Rolling over on his stomach, he flexed his fingers-or tried to-but like his arms, they were too numb for him to tell if he was actually moving them. He kept at it, though, and gradually feeling came back. Feeling-and a heavy, deadening ache.

The ache gave way to more specific pains-the bindings around his wrists were cruelly tight; and-following with a rush-came messages from a host of other places on his body that had been bruised, or cut.

He was in darkness. A darkness that, by its smell, was just such another tent as they had explored to find the shield with the arms of Sir Hugh de Bois... with whatever further extension of his name he had presently, since Malencontri was no longer his. But where a certain amount of sunlight had made its way through the cloth walls of the earlier tent, to let them see what they were doing, there was no such light here. It must now be nighttime.

He could not think clearly with his head splitting; and a clear head was the first item on any action list. Inside the ward, he could use his magic safely on himself, if not on others. He did so now, banishing his headache and making use of his art further to repair other damages, like contusions. It was one of the things he had learned early from Carolinus-the possibility, not the way to do it-that magic could be used to repair wounds, but not cure sickness.

With a clearer head now, he looked around, trying to see through the darkness. But he could not even make out the uneven dirt floor he was lying on.

“Brian?” he said. “Dafydd?”

“James,” said Brian, in so strong and ordinary a voice and so close to him that-if it had not been for his bonds-he would have started, “-all Saints be praised. You took no harm?”

“No,” said Jim. “Dafydd?”

“I am well,” said Dafydd’s voice, a little farther off than Brian’s had been. “It was you, James, we were concerned about. You have not answered for some time. But you are unharmed?”

Jim grimaced in the darkness. By fourteenth-century standards, his other bumps, bruises, or whatever they were, did not count. He spoke into the darkness.

“I’m just fine,” he said. His conscience chewed on him about the others. They had no magic to cure their headaches or other pains; but he could not help them unless they identified what was hurting them-and such minor things, he knew, neither would admit to. Besides, he could not act to help them without breaking his ward, dangerously.

Worse than that, his conscience reminded him, they thought he was enduring his own less-than-vital pains just as bravely.

“James,” said Brian, “that bastard Hugh de Bois has my horse!”

“I know,” said Jim. “We’ll have to get him back.”

He heard a faint breath in the darkness-not quite a sigh of relief, but meaningful enough for Jim. Brian’s attachment to Blanchard was second only to his love for Geronde. But he would feel better now that Jim had promised the horse’s return.

Brian had infinite trust in Jim’s ability to deal with anything by magic; and neither he nor Dafydd knew Jim was inside the ward KinetetE had put around him-a ward Jim was beginning to feel more and more superstitious about breaking for any reason. Some hunch or instinct was at work inside him, insisting that to do so would expose him and those with him to something a lot worse than just Morgan le Fay’s countermagic.

Maybe, he thought now, it had been reinforced by the fact that the false Dafydd and the cleft had been massive, major magic. It could have hardly been anyone less learned than she who set those two things up. Moreover, the false Dafydd alone was evidence it had been aimed primarily at Jim. She had been out to get Jim to break his ward there, just as she had tried repeatedly with his adventures in the Forest Dedale.

For some reason beyond what he knew now, his keeping his ward unbroken was of critical importance in this situation. His early life in the future had taught him to be skeptical of indications without proofs. The fourteenth century-this fourteenth century-was a different ball game. It had taught him you gambled on your instincts as a necessary element in staying alive.

He decided to use his magic to heal also the smaller discomforts that had resulted from the rough handling he had been given. He would think more clearly without them; and since he was not free to cure Brian and Dafydd of theirs, he should feel no guilt over repairing only himself.

At least, so he told himself. The excuse did not wash as well with his conscience as he had hoped. Illogical damned things-consciences!

With an effort, he did his best to put everything else from his mind, to concentrate on ways by which they might get out of this situation. Magic would free them. It might even not be impossible using nonmagic means-how much of his magical energy should he hold back against a worse need?

He should try nonmagical efforts first, at least.

He, Brian, and Dafydd were bound only at wrists and ankles. But it was surprising how thoroughly, with his arms locked behind his back, he found himself helpless.

Maybe if he got back to back with Brian or Dafydd, they could untie each other’s wrist bindings. Brian was closest; and possibly had the stronger fingers. But maybe Dafydd, being an archer, would have even stronger fingers, come to think of it-

But he had been too long getting around to thinking of it. There were voices outside, approaching; and a few seconds later the entrance flap was pushed aside. Sir Hugh de Bois came in, carrying a torch of twigs, apparently smeared with some kind of fat or resin, which smoked in the close air of the tent. It flared brightly, blinding Jim for a long moment, and stank abominably.

