When Bannor emerged from his tower the following morning, an uncommon spring lightened his step. He felt almost as he had the morning after a resounding victory over the French. ‘Twas a most perplexing sensation. Had he won yesterday’s contest, his petition for an annulment would be on its way to Edward, and Willow would be on her way to Wayborne Abbey.

He threw back his shoulders as he bounded down the stairs, whistling the first few majestic bars of “Might Triumphant O’er Evil.” As he entered the great hall, he expected to find a demure Willow holding court over a penitent Desmond and a table full of meek and obedient children, cowed by the example she had made of their mischievous brother. But the high table was empty, its oaken surface barren of all but a scattered handful of crumbs.

Bannor’s whistle died on a hollow note. What if Willow was gone after all? What if she had run away to punish him for his indifference? He swept an anxious gaze across the hall, oblivious to the curious glances cast him by the knights and squires being served by the bustling pages.

Fiona emerged from the kitchens, one of the babies draped over her shoulder. Bannor squinted at it, but still couldn’t tell if it was wee Peg or wee Mags.

“And where is Lady Willow this morn?” he inquired, hoping to give the impression that her answer was of little import to him.

Fiona shrugged, dislodging a cheerful burp from the babe. “Off with the wee ones somewhere, I s’pose, m’lord. They gobbled up their porridge, then darted off as fast as their legs would carry ‘em.”

“And did Willow gobble up her porridge as well?”

“Aye, I believe she finished first. ‘Twas her who was urgin’ ‘em to make haste.”

Bannor frowned. An honorable man would be pleased that his new wife and his children were getting along so well, but Fiona’s words made him uneasy. He shook off the sensation, telling himself he was being absurd. He ought to be looking forward to a day of spirited combat and mayhem in the lists. Now that Willow had put an end to Desmond’s reign of terror once and for all, he was free to devote himself to training his men with his old relish.

He helped himself to a chunk of brown bread from a squire’s trencher and started for the door, nearly stumbling over the enormous heap of goods piled in the middle of the floor.

“Fiona! What’s the meaning of all this?”

Fiona came bustling over, beaming a toothless smile. “ Tis a tribute to yer lady, m’lord. Gifts to thank the lass for takin’ young Desmond in hand.” She pointed to each item in turn. “The beekeeper sent a dozen jars of honey. The candlemaker sent a bushel of wax candles. The butcher sent a salted ham. The mat weaver sent a—”

Bannor held up a hand to silence her. “Very well, Fiona. I think I understand.”

He frowned down at the bounty. None of his people had ever sent him gifts, except for those due him as their lord and master on ceremonial feast days. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them paying homage to his bride. Especially not when he should be the one showering her with extravagant gifts—a silk wimple to crown her newly shorn curls, a delicate silver chain to drape around her alabaster throat, a glowing teardrop of a ruby to nestle between her plump, succulent...

“Gak.”

“Hmmm?” Bannor murmured, still lost in his reverie.

“Gak!” the baby in Fiona’s arms repeated, reaching out to bop him in the nose with one tiny, pink fist.

Bannor flinched. The baby chortled. Eyeing the child ruefully, Bannor shook his head. If he didn’t stop dwelling upon them, ‘twould be only a matter of time before those plump, succulent breasts of Willow’s were put to use nursing a creature identical to this one. Then another. And another... He shuddered.

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” Fiona said, struggling to rearrange her burden. “The wee imp has a way o’ slippin’ out o’ m’grasp.”

“No harm done,” Bannor replied, tweaking the baby’s nose. “I suspect she was only trying to warn me of a danger I’d do well to remember.”

———

By the time Bannor reached the lists, the spring had returned to his step. The mere prospect of battle, genuine or mock, was enough to make his blood quicken. His nostrils flared, drinking in the musky perfume of leather and horse sweat. Only on the battlefield were the lines of engagement clearly drawn. Only on the battlefield was he allowed to employ both his wit and his might to defeat his enemy. He never had to worry that one of his men might burst into tears if he raised his voice to a roar, or that a clumsy blow might crush his opponent’s feelings instead of his head.

The sand-sprinkled field was already teeming with men engaged in casual swordplay and halfhearted wrestling matches. The clash of steel faded as he made his way through their ranks, answering their murmured “My lord’s” and deferential bows with a nod and a smile of his own. He still missed the easy camaraderie of war, where need and desperation had made brothers of them all—lord, vassal, and lowliest servant.

A gangly squire came scampering out of the stables that bordered the list as he approached. “What’s it to be, m’lord? Shall I fetch your sword or your lance?”

