurred to him.

But it was undeniably so. The castle keep was aban­doned. The hall was empty, with only a few broken pieces of furniture littering the cold floors. Cobwebs hung like dusty spirits from the timbered beams.

The castle had been empty for years.

"Sweet Mother of God," whispered Walter, behind him.

Christopher felt much the same. Melancholy and anger fought within him, and tiredness from the long, wet jour­ney.

"Well," he said finally. "There is no help for it. Go get the others, and we will put as much to rights as we can before nightfall. Tomorrow, we will find the land's tenants, and roust them from their firesides. Their days of ease are done."

Walter walked briskly back to the door, where a square of gray light illuminated a path across the filth of the stone floor.

He stopped short just outside. "See here!" he called. "What do you think you are doing?"

The combination of anger and alarm in Walter's voice sent Kit hurrying across the floor. He stubbed his toe on a fallen beam, and swore viciously. Limping through the doorway, he came to stand on the stone step, rain streaming over him.

The seven servants who had made the perilous journey north with him had apparently decided against sharing his exile. They were busily unloading their meager possessions from the cart, bundling them onto each other's backs and under their arms, and preparing to leave.

Hodgkins, who had been Christopher's cook for almost fifteen years, was already through the gates, leaving his employer without so much as a fare-thee-well. Kit stared in disbelief at the man's broad back.

"Hodgkins! Come back, man!"

Hodgkins didn't look back.

Kit turned to his porter and scrubbing woman. "What do you mean by this? Stop this at once. 'Tis not so bad as it looks."

The scrubbing woman, whose name he couldn't remem­ber if it meant his life (and at the moment, he felt as if it did) put her red hands on her ample hips, and rounded on him with fire in her eye. The scrawny girl who worked under her hid behind the woman's girth, peeking around at him with a pale but determined face.

"Not as bad as it looks!" the woman repeated. "Nay, I'm sure of that. No doubt worse than it looks, and it looks passing foul. And evil, as well. I heard a dog howl three times, and that's all the proof I need. I'm not going into that hellish place, me."

"Heard a dog howl three times," Christopher echoed, trying to keep his wits. He didn't succeed. "God's teeth, woman! What rot is that? I've heard one dog howl, I've heard a hundred dogs howl. That's what dogs do, you blessed fool! They howl!"

"You see?" the woman asked, as if that proved her point. "And just look where thee are, now. Not for me. I'm back to London, me. Come, Sal."

Scrawny Sal, carrying four bundles to her superior's one, followed her through the puddled courtyard, hurrying after the cook.

Christopher stared in mute appeal at his driver, his foot­man, and the stableboy.

They refused to meet his eyes, except for the stableboy, who offered him a weak smile.

"Sorry, your lordship," he said, and then they too scur­ried after the others, leaving Walter and Kit standing in the rain, abandoned in front of the dank castle.

Christopher drew a deep breath.

His two cartloads of possessions stood abandoned in the rain, water streaming over the leather chests and coffers filled with useless velvet and satin doublets, fine chests of ink and quills, silver plates and Venetian goblets that had no tables to rest upon. Thank God for the casks of wine, he thought, and the food they had purchased at the last inn.

He leaned against the wet wall, closing his eyes and praying for patience.

"God's nightgown," he muttered at last.

He stamped through the puddles and mounted his horse, pitying the poor dark beast who should have had a warm stable and bag of oats waiting for him.

"Sir?" Walter queried, huddled in the doorway, and looking near tears.

"Come along, Walter, and get your skinny arse back on your horse." He wrapped his reins purposefully around his cold hands. "Let us go find our tenants, who care so little for their lord's holding. It's a situation that needs putting right."

Walter followed him with a doleful sigh. For a few min­utes, they rode in silence along the muddy road beneath the canopy of autumn trees, rain spattering off the parchment-dry leaves of russet and gold.

"We've been cursed," Walter said, wiping the rain from his cold-blotched face. "Plain and simple."

"What rot," Kit answered.

At that moment, a distant howl sounded from deep within the wood—a lost dog, or perhaps a wolf. Despite himself, Kit glanced back at the dark, thorn-covered castle. A shiver raced along his back, and he had to resist the urge to cross himself.

"Cursed," he muttered contemptuously, "by northern­ers."

The cottage was warm and bright with firelight, the stone floors free of dirt, and the wooden tables and chairs freshly shining beneath a coat of fragrant beeswax.

Isabelle bent over the newborn baby, sleeping peacefully in the wooden cradle near the fireplace, smiling as she laid her hand across his forehead.

Good. His temperature was comfortably warm, his breathing even and strong. She laid her fingers against his silken cheek, and waited.

After a moment, the familiar tingle raced through her like magic, and there it was: the knowing.

"He will live," she said confidently. "He is strong and perfect, and full of promise."

Relief showed on the face of the young father sitting at the trestle table, and he gathered his four-year-old daughter tightly against him. "God be praised," he said.

Isabelle smiled back. "God be praised," she agreed. She turned back to the corner of the room, where the new mother lay resting.

She bent over her and stroked her forehead. It was bless­edly cool. "You've done well, Nan," she said. "You've a beautiful son, and strong. It was a good birth."

Nan's eyes shone up at Isabelle, with none of the dangerous cloudiness that preceded fever. Clear and happy eyes, tired, but too enthralled by the gift of the new child to sleep.

"Thank thee, Isabelle." she said. "Isn't he bonny faced? The prettiest baby ever?"

Isabelle personally thought he looked much like every other baby she had brought into the world, but nodded agreement. "He is. And you're not to worry about him. But rest, Nan. Until..." She made a quick calculation. Five days should do. "Until the new moon is a crescent. You must do nothing but tend to the baby."

She turned a stern face to James, Nan's husband, who was a good man, but selfish. "Do you hear, Jamie? Till the crescent moon. Otherwise, it will be very bad luck for the new one. And clean linens, every day, and the old ones boiled with sweet woodruff."

James nodded, looking properly awed.

Unable to resist, Isabelle threw in a little more, for effect.

"Only applewood is to be burned in the fire, and every day, you must sing three songs—three, mind you—to the babe."

"Three songs, and applewood," James repeated.

There. The applewood would smell lovely burning, and that would cheer Nan, and the singing would cheer the baby.

"And the cottage is to stay clean,"  Isabelle added, rising and smoothing the fine green wool of her skirts.

"Don't tha worry," James reassured her. "I will do. An' I thank thee, again."

He took a fine length of linen from the chest at the foot of the bed, well woven and a lovely cream color. ' 'Your gift, if it suits thee."

Isabelle stroked the lovely cloth. "It suits me well, James."

She drew on her russet cape, tucking her dark hair be­neath the large hood. She fondled the good linen with plea­sure before tucking it in her leather bundle, next to the stoppered bottles of rosemary and gillyflower essence. Ah, the advantages of being the local witch!

She gave little Joan a sweetmeat of honey and nuts be­fore she left, and admonished her to be kind to her mama and the new baby, and told James to send for her the mo­ment Nan might run a fever, kissed the new baby, and went out into the cold.

Crispin, faithful as ever, rose up from where he had been patiently waiting, his long tail wagging. His white coat was damp and muddy, despite the shelter he had found beneath the overhang of the thatched roof. He stretched himself and regarded his mistress eagerly, his dark eyes bright.

"Aye, time for home, good dog."

Tail waving like a plume, Crispin started toward the path through the woods.

The skies were heavy and dark, and her breath showed smoky in the cold air. Isabelle cast one last glance at the warm cottage.

For a moment, envy caught at her. Oh, to be Nan! Simple and good, with two beautiful children, and a warm man holding her close each night.

"Rubbish," she said aloud, hurrying to catch up with Crispin, who was eager to be home. "Show your good sense, Isabelle."

It was all very easy to look at Nan, and envy her children and husband, but don't forget, she reminded herself, what else Nan has. Two shifts to her name, and not a moment to call her own. Backbreaking work, in her home all winter, then in the fields at the first sign of spring. Spinning and weaving late into the night, and then up at dawn. And al­ways, always deferring to a man without half of her own sense. Not allowed to have a thought, a moment, a penny to call her own. Watching time and hard work fade her health and looks away.

"Envy that, Isabelle," she told herself sternly.

Instead she focused her thoughts on the beauty of the forest, the fire-bright scarlets and golds of the forest, the wood smoke and harvest smell in the cool air. She loved autumn, the mist-covered tapestry of colors that blanketed the land. It was a time of plenty, a time of settling into her beautiful cottage for the winter, a time for the weaving and needlework that had been put aside for the summer. It was a time for—

Change.

She stopped full in her steps. The word had come from nowhere, but it had come clearly, as true and unmistakable as a bell on a winter morning.

Her ears rang a little, and buzzed, and she had to breathe deeply. Think, she told herself. See.

It was always like that, when the knowing came unex­pectedly. A few moments of confusion, and then the sight, pictures flashing across the darkness behind her eyes.

She closed her eyes tightly, willing the visions to come.

But they didn't. Instead, she heard voices.

Startled, she opened her eyes.

Crispin had heard it, too. He was waiting on the rise of a low hill, looking over his shoulder at her, and he gave a long howl, beckoning her to come.

"What is it, good boy?" she asked softly. Quietly, quickly, she left the thin trail, and hurried to where her dog waited, lifting her skirts from the ivy and leaves blanketing the forest floor, bending her slender body beneath fallen branches, until she crouched beside her dog.

From where they stood, they were looking down onto the main road leading down into the valley, where the tiny village of Farwindale lay.

Strangers.

She sat silently, watching. Two men, on horseback. Rich men, judging by the cut and deep colors of their doublets and sodden capes, and by the quality of their horses.

Change.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the falling rain. The word that came was not for the second man, thin and slumped and miserable looking, she was sure of that.

It was for the dark one, sitting fierce and proud, letting the rain fall over his coal-black curls as if it were beneath his notice to cover his head. A tall man, broad of shoulder and with sharp, almost elfin features; a high, proud brow, and strong hands. She could feel the anger in the air around him, and determination, and wounded pride.

And something else. Something wild and fiery, an ele­ment of his self that caused her heart to skip and tumble like a newly thawed brook. Something that made her breath weaken and her knees tremble. It was something she had seen happen to other women.

Yes, she had seen it happen to women, and she had seen what it did to them. It robbed them of their good sense and strength. It was a deceptive element, one that made their eyes and cheeks glow, and increased their grace, even as it ate away at their pride and power, at their very selves.

"It will not happen to me!" she whispered aloud, turning away.

Startled at her voice, Crispin regarded her with interest, and gave an uncertain whine. He looked back down at the two men on the road, asking with his wriggling body and anxious posture whether or not he should give chase.

Isabelle rose to her feet. "Home, Crispin," she said firmly.

With one last glance at the road, he obeyed, charging back to the path and waiting, while Isabelle followed, mak­ing her way carefully through the bracken.

"It seems we have a new lord in the castle again, Cris­pin," she said. "Not to worry about. This one shall go, like all the rest."

But even as she spoke, her words firm and resolute, a quiver of uncertainty trembled through her body.

Her sixth sense, the knowing that Gran had told her was a gift from God, had never been wrong before. And now it told her that this man, this dark nobleman clothed in velvet and pride, would not be as easily turned out as his predecessors had been.

Beyond that, she knew only two things—desire, and un­certainty. Change might be coming, but what change?

The desire she could cast aside. The uncertainty she would fight. She would bend it, forge it into reality. She would get rid of this man before the change could touch her.

"So be it," she told herself aloud, and hurried toward home, where everything was orderly and safe and secure, as it always had been.

But for the first time in her life, Isabelle, the witch of the misty mountain, was frightened.

The little village of Farwindale lay in a valley, sheltered by the forested hills. The scattered farms and cottages seemed all alike, built of gray stone and rough-hewn timbers and thatched roofs. The summer fields of barley and rye were barren and brown now. The village itself seemed to consist of a church, very old and in bad repair, and an inn, barely recognizable by the faded sign above the door.

It looked, to Kit, like a hundred other isolated farming communities, with hedgerows and thatched barns and low stone fences penning in a few sullen-looking cows and sus­picious sheep.

"Except, of course," he pointed out to Walter, "that we have yet to meet a single soul who is not mad. A more surly, thickheaded bunch I have never seen!"

"They are, of course, northerners," Walter pointed out.

But that didn't explain the doors slammed and bolted in their faces, the children who ran from their muddy yards at their approach, the men who refused to even speak to them or acknowledge their words.

Kit glanced at Walter, now so wet that rain dripped off his nose like water from a duck's bill, save that no duck had ever been made so miserable by water.

"Even for northerners," Kit said, "they are passing peculiar. It is as if some disease has struck them all dumb."

There was no stableboy at the inn to take their horses, so they tied them themselves in the long, low sheds and made their way through the muddy inn yard, hoping for a warming fire, and perhaps one inhabitant of the valley who could or would speak plain English.

The fire was there, blazing in the wide hearth, and a fine-looking piece of mutton roasting above it.      

The man who might speak was there, too. Kit presumed him to be the innkeeper, since there was nobody else in sight.

He was an old man, with sparse hair that looked as if it needed a good comb, sticking out in all directions in com­ical tufts. His eyebrows, too, needed taming. His watery eyes regarded the newcomers with something less than wel­come, and his bottom lip was pushed up so far that Kit thought it might reach the overhang of his large nose.

"Go 'way, youse."

Walter raised a pleading glance heavenward, as though beseeching God to take him at that moment.

"At least he speaks," Kit muttered. This was something, at the least. Progress, of sorts, and he had no intention of "going 'way."

