There was a moment of confusion, but it was only a moment. Then Cato’s gaze cleared, he brought his horse under control, and the two men faced each other amid a murderous turmoil that faded into the distance like the bells of cows in an alpine pasture.

“So, Decatur,” Cato said in the stillness that surrounded them, closing them off from the world like the thorny thicket of Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

“Granville.”

The curt greeting was sufficient. Rufus turned Ajax aside and rode away from the fray. Cato followed, both men now intent on the culmination of the personal feud that had colored their lives, their decisions, their emotions, since childhood.

They reached a corner of the field over which the battle had flowed and ebbed an hour previously. With unspoken, mutual consent, they drew rein and dismounted.

Rufus planted the Decatur standard in the soft ground and cast off his helmet and breastplate. Cato removed his own armor and when both men stood in britches and buff jerkin, they turned to face each other.

“Swords?” Cato inquired almost distantly. “Or swords and daggers?”

“It matters not,” Rufus said with the same distant courtesy.

Cato said, “Swords only, then.” He drew out his dirk from the sheath at his belt and tossed it to the ground a good few feet distant.

Rufus did the same. Then he drew his sword.

They stood facing each other.

Portia didn’t know why she chose to climb down from her observation post when she did. There were instincts and presciences that controlled her, and she didn’t question them. She understood only that the battle was lost for the king’s men. Not an indecisive loss, not a negotiable loss, but a crushing defeat that would bring to an end the king’s cause in the north, if not across the land.

And she understood that somewhere on that bloody field she would find Rufus dead or alive. If he was dead, she would find his body. It was hers. It was all that was left to her. There had been no reconciliation, but she would find his body, would make peace as she could. Once she had had his love. And now she carried part of him within her.

Portia walked out onto the battlefield of Marston Moor. The evening star was pale but visible. The western sky was ruddy. She walked through the bodies, through the injured, through the little groups of skirmishers, as if she were a ghost, invisible and inviolate. She didn’t hear the screams of the wounded, the cries for water, the shrieks of broken horses. She didn’t smell the blood, was not aware of the sodden earth beneath her feet. She walked until she saw the Decatur standard thrashing in the rising breeze.

She heard sword upon sword. In the eerie quiet of dusk, there was at first only that sound. Then Portia became aware of the breathing, the deep, heavy breathing of laboring men. She heard the muted noise of booted feet moving purposefully over soft ground. But there were no voices.

As instinctively as she had descended from the oak tree half an hour before, Portia moved toward the sounds, her feet noiseless, her body sliding into the dusk shadows.

She saw the two men in their elaborate dance of death. Their swords were like silver fish, weaving, dancing, jumping against the dimming light. Their powerful bodies had somehow lost force and substance for the watcher, but were more like spirits in this dance, deadly but beautiful.

And then understanding burst forth, shattering Portia’s strange trance, hurling her back with explosive force into the world of living reality. And she saw how well matched they were, and she understood how this dance must end. One of them would die. Or both of them would die.

And Portia was filled with an anger so fierce it eclipsed all other emotion. Did they not understand how they were loved? Did they not understand how many people depended upon their strength, their compassion, their love? Did they not understand how much they owed to the people who loved and depended upon them, upon whose love and understanding they in turn depended?

She reached into her boot for her knife. She held it poised, her eyes narrowed, focused on the twin blades. The two men were not aware of her presence in the shadows; they were aware of nothing but their own battling concerns. But Portia now was as clearheaded as she had ever been. She was a soldier planning an intervention, and coldly, unemotionally, she watched and waited for the perfect moment.

When it came, she knew it. She didn’t hesitate. The knife flew from her hand, striking Cato’s sword in a cascade of sparks as he thrust beneath his opponent’s guard. Cato’s sword was deflected. Portia flung herself forward between the two men. She landed on her knees, ducking her head beneath the blades poised above her.

The astounded silence engulfed them all. Rufus stepped back, his point lowered. Cato did the same. Portia raised her head.

Rufus threw his sword from him. He bent and caught Portia under the arms, lifting her to her feet. He held her and shook her. He set her on her feet, took her by the shoulders, and shook her until she thought her head would leave her shoulders.

“How dare you! How dare you do something so reckless, so unutterably stupid!” he raged. “I could have killed you!” He caught her to him, crushing her in the vise of his arms, hurling his fury with liquid eloquence at the top of her head even as he stroked her hair, clasped the nape of her neck, gripped her narrow shoulders.

Portia struggled to free herself. Her own anger was still riding high. She was weeping with rage and remembered frustration and the sheer joy of knowing that Rufus loved her. She felt it in his hands even through their roughness, and she heard it in his voice despite the savagery of his tone. But she couldn’t distinguish her emotions, and her anger at what had brought them to this place still ruled.

“How could you do this?” she exclaimed, finally wrenching herself from Rufus’s grasp. “Both of you? Hasn’t there been enough killing for one day?” She turned on the stunned Cato with an all-encompassing wave of her hand. “What does it matter if your fathers hated each other? What can that possibly weigh in the scale against your own lives? The lives of your children?”

“Just a minute…” Cato held up a hand in an imperative gesture for silence, but Portia was unstoppable.

“What will happen to Olivia?” she demanded. “If you die in this pointless feud with Rufus, what will happen to your children? Do you think it matters a whore’s curse to them what occurred nearly thirty years ago? They want their father, they need-”

“Hold your tongue!” Cato had recovered his senses and now interrupted her tirade with such force that despite the energy of conviction, Portia stopped midsentence. “I’ll not be spoken to in such fashion by a mere chit of a girl!” he exclaimed. “Where in the devil’s name did you spring from?”

“How could that matter?” Portia waved the question away as she turned on Rufus. Her eyes were green fire; her hair blazed with an energy all its own; her entire body thrummed with the power of her need to stop this madness.

“What of the boys, Rufus?” she demanded. “Are you prepared to leave them orphaned, as you were? Exiled without place or family? Who will they be? What will they have when you’ve given your life for some futile vengeance?”

She saw his eyes, saw the demons spring to life, but she ignored them, stepping close to him, raising her face so that she looked him in the eye and faced down the demons.

“And what of this child, Rufus?” Her right hand rested on her belly. “I am not prepared for my child to come fatherless into this world.”

The flat statement lay between them. Cato took a step back as if standing aside from something that now excluded him.

Rufus heard Portia’s words. He saw her hand resting on her belly. He remembered his mother standing in just that way, protecting the fatherless child she carried. He remembered the infant, his sister, blue, waxen, blood streaked.