Bannor gave the field a measuring look. “What do you say, men?” he called out. “Shall we joust?”

A rousing cheer greeted his words. Not one of them could resist the challenge of controlling over a thousand pounds of straining horseflesh between their thighs. Nor the opportunity to unseat the most recent rival produced by their constant taunting and petty squabbling.

A few of them even dared to shoot their lord a speculative glance. They were no doubt remembering how Hollis had so soundly trounced him yesterday. Bannor bit back a smile. They would not find him so easy to best on this day.

The squire sprinted back from the stables, fighting to juggle lance, shield, and helm.

“Slow down, lad, before you impale yourself.” Bannor put out a hand to arrest his headlong flight. “Or me.”

He inclined his head, inviting the boy to slip the helm over it. As he did so, Bannor found himself enveloped in a choking cloud of white. He fumbled blindly for the helm, jerking it off and shaking his head. Flour flew everywhere.

The squire stumbled backward, aghast with horror. “Oh, my lord!” It was impossible to determine whether he was beseeching his heavenly or his earthly master. “ ‘Twas not my doing, I swear it.”

Bannor swiped the coarse stuff from his eyes and mouth, knowing he ought to be thankful it wasn’t pepper. Or honey. Someone in the crowd snickered.

“Silence,” he shouted, snatching the lance from the lad’s hand and banging it on the ground. The weapon slowly folded in on itself until its top half hung by a thin sliver of wood.

“Maybe that’s why that bride o’ his ain’t breedin’ yet,” one of the men murmured. “His lance has gone limp.”

A helpless wave of laughter rippled through their ranks.

Bannor tossed down the shattered lance, sweeping a murderous glare over them. They snapped to attention, swallowing their grins. His nape prickled and he swung around, scanning the tree-dotted meadow just beyond the list. He could not shake the sensation that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Was that a woman’s laughter he heard or simply the mocking echo of the wind?

“Shall I f-f-fetch you a fresh helm and a new lance, my lord?” the squire stammered.

Realizing that the unfortunate lad was only a snivel away from wetting his braies, Bannor resisted his first impulse to roar a reply. “Just fetch my horse, son,” he said through gritted teeth. “ Tis all I need.”

He no longer had any interest in jousting. He simply wanted to escape his men-at-arms’ pitying looks and sly asides.

Bannor stood at rigid attention, his hands locked at the small of his back, while he awaited the squire’s return. His men exchanged nervous looks, but only one of them dared to clear his throat. The awkward silence stretched until it was broken by the tinkling of bells, so delicate and ethereal that Bannor once again scanned the meadow, half expecting to see a band of fairy folk frolicking among the toadstools.

The tinkling swelled as the squire emerged from the stables, leading the white stallion who had carried Bannor into more battles than he could remember.

La Mort Galloping, the French had christened him. Standing over seventeen hands high, the pale horse had cut a swath of terror through the ranks of his enemies, rippling like molten moonlight through the blackest night.

But that was before someone had woven pink ribbons through his silky tail and mane and draped a harness of silver bells over his neck. They jingled merrily with each plodding step he took until at last the stallion stood before Bannor. As he hung his mighty head inshame, a crown of chrysanthemums slid down over his brow, leaving him to eye Bannor with one soulful brown eye.

Bannor rubbed the beast’s velvety nose, knowing exactly how he must feel.

“I only left him alone in his stall for a moment, my lord, I swear it,” the squire said, beginning to babble in earnest. “I can’t imagine who would have done such a dreadful thing.”

“Nor can I.” Undeterred by the violent jingling of the harness, Bannor jerked the reins out of the lad’s quaking hands and swung himself astride the horse. “But I intend to find out.”

He kicked the horse into a canter. He’d traveled only a few paces when the saddle slid sideways, dumping him on his ass hard enough to jar his teeth. A cloud of flour flew up from his hair.

He sat there for a long time. Long enough for the horse to trot around the list once, then return to nudge him in the shoulder. Bannor fingered the leather cinches dangling from the stallion’s back. They hadn’t been cut. They’d been deliberately frayed to the point where they would be sure to give way as soon as they were forced to bear the weight of a rider—especially a rider of his weight and stature.

As Bannor climbed to his feet, every man on that field took an involuntary step backward. A piteous whimper escaped the squire’s throat.

Bannor paced before them, his hands once again locked at the small of his back. “Today,” he called out, his masterful baritone silencing every whisper, “I will teach you the hardest lesson that any warrior, no matter how bold or courageous, must learn before he rides into battle.”