"Old man," he said, taking off his cloak and draping it across a scarred table, "I can think of no reason for your rudeness. We have no argument with you, nor mean any ill. This is an inn, a public house, I believe, and we've traveled a long and tiresome way. May we not at least sit by your fire?"

"Oswin," was the sharp reply, and with much huffing and puffing, the old fellow turned his chair away so that Kit was left with the view of a stooped back and balding head.

"I beg your pardon?" Kit and Walter exchanged puzzled glances.

"Oswin," repeated the surly fellow, without bothering to turn his head. "That be my name. Not old man. I know I'm an old man. Any fool can see I'm an old man. Tha didn't have to come mucking in here to tell me I'm old. 1 know what 1 know."

"I can hardly dispute that," Kit said, trying to be agree­able. He settled himself on a nearby bench, stretching his legs toward the welcoming fire. His boots of fine Spanish leather looked near ruin.

His ungracious host ignored him.

Kit glanced back at Walter, still standing, his clothes dripping a puddle onto the dried rushes that covered the floor.

Walter made a nervous "don't ask me" gesture.

Old Oswin gave Kit a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye, without bothering to turn his head.

"May I please have some wine? Or ale?" Kit tried his most charming, well-mannered tone.

Oswin turned his head at that, looking at Kit with as much outrage as if he had asked to rape his daughter and steal his sheep.

"Wine, is it?" he barked, so suddenly that Kit jumped back a little. "Ale, is it? Lord have mercy." But he got out of his chair, with a lot of sighing and labored breathing, as if the effort cost him greatly, and made his way across the room with a shuffling, slow progress, grumbling all the way, his rough smock swinging from his bony shoulders.

Kit had to strain to hear the muttered words. "Young folk," he heard, and "high and mighty," and "mucky boots," and "bothering old men," and in a particularly nasty tone, as the door swung shut behind him, "southern­ers."

"Good God," said Walter. "What was that?"

"That is Oswin, apparently," Kit retorted. "And as he's the first damned man that will speak to us, I advise you to tread carefully with him, before he sends us out into that accursed rain."

"Good God," Walter repeated, looking askance at the door through which the old man had exited.

After a very long time, he came back, bearing mugs of heavy crockery in each hand.

"Well-a-day!" he snapped, as they watched him. "D'ye expect me to feed it to you? Big lads like you thinkin' an old man should fetch and carry to you."

Walter hastened to take the mugs, and brought one to Kit, who sniffed it before drinking.

Thankfully, it was cider, warm and thick and potent. The finest wine could not have been more welcome.

"I thank you," Kit said, when he finished.

"That's good cider, that," Oswin said, as if they might challenge the fact.

"The finest," Kit agreed, trying hard to be patient.

He waited until the old man had settled himself into his chair, again with much huffing and effort, and made himself comfortable by his fire.

There they sat, a very uncomfortable-looking trio, until Kit could stand the silence not a second more.

"Oswin," he began.

The old man turned a disapproving eye upon him.

Kit took a deep breath. "I could not help but notice, as we made our way here, that the people of Farwindale seem... a mite unfriendly. That is, I seem to have given offense, and cannot think how. Why is it, Oswin, that we are turned away from every doorstep, and treated as if we had the plague?"

"Do you?"

"Have the plague? God's nightgown, no!"

"No need to swear," Oswin said, his lower lip creeping farther up to his nose. "The young lads, nowadays ..."

"Why is it?" Kit repeated, trying to control his exas­peration.

"It's not respectful, tha's all. Swearing to an old man."

Kit buried his face in one hand and prayed for patience. "Not that. Why are we treated so? Do you know?"

"Everyone does." Oswin thought about it for an inter­minable length of time, and then decided to share. "It's because you're cursed, is what."

Walter made a startled sound, and Kit choked a little on his cider.

"What in the hell do you mean?" he burst out.

Oswin took great offense to being sworn at again, and said so, and Kit had to apologize, again, and Oswin said that the young were a loutish, mannerless lot these days, and Kit had to agree again, particularly southerners, Oswin thought, and Kit could barely contain himself, but agreed again, and eventually he smoothed the surly old rooster's feathers and steered him around (after many apologies) back to the curse.

"It's like this," Oswin said finally, in a tone that implied he half resented telling the tale, and half relished being the bearer of bad news. "There was a fine family up at the castle. And they was witches. Just the women, mind you. Good-looking lot. Witches, though."

The old man stared into the fire, lost in thought. After a time, he jumped a little. "Where was I?" he asked.

"Witches," Kit reminded him.

"Oh, tha's right. And the prettiest one, that was Bess. Just a little older than me. Of course, that wasn't old a'tall. We were young, then, though some may not believe it.

"As that may be, when Bess was just sixteen, and pretty—did I say she was lovely? She was. Her father died, and that king fellow in the south said she was to marry. A right foul old man he was, too."

' 'The king?'' Walter asked, listening avidly.

"Don't know. Never met the fella, meself. And a good thing, too. Got no time for kings and that sort, me."

Kit could have kicked Walter for interrupting, but man­aged to content himself with a good glower. "So she didn't like her husband?''

"Husband? Hah! Tha's good, that is. Can't make a witch marry when she doesn't want to. No, by the time he got here, she were gone. Turned all the lands of the castle over to her people. And all legal-like, too. Papers with writing, and signed before the priest. Nobody was left to work the lands for the surly old barstard. Hah!" Oswin looked well pleased, and made a wheezing noise that could have been mistaken for a laugh. "He didn't much like that, I can tell you."

"I should imagine not," Kit agreed, but with a sinking heart. A castle with no tenants? A land with no income? It was unheard of! Why, it would leave you with—

Nothing. Just an empty, abandoned castle, with thorns growing over the walls, and spiders running through the rooms.

"And no matter what he offered to pay," Oswin went on, ' 'he couldna buy the lands back, and none of his gold could buy him a servant. The castle fell to ruin, and his fields sat till the forest took them back. And there it is. Two other lords have come and gone, and the castle sits there like an empty piss pot."

Kit thought that a fine description of his new home.

"Good God," said Walter again.

"But surely," Kit said, after consideration, "the curse cannot be held against me. I've offended no witches, nor anyone else, for that matter."

"Hah!" Oswin said. "Too bad for you. That's the nature of the curse, you see. Not just agin' the lord of the castle, but anyone who bends to serve him, or moves to help him. It'd be bad luck for us if we did. Until the castle is returned to the witch's family, you see. Now, you be a good lad, an' take thaself back south where thee belong. We'm doing just grand, ourselves, without any lords and whatnot run­ning about and getting in our way."

Oswin looked very pleased at himself for this clever sug­gestion.

"Jesu grant me patience," Kit said, and leaned forward to look at the old man.

Oswin granted him what might have been a smile, the lines on his face deepening like freshly plowed furrows in a field. "That's my best advice to thee, lad, and as good as thee might get. If thee was clever—and that I won't bet on—thee would heed it. Things could get bad for you, if thee were to stay. Now, me, I've said too much, and given too much a'ready. God help me if the witch found out."

Kit's belief in witches was marginal, at best, but Oswin's obviously was not. Still, it never hurt to try.

"Old—I mean, Oswin—suppose I were to offer you my protection, in return for your assistance. You might help to convince the local folk to work for me. I'd reward you well."

"Your protection!" Oswin's lower lip poked out like a shelf. "Don't be thick, lad. Lot of good that would do, did the witch find out. And find out she would."

Kit's good nature was stretched beyond endurance. "God's nightgown, man! What would the crone do? Turn you into a sheep?"

Oswin glowered. "Eeeh," he said, a sound that spoke of his disapproval. "She might do." He leaned back in his chair and scratched at his tufted hair, as if considering. "Wha's the name of that great horse tha rode in on?" he asked at length.

Kit drew a deep breath, exasperated. "What in the devil does that have to do with anything? It's a bloody horse. He doesn't even have a name!"

"Hah! I thought not." Oswin closed his eyes, and after a moment, looked as if he might be sleeping.

Kit and Walter exchanged frustrated glances.

"Looks a lot like my brother Sidney, that horse does," Oswin said, without bothering to open his eyes.

Walter clapped a hand to his forehead with a pained look, and Kit dropped his face into his hands.

Within seconds, Oswin gave a noisy snore, and then an­other.

The conversation was over.

Together, Walter and Kit cleared away as much debris as they could from the floor in the great hall, and swept a place dean before the vast fireplace, using makeshift brooms of leafy branches.

They managed to start a fire of what dry wood they could find in the keep, and the least-wet wood they could find fallen in the woods outside. It produced more smoke than heat, but was better than nothing.

They spread bundles of dry clothing before the fire, shared a cask of Sicilian wine, and lay down to sleep for their first night in Farwindale Keep.

Kit tried not to let his thoughts stray to his old bedchamber at Radbourne, his huge feather bed curtained in tawny velvets, the warming stove of glistening Dutch tiles, the clean and fragrant walls of carved walnut, the patterned carpets that blanketed the floors.

He was cold, and miserable, and disgusted with the ig­norant villagers of Farwindale. He hated the north, and the king, and himself for his stupid ideas of honor and truth. He even hated Walter, and his annoying snuffling nose. And he hated the witch, the old crone living somewhere out in the wet forest, harboring a grudge for sixty years or better.

Tomorrow, he resolved, he would put this idiotic situa­tion to rights. There was a church in the village, so there must be a priest. He would enlist his help, if possible, and confront the old crone and her curses.

Surely, no old woman in the woods would be a match for him. First thing in the morning, he would saddle up Sidney, and be on his way.

The way to the crone's cottage was a small, twisting path through the forest. Kit regretted coming on horseback. Poor Sidney was being scratched by brambles, and several times he himself had to dismount to make his way under low branches.

It was almost as if Nature herself had contrived against him, he thought—the thorns, the fog, the uneven path that led up the steep hill. At least the rain had stopped.

He had wasted almost a full hour of morning convincing old Oswin to give him proper directions, and had to part with a full gold coin for the dubious privilege, only to have Oswin tell him that it was probably false, and then chastise him roundly for "mucking about and deceiving old men."

But Kit was determined. No old crone would interfere with his life, as pathetic as it might presently be.

He had dressed carefully that morning, hoping to dazzle and intimidate the ignorant old woman with the trappings of his wealth and power. He had combed his dark hair and beard, and chosen his favorite doublet of black velvet and silver thread, the sleeves slashed and puffed to show the fine linen beneath. Jewels glittered on his fingers, and his cape was lined with priceless black sable from Russia. He knew that he looked rich and powerful, and hopefully intimidating. He would have the ignorant hag begging for his mercy—if he could ever find her.

Just when he had decided that Oswin had purposely mis­led him, and that he was lost in the accursed forest, he came to a stream with a narrow but sturdy plank bridge across it.

On the other side of the bridge, the trees opened into a clearing, and there stood the witch's hovel.

But it was not a hovel.

It was amazing, really. The land surrounding the house was clear of trees. Orderly gardens, as carefully tended as any noblewoman's, surrounded the lovely house. Herbs and autumn flowers grew in designs of knots and circles, and a careful path of stones led to the door.

The house itself was a surprise. It was small, certainly, but at least twice the size of the cottages dotting the coun­tryside. It was built of sturdy stone and dark timbers. The thatched roof looked new and thick, the door was well built, with heavy hinges and a fine lock. Most amazing of all, the shutters were open, showing glass windows, something he had never seen in a peasant's cottage, and they glowed through the fog with the warm light of a fire.

It gave him pause. What manner of crone was this, to have amassed such wealth and comfort? His own stewards and gatekeepers did not boast such fine houses!

"Be damned," he muttered aloud. Perhaps this wouldn't be as simple as he had imagined. Obviously, the hag had convinced enough people of her power to amass a certain amount of wealth.

Little mind, though. Whoever she might be, she would be no match for him. He started forward, tugging on Sid­ney's reins to guide him over the bridge.

For the first time in six years, the horse balked. Kit pulled again sharply.

"Come, horse," he ordered, in sharp tones.

Sidney shook his head, and pulled back furiously, huffing great clouds of breath into the cold air, and struggling against his master's pull.

Kit engaged in a furious struggle for several minutes, swearing at the balking beast, but Sidney refused to cross the bridge, and at last settled the matter by ramming his head squarely against Kit's chest.

The blow knocked Kit's breath from his chest and his feet from the bridge, and he barely managed to catch his balance as he landed knee-deep in the stream.

 He looked down with fury as icy water filled his boots and autumn leaves swirled past his knees, floating down­stream. To add insult to injury, his velvet cap fell off, ruby and gold clip sparkling, and followed the leaves like a mighty warship chasing a small armada.

He drew a deep breath and glowered at his rebellious horse, who had retreated from the bridge and was content­edly eating leaves.

"You motherless son of a pox-ridden whore," Kit said. "Devil take you."

Sidney raised his head, gave his master a contemptous look, and turned his backside to view. His black tail twitched as if in dismissal.

Kit climbed from the water and back to the bridge, water squelching between his toes. He started toward the horse again, and the animal pulled back in alarm. An astounding thing, almost as if the animal were ...

Bewitched.

The word came to him with such a clarity that he froze in his footsteps and lifted his hand to cross himself.

"What superstitious dung!" he exclaimed aloud, an­noyed with himself as much as his horse.

Sidney cast a long look over his flank, his ears twitching.

"Ballocks," Kit muttered at the traitorous animal, and he turned to face the witch's house. He hesitated, then grew angry at himself for doing so, and strode up the flagstone path, shoulders squared and chin thrust forward.