Hugh was in full armor, with both sword and poiniard. The five who followed him in were likewise armed and armored.

“They could get some of those idle varlets to do this!” muttered one of these; as, with the help of one other, he jerked Jim to his feet. “Belted knights are not-“

“Your wits are still in your wine, Croyon,” said Sir Hugh. “Use common knaves and have the whole camp knowing by morning what might be done and said? My Lord knows better than that. That’s why we’re here. Cut the rope holding their legs and bring them along.”

Two to a prisoner, and holding the bound men up half the time because their legs were cramped by being tied so long, they marched Jim, Brian, and Dafydd out into the night. The fresh air-it was surprisingly warm-outside was comforting to the lungs; but it was a black night, as if thickly clouded, and everything was a deep black, except the tents, which all glowed from the lights inside them, faintly illuminating small areas around each of them. Jim walked better as the muscles of his legs loosened, and he began to think about making a break for it, after all.

But he would have to signal to Brian and Dafydd, somehow, so they could all make the break together. They should certainly be able to outrun their guards, weighed down with armor as those were-he shook off the thought. He was still not thinking clearly. He had not been stripped of his own armor. Certainly that meant that Brian, too, would be similarly encumbered, although Dafydd had been wearing much less than the two knights.

“Brian,” he whispered-but the men holding his arms cuffed him, ordering silence.

Jim considered. Of course his eyes, and those of his friends, had been adjusted to the darkness while inside their unlighted tent. But that slight advantage might now be gone; and in any case, they would none of them be able to run much better than these men around them, with their arms bound as they were.

Jim closed his eyes and let himself be led blindly, hoping that his night-sight would come back to him swiftly. Dafydd and Brian, farther back from the torch Hugh was using to find their way, would be better off-while the eyes of the guards would have become accustomed to looking almost at the torch.

The darkness, then, would help-but before he could think of a way to not only loose himself from his captors but free Brian and Dafydd also, they were shoved through a canvas flap into another tent-a large one, this time.

Inside, it was surprisingly bare. Evidently no one lived here. A tabletop was set up on trestles near the far end of the tent, and crosswise to its entrance, four tall candles alight upon it.

It took a moment for Jim to make out that there were two people at the table, for they were seated on its other side, and the candles between the two and Jim dazzled his eyes after the darkness outside.

As he and his friends were jerked to a halt again, a good eight feet from the table, Jim’s vision began to adjust and clear; and he could make out that the two across the table were a woman and a man. The shadows of their bodies, exaggerated where they were thrown on the end wall of the tent, made a deep pool of shadow there; and Jim thought he could make out one more figure back there.

After peering into the shadow fruitlessly, he looked back at the first two figures again-and found that his eyes had adjusted better to the candle-glare. Seated some distance back from the table before them was Agatha Falon, the sister, and would-be murderer, of Jim’s ward, her baby half brother, Robert Falon.

Next to her was a tall, burly, middle-aged man-almost as familiar, and also named Robert-but a very different sort of Robert.

This one had Plantagenet among his other names; and he was half brother to the King of England. He was also the Earl of Cumberland, a man used to a position of power and authority-and a man whom Jim and his friends had already thwarted several times, in his various plans. The Earl had no cause to forget Jim.

But now the nobleman was paying no attention to Jim, or Dafydd or Brian- any more, Jim thought, than he might have done to three chickens brought for his inspection before cooking.

“-All of you, except Sir Hugh!” he was saying. “Outside. Stay well away from this tent, and let no one else approach. Go!”

The hard hands gripping Jim’s arms released. He heard the guards moving out of the tent behind him.

“Sir Hugh!” said the Earl, focusing now on the former owner of Malencontri, once the others had left the tent. “You’re a fool. What made you bring them inside my Lord-I thought you said I should.”

“I did not. You added that on your own. Mind it well, man, I do not care for those who play with my orders. We are not alone, here.”

Jim looked again into the shadows at the end of the tent. His eyes had now made their best adjustment to the candlelight, and he could see now that there was a man standing in the shadows behind Cumberland and Agatha. He was wide-shouldered and powerful-looking, wearing a robe or coat of some dark material.

Jim tried to make out his face, hidden in shadow though it was. It seemed to be rectangular in shape, strong-boned, for there was some gleam of light off a high forehead and cheekbones. His head was held high, almost as if he was looking down his nose at all those in the tent; and the lower portion of his face was more deeply shadowed, as if he had a black, bushy mustache and goatee. But in spite of the forehead and bearing, there was something young about him. Fully adult, but young-adult.

“If I have been at fault, my Lord,” said Hugh stiffly, “I freely acknowledge it; and crave your gentle mercy for transgressing.”

The Earl grunted.