The men exchanged expectant glances and craned their necks.

“How to make a graceful retreat.” Bannor sketched them a brief bow, then started for the castle, dusting grass and sand off his backside as he went.

———

Bannor paced the north tower, feeling nearly as frantic as he had on the night Hollis had returned to Elsinore with his bride. Then he had longed only to be rid of her. Now he longed only to find her. He paused at the window, drawn there against his will by the hellish glow drifting up from the courtyard below.

A crackling bonfire spat stinging clouds of brimstone into the night sky. A band of imps cavorted around it, their sinister shadows an unsettling contrast to the merry giggles wafting to his ears. Although Samhain had come and gone over a fortnight ago, Bannor would have sworn his offspring had declared a pagan celebration of their own—a decadent feast where they might pay homage to the god of unruly children.

A savage pounding sounded on the door, mirroring his own desperation. “Make haste, my lord! ‘Tis Hollis!”

Bannor was forced to heave aside three chairs, a table, and a bench before he could lift the crossbar and bid his steward to enter.

Sir Hollis staggered into the tower, weaving his way through the makeshift barricade. Soot blackened his handsome face, and the right side of his mustache was smoldering.

“Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she with you?” Bannor demanded, handing him a goblet of water.

Hollis snatched the cup from his hand and drained it dry. “She is nowhere to be found,” he rasped. “I have searched everywhere. Even among” —a violent shudder wracked him —“them.”

Bannor poured him a second goblet of water, taking care this time to point to his mustache before he handed it over.

“Oh!” Hollis exclaimed, dousing the side of his face.

“Could she have run away?” Bannor’s heart surged with a panic that had naught to do with his offspring’s tyranny. “Is that why the children are celebrating?”

Hollis shook his head. “She’s been spotted throughout the castle all the day long. But every time I send a servant to fetch her, she vanishes again. ‘Tis most vexing.”

Bannor returned to the window. He gazed down at the carnage with growing despair. “You saw how she handled Desmond. I must seek her counsel. I’m convinced she’s the only one who can help me put an end to this wretched mischief.”

At that precise moment, an arrow came sailing through the window of the tower. It thudded to a halt in the wooden shutter, the feathers adorning its haft tickling Bannor’s nose.

“We’re under attack!” Hollis shouted, dropping to all fours and scrambling toward the door. “Shall I alert the guard?”

“Not... quite... yet,” Bannor replied, wrenching away the scrap of parchment impaled by the quivering shaft.

While he studied the missive, Hollis climbed sheepishly to his feet. “Shouldn’t you come away from the window, my lord?” When Bannor ignored his timid query, he stood on tiptoe and craned his neck, but still couldn’t see over Bannor’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“A list of demands.”

“Demands? Oh, dear God, your enemies have seized Lady Willow, haven’t they? They must be holding her hostage. Whatever do they want? Gold? Jewels? Weapons? The castle itself?”

Bannor handed the parchment to him, his face strangely devoid of expression. While Hollis held it up to the torchlight, Bannor turned back to the window, his narrowed gaze searching the night.

“These demands are so much gibberish.” Hollis frowned as he scanned the crumpled paper. “Honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Baths no more than once a month. Bedtime no earlier than midnight. Why, they’re the ravings of a lunatic. Or...” He lifted his head, comprehension slowly dawning. “... a child.”

Bannor paid him no heed. He seemed to have found what he was looking for. An enigmatic half-smile curved his lips.

“If this is just another of the children’s pranks, albeit a dangerous one, then I don’t understand this last demand,” Hollis said. “The one that calls for your unconditional surrender.”

“Ah, but you soon will,” Bannor said, drawing him toward the window.

Hollis squinted down into the courtyard, struggling to see through the smoke and shadows. At first he believed, as Bannor must have, that the slender figure silhouetted against the writhing flames was Desmond. Only when the flames shot higher could he make out the gentle swells filling out her breeches and tunic and the inky cap of curls that clung to her head. Lady Willow gazed boldly up at the window, making no attempt to hide the bow in her hand or the challenging jut of her jaw.

Hollis shook his head, torn between shock and amusement. “You’d best devise a new battle plan, my lord. For it appears your lady has decided to join the game.”

Bannor flexed his powerful hands on the window-sill. “This is no game, my friend.” He swung around, his eyes gleaming with a raw excitement Hollis hadn’t seen since King Edward signed the treaty with the French. “This I understand. This is war.”