He hammered at the door with his leather-gloved fist, and waited.

There was no answer.

He looked around. The tidy gardens and surrounding for­est lay silent. Only the sound of the brook, tumbling over the rocks, sparkled in the foggy wood.

He felt wary, uneasy... almost as if he were being watched.

"Rot," he muttered aloud, and banged at the door again. "Old crone," he shouted. "Show yourself."

He waited, and looked around again. Across the bridge, Sidney watched with great interest, his mouth full of leaves.

Kit banged again. "Old hag!" he shouted. "I am being reasonable. Come out and speak to me, or I shall enter unwelcomed. It is no good hiding yourself. I can wait all day and night, if needs must."

He heaved a sigh, and tried again. ' 'Right, then. You try my patience, witch! You'll not play me for a fool. I'm a patient man, and a reasonable man—"

"Then why are you shouting at an empty house, pray tell?"

He whirled about, one hand flying to the dagger at his waist, and confronted the hag.

But she was no hag.

More like a fairy queen, or the legendary green lady of the wood. She stood, straight and slender as a young wil­low, a basket of greens under one arm.

Her eyes were bright and sparkling with mirth, a tawny golden brown, set in a face of silken smooth texture, with a sheen to her rounded cheeks like the blush on a fresh apricot. A few freckles sprinkled her nose like cinnamon on cream.

Her hair was confined beneath a fine white cap, the strings untied and hanging over her shoulders, and a riot of deep brown curls hung from beneath, clean and with an autumn red gloss.

Her dress was of fine green wool, tucked up at the sides to keep it from the wet grass, showing an underskirt of butter yellow beneath, trimmed with gay ribbons of red and green. The bodice of her gown was likewise laced with shining ribbons, showing the clean white of her smocked chemise and sleeves, and a healthy swell of bosom above.

Her cape of russet was tossed back over her shoulders, and at her side stood a large white dog, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Will you not speak, sir?"

Flustered and shaken by the sudden appearance of this glowing creature, Kit stammered for a moment before he found his tongue.

"Ah, yes. I thought—that is—I'm here to speak to the witch."

The dark brows rose over the merry eyes. "Are you? Then you are in luck, for I am she."

"You aren't. That is, I was given to understand that you were much older. The lady of the castle, that was turned out, that is..." Damn! He was stammering like a fool, caught by surprise and feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

"I see." She tipped her head, and cast a knowing look at him. "You were expecting my grandmother, I think. And she was not 'turned out' of the castle; she left, freely and of her own accord. She married her own true love, and together they built this house upon his land, and it is now mine, and you, sir, are trespassing. I bid you good day."

Having delivered this incredible and haughty speech, she pushed past Kit as if he were nothing, and took a great ring of keys from her belt, fitting one to the lock on the heavy door.

"Witch—" he began, and she whirled about, one eye­brow lifted.

He felt like a schoolboy caught in a breech of manners.

"I do not know your name," he explained, feeling re­buked by her affronted look.

" 'Tis not 'witch,' that I can tell you, any more than Oswin is called 'old man' or Crispin here is called 'dog.' We are backwards here in the north, but not that much, Christopher Radbourne."

Again, she had him rattled. She tossed a haughty look over her slender shoulder, turned the key in the door, and went into the house, her basket swinging on her arm. Be­hind him, the white dog made a low noise in his throat.

"Crispin! Come in!" she called.

Kit stood awkwardly, trying to collect himself, and then she popped her head out the open door.

"You may come in, too, Christopher Radbourne, for a moment or two. But I advise thee to be on good behavior, or Crispin shall take offense."

He stepped in after her. This was not how he had in­tended this scene to be played. He was to have ridden up on his fearsome mount, dazzling the old and ignorant peas­ant woman with a show of strength and wealth, and have her groveling at his feet within moments.

And instead, he stood humbly by the door, uncertain of how to proceed, dazzled by this sharp-tongued, enchanting young woman, who was as lithe and lovely as any woman of wealth.

"Things don't always happen as we might like," she said.

Christopher had the uncanny feeling she had read his thoughts. He simply stood in the doorway, silent, looking around.

It was a large room, as cottages go, and startling.

To begin with, there were no rushes covering the floor, for fleas to live in or mice to eat at the bits of food that fell from the table. Only smooth stone, clean and shining.

A fire burned briskly in the stone fireplace, reflecting gold and red off the shining floor. A few good pieces of silver—a bowl, a large cup, and a few plates—were dis­played on the mantel.

There was a cozy chair, of fine woodwork with a high back, bearing cushions of faded but clean blue brocade. It looked as if it had come from a better place. A lute leaned against it, a rosette of ribbons streaming from the neck. The trestle table was of plain but highly polished oak, with a single silver bowl upon its worn surface.

Shelves lined the wall, and a great cupboard, its doors open to reveal many jars and bottles and flasks of both glass and crockery. Dried herbs hung in abundance from the beams, filling the cottage with a spicy, delicate perfume.

It was, without doubt, the cleanest, most fragrant room he had ever been in. No odors of sweat, or rotten meat, or smoke. No mold upon the plastered walls, or insects buzz­ing about. Just the smell of rosemary and lavender, and fresh bread.

"Sit down, and break your fast, if you like." He watched as she moved about the room, her motions quick and efficient as she left her basket of herbs on the table, untied her cape, and laid it neatly across the narrow bed by the wall, smoothed her hair, and went to the fire.

She used an iron hook to drag a large kettle from the coals, and uncovered it. She lifted small loaves of bread from the kettle with a long fork, and deposited them on a clean slab of polished wood.

"Sit," she said, without turning to look at him.

Silently, Kit obeyed, and watched her as she unlocked her pantry. She spoke not a word as she filled the table before him with fresh, crumbling cheese and hot bread, a wooden bowl of cooked apples, and a pewter mug of ale.

It was amazing. She paid no more attention to him than she would have paid to a visiting cottager. Her calm and confident air verged on arrogance, as if she was completely unconcerned with what he might be doing there. He had never seen a peasant behave so in his presence.

She sat down opposite him while he ate, and began tying the herbs from her basket into neat bundles, wrapping twine around their stems with expert fingers.

He ate quickly, feeling indebted for the good food. It was filling and warming and excellent. There were no bits of stone in the bread, and the apples were cooked with a generous amount of sugar, and seasoned with nutmeg.

He finished quickly, and started to speak, hesitating when he realized he didn't know her name, even though she had learned his.

"Isabelle," she said, without looking up from her herbs.

Damn! How did she do that? Was she truly a witch, or simply observant and clever?

"Isabelle," he repeated. It suited her. It was fey and pretty, but had a brisk sound. It was a name that meant business. "Isabelle, we seem to be at odds, and it must needs be put to rights."

"I'm very happy, thank you," she said, looking up long enough to offer him a short, mirthless smile. "I can think of nothing in my life that needs tending to. You, on the other hand, seem to be quite distressed. My advice to you is to go back where you've come from, and leave well enough alone. Farwindale Keep cannot possibly hold any attraction for you. It would take an army of workers to make it comfortable, and those you have not, nor will you have. Give up, go home, and don't bother me again."

She spoke to him as if she were his equal, or even worse, his better. As if she had the right to give orders!

He had been polite long enough. It was time to switch back to his original plan.

He drew himself up to his full height, and looked sternly at her.

"Are you aware, woman, that it is against the law of England to practice witchcraft or sorcery?''

Her eyes met his gaze squarely, tawny and clear and unafraid. "To the word of the law," she retorted, "it is illegal to attempt to do or wish harm to the king's person by sorcery. It is not illegal to practice healing, or astrology, or to study herbs and their medicines. I've broken no laws, nor caused any ills, nor committed any heresy against the church, nor offended the king's person in any way. Which, by the by, you must have, or you wouldn't be at Farwin­dale."

"Damn!" The wench was too clever by half. "How did you know that?"

"I watch and I listen. And sometimes, I just know. 'Tis a gift I have." Again her eyes flickered briefly to him, bright and clear.

"I don't believe you. You might keep the villagers in thrall with your tales of witchery and claims of power, but I don't believe it. I'm no ignorant country boy to be bullied and frightened."

"Good." She scooped up her herbs, climbed to stand on the bench, and began hanging them from the rafters in or­derly lines. "Then we understand each other. I am no ig­norant country girl, to be bullied and frightened. That was what you had intended, was it not?"

Half admiring and half infuriated, Kit watched her as she worked, her slender body and shining curls dipping and swaying as she hung her herbs to dry from the dark beams. "Aye," he finally admitted, "that was my plan."

"You've failed," she observed.

"See here." Kit straightened his posture. "Why be dif­ficult? Why make me to suffer? What cause could you pos­sibly have to mislike me so?"

She stopped and looked down at him, and he was struck again by her pretty, intelligent face, and the clean glow of her skin. Her cap had slipped back as she worked, and a dark curl had fallen to caress her cheek. He wondered what she was thinking.

At length, she shrugged. "What do you think I might do? 'Twas not my curse that bedevils you, 'twas my grand­mother's."

"That stupid curse," Kit muttered. "What good is it to you?"

"A lot," she retorted, climbing down at last. She placed her hands on her slender hips and seemed to consider her words before she spoke. "Very well, Christopher Rad­bourne. I shall speak honestly to you. I am no more witch than you. The only magic I possess is my education in the ways of herbs and people, a belief in that which cannot be proven, and an occasional gift of second sight. And the most powerful magic I possess is this: the belief of the people of Farwindale."

He nodded, accepting what she had said, even though he doubted the second sight business.

“The curse my lady grandmother leveled against the new lords of the keep has held true over three generations' time. If you were to move in, and begin leading a merry and comfortable life, do you know what the people would say?"

"I wouldn't care, really," Christopher answered, "as long as I had a good bed to sleep in and food to eat."

"That's all well for you. They would say I had lost my powers, that the witches of the misty grove were no more able to change the course of time and nature than they themselves. They would lose their belief, and I would be nobody. Just another woman."

"And what if they did?" Kit demanded. "What would be so terrible about that?"

Her eyebrows shot up, and she looked at him with some­thing like contempt. "You're just like all the other stupid rich, aren't you? Cannot see anything past your own desires and comforts, can you? Have you ever considered, my lord, the life of a poor woman without defenses?''

"They marry, don't they? Like all women?"

"Aye, they do," she retorted, and began clearing away his empty mug and trencher with quick, sharp movements. "And when they do, they sign their own death warrants. They have nothing. A woman may not call her shift her own, 'tis the property of her husband. And he can take it from her, and beat her for complaining if he likes. And the children, sir! Ten and more, one after the other, and most dying before they can walk. The grief of it! But no time to mourn, she! Up at the next dawn, scrubbing and planting and weaving and sewing, and waiting on the great lout that rules her life, and working late into every night. Mayhap a day of peace, if you call it that, while she whelps another pup, and mayhap one more day to bury it. Marriage! Speak not of marriage to me!" She dipped the pewter mug into a pail of water, and polished it furiously on her apron.

"God's nightgown." Kit was shocked by the fury in her voice. "It cannot be as bad as all that."

"Can it not? Would you swallow your pride and soul to become slave to another's wishes? Renounce your be­liefs?"

She stopped and drew breath, and then stared at him with a queer, curious look on her face. The ripe color in her cheeks deepened, and her tawny eyes clouded, and then brightened.

"Of course you would not," she said softly. "After all, that is why you were sent away, is it not? You would not be false, either to yourself, or to that you believe in."

He could not answer. He simply sat, stunned at her per­ception, or knowledge, or whatever it was. He could do nothing but stare at her.

And for several moments, he believed in her power. She was magic. She knew. She was beautiful, and sharp as a sword, and fiercely true to her own honor. She was like no other woman he had ever met.

At that moment, the sun outside broke through the fog, and flooded through the heavy glass of her windows, light­ing her hair and face with a glow that seemed almost mys­tical, framing her slender body like a gilt frame. And Kit felt an answering spark within himself, one that was more earthly than mystical.

It shocked him, the sudden desire, the heat of it. And it disturbed him that it was not just her pretty face and glow­ing skin that caused it, but also her quicksilver mind and quick wit.

"By the saints!" he exclaimed, turning impatiently from the sight of her, and struggling to regain what was left of his wits. "You try me sorely. None of this has to do with me. 'Tis foolish prattle, this bemoaning of a woman's lot."

The dog, who had stretched his long body out for a good nap before the fire, raised his head with a low growl at the harsh tones.

' 'Foolish to you. To me, it is my very life. Should I give all this up, then, so that a rich man can have one more castle?"

"Give what up?" Kit demanded, looking around. "A peasant's hovel in the forest? A garden? Are you mad, woman? It's not worth the smallest ring on my finger."

His contempt didn't move her. She simply walked to her chair by the fire, and pulled the tapestry frame toward her­self. She took the needle in her fingers, and turned to give him a proud, knowing smile.

"How wise you are. How foolish of me. I have nothing, and you are a rich and powerful man. That having been set straight, I advise you to leave me to my squalid cottage, and go back to your fine castle. Oh, and see if mat ring you mentioned will feed you and warm you."

Infuriated, Kit could not speak.

' 'And close the door behind you,'' she added, her eyes intent on the needlework before her. "Or Crispin might take offense."

At the sound of his name, the great dog rose to his feet, and turned his dark eyes on Kit.

"God's teeth," Kit muttered, unwilling to admit defeat. "This is not finished, madam."

He did not look back as he left, though he did close the door tightly out of deference to Crispin's formidable jaws.

