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made strong men uneasy. Coupled with his size, and the
Glendruid ornament on his black cloak—an ancient silver pin
cast in the shape of a wolf’s head with clear, uncanny
crystal eyes—Dominic was a forbidding presence.
    Thinking about the marriage that would take place
in a few hours had done nothing to improve Dominic’s peace of
mind. The bonds of love between the two brothers were far deeper
than blood or custom required.
    “You sent for me?” Simon said.
    Dominic’s frown vanished as he looked up at
the tall, lithe warrior who stood before him. Simon’s fair
hair was windswept and his indigo mantle was thrown back to reveal
the scarlet tunic with purple and silver embroidery that had been a
gift from Erik. Beneath the elegant clothing was a body honed to
battle readiness. Despite being Dominic’s right band, Simon
never shirked the endless battle practice that the Glendruid Wolf
decreed for his knights—and for himself.
    “You are looking particularly fit,”

Dominic said approvingly.
    “You sent me running from the outer bailey
all the way up here to determine my fitness?” retorted Simon.“Next time, run with me. It will give you
a better idea of my stamina and wind.”
    Dominic laughed. Too quickly, his laughter faded
and his mouth once again fell into rather grim lines. He knew his
brother too well to be deflected for long by Simon’s quick
wit.
    “What is it?” Simon asked, eyeing
Dominic’s expression. “Have you news from Blackthorne?
Is something amiss?”
    “Blackthorne is fine. Ariane’s dowry
chests still lie unopened and undisturbed in the treasure room,
guarded by Thomas the Strong.”
    “Then why are you so gloomy? Has Sven brought
news of Norsemen or Saxon raiders nearby?”
    “Nay.”
    “Where is Meg? Has that handsome sorcerer
Erik managed to charm her from your grasp?”
    This time Dominic’s laughter was truly
amused.
    “Erik is as comely a knight as I’ve
seen,” Dominic said, “but my wife would no more fly
from me than I from her.”
    Smiling, Simon conceded what he knew quite well was
true. Lady Margaret’s loyalty to Dominic was as great as
Simon’s.
    “I am glad you found it in your heart to
welcome Meg as your sister,” Dominic said. “Sit with
me, brother. Eat from my plate and drink from my mug.”
    Simon looked at the dainty chair opposite Dominic
and grabbed a bench from along the wall instead. As he sat, he
resettled his broadsword on his left hip, hilt ready to his right
hand. The unconscious grace of the gesture said much about his ease
with the weapon.
    “Of course I accepted Meg into my
heart,” Simon said, reaching for the ale jug.
    “You have no love of witches, whether they do
good or evil.”
    Simon poured ale into the nearly empty mug, saluted
Dominic silently, and drank. After a few deep swallows,he put the mug aside and looked at his brother with
eyes as clear as a spring and as black as midnight.
    “Meg risked her life to save yours,”

Simon said. “She could be Satan’s own sister and I
would love her for saving your life.”
    “Simon, called the Loyal,” Dominic said
softly. “There is little you wouldn’t do for
me.”
    “There is nothing.”
    The finality in Simon’s voice didn’t
reassure Dominic. Rather, it brought back his frown. He reached for
the mug, lifted it, drained it, and refilled it.
    “You were loyal to me before we fought the
Saracen,” Dominic said after a time, “but it was a
different kind of bond.”
    “We are brothers.”
    “No,” Dominic said, pushing the mug of
ale toward Simon. “It is more than that. And less.”
    The quality of Dominic’s voice caught Simon.
Mug half-raised to his lips, he looked at his brother.
    And found himself pinned by a glance that was as
unblinking as that of the wolf’s head pin.
    “It is as though you feel responsible for my
torture by the sultan,” Dominic said.
    “I am,” Simon said bluntly, and
drank.
    “Nay!” Dominic said. “It was my
error that led men