“You bear no grudges, I trust,” said the recreant. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Catherine lifted a hand to protest. “In war only.” She could scarce be heard. The hand fell down again.

Sir Roger and I kept our feet. He spat on the deck. Owain reddened. “Look you,” he exclaimed, “let’s have no cant about broken vows. Your own position is more than doubtful. You’ve arrogated to yourself the right of creating noblemen out of peasants and serfs, disposing of fiefs, dealing with foreign kings. Why, you’d make yourself king if you could! What then of your pledges to sovereign Edward?”

“I’ve done naught to his harm,” Sir Roger answered, shaken of voice. “If ever I find Terra, I’ll add my conquests to his domain. Until then, we must manage somehow, and have no choice but establish our own feudality.”

“That may have been the case hitherto,” Sir Owain admitted. His smile returned. “But you should thank me, Roger, that I’ve lifted this necessity from you. We can go back home!”

“As Wersgor cattle?”

“I think not. But do be seated, you two. I shall have wine and cakes brought. You’re my guests now, you know.”

“Nay. I’ll not break bread with you.”

“Then you’ll starve to death,” said Sir Owain merrily.

Roger became like stone. I noticed for the first time that Lady Catherine wore a holster but that it was empty. Owain must have gotten her weapon on some pretext. Now he alone was armed.

He turned grave as he read our expressions. “My lord,” he said, “when you offered to come parley, you could not expect me to refuse such a chance. You’ll remain with us.”

Catherine stirred. “Owain, no!” she cried. “You never told me — you said he’d be free to leave this ship if—”

He turned his fine profile to her view and said gently:

“Think, my lady. Was it not your highest wish, to save him? But you wept, fearing his pride would never let him yield. Now he is a prisoner. Your wish is granted. All the dishonor is on myself. I bear that burden lightly, since ’tis for my lady’s dear sake.”

She trembled so I could see it. “I had no part in this, Roger,” she pleaded. “I never imagined—’

Her husband did not look at her. His voice chopped hers off. “What d’ you plan, Montbelle?”

“This new situation has given me new hopes,” answered the other knight. “I confess I was never overly joyed at thought of bargaining with the Wersgorix. Now ’tis not needful. We can go directly home. The weapons and chests of gold aboard this vessel will win me as much as I care to possess.”

Branithar, the only nonhuman there who understood his English, barked: “Hoy, what of me and my friends here?’

Owain answered coolly, “Why should you not accompany us? Without Sir Roger de Tourneville, the English cause must soon collapse, so you’ll have done your duty to your own people. I’ve studied your way of thinking — a particular place means nothing to you. We’ll pick up some females of your race along the way. As my loyal vassals, you can win as much power and land on Terra as anywhere else; your descendants will share the planet with mine. True, you sacrifice a certain amount of wonted social intercourse, but on the other hand, you fain a degree of liberty your own government never allowed you.

He had the weapons. Yet I think Branithar yielded to the argument itself, and that his slow mumble of agreement was honest.

“And us?” breathed Lady Catherine.

“You and Roger shall have your estate in England,” pledged Sir Owain. “I’ll add thereto one at Winchester.”

Perhaps he was also honest. Or perhaps he thought, once he was the overlord of Europe, he could do as he wished with her husband and herself. She was too shaken to foresee the latter chance. I saw her suddenly enclouded with dream. She faced Sir Roger, smiling and weeping. “My love, we can go home again!”

He glanced at her, once. “But what of the folk we led hither?” he asked.

“Nay, I cannot risk taking them with us.” Sir Owain shrugged. “They’re lowborn anyway.”

Sir Roger nodded. “Ah,” he said. “So.”

Once more he looked at his wife. Then he kicked backward. The spur of knighthood struck into the belly of the Wersgor behind him. He ripped downward.

Falling with the same motion, he rolled across the deck. Sir Owain yelled and leaped up. His fire gun blasted the air. It missed. The baron was too quick, reached upward, seized the other stupefied Wersgor and pulled him down on top. The second fire blast struck that living shield.

Sir Roger heaved the corpse before him, rising and advancing in one gigantic surge of motion. Owain had time for a last shot, which charred the dead flesh. Then Roger threw the body across the table, into the other man’s face.

Owain went down beneath it. Sir Roger snatched for his sword. Branithar had already put a hand on it. Sir Roger got the dagger instead. It flared from the sheath. I heard the thunk as he drove it through Branithar’s hand, into the table, to the very hilt.

“Wait there for me!” snarled Sir Roger. He drew the sword. “Haro! God send the right!”

Sir Owain had scrambled free and risen, still clutching the gun. I found myself a-pant just across the table from him. He aimed squarely at the baron’s midriff. I promised the saints many candles and smacked my rosary across the traitor’s wrist. He howled. The gun fell from his hand and skidded across the table. Sir Roger’s great glaive whistled. Owain was barely fast enough to dodge. The edged steel crashed into the wood. A moment Sir Roger must struggle to free it. The fire gun lay on the deck. I dove for it. So did Lady Catherine, who had dashed around the table. Our brows met. When my wits came back, I was sitting up and Roger was chasing Owain out the door.

Catherine screamed.

Roger stopped as if noosed. She rose in a swirl of garments. “The children, my lord! They’re aft, in the bedchamber — where the extra weapons are—”

He cursed and sped out. She followed. I picked myself up, a trifle groggily, the gun which they had both forgotten in my grasp. Branithar bared teeth at me. He tugged against the knife that pinioned him, but only made the blood run faster. I judged him safely held. My attention was elsewhere. The Wersgor whom my master had disemboweled was still alive, but would not remain so for long. A moment I hesitated … where did my duty lie, to my lord and his lady or to a dying heathen? … I bent above the contorted blue face. “Father,” he gasped. I know not who, or Who, he called upon, but I led him through such poor rites as the circumstances allowed and held him while he died. I pray he may at least have won to Limbo.

Sir Roger came back, wiping his sword. He grinned all over, I have rarely seen such joy in a man. “The little wolf!” he whooped. “Aye, Norman blood is ever easy to tell!”

“What happened?” I asked, rising in my soiled raiment.

“Owain didn’t make for the arms chest after all,” Sir Roger told me. “He must have turned forward instead, to the control turret. But the other crewmen, the gunners, had heard the fight, Judging the chance ripe and the need clear, they went to equip themselves. I saw one of them pass through the boudoir door. The other was at his heels, armed with a long wrench. I fell upon him with my sword, but he fought well and it took a while to get him slain. Meantime Catherine pursued the first and fought him barehanded till ~he struck her down. Those chickenheaded maidservants did naught but cower and scream, as expected. But then! Listen, Brother Parvus! My son Robert opened the weapon chest, took forth a gun and plugged that Wersgor as neatly as Red John could have. Oh, the little devil-cub!”

My lady entered. Her braids hung loose, and one fair cheek was purpled with a bruise. But she said as impersonally as any sergeant reporting an assignment of pickets: “I quieted the children down.”

’Poor tiny Matilda,” murmured her husband. “Was she very much frightened?”