Sidney was standing where Kit had left him, having fin­ished his breakfast of leaves, and now appeared to be en­joying the rare autumn sunlight.

"Traitor," Kit said, climbing none too gently onto the sturdy back. The sunlight glittered off his rings as he took the reins, and he glanced at the jewels with disgust, thinking of the cold ruin of a castle that awaited him.

Worthless. His jewels were worthless, and his gold would not buy him one decent working man, because of Isabelle.

"I am not giving up, Madam Witch," he said, turning and looking back at the stone cottage. "We shall see which of us bows first."

Somewhere in the glowing gold and crimson leaves of the forest, a bird chattered, and it seemed to Kit that it was mocking him.

He swore that he would find some way to defeat Isabelle, and bend her to his will. He swore that he would not give up.

He rode to the inn, and tried again to bribe old Oswin into becoming his ally. He parted with three silver pence, and in return received nothing more than a mealy bowl of porridge, a decent mug of cider, and a running monologue of the old man's complaints about the young, the weather, his chilblains, and the misery of life in general.

He located the village priest, and found Father Timothy to be a personable if useless man. The rumors of witchcraft, according to the good father, were just that—silly rumors; he spoke with great respect of Isabelle's skill with herbs, her diligent care of the villagers, and her high moral char­acter, and gave a very lengthy discourse on the quality of her cowslip wine, which he did not offer to share.

Disgusted, Kit returned to the castle to find Walter hud­dled in the dust before the dying fire, sniffling and com­posing poems to a lass he had known in London—maudlin verses about her sterling qualities.

Kit was feeling nasty enough to point out that her most obvious quality was the length of her nose, the only one he had ever seen that surpassed Walter's. He then added insult to injury by bullying Walter into helping him dung out the stables, a foul job made worse by the lack of shov­els.

Tired and filthy, they returned to the great hall to find that rats had helped themselves to the meager remnants of their foodstuffs, with the exception of some particularly foul cheese.

"Beg the witch," Walter suggested. "Offer her any­thing. Everyone has their price, Kit."

"Do they?" Kit retorted. "As to begging, I'd rather have my teeth removed with broken glass. She's an arrogant and vain wench, and I'll not beg anything of a superstitious peasant girl. I'd rather starve."

"We may well do," Walter grumbled. " 'Tis a sorry shame we cannot dine on pride, Kit. You'd have enough for a feast."

Disgusted, Kit left Walter huddled in his cape before the fire and went off in search of firewood. He had never before thought of what a passing amount of work it took just to keep a fire going.

When he lay on his makeshift pallet that night, huddled before the fire and listening to the wind howl through the empty castle, he tried not to think of Isabelle, who was probably asleep in her warm bed, on lavender-scented sheets beneath blankets of soft wool. He wondered what she had dined on, sitting before the fire in her sweet-scented cottage. A mutton pie, perhaps. Maybe some of the cowslip wine Father Timothy had mentioned. The thought made his stomach grumble.

"Damn!" he exclaimed, and pulled his cape tighter around him. Outside, he heard a distant rumble of thunder, and soon the rain started again, slapping against the trees and trickling down the walls.

"I'll not beg her," he muttered, and Walter made a sad sound in his sleep from the other side of the hearth, and then commenced snoring, an irritating pattern of a long, broken snort followed by a series of whimpering sniffles.

Kit cursed again, pulled his cloak over his head, and tried to sleep, swearing that he would never beg the witch. His resolve lasted only two more days.

Isabelle looked closely at old Oswin's eyes. They looked cloudy. She rested her fingers briefly at the base of his throat, and frowned at the pulse. It seemed slower, and every now and then skipped a beat completely.

"You've not taken your physick, have you?" she asked.

Oswin glowered, looking more like a sulky child than a an of almost eighty years. "Nasty stuff, that."

"I know. But if you put it in your cider, you will scarcely know."

"And ruin a good mug of cider," Oswin grumbled. "And for what? I'm old, and that's that. No need for me to keep hanging on. No wife, nor children. Who'd miss me?"

"Why, I should, Oswin." Isabelle carefully measured an amount of the medicine into the old man's mug. "And the fine lord of the castle would. He'd be starving, if not for you."

"Eeeh," Oswin said. "That wouldn't be right, that. He's not a bad fellow. Big mouth, but not all bad. For a south­erner," he qualified, taking the mug from Isabelle and drinking. "Trying to kill me, you," he added with a grim­ace.

Isabelle smiled, and turned back to her willow basket. "Here. I've brought you some of this morning's baking, and some pies. Chicken."

"Chicken's not bad," Oswin admitted.

It was his favorite, Isabelle knew. "It will do," she agreed.

The old man sighed, and leaned back in his chair. He tired more easily these days.

"Have you chosen a husband yet?" he asked suddenly, opening his eyes. He liked to argue, and this was one of his favorite topics when Isabelle dropped by.

"No, indeed," she said, laughing. "I'm still waiting for you to speak, Oswin. If I can't have you, why, who else would I marry?"

"I'll be dead and gone before long," he said, which was his second favorite topic. "And then what will thee do, lass? Don't want to end up like me, all alone and none to care."

"There are worse fates." She glanced out the window. The sun was breaking through the fog, and the morning was already spent. "Have you heard aught of Atwell's Betsy? Is her cough better?"

"Don't know. All I've seen for a fortnight is that poor young lord from the castle. Pity, that. He's not looking too spry."

"Then he should go home." Isabelle checked her basket, and began drawing on her gloves.

"Eeeh, tha are a hard one! Did thee think he would not, if he had somewheres to go to?"

"He's a rich man," Isabelle said, picking up her cape and shaking it. She didn't trust the rushes on Oswin's floor; they were riddled with fleas, but nothing could convince him that they were unhealthy. "These rushes are filthy. You should have them replaced."

"And who'd do that, eh? I'm an old man."

"I'll find someone," Isabelle promised. "Now, I've got to see to young Betsy. Promise you will take your physick. Every morning, Oswin."

"There's no point to it," he complained. "It's a terrible thing, being a lonely old man. I'd be just as happy in my grave. Nobody telling me what to do there."

Isabelle smiled, tossing her cape over her shoulders. "Just St. Peter. I should think he's bossier than I am."

"Not likely."

"I'll be back in a few days," she told him. "God keep you, Oswin."

"Rather he didn't," was the mournful reply as she went out the door.

She drew in a deep breath of the cool air, and called to Crispin, who was chasing something in a pile of brush, and started up the muddy road. First to Atwells', to check on Betsy's cough, and then to Jamie and Nan's, to see after the new baby, who would be christened on Friday. Then the village would have a merry celebration—outside, weather permitting, or at Oswin's inn, if not.

Isabelle loved to dance, and looked forward to the days that work was set aside. A new baby, a good harvest, May time—there were not enough such days in Farwindale, and she treasured them.

She was humming a ballad and swinging her basket when she saw Christopher Radbourne coming toward her, looking as doleful as she was happy.

His forest-green doublet was looking stained and wrin­kled, and his thick dark hair needed a comb. His hose had a tear in one leg and his boots were muddy. As she drew closer, she saw that he had dark circles under his eyes. From worry, or lack of sleep?

"God's greetings, sir," she called. Again, she felt the unfamiliar nervousness in her breast. What was it about him? True, he had a handsome face, but not the first she had seen. But there was something about him that made her suddenly self-conscious, and the irritating, feminine thought crossed her mind that she was glad to be wearing her new yellow skirt, as gay and light as an autumn leaf.

He didn't return her greeting, but stopped in the road and waited for her.

"Isabelle," he said, "we must speak."

His voice saying her name made her shiver. She straight­ened her spine and ignored it. "Must we? And why?"

"Pray, Isabelle, don't be so haughty." His blue eyes looked weary, almost sorrowful. "I don't deserve such treatment."

"Very well. What do you want?" She stopped walking, crossed her arms, and waited. Crispin barked a greeting, running around them in circles.

Christopher, she noticed, kept a wary eye on the dog as he spoke. "I want to ask something of you. A favor, if you will."

She waited, saying nothing.

"Lift the curse, Isabelle. For mercy's sake."

He looked excessively pitiful as he spoke, as if the words pained him. "I thought you didn't believe in spells, Chris­topher Radbourne."

"I don't, but that's naught to do with it. The villagers believe."

"They do," she agreed. "And that's to my advantage."

"I understand that, believe me. But there must be some way to convince them that the curse can be lifted. And if I must stay, Isabelle, I must have help. A boy to tend the horses, and keep the fire going. A cook, for mercy's sake."

"What? The great superior man from the south, where all people are so much more clever than we backward folk, and he cannot feed himself? For shame!" She shifted her basket on her arm, and began walking toward Atwells'. "Why not go home," she suggested, "where you belong?"

"Mercy sake, Isabelle." He grabbed her arm. "I can­not."

There was an urgency in his voice that caught her atten­tion. She looked up at him, and saw the desperation in his eyes. Clear blue eyes, reddened and dark-ringed from lack of sleep, but still beautiful. And while she looked at him, she felt that dangerous shiver, that quivering heat.

They were linked in fate together, she and this proud man. Somehow, he would change her life, irrevocably.

She turned her head away, fighting the feeling. But how could she? The knowing was there, it had never been wrong.

And what would happen, if she decided to fight her own fate, whatever it might be? She had seen others try. It was a waste of strength, ending in defeat.

His hand on her arm was warm. She looked at it, at the long, strong fingers. It struck her as a singularly beautiful hand, strong and graceful. It made her wrist look very frail. Frailty was not a quality she cared for.

She drew her arm back, quickly. "I will lift the curse."

The words were out before she knew what she was say­ing, and it seemed to her that they carried a terrible weight.

He let out a delighted whoop, and when he laughed, she saw that his teeth were strong and white, a mark of good health. "I knew you would see reason," he said. "There's a clever wench."

His smug words rankled.

"It's not that easy," she snapped, irritated at her own weakening. "Do you think I have only to wave my hand, and say it to make it so? You'll be asking the villagers to cast off a belief that most of them have accepted all their lives, and one that serves them well. They're a proud peo­ple, Christopher Radbourne, and likely won't want to come running to do your bidding. We must make them believe that the curse is gone, firstly. 'Twill not be simple, for them or you."

"What do you mean?" She saw the wary look of sus­picion in his eye, and it pleased her.

"Why, a curse cannot be lifted overnight, can it? There is always a price to pay."

"What price?"

She laughed at the suspicion and uncertainty in his voice. Good, it made her feel more sure of herself. "A price that will absolve you of the past wrongs done my family, and allow me to keep my power. That's all you need know, for now."

He was obviously a man used to getting things when he wanted them. His impatience showed in the narrowing of his eyes, in the tense muscle that twitched in his cheek.

"When, then?"

"Friday," she said quickly. "There will be a festival in the village for the birth of a baby, and I ask you to come, as my guest. Bring a gift, for the child, and I will tell you then."

"Friday! God's teeth, Isabelle, you try my patience! What am I to do till Friday?"

She shrugged. "Stay warm. A frost is coming." She con­tinued on her way, her basket swinging, Crispin running at her heels and wagging his great white plume of a tail.

She didn't need to look back to know that he was watch­ing her. She could feel his eyes on her back, angry and resentful. And her awareness was more than her knowledge of human behavior, more, even, than her gift of sixth sense.

It was as if she had some knowledge of Christopher Rad­bourne that was unique to her alone, as if she had known him for a hundred years. She was sure, if she looked back now, that she would see him glowering, raking his ringed fingers through his tousled dark hair. She could feel the heat from his eyes upon her back.

She liked the feeling, and that frightened her.

Kit stood in the road, staring after Isabelle. He marveled at her fearless arrogance. Obviously, she had never been trained to respect her betters.

But then, how could she have been? No lord had stayed in the castle long enough to gain any control in the area. And she was, after all, descended from the original lords of the keep. It must be, he decided, that breeding that gave her that particular air of grace and beauty.

He watched her as she made her way down the lane, quick and nimble, her skirt swaying like the yellow leaves that arched above her, her dark hair tumbling unbound from beneath her cap, proclaiming her status as a maiden as proudly as a banner in the breeze.

He wondered that she dared to travel the roads thus, with no fear of being accosted. But then, travelers were a rare thing in these parts, and no local would dare assault the witch.

No wonder she was loath to relinquish her power. He couldn't help but admire her cunning, even as he resented it.

He wondered what she had planned for him on Friday. He hoped it wouldn't involve drinking or eating anything particularly nasty. He had heard stories of these country witches with their concoctions of frogs and newts.

Though given a few more days on his meager diet, a newt might not look too bad. He reached for his pocket and felt the few silver shillings there. His purse was low, and showed no sign that it might be replenished in the near future.

Oh, well. He'd best go see that old robber Oswin, and see what it would cost for a meal today. The old man would have him a pauper in no time, he knew, but there was little help for it.

Until Isabelle lifted the curse. He should be grateful, he knew, for her agreement, but all he felt was a strong pre­monition of mistrust.

"Good Lord help us," Walter said, staring. "It looks more like a pack of Druids preparing for a sacrifice, than a chris­tening festival."

Kit was inclined to agree. But there was something about this country, the wooded glens and wild moors and foggy hills, that made one inclined to superstitious thought. And tonight was no exception. The moon was full and golden, hanging low over the dark hills, and the village green be­tween Oswin's inn and Father Timothy's church was lit with a huge bonfire. The cool night was scented with smoke and roasting meat.

The entire village seemed to be assembled there, all in their holiday finest, and the raucous laughter and chatter that rose from the crowd told Kit that their spirits were high.

