STEPHEN'S BOOT HEELS sounded loudly as he pushed into a small, squalid room near the rear of the barracks. Hunched silently in a dark corner, its occupant turned, a man who was filthy and covered with sores.

Come, Morgaine. Stephen threw the door wide open. Your moment is here again. I need to make use of your talents. You are still a knight, are you not?

The dishonored knight slowly lifted his muscular frame off the floor. Tattered, soiled cloth still hid the spot where the lance had pierced his side, and the tiny cubicle reeked of putrefaction.

I am here to serve you, my liege.

Good, Stephen said. You must air this place out. Your hygiene is odious anyway, Morgaine, but these days a latrine would smell less foul.

It is unavoidable, my liege. The stench keeps the memory of my wound awake in my mind, and the lowly bastard who gave it to me.

I'm glad your memory is fresh, Stephen said. For if God grants, you will have a second chance for vengeance.

The Tafur's eyes lit up. Each breath I force myself to take is in hope of such a moment. How?

Events, larger than you can contemplate, bring the fool back to me.

The fool! He comes to Bord? You know this?

Do you think I would soil these boots in this pit of infection for any other reason? Now, get up. I will have the physician mask that stench.

The Tafur pulled his war tunic off the floor, still torn and bloodstained at the spot where the jester's lance had ripped through. He moistened his lips the way a famished man would ............