“Damned little mercy in me!” he said. “You’d do well to remember that, too. Well...” His eyes came to rest at last on Jim and the others. “Now that you’ve brought them here, what say you we should do with them?”

“I had not thought beyond whatever your Lordship might intend,” said Hugh. “But hanging, drawing and quartering should make good warning for any others who come to spy on our camp, in especial with heads and limbs up on poles about our lines.”

But if Sir Hugh had hoped to see this cruel form of execution, in which the victim was choked almost to death, then gutted and divided into four parts-hopefully, while there was still some life in him to feel what was being done to him-he was mistaken. The scar that remained on Geronde’s cheek, after her refusal-even at dagger-point-to marry him, was proof enough that Sir Hugh had more than a little of the sadist in him.

Possibly he had been guessing that Cumberland shared his tastes. But the Earl was intelligent for all his bully-boy appearance and actions; and, as a Plantagenet, perhaps considered himself above such petty pleasures. His upper lip took on an ugly twist.

“I said you were a fool!” the Earl said. “Damme, but you would make a poor counselor! I asked what use could be made of them-any witless country lout could suggest hanging, drawing and quartering.”

Bingo!” said a small, but always alert, part of Jim’s mind. The Earl had just given something away. Exactly what, that part of Jim was not sure yet. But that question had rung either false or out of character.

“I still have it,” said Jim, managing to get the words out in an amused tone of voice, in his best possible imitation of an answer to a stupid question.

“Then how is it we have you prisoner?” Another slip. If the Earl was in command here, as he gave every appearance of being, then surely he would have said “I” rather than “we”. Or was it a slip? The Earl had never made any secret of his willingness to be King. Was his involvement in this Lyonesse situation somehow meant to lead him to England’s throne-or some throne?

There was the possibility that he might use the word we instead of I in a careless use of the Royal we-the first-person plural used by kings when speaking for their whole country.

“-In any case it makes small difference,” Cumberland went on without waiting for Jim to answer this time. “Hugh, take the other two out and hang, or do whatever you want with them. Leave this one here.”

“Let us humor him, Sir Hugh, my Lady,” said the Earl, putting his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Let them all stay, Hugh. You go.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha Falon sharply, opening her mouth for the first time.

“Because I said so!” The Earl’s voice soared upward; and his chin came off his hand with a sudden movement. “Who consulted you?”

He stared long at her.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “you would like to leave us, too?”

“Thank you. No.”

“Next time I will make it much clearer when I mean to consult you.”

“You still here, Hugh?” Cumberland said without looking up. “Outside the tent flaps with you and wait my call.”

Jim heard Hugh go. Excitement was rising in him. He was beginning to consider the possibility that the Earl was not altogether happy that Jim was in his hands.

After all, holding a live magician prisoner was a little like holding a stick of dynamite in your hand when you did not know if it was lit or not. Keeping your grip on it too long could lead to unhappy results.

Jim had given the Earl a very rough time when they had last met, using magic to create a hypnosislike dream state in which that nobleman seemed to live through a future that ended very badly indeed-with him being condemned to being hung, drawn and quartered; and-infinitely worse, for a man just as sensitive as Brian or his knighthood and ancestry, though for entirely different reasons-being stripped of his name and his arms.

It had been that last vision that had completely broken a highly courageous, if thoroughly despicable, man. But he was a native of the fourteenth century; and he had no mental ground on which he could stand to disbelieve what he had dreamed.,

He had obviously shaken off most of the effects; but there would be no way he could be sure that Jim, even bound and apparently helpless as he was now, could not put him through something just as bad, again.

Jim’s Bingo! reaction had been on the mark after all, he realized now. Cumberland was really not happy to have him here, face to face again.

Now, the Earl was in a quandary. Jim looked helpless; but was he? Had he been telling the truth when he said he still had his magic? If his helplessness was real, anything might be done with him. But if it was not, then he had only allowed himself and those with him to be caught and brought to this tent for some purpose of his own. That purpose could only be a trap of some kind, aimed at the Earl. But without admitting his fear-to himself, if to no one else-Cumberland could not just turn his three prisoners loose.

Time to play a little poker. Jim’s eyes deliberately sought and met the Earl’s, and their gazes locked.

Jim smiled.

But Cumberland also was silent. Jim would have to prod him with further words. He had to force the other man to say something Jim could get hold of and use.

“Perhaps,” he said, trying his best to sneer-it was not a practiced expression for him-“my Lord would prefer that we three leave also?”

“Why not?” Cumberland said; and he smiled now. “Let you be given the night to think on your sins.” He raised his voice. “Sir Hugh! Put these men away again for now. Let them be kept safe and unhurt. I have plans for them on the morrow!”