Kit slid from his horse's back and tied him to a low hanging branch, his eyes searching the crowd for Isabelle.

All day he had been torn between relief that the curse would be lifted, and dread at the payment that would be demanded. True, he still had much coin, but it would not last a year at this rate, with Oswin charging him for every mouthful of coarse bread.

His misgivings temporarily fled at the scent of the varied foods wafting in the cool air, and then vanished altogether when he stepped onto the green and saw Isabelle dancing in the light of the bonfire.

The country musicians were playing a quick and spritely air, the flutes and bells and drums sounding pagan and en­chanting in the frosty air, and Isabelle was dancing as if she had been lured by a fairy spell.

She moved as gracefully as any noblewoman of the court—more so, really, not being weighed down by fash­ionable brocades and velvets and furs. She looked like a fairy queen, with a garland of ivy woven in her dark hair, and ribbons streaming from the gathered puffs of her sleeves. Her bodice was carefully made of velvet, and it perfectly fit the curves of her slender body.

He stood and watched as she moved with perfect ease through the steps of the country dance—three steps for­ward, and then three back, and then a half turn to her right where a new partner waited to spin her in three circles, to begin again.

He watched her like a man enchanted, missing nothing— the way she laughed at a passing remark, the way her arm lifted as gracefully as a willow branch, the show of brilliant white underskirts and slender ankles when she spun, and the way her rainbow-hued ribbons fluttered from her slen­der arms.

He was so intent on watching her that he didn't notice the attention he was receiving—the silence that descended over the crowd near him, and then spread, and the suspi­cious eyes watching him, until the musicians lay aside their pennywhistles and drums and bells, and the dancers stopped, all eventually turning to stare at him, the unwel­come stranger in their midst.

It seemed to him that he stood there a very long time, the focus of a hundred sets of wary eyes.

They were a strange bunch, these Farwindale folk, with their beliefs in witches and long-ago curses; what might have been an ordinary village festival did look strange and pagan: the young men gathered round the bonfire, the mu­sicians with their flutes and drums, the young girls with flowers and ivy in their hair, the old men perched on benches like birds on a fence.

They all sat, still and silent under the pale moonlight, with the flames of the bonfire dancing across their closed and hostile faces.

Behind him, Walter cleared his throat and plucked at the sleeve of his doublet.

And then Isabelle stepped forward from the crowd of revelers, the color high in her cheekbones and her amber eyes alight. A low murmur ran through the crowd as she approached him.

"Welcome, Christopher Radbourne," she said clearly.

The whispers in the crowd grew louder, and then dwin­dled as all leaned in to hear what she would say next.

Kit stood as tall as he could, hoping that his unease didn't show on his face.

Isabelle was enjoying this, he could tell. The entire vil­lage was waiting for her to speak, to pass judgment upon him, at which time they would welcome him in or cast him out, as she saw fit. He had no doubt that if she ordered them to cut his throat, they would.

He was as much a victim of her power as he had ever been of the king's, and he hated it.

She smiled at him, and held out a wooden mug.

"Will you share my drink, sir?" she asked softly, and the crowd stared and whispered in a rising swell of disbelief as he reached out.

For a moment their hands touched, and he wondered briefly at the soft warmth of her hand before he took the mug and drank deeply of the spiced wine.

He offered it back, and couldn't help but feel relief as she put her lips to the cup where his had been, and drank. At least she wasn't poisoning him.

"Have you brought a gift, for the new baby?" she asked, lowering the cup.

He had been watching the line of her slender throat as she drank, and thinking what an incredibly intimate thing it seemed, that both their mouths had touched the same vessel. The question caught him unaware, and he jumped a little.

"Oh, yes. Of course. Walter..."

Walter offered him the silver cup he had chosen from his household goods, chased all over with a pattern of vines.

"This. It's good luck, you know ... silver, for a chris­tening ..."

She tossed her head with a pretty gesture toward the fire, where a young mother, a wreath of marigolds crowning her hair, sat with a newborn baby. The motion set a loose curl bobbing against her cheek.

"Give it to Nan, then, with your wishes."

He walked over to the young woman, and murmured something stupid about how comely the child was, and of­fered her good luck. It annoyed him that the woman looked to Isabelle before accepting his gift.

But at Isabelle's nod, she accepted the cup in her work-roughened hand, staring in disbelief at the costly silver. Her husband, a tall, lanky-looking fellow, regarded the gift with distaste, and then spoke.

"See here—that's wrong, that. Bad luck, accepting something from the castle, I thought. We don't need bad luck."

The villagers murmured assent. Isabelle raised her hand with a graceful motion, and they fell silent.

"It was on this night, exactly sixty years ago, that my grandmother left Farwindale Keep, and spoke her words against those who dwelled there."

"More like fifty-some years, and 'twas June, I thought," murmured a voice near Kit's ear, and he glanced at old Oswin, who stood near his elbow, a mug in his hand and a sprig of ivy tucked in his wispy white hair.

"There have been signs, of late," Isabelle continued, "that the curse should be lifted. The last sign I saw in a dream. I saw the Lord of Farwindale bearing a gift of great value to a newborn child of the village. And you have seen it come to pass."

The villagers crowded closer, fascinated.

The father of the infant looked from his child to Isabelle, and then to Kit with wonder. ' 'What else was in the dream, Mistress Isabelle?" he asked, his voice more respectful than it had been before.

"My lady grandmother, Bess of Farwindale, spoke to me. She said that a worthy lord would come, banished un­justly from the south because of his honesty and honor; a man who loved truth more than wealth."

"And cider, too, I reckon," muttered Oswin, but if he appeared unimpressed by Isabelle's speech, the others did not. They gazed at Kit with new respect.

Kit began to relax. This was going jolly well. Bless pretty Isabelle, she wasn't such a bad sort after all.

"And my grandmother said," Isabelle announced, "that the new lord would prove himself, and lift the curse. And he would do that by acting as serving man to any villager who might need his service, from the time he gave the gift until St. Crispin's day. That he would willingly bend his back to help the people of our village as much as he would ask it of them. And on that day, the curse will be lifted."

She turned to face Kit, and her amber eyes sparkled with secret mirth.

"Are you this man, my lord?"

Kit stood, silent and stunned and furious. Several replies came to mind, the mildest of which was "in a pig's ass." Damn her, and her glowing skin and pretty curls and vi­cious heart. How dare she?

He was Christopher Radbourne, lately one of the wealth­iest and powerful men in the kingdom, and now being brought so low that he was expected to work as jack-of-all-trades to a village of ignorant peasants, in return for the services that had been his all of his life.

She smiled at him, as if she had read his thoughts.

He was trapped like a rat.

He doffed his hat, and made an elegant bow to her. keep­ing his eyes on her face and lowering one hand to his hip where his dagger rested. Though the bow was graceful, the deliberate stance of head and hand was an insult that would not have been lost on any courtier. It was not lost on Isabelle, either, though the villagers noticed nothing amiss.

And she seemed more amused than insulted.

"By the whim of fate, I indeed seem to be your man," he replied, hoping that his smile seemed less like a grimace than it felt.

The whispers around them rose, and became a chorus of exclamations and oaths and expressions of wonder. Such a thing was unheard of; it was amazing! It was a story that would be repeated around firesides for sixty years, he was sure.

The musicians took up their instruments, the villagers drank and chattered, and went to regard Nan's baby Jona­than with new interest, predicting an auspicious future for one whose christening day had been so eventful.

Old Oswin peered up at Kit, and took a healthy swallow from his horn cup. "Eeeh. Any man's servant, are thee?"

"Apparently so." Kit stared after Isabelle, blending into a circle of dancers.

"That's something, that."

"It is something," Kit agreed, his words short and bitten-sounding.

"Till St. Crispin's day," Oswin mused, scratching his balding head. "That be... what? Nineteen days? Twenty?"

"I believe so." Kit watched as Isabelle spun past, her dark hair shining in the firelight. He wished he could grab her and throttle her.

"I need my rushes cleaned."

"1 beg your pardon?" Kit stopped staring at Isabelle and turned to the old man at his side.

"The rushes. They be dirty, and want changing. Roof's leaking, too."

The old man's watery eyes were sparkling, as if he'd heard a splendid joke.

He had, Kit realized; and he was the butt of it.

"That's a good lad," Oswin said. "Come round tomor­row. Not too early, mind. I'm an old man."

"I've heard," Kit said. He turned his back. Walter was nowhere to be seen. Kit stalked through the crowd, scarcely noticing the smiles and welcoming looks that came his way, where a few days before he'd have paid his last crown for one.

At last he spied his manservant, dancing with a village maiden who was as robust as Walter was thin. "You ass," he muttered, venting his anger on poor Walter, who had already endured enough of his temper to earn a place in heaven.

' 'Out of sorts, my lord?''

He whirled to face her—Isabelle, the contrary, arrogant sham of a witch who had brought him lower than he ever could have dreamed.

"This hand is yours, madam," he said, glowering, "but the game is not yet done."

She raised a single brow, and smiled.

There was something particularly infuriating about that brow. He left the village green without another word, to­ward the horse that had also seemed to betray him. Behind him, the music and laughter of the revelers floated in the frosty night.

"Christopher!"

He ignored her until she came running up behind him and caught his sleeve.

"Please, my lord, a word."

"I should think you've spoken enough words tonight. Or do you plan to turn me into a dog, to beg for bones at cottage doors?"

At least she didn't laugh out loud.

"Please, sir. It wasn't my intention to humiliate you."

"In truth, Isabelle? 'Tis hard to believe."

Her fingers plucked at his velvet sleeve, and her clear eyes looked up at him, dark and earnest. "I swear. But it was the best way I could think of. You see, if I had just said, 'The curse is gone,' some would have believed, and some would not. But none would trust you. And they might have said that I was afraid of you. And if they have no faith in my power... why, I would be no better off than poor Nan."

He looked where she gestured, to the young woman with the baby. At that moment, her young husband was bending to admire his new son, and he stopped to give his wife a tender kiss.

"Poor Nan," Kit said. "She certainly looks to be sorely suffering." He glanced impatiently at Isabelle, and to his surprise, he caught a look of sorrow in her eyes as she regarded the tender familial scene.

"God's nightgown, woman! What a fool you are. If you want a husband and child, go get them, and quit playing at being the mighty sorceress of the forest."

She whirled around, her eyes narrowing, a furious dark­ness in her cheeks. "It's not my fate," she said, lifting her chin proudly. "I would not give up my power."

"Ballocks," Kit retorted, pleased to have found a chink in her armor. "You and your piddling 'power.' It won't make love to you at night, or kiss your pretty mouth. Any common village wench is happier than you."

"Than we're even," she snapped. "Because all your no­ble birth and arrogance will never buy you the same. But you will miss it, and I will not. I'm not a stupid, wooden-headed girl, sighing for kisses. I don't need them."

Beneath the proud words, he heard a slight quiver in her voice. Uncertainty? Sorrow? Whatever it was, it gave lie to her statement.

What possessed him, he didn't stop to analyze. But her fierce denial struck him as a challenge.

Without hesitating, he pulled her to him. She started to speak, but had time only to exhale one indignant breath before his mouth covered hers.

He had meant to startle her, and mock her for it. But the second their lips met, all coherent thought left him.

Her mouth was soft and warm, like rose petals warmed by the sun. Her skin gave off an indescribable scent, like clean grass and spring flowers. And her body—at first she stood stiffly, her hands pushing against his chest, and then slowly, sweetly, she began to melt against him.

He had kissed a hundred women before, but he never remembered a feeling like this. He forgot who she was, who he was, why he was kissing her. There was only the indescribable sensation of those lips against his, and the warmth of her back, supple and smooth beneath the velvet bodice, and the feeling of her breasts tight against his chest, and his hand sought the silk of her hair, pulling her mouth more tightly against his own.

She tasted of apples and honey and spice. He felt as if he could live off the sweetness of it, and the breath that mingled with his own.

We are perfectly fit together, you and I.

The thought came so clearly to him that he thought he had spoken aloud. It startled him, so sure and clear did he hear the words.

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled a little, and then stood back, her slender hand rising to cover her mouth, as if her own lips had betrayed her.

He felt a surge of triumph, joyful and intoxicating, at the sight of her.

Her eyes were brilliant and dazed in her pale face, her dark curls tumbling from the ivy wreath that crowned her. Her bosom, soft and white in the moonlight, rose and fell rapidly with her breathing.

For a moment they were perfectly silent, staring at each other. An autumn breeze, cold and smoky, whispered past them, rustling leaves.

"It seems, Isabelle, that at last we have found something we can agree on." His own voice didn't sound too steady. No matter, he didn't care. He reached for her, already miss­ing the feeling of her in his arms.

It was a powerful hunger, dark and insistent. He had never been the type of man to tumble peasant girls at his leisure; he had always considered it beneath him. But Isa­belle—ah, this was different.

"Don't!"

Her cry was almost wild, and she stepped quickly away from him. Her eyes were huge, blazing with as much pas­sion as fear, he was sure.

But he stopped, and lifted his hands back. "Isabelle?"

She was stunningly beautiful in the moonlight, her pale face alight with a hundred emotions, none of which he was certain of.

"I'm no whore, sir." She was regaining her self-control, though her voice trembled. She turned and began walking away, her hair and skirt swaying.

"I didn't think you were! Damn, Isabelle ..."

He wouldn't chase her. Damned if he would. He simply stood, his heartbeat thudding and his blood racing with a savage, hungry rhythm, watching her as she made her way back to the village green, the ribbons fluttering from her sleeves.

