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"But—"

"Good even, sir," a deeper voice said, and Calder eased the dagger back into the scabbard. "Is there something amiss?"

"Nay, nay. All is well. Save for this!" He nodded toward the wheelbarrow and felt the sweat spring on his brow as he saw one booted foot protruding from the straw. "I tripped on it earlier, nearly broke my neck! I wouldn't want anyone else to be hurt."

"Ah." Sym, the head stable lad, nodded. "That was a kind thought. That dappled mare is foaling," he added to the younger man. "Could ye check on her?"

As the lad walked off, Calder leaned the wheelbarrow in a shadowed corner.

"Good night, then, sir," Sym said, holding his lantern high to light Calder's way to the door.

"Aye. Good night."

Calder stopped outside the door and leaned against it. He doubted Alistair would be waking anytime soon, but even if he did, what of it? Calder would deny everything and nothing could be proved against him. The important thing, the only thing that mattered now, was to silence that damned harper.

But first he had to find him.

Ronan crouched behind an arras in a small alcove, listening as two men calmly discussed his murder.

"...that Irishman," one was saying, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Once across the neck, that's what Calder said, and hide the body well."

Ronan laid a hand across his throat and grimaced as the second man answered in a low voice.

"Who knows?" the first man said with a laugh. "Perhaps Calder doesna care for his harping. Look sharp now," he added in a lower voice. "'Tis Sir Donal."

Peering cautiously around the edge of the arras, Ronan saw the red-haired knight walk down the passageway. He recognized him at once as one of Jemmy Kirallen's personal guard. Someone he could trust. But how to get word to him?

"All's quiet here, sir," one of Ronan's would-be assassins said respectfully.

"Good work."

Ronan thought rapidly. Two on two. It would be an even fight. If only he could count on the red-haired knight to take his side! He would have one chance to speak, no more than that, and he had better find the right words.

But even as his muscles tensed for the leap, Sir Donal spoke again. "Have ye seen aught of young Fitzgerald, that Irish harper?" he added casually, his gaze moving over the passageway.

"Nay," the men answered just as casually. "No one has been by tonight."

"Keep an eye out for him," Donal said. "If he happens by, keep him here and send word to me."

The two guards turned to watch him go. Ronan did not hesitate. The moment their backs were turned he slipped from behind the arras. But though he was swift and silent, they heard him. Two on one, it was then, on a mad flight down the stairway.

Ronan was fast, but they caught him just the same.

The chapel smelled of the roses piled high around the bier where three dozen banked candles shed their light over Gawyn Kirallen's lifeless form. He looked younger in death, Alyson thought, the harsh lines of pain and care smoothed from his waxen skin. But his expression was still very stern.

She sighed and touched the shoulder of the man kneeling before the coffin, dark head resting on his arms.

"Jemmy," she whispered. "'Tis late. Come to bed now."

Jemmy raised his head and stared at her with dark and shadowed eyes. "Alyson, love, what are you doing up?"

"Looking for you," she answered simply.

"Go to sleep. I'll bide here a while."

She lowered herself to kneel beside him. "Then I will stay with you. You shouldn't be alone here. Oh, Jemmy, I am sorry."

"Don't," he said, twisting away as she stroked his hair. "Don't be sorry for me. I don't deserve your sympathy. Christ's blood, I am such a fool," he added in a harsh whisper.