STEPHEN WAS IN THE MIDST of stabbing a piece of breakfast ham, the morning light tumbling into his quarters, when his page called out, Look, your lordship, to the window, quick. The rabble has fled.

Just minutes before, the duke had woken in a sour mood. These rebels had proven more resistant than he'd imagined. In wave after wave they came at him; he could not understand their zeal to die. Plus, two weeks ago, Anne had moved to the lady's quarters. He'd been sleeping alone.

At his page's call, he hurried to the window. His empty stomach filled with glee. The boy was right! The rebel ranks had thinned, cut by more than half.

Those fucking Languedocians, with their arms as thick as ox legs and their horsehair vests, had fled. All that remained was a measly little force, standing around like chickens waiting to lose their heads.

And there, at the head of them, the green-and-red rooster himself, in full view.Withthe lance! This decimated rabble of woodchoppers and farmers was no more than mop-up work for his men.

From behind, his aides burst in. Bertrand, the chatelain, followed by Morgaine.

Look, Stephen cackled, the gutless bastards have given up. Look at that stupid prancing cock, standing about as if he still had something to command.

You said, when the opportunity arose, the little fool was mine, Morgaine rasped.

So I did. Stephen beamed a gloating grin. I did promise you that. Tell me, Bertrand,............