He watched as she took a few deep drinks from a mug someone handed her, and straightened the ivy garland in her hair with an uncertain hand.

Around her, people talked and laughed and raised their cups and danced. And she stood there, silent and somehow apart from them, looking very alone.

Like me, he realized. We two are much alike.

What utter rot. What was he doing, standing on a muddy road, thinking melancholy tripe about some wench? She was nothing, nothing at all to him but a very large thorn in his side.

Mind that thorn stays in your side, and doesn't reach your heart, Kit, he thought, and that struck him as so lu­dicrous, such melancholy schoolboy rubbish, that he swore out loud at himself.

The fire had gone out when he returned to the castle, and he was too disgusted to even bother with it. He fumbled around in the dark until he found extra blankets, and lay down to sleep on the cold hearth.

He spent a restless night, tossing and turning. Inevitably, his thoughts kept wandering toward Isabelle, imagining her body wrapped with his inside his fur-lined cloak, silken and warm against his skin.

Isabelle couldn't sleep. Restless and shaken by the depth of her own passion, she paced the floor of her cottage, filling the sleepless night with a hundred small tasks. She blended anise with honey, laying in a good supply for the colds and sore throats that would come with winter, and she thought of Christopher. Kit, his manservant Walter called him. It suited him. It made it easy to imagine him as he had been before he came to Farwindale, careless and merry and always laughing.

She strained the sediment from some elderberry wine she was fermenting, and wondered if Kit would like it. She imagined him sitting before her fire, complimenting her on her skill as he drank it, and then reaching for her ...

"Stop it, Isabelle," she warned herself. She busied her­self with her wine, and cleaned her table again.

In a rare moment of self-indulgence, she lit no fewer than eight beeswax candles, and settled herself before her tap­estry frame, carefully unwinding the colored silks she had bought at last year's Michaelmas fair.

She looked at her tapestry thoughtfully. She had finished a fair rendition of the main keep of the castle, the steps surrounded by the dark brambles that had grown there as long as she could remember, brambles that managed to put off a few pale and spindly shoots of roses each spring. Suddenly, the image displeased her.

She threaded two needles, one with deep green and one with brilliant rose, and with painstaking stitches began add­ing leaves and roses to the brambles.

The process distracted her from the restless hunger of her body. While the forest and countryside slept, Isabelle worked until the gray hours of dawn, while Crispin slept at her feet.

Not since her grandmother had died did she remember her cottage ever seeming so lonely.

Christopher woke in the gray light of dawn, as had become his new habit. He huddled beneath his blankets, thinking, as he did every morning, of the days when he could loll in his feather bed, drinking warm cups of mulled wine, bask­ing in the glow of a warm fire. Well, those days were gone. There was only the cold, the never-ending work, and Wal­ter, with his sniffling and snoring.

"Good damned day," he muttered, and threw off his blankets all at once, braving the cold.

Walter, a snoring huddle of blankets, didn't stir, and Kit thought how strange it was that his servant lay abed while he built up the fire each morning. But Walter was damned useless at fire building, and he himself had acquired con­siderable skill at the chore. In fact, he was surprisingly proud of it.

The fire had burned down to a few coals, and the kin­dling was slow to catch. He puffed at it, and then, impa­tient, reached for a piece of paper that Walter had discarded. More of his maudlin, homesick poetry, he sup­posed.

He was crumpling the paper when his own name caught his eye, written in Walter's meticulous hand. Puzzled, he stopped and straightened the crumpled sheet.

A few lines into it, he hurled the paper to the floor, and whirled toward Walter, kicking the blanket in the area that looked most like Walter's skinny ramp.

"Wake up, you Judas! You bloody turncoat! You half arsed, sniveling ballocks..."

Walter leapt to his feet, scurrying away from Kit, clutch
ing his blanket.                           

Kit gave chase, stumbling over an open chest, which gave Walter time to catch up a large silver goblet from the table, which he waved ineffectually at Kit as he sought refuge behind the table.

Panting, Kit stopped, trying to recover his dignity, "Stop waving that stupid goblet. What do you mean to do with it? Clout me on the head before you abandon me?"

Walter looked wildly about, as if searching for the ex­planation that might explain the predawn attack.

Kit pointed to the crumpled letter on the floor.

"What is that, pray tell?"

Walter paled, then took a deep breath and set the goblet down upon the rough trestle table. He lifted his chin with an attempt at dignity.

"My letter of resignation, sir."

"I read that much. So, it has come to that, Walter. After all these long years, and all the trials we have suffered together, you leave me like the others. Back to London, and a new position, and that long-nosed wench you left behind?"

"No, sir."

"No?" Confused, Kit waited.

"That is, yes, sir, but no, sir. I am leaving, sir, but I am not going back to London. I will stay here, in Farwindale."

Baffled, Kit said nothing.

"I am to be married," Walter confessed, and his gaunt face flushed with rosy pride. "1 have never understood love before, but it has broken upon me with the same golden splendor as dawn herself, touching the cold and dreary hours of night, before which a mere man—"

"Your poetry is bad enough upon paper. I beg of you not to hurt my ears with it, at least not at this ungodly hour. So, you have fallen in love. And who is this paragon of womanly perfection who has inspired you to such dazzling heights?" Kit knew he sounded snappish and sarcastic, but he didn't care. He felt as abandoned as a lost puppy.

"Edythe," Walter said proudly, uttering the name in dul­cet tones of delight.

"What, Edythe the brewer's widow?"

"The same."

"Good Lord, man! Are you joking?"

Walter drew himself up with affront. "Pray, sir, what can you mean? She is a delight and comfort, a very model of womanhood; a rare and precious gem worth any two women I have ever met."

"And the size of any two women," Kit muttered un­kindly, but when he looked up and saw the joy in Walter's weasel-thin face, the pride in his pale eyes, something deep inside him was touched by the man's sincerity.

"God's blessings be upon you, my friend," he said softly. "It is a happy thing to find love in this uncertain world, and I wish you nothing but the best. You have been a good and loyal friend, above and beyond your duty, and I happily release you from your service."

Walter smiled and bowed, looking ridiculous in his long shirt, with his hair standing on end and his spindly, pale legs exposed.

"I thank you, my lord. You are as much or more of a gentleman in your reduced circumstances as ever you were in your wealth."

Embarrassed, Kit turned away and began pulling on his boots. "Thank you, Walter. Now, the great lord of the manor is off to shovel sheep dung from the fold at Farmer Higgenbottom's."

Walter gave an understanding nod. ' 'My sympathies, sir. But take heart—the days are passing quickly, and soon the witch will lift her cursed spell."

"Not soon enough," Kit grumbled, and set off to his days tasks, feeling abandoned, mistreated, and, to his sur­prise, envious of Walter and his happiness.

St. Crispin's day was fast approaching. The leaves were darkening and falling from the trees, and Isabelle had har­vested the last roots and herbs from her garden before the frosts set in.

The days were darker now, swathed in fog or shrouded with rain, and she blamed her melancholy on the weather, and made excuses not to go into the village.   ,

But always, she thought of Kit. The bits of gossip she heard from her infrequent visitors were not enough. She knew that Walter had abandoned him, and was living with Edythe the brewer's widow, and that a few days later Kit had quit the castle, and was sleeping at Oswin's inn.

She heard that he had been cutting reeds from the marshes for Edwin the thatcher, and having a miserable time of it, and had been hauling sacks of flour from the mill for the baker, and that he had even undertaken the foul job of cleaning the flea-ridden rushes from Oswin's floor, and a thousand other homely tasks that were part of daily village life.

But she didn't ask for details, not wanting to betray her­self. The questions that she wanted to ask were kept closely to heart.

Does he think of me? Does he hate me? Does he wake up at night, remembering the way our mouths felt together?

She did. Though she never saw him, he was as much a part of her life as if he were there in the cottage with her. He intruded into her thoughts a hundred times a day, while she was spinning, while she was baking, while she was tying ropes of garlic to hang in her kitchen.

And she counted the days until October twenty-fifth, St. Crispin's day, when she knew she would see him again.

"I dread it as much as I long for it," she confessed to herself.

She was seated by the fire, sewing a new shift of fine lawn while the light was still good. The fabric was too soft and fine for an ordinary rail, so she was adding smocking at the neck and cuffs, and tiny vines and rose patterns in heavy white silk thread. It would be beautiful.

Her mind wandered, as it did too often these days, and she imagined herself in the shift, with her hair loose, and Kit seeing her. The firelight would show through the fabric, and he would see her body through the gossamer folds, and take her into his arms ...

Out in the garden, Crispin began barking, and she jumped, blushing. Usually, she could sense when someone was coming, but her thoughts had been so distracted lately.

She hurried to the door, smoothing her skirts. She glanced quickly out the window and saw that it was a man, clad in loose smock and heavy cape. Likely Martin Smi­thing, whose wife was near her birthing time. But it was early. She hoped there would be no trouble. Early babies frightened her—such fragile creatures, who took fold so easily and had trouble nursing.

She lifted the latch, and swung the door open, and her anxious greeting died on her lips.

It was Kit, stomping up the garden walk with a miserable look on his face. He was dressed in the homespun smock and rough woolen cape of a village man. He carried a large basket over one arm, like a woman going to market. Two of Isabelle's geese followed him, nipping at the heels of his worn boots, and Crispin followed the geese, occasion­ally chasing one a few feet away, but more interested in the visitor.

Isabelle was so startled at the sight of him, and relieved that Martin's child was not coming, that she burst into star­tled laughter.

Kit stopped, kicked at a goose, and glowered. "I'll thank thee not to mock me. I'm in a foul mood already."

"I beg your pardon, sir." Isabelle pressed a hand against her smile. "Pray come in."

He accepted her offer with a sour look, and stomped past her, shaking the raindrops from his hair. It had grown over his collar, she noticed.

"Here," he said with little grace, shoving the basket at her. "From the Atwoods. They bid me tell you that Betsy's cough is cured, and send thanks."

Isabelle looked into the basket, and found two hares, skinned and cleaned. "Give them my thanks."

"Tomorrow. My afternoon is full."

Even sulking, she found him delightfully handsome. The cold had stained his proud cheekbones with a red flush, and his eyes echoed the blue of the rough cape, dyed with com­mon wood.

"Come sit by the fire, and warm yourself," she offered. "That is, if you have the time. What are you doing, that your time is so dear?"

He took off his cape, and sank into her chair. "If you must know, I'm watching the children while the women make sausages."

Isabelle choked back a laugh, trying to picture it. "Whose children?"

He cast a sharp glance at her, and hesitated, as if it hurt him to reveal more. "All of them. Or rather, a lot of them. An army of them. I can't remember the damned names. Young Tom, and young Bess, and a couple of Janes, and an uncommon number of little Henrys. And Bevin the beard puller."

She couldn't help it; she had to laugh again. "That would be Fenwick's Bevin."

He held his hands out to the fire. "Or Satan's. He's a scamp."

For a moment Isabelle stood quietly, just enjoying the sight of him, with his dark hair curling and damp from the rain, and his long legs stretched out as he warmed himself by her fire. Somehow, the peasant clothing made him seem more handsome than his velvet doublets and slashed sleeves. He looked thus in her daydreams, she realized. Not like a rich lord, but like an ordinary man. One that might love her, and ask her for her hand. A man that was not out of her reach.

He looked up at her, and she felt her cheeks warm, as if he had been able to read her thoughts.

"Would you like some wine? Some apple beer?" she asked quickly, turning away.

"Wine, if you please. My hours of leisure are small enough."

She hurried to get it, polishing the pewter mug on her apron and choosing some of her best cowslip wine. When she returned with it, she found him looking at her tapestry.

"A fine rendition of that hellhole I own," he remarked. "Who are the people?"

"That," she said, pointing, "is my grandmother. And there is my grandfather. He was a fine carpenter. He built this house, and all the cupboards and chests. And over here..." She pointed beneath a blossoming apple tree. "That is my mother, feeding the doe. She died when I was very young."

"And your father?"

She shrugged. ' 'Nobody ever mentioned him. I suppose that makes me a bastard. Though grandmother used kinder words. 'Love child,' and such."

"So you've no idea at all who fathered you?"

"I have an idea." She straightened. "I think he was one of the lords who came to live in the castle. He took what he wanted from my mother, and left. A common enough story. It's what happens to young women who let their hearts rule their heads."

"Ah," he said, sounding very knowing. "So you take your revenge against me, for the wrong done your mother. How very unjust, Isabelle."

The idea startled her. She considered it, and then shook her head. "No, I did not. Truly. I knew that you wanted the spell lifted, and I had no idea how. So I came here, and I sat, and... thought—" No need to tell him about the knowing, and that she had sat gazing into a bowl of water, as her grandmother had taught her. ''—and that is how the answer just came to me. It seemed to make sense."

She turned away, and changed the subject abruptly. "How is Oswin?"

"How do you think? Miserable, bad-tempered, and de­manding. Though he's delighted to have a servant to fetch and carry and cook and clean for him. Not that I do any of it well enough, mind you. Just ask him." Kit took a deep swallow of his wine, and drained the cup. "Very good," he told her. "Speaking of Oswin, he asked me to tell you that his hips are hurting, and will you send him something for the pain. And he demands to know why have you been keeping yourself away. Shall I tell him that you're avoiding me, because 1 heated your blood to such a frenzy that you're afraid of me?"

His frankness caught her by surprise, and the accuracy of his statement caused her face to flush with heat. Even her ears burned. For a moment she couldn't speak.

