STEPHEN, DUKE OF BOR怑, winced as the physician applied another repulsive leech to his back. If you bleed me any more, physician, there will be more of me in these suckers than left in me.

The physician went about his work. You complain of ill humor, my lord, yet you complain of the cure as well.

Stephen sniffed. All the leeches in the world couldn't bleed me enough to raise my mood.

Ever since the failure of Morgaine's raid, Stephen had been hurled into a biting melancholy. His most trusted and ruthless men had been routed. Worse, he had lost his best chance to grab the lance. Then, to make matters worse, the arrogant little pest had the gall to march on Treille. It made his choler boil to a fever pitch.

Then, only yesterday, he had received the incredible news that the fool had actually taken Treille; that Baldwin, idiot of idiots, had surrendered his own castle.

Stephen grimaced, feeling his humors sucked out of him by these slimy little slugs.

So the lance was still to be had! He thought of calling a Crusade to liberate Treille, to capture the prize that had been pilfered by the deserter and return it to its rightful place. Bord, of course. But who knew where it would end up then? Paris or Rome or even back in Antioch.

At that moment, things got even worse-Anne walked in. She looked at him, prone, covered with welts, and held back a smile of amusement. You asked for me, my lord?

I did. Physician, give me a word with my wife.

But the leeching, my lord, it is not over....

Stephen jumped up, swatting the slimy little creatures off his back. You have the hand of an executioner, doctor, not a healer. Get these creatures out of here. From now on I'll handle my ill temper my own way.

Anne regarded him with a slight smile. I'm surprised these slimy things offend you so, since you are akin in so many ways.

She came over and ran her hand along his back, mottled with fiery red welts. From the look of this, your ill temper must have been most severe. Shall I apply the salve?

If you a............