"That's a lie," she managed, finally. "I've been very busy, getting ready for winter." It sounded false, even to her own ears.

"Oh, come, Isabelle." He leaned back, looking truly pleased for the first time that day. "You know that it's so."

"I know that you're a pompous ass." She was still blushing, and her snappish reply only made him laugh.

"I've touched a sore spot, it seems." He reached out, rising from the chair, and caught her wrist. "Pray, Isabelle, is it so hard to admit? You're a young woman, and your blood is as warm as mine. I felt it."

"You didn't." She turned her head away, but he touched her chin with a warm hand, and gently turned her face toward him. "Look me in the eye, and deny it. Don't you remember? Standing in the trees, and the way your lips opened beneath mine? The way you pressed your breasts against me, and your hands against my neck?''

His voice was low and soft, and she had to close her eyes against the heat of his gaze, clear and blue and se­ductive. Oh, yes, she remembered. She had been unable to think of much else.

"Would it be so bad?" he whispered, and his lips brushed across her cheek, as softly as a swan's down. She shivered, and tried to ignore the rush of heat she felt mov­ing to the very depths of her body. "Would it be so wrong?''

His breath was intoxicating, moving through her hair.

She pushed him away, and took a steadying breath. "Aye. It would be that bad. I'm not one of your serving wenches, for you to tumble at your will. And it would bring me nothing but grief, in the end."

He stood silently for a moment, and his eyes upon her were as hot as his touch had been. "Would it? What is the worst that could happen, pray tell?''

"A child," she answered immediately. Even as the words left her mouth, she felt a quiver run through her body, and her vision blurred and darkened. A child. Her own child. A child that she and Kit would make together, sharing their hearts and breath and bodies. A beautiful, strong baby, nursing at her breast, reaching his perfect dimpled hand to grasp his father's finger.

The passion of the vision, the hunger for it, shook her. And it was not just the simple natural urge to bear a. child, she knew. She wanted all of it. She wanted the man, as well. She wanted Kit to be there, to love her, to watch their child grow.

She had never wanted anything so fiercely, and she knew it was impossible. She was a peasant wench to him, and a bastard one at that.

"Go away, Christopher Radbourne." She couldn't look at him as she spoke, and the words were painful to say. "Go away, and don't come back with your lusty words and pretty face. I'll set my dog on you, if I see your face."

She sensed rather than saw him stiffen.

He was silent for a long time. "Very well," he said at last. "You've humbled me enough. I'll not ask anything of you again."

She didn't look up until she heard the door close behind him.

She stood there for what seemed a long time, her face hot and her eyes burning, until tears began rolling down her face. She dashed them away, calling herself fool and idiot and all manner of names, and ordered herself to be strong.

But her pretty cottage seemed emptier than ever. She had never felt so alone in her life.

Isabelle marked the days till St. Crispin's day, dreading it. She told herself to be strong. She need only see him at the feast, and pronounce the curse lifted, and be on her way. She need not see him or speak to him again.

The thought left her bereft and melancholy. She tried to empty her mind, and let the knowing visions come, with the inevitable sense of peace they brought, but she felt noth­ing, saw nothing.

It was as if Christopher Radbourne had moved into her mind, and left her nothing of herself. His kiss had depleted her energy, her power.

For the first time in her life, she had the feeling that she was fighting against her true fate, and she began to doubt the certainty of her visions.

But what she had told him was true. The twenty days' tasks she had set for him had come in a vision, she was sure.

Or was she? Was what he had said true? Was she simply deluding herself, taking revenge upon him for the wrongs done to her mother, and her grandmother before her?

She had never doubted herself before. She had always tried to act for the good of others, and it was that, she was sure, that made her strong.

She prayed for answers, but none came. When the village girls came to her, begging love potions and cures for trou­bled skin, when young mothers came for tinctures of mint and hops to cure the colicky stomachs of their babies, she dispensed her cures and advice as usual, but felt like a sham.

And at no time did her visions come to her with the certain, sure clarity they always had.

She had lost her power, she was positive of it.

The night before the feast of St. Crispin, she finished her fine new shift. She washed every inch of her skin carefully before putting the garment on and making ready for bed.

She blew out the candles and patted her dog, remember­ing the day that she had found him, exactly eight years before, a hungry and shivering puppy by the side of the road. She had been on her way to the feast in the village, and named him Crispin in honor of the day.

The dog gave a happy whine, and thumped his tail against the floor.

Funny, that his companionship had seemed enough for so many years.

She climbed into the clean linens and blankets of her bed, pulling the covers tightly under her chin and watching her cottage in the dim light from the fire.

Outside, the rain poured down in sheets, and the wind blew against a loose shutter.

She could not sleep.

She rose from her bed. A strong drink might help, she thought, and was on her way to find one when she stopped.

Her ears began to hum, and her vision darkened.

Knowing.

She stopped and waited, her eyes closed.

It came suddenly, strong and clear, invading her senses until she lost all sense of herself.

She was sitting in a chair before a fire, and yet she was not herself. She was seeing through somebody else's eyes, thinking another's thoughts.

Somebody was speaking to her, or to the person in the chair. A pleasant conversation. A young man, speaking of an especially harsh scolding he had received for not fetch­ing water quickly enough. He was doing a wickedly funny impersonation of Edythe, the brewer's widow.

Isabelle tried to rise above the vision, to view it with detachment, but could not. She took a deep breath, mur­mured, "So be it," and allowed her spirit to become one with the man in the chair.

It was good to laugh. So good, to have a young face at the inn. God bless young Kit. What would it have been like, to have a son like this?

If only I had not been so damned proud of my indepen­dence. Should have got a wife while I was young.

Oswin, Isabelle realized, in some far-off part of her mind. She was listening to Oswin's thought, seeing through his eyes.

He was watching Kit, and laughing at his stories. They had fallen into a happy friendship.

Tomorrow, Oswin was thinking, tomorrow that young man's days of work shall be at an end, and I will be alone again. Terrible thing, that. Not natural, for an old man to be alone. He should have a wife, a house of fine sons, someone to sit by the fire with him in his last days.

Oswin's grief was so real to Isabelle that it hurt. His loneliness made her heart ache. She tried to will herself away from it, but could not.

She could only stand, her chest aching, trying to smile as Oswin was smiling at Kit's chatter.

The ache grew, and spread through his heart. It twisted and burned. Young Kit's voice sounded as if it were grow­ing farther and farther away, and the terrible pain was pulling him down.

He tried to speak, tried to get Kit's attention, but the pain was too mighty.

"I'm going down, Kit," he thought, the only words in his mind. "I'm going down. Don't let me die alone."

As clearly as if she were in the room, Isabelle heard Kit's sudden shout of alarm, heard his boots rushing across the room to the fallen man.

She could feel Kit's arms as he lifted Oswin, and she could hear Oswin, now beyond words, begging silently for the pain to stop.

She could hear Kit's fear, and the panic in his voice, and heard him making soothing sounds, promising help.

And then suddenly she was standing in her kitchen, clutching her table for support, shaking.

Crispin stood before her, his anxious doggy eyes fastened on her face, wagging his tail.

"God grant me speed," Isabelle gasped, when at last she could speak.

Old Oswin was dying, and in terrible pain, and she must help him, if she could.

She flew across the floor, grabbing her basket with a trembling hand, and dumping the walnuts from it with a great clatter as she threw open her cupboard door.

Belladonna to relieve the heart, and the syrup of poppies to ease the pain. A dried sea sponge that had been soaked in mandragora, ivy, and hemlock. When wet, she could place it beneath a patient's nose, and the fumes would ren­der him unconscious. She used it only in the most terrible cases of pain.

She dressed quickly, throwing her green woolen bodice and skirt on over her shift, pulling on her thick hose and leather boots. She threw her heaviest cape over it all, and grabbed her keys as she rushed to the door, Crispin follow­ing at her heels.

The darkness of the forest didn't bother her. She knew the hills and trails of the wood and countryside as well as she knew her own cottage, and with her dog at her side she had no fear of predators, human or animal.

Her only fear was that she might not reach the old man in time, and he might have to cross to the next world in pain, or without the words of reassurance and love that are every being's right, both when they enter the world, and when they depart.

It seemed that she could not hurry fast enough, even though she was almost running, her basket banging against her hip. She wished that she had the speed and endurance of her dog. Crispin ran happily at her side, his breath panting, his tail swishing like a white plume in the dark night. The rain didn't bother him.

Suddenly Crispin lifted his ears and gave a happy, wel­coming bark. Isabelle peered ahead into the dark rain, down the road that led to the village. If someone was there, it was someone the dog knew, and liked.

"Isabelle! Is that you?"

It was Kit, running toward her, his white shirt soaked with rain, his dark hair plastered flat to his head. He reached out as he approached, and she didn't hesitate, but stretched her own hand out in return.

Their hands met, and they stood there in the darkness, trying to catch their breath, unable to speak.

"I was coming to get you," Kit said at last between hard breaths. " 'Tis Oswin—"

"I know." She breathed the cold air deeply into her lungs. "I'm on my way. Is he worse?"

Crispin circled them, barking happily, impatient to con­tinue his run.

"Worse? I don't know what worse is. He is dying, Isa­belle."

There was real grief in Kit's voice, and it touched her heart.

"Then let us hurry. He is a good man, and doesn't de­serve to die alone."

He didn't let go of her hand as they hurried toward the old inn, and she was grateful for the warmth and comfort of it.

He was a good man, she thought. He had hurried out into the night without even stopping for his cloak, out of concern for an old man he had only known a little while.

She wondered briefly that Kit had come for her. He had never shown any respect or faith in her abilities before.

She glanced up at his face, but his expression showed nothing in the darkness. Only his hand over hers, strong and warm, seemed to offer her a promise of his strength and help.

They hurried down the road, the October wind blowing around them, and the rain dripping through the dying leaves as if the very sky were weeping.

Father Timothy was coming down the stairs of the inn as they entered, his aging face resigned. He greeted Isabelle and Kit with a resigned sigh.

"I have read his last prayers," he said simply. "It is in God's hand's now. If you will ease his pain, Isabelle, it is all we can do, I think."

She nodded, removing her wet cape and draping it on he chair by the fire to dry. "I thank you, Father." It was lot the first time they had been through this together, she and Father Timothy, working together to ease the dying into the next world.

She climbed the narrow stairs, holding her wet skirts so she didn't stumble.

Kit followed her. "I didn't know what to do," he ex­plained softly. "I didn't want to leave him alone."

"You've done the right things, bless you,'' Isabelle re­assured him. "There's no need to fret yourself."

She drew a deep breath before she went into Oswin's chamber.

"It was very small and empty. There was nothing in there that told anything of Oswin, or who he had been in his life. Just a very old man, lying in a bed, with his breath coming in slow, labored gasps.

Kit hung near the door, and watched as Isabelle ap­proached the bed. She warmed her hands briefly over the flame of the candle, before touching Oswin's head.

She moved so calmly, with perfect ease, as she smoothed the sparse hair, and touched her slender fingers quickly to the old man's throat and chest, and then laid her hand across his forehead. She stood that way for a while, her eyes closed.

"Oh, Oswin," she murmured at last. "Don't be afraid. Here. I'm going to give you something to ease your pain."

"Can he hear?" Kit asked, staring at the closed eyes, and the gaunt face.

She nodded, reaching in her basket. She drew out a stop­pered vial, and carefully placed a few drops against the old man's tongue.

"Only a minute or two," she said softly, "till the pain eases."

Kit watched, and after a minute saw Oswin's face relax and his breathing steady.

"Kit, will you bring me a chair, please?" she asked.

Anxious to feel useful, he hurried down the stairs and returned with a chair for Isabelle and a three-legged stool for himself.

Oswin looked better by the time he came in. His eyes were still closed, but his breathing seemed easier and his wrinkled face more peaceful.

"Is he going to get better?" he whispered.

Isabelle shook her dark head and smoothed her damp hair back from her face. "Nay. But he is not in pain. That is all I can do. And sit with him. He does not want to be alone."

Kit regarded the motionless figure in the bed. We all come to this, he thought, and he wondered, when his day came, who would smooth his hair and make sure that he suffered no pain.

He pulled the stool close to the bed. "Has he nobody we should send for?" he asked. "No family, no friends?"

Isabelle shook her head, her dark eyes sorrowful and soft in the candlelight. "Oswin preferred to live alone. There's nobody."

Kit reached out and covered one of the old man's hands with his own, trying to warm the dry, cold fingers.

"There's us," he corrected. "You and I, Isabelle." He wondered if Oswin could hear him, and decided to trust Isabelle's word on the matter. "Don't worry, old friend," he whispered, leaning over the dying man. "I'll stay with you, as long as you need."

Isabelle stroked the old man's brow, as if he were a sick child. "It could be hours," she warned Kit.

Kit shrugged. "No matter. He fed me and helped me when no one else would. It's the least I can do for him."

Isabelle looked at him with gentle surprise, and then smiled; the grace and beauty of her eyes made Kit bend his head, awkward with the feeling.

They sat together through the long night, talking softly to­gether, wiping the cool sweat from Oswin's brow and touching his hands with reassuring fingers.

It was a marvel to Kit, how calmly Isabelle spoke to the dying man, how efficiently she measured medicines to ease his pain or lighten his labored breaths.

He asked her once, how she had known to come.

She looked a little surprised, that he had asked. "I told thee before, Kit Radbourne. Sometimes I just know. The rest of it—the medicines and herbs—that is learned. The spells and charms—that is... well, not so much trickery, as it is an exercise in thought. But knowing ... that is a gift. I thought I had lost it, for a time; but now I see I have not."

"And when you set me to my twenty days of work, Isabelle? Which was that? Trickery, or a true message, for a purpose?"

She smiled softly. "You know, I had begun to doubt myself. I began to wonder. But it was right, Kit. If I had not, up to the very day, asked for twenty days of labor from you, would you have been here tonight, when Oswin fell?"

Kit sat still, gazing at her across the bed where old Oswin lay, seeming to sleep. "Nay, I would not have been here."

"And he might have died alone," she said. "It was what he feared most. It is an unnatural thing. He took much pleasure in your company, Kit. I thank thee for it."

Kit cleared his throat, and looked away to hide the sud­den sheen in his eyes. "It was little enough," he said.

They sat together in silence for a very long time, while the candle grew shorter and the rain drummed on the roof. Oswin's breathing would sometimes falter, and then grow stronger. Isabelle sat beside him, her eyes closed, her slen­der hand covering his. She almost looked as if she might be sleeping, but Kit was sure that she was not. Her face was beautiful in its tranquillity.

He was admiring the gentle curve of her jaw, and the smooth curve of her cheek, when something in the air changed.

He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but suddenly the very air of the room seemed full. It felt like the waiting air be­fore a storm breaks, or the silence in a room before some­body speaks, or the moments before the birds begin singing at dawn. It felt like all of these things, and not really any of them at all.

Kit straightened his aching back, and looked toward the bed at the same moment that Isabelle's eyes opened.

"It's time now," she said softly. "Can you feel it?"

She stood, and bent to kiss the forehead of the old man in the bed. Kit had to lean forward to hear her whisper above the sound of the rain on the roof.

' 'Don't be afraid, Oswin. I thank you for your friendship, and wish you well, with all my heart. Go with God, my friend."

Unable to speak, Kit leaned forward and took the old wrinkled hand that lay still on the bedcovers, and gave it a silent squeeze of farewell.

Oswin's chest rose and fell in a soft sigh. For a moment he was still, and then sighed again.

Isabelle laid her hand across his forehead, and closed her eyes. She looked as if she were praying.

Oswin exhaled softly, and then was still. He was simply gone.

Isabelle brushed her hand softly across the wrinkled cheek, and stood. She let out a deep, quivering breath.

"It is always hard," she said in a strained voice, "to bid farewell to a friend." She pushed her fingertips tightly against her eyes to stop the tears, and then gave Kit a shaky smile. "Thank you. He was grateful to you."

Kit released the old man's hand. He felt stunned. Of course, old men died; he knew that. But it seemed so strange that a human being could slip away so easily. One moment you were here, and the next gone, and so little to show for your life.

"It doesn't seem right, somehow," he said, his voice hoarse. "There's just nothing left, is there? A year from now, nobody will ever know that he lived. It seems so ... wrong."

Isabelle nodded. "Thank God that he was not alone, and not in pain, Kit." She took the candle and went to the door. Kit followed, glancing back at the silent figure in the bed.

"I know," Isabelle said. "It always feels wrong to leave them, doesn't it?"

"It does feel wrong. There's just... nothing. Nothing left."

"That," Isabelle said softly, "is why people have chil­dren. So that there is always someone left to remember, to show that they were alive. Since Oswin has none, let that be our task. To remember him, and tell funny stories of him, and laugh."

Kit followed her down the narrow stairs, into the silent great room of the inn. Oswin's chair by the fire looked empty and lonely. The old man's mug lay where it had fallen on the hearth. He was surprised at the sting of tears in his eyes, the sorrow he felt for the cantankerous old fellow he had known so briefly.

Isabelle began moving with her usual quick, effcient steps, picking up the fallen cup and bearing it off to the kitchen, clearing away the trenchers from the table where Kit and Oswin had eaten.

What a wonder she was, Kit thought. Even now, sorrow­ful and with tears dropping from her dark eyes, she kept moving, always maintaining her air of tranquillity and pur­pose.

She brought him a cup of warm cider, and built up the logs in the fire, and fed the scraps of dinner to her dog.

She was scrubbing the long trestle table when Kit fell asleep in his chair by the fire. His last thought was how odd it was, that he took such comfort in her presence, and that if she ever did marry, her husband and children would be blessed.

He stayed at the inn for a week, melancholy and alone. Father Timothy had suggested he do so, until the matter of what to do with the building was settled. It was more com­fortable than the cold emptiness of the castle, so he agreed.

He sat, and brooded, and thought of what would become of his life.

Walter came to visit one night, and Kit got roaringly drunk on apple beer, and heaped abuse on his former ser­vant, and, offended, Walter went back to his newly found bliss with the brewer's widow.

When he awoke the next day, Isabelle had been there and gone, leaving a gift of bread and mutton pies, and he sulked that she had not awakened him.

On the day after All Saints' Day, he awakened to a tre­mendous noise. There were dogs barking, and people laughing. It sounded as if the common room of the inn was full.

He hurried down the stairs, pulling on his breeches, his boots in hand.

The entire village seemed to be assembled there, down to the youngest child, and all buzzing with excitement. His eyes found Isabelle immediately, gowned in the soft green she favored, her hair freshly combed and streaming from beneath her cap.

"I give you good morning, sir," she called, laughing up at him.

The villagers echoed the greeting. Kit, running a hand through his tangled hair and still dazed from sleep, replied awkwardly.

"Is it a feast day?" he asked, confused by the activity. " 'Tis barely dawn."

"Of sorts," Isabelle replied, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. "Come, Kit Radbourne. Had thee forgotten, this past week? The curse upon Farwindale Keep is lifted, and we have all come to offer our congratulations."

"Oh." Kit was unsure what response was called for, and stood uncertainly.

"Isn't that just like 'im?" he heard a woman say. "So sorrowful over our Oswin he'd no time to think of him­self."

There was a general consensus to this, and the men said what a good fellow he was, and the women clucked and said things like "poor lamb,'' and other silly things.

"Hurry, Kit Radbourne," Isabelle cried, "and dress yourself. We've a gift for you."

"A gift? Oh, no, really ..." His protest was shouted down by the crowd, and Kit found himself pulled to the door, where Sidney waited, a village boy holding his reins. His saddle was freshly cleaned, the silver trappings spar­kling.

Wondering, Kit climbed upon the horse's back, and waited.

"Go on," Isabelle said. "Your gift waits at your castle."

Confused, Kit looked at the crowd. Everywhere he looked he saw encouraging smiles, and suppressed secrecy.

"Alone?" he asked. "Pray, come with me, Isabelle." He offered his hand to her, and after a slight hesitation, she climbed up behind him, holding tightly to his waist.

"Let us be off, then," she said, and perplexed, Kit started down the lane, the shouts and good wishes of the villagers following them through the fog and darkness of the early morning.

Kit stopped abruptly on the road, staring in disbelief at the castle.

The trees had been cleared from the walls, and the bram­bles pulled away. The drawbridge had been repaired, and the fallen logs and weeds dragged away from the moat. Fresh torches blazed on either side of the gatehouse, cre­ating glowing halos of light in the mist.

The haunted, decrepit look was gone. Garlands of ivy and autumn flowers hung from the gate.

Isabelle laughed with delight. "Go in," she urged.

Sidney carried them over the drawbridge as if he knew his way home, and to Kit's surprise, one of the village boys came running from the stables to take the reins.

The weeds and thorns that had climbed over the steps were cleared, and as Kit mounted the steps, Isabelle behind him, the great doors swung open.

"Welcome home, sir," Walter said, bowing. Behind him, Edythe the brewer's widow, neatly gowned, bent her plump body in a curtsy before coming to take his cape.

Speechless, Kit stepped into the great hall. The dust and cobwebs were gone. Torches lined the walls, and a hundred candles of fragrant beeswax sparkled, reflecting off the pol­ished and waxed stone floors.

A fire burned in the great fireplace, and where the hali had been empty, there were now tables and benches and chairs of new oak, plain, but clean and shining.

The carpets and tapestries he had brought from London lay on the floor and covered the walls, and more fresh gar­lands hung everywhere, lending a festival air.

The smell of baking bread and roasting meat wafted from the kitchens.

"God's nightgown," Kit exclaimed, staring at the trans­formed room.

He turned to see Isabelle smiling. "Do you like it?" she asked. "True, 'tis not what you are used to, I'm sure—"

"It's amazing. How did this happen?"

"Oh, everyone helped. The whole village. Work goes quickly when everyone turns their hand."

He moved through the rooms, dazed. He climbed the staircase of ancient stone and found a bedchamber clean and fragrant with herbs, a mattress of goose down, clean linens, a fire blazing in the fireplace. On the wall there, he found Isabelle's gift to him—the tapestry she had been working.

He stopped before it, admiring the work. There was her grandmother, Bess of Farwindale, and her mother, feeding a graceful doe. There was the castle gate, garlanded in roses.

He was grateful. It was part of Isabelle, of the long and lonely nights she had spent in her cottage, and the memo­ries of those she loved. It was a priceless gift.

His favorite goblets of brilliant Venetian glass stood on the bedside table, and a decanter of dark Corsican wine.

He filled two glasses and went downstairs, where Isabelle waited by the fire, seated on a cushioned beach.

' 'What think you, my lord?'' she asked.

Kit paused, looking at her. Her eyes of amber and ma­hogany sparkled at him; the apricot blush on her cheek was bright with pleasure.

"The truth?"

"Aye, the truth."

Kit coughed, and offered her one of the glasses before he answered.

"It does not please me."

Her dark brows rose, and her mouth dropped with indig­nation. She stared at him, fury rising in her eyes.

"It doesn't please you?" she echoed, her voice incred­ulous.

"Nay. Do you expect me to live like this?" He waved his hand around the clean and glowing hall. "Truth, Isa­belle, it... lacks."

Her eyes were sparkling with rage, and he hoped she wouldn't bash him with the wineglass.

"And what exactly is it that you lack, my lord?" Her words were short and sharp.

"A woman," he said simply. "I would rather have liked to find one in my bedchamber. A beauty, to grace the down of that mattress. If it wouldn't be any trouble."

She was incoherent with anger and began sputtering. Kit couldn't recall ever having seen her speechless before.

"Let me be more specific," he said, trying not to laugh. "You see, I've had a lot of time this week past, sitting by the fire and thinking ..."

"Whilst we were breaking our backs to please you!'' she spat.

"And," Kit went on, as if he hadn't heard her, ''I've come to certain conclusions about my life here."

' 'Oh, pray, enlighten me,'' she said, her words cold and dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, 1 must first make a liar of myself," Kit said. "For I promised you I would never humble myself to you. and now I needs must. I doubted much about you, Isabelle, and learned that I was wrong. And you say the curse is lifted, but it was said that the curse would hold till the castle was restored to your family.

"So, I propose that we solve all problems at once, with your grace. Woman, curse, my life, all of it."

She stood, wary and uncertain, her eyes fastened un­blinking on his face, her fingers tight around the stem of her goblet.

Kit allowed himself to smile at last, and dropped to his knee. "Isabelle Lathrope of Farwindale, witch of the misty forest—I would beg a final favor of you. And then, I swear, this really is the last time I will humble myself before thee, so enjoy this."

She stood frozen, her eyes baffled.

"I beg of you to have pity on me, and marry me, and in doing so, I return this castle and what lands are left to it to your family, who lost it unjustly because their honor was so dear to them. I beg you to be my wife, and stay by my side always, and carry my children beneath your heart; for I can think of no safer or precious place to be. And when I am as old as Oswin, let your kiss be the one that I last feel, and let your words of love see me safely to the next world. And I will wait for you there, forever if I must."

She dropped to her knees, and her face was pale and stunned. She stared at him as if she could not trust her ears. Tears filled her eyes, and trembled like stars on her lashes.

"Truth?" she asked, so softly that he could hardly hear it.

"Truth," he replied, and raised his glass in pledge to her.

She exhaled quietly, and raised her glass to his, and they each took a sip of the dark, sweet wine.

Kit threw his glass into the fireplace, where the precious glass splintered into a million sparkling shards.

"There. No less wish can ever be made upon that."

She stared at him, and slowly shook her head, and her smile shone on him like spring sunlight. "You mean it."

He bent forward in answer, and their lips met. The rest of the world fell away as their souls touched in the magic of their mingled breath, and the curse of Farwindale fell away into the mists of time.

It was a favorite story of the villagers, told time and time again, repeated always at the feast of St. Crispin, and around a hundred hearths throughout the rest of the year. It was irresistible: the young and handsome lord who had been enchanted by the village witch. Old Oswin's grave became something of a shrine, and it was said that if you were very polite to him, he would grant favors to young lovers.

And it was told over and over again, how the morning after Isabelle had first risen from Christopher's bed, and gone out the castle doors to wash her face in the dew (for everyone knew that was how she stayed beautiful), the thorns that had grown around the castle door had burst into a hundred roses—in November, no less! More cynical folk thought that they had bloomed because of the first vigorous pruning they had suffered in sixty years.

But it seemed a good sign; and must have been, for Is­abelle bore no fewer than four sons and two daughters, and all of them lived, and were strong until old age.

Isabelle and Christopher lived to see sixty years together, and shared every day together, until the day that the old man passed over. And it was said that he did so with a smile, with his wife's kiss of love upon his lips, and her promise that she would join him.

The roses that grow on the wall of the castle bloom every November, in defiance of the winter, showing brilliant scar­let in the mist. They are considered to bring great fortune to lovers whose hearts are true.