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L’Enver’s throat.
    Barquiel L’Envers coughed, eyes watering; I daresay the blow had bruised his larynx. “You wouldn’t try that against a man wearing a gorget, Cassiline,” he said in a strained tone.
    “No, my lord.” Joscelin smiled slightly. “I would not.”
    Catching his breath, L’Envers launched a flurry of an attack; short, quick blows that pressed Joscelin hard and left no opening for him to close. I watched it with my heart in my throat, for any number of them might have been deadly had they landed. To this day, I honestly do not know if the Duc could have pulled his stroke short if Joscelin’s guard had faltered. Blessed Elua be thanked, it did not.
    But if it became clear that Barquiel’s sword could not penetrate the flashing circle of Joscelin’s daggers and vambraces, it was equally clear that Joscelin could not get within reach of the Duc’s longsword and past his shield. Around and around they went, churning the muddy field to mire, while the murmur of wagering rose among the watching army and cold sweat trickled between my shoulderblades.
    At last, Barquiel L’Envers stepped back, setting his shield high and lifting his sword overhead, stepping up hard and fast to bring it down in a swift blow aimed at the top of Joscelin’s head. In a single, blurred movement, Joscelin raised his crossed daggers to catch the blow, pinioning the sword between his own blades. For a moment, they were locked thusly, straining-and then L’Envers brought his shield up with a fierce jerk, driving it into Joscelin’s unprotected face.
    Joscelin staggered backward, twisting away from L’Envers’ sword, and the soldiers surged forward. Unnerved, my mount shifted restively, tossing its head and blocking my view. By the time I got her under control, the two men had closed again and were grappling. Joscelin had L’Envers’ sword-arm pinned low, blade caught in the curved quillon of his dagger; L’Envers pushed hard against him with his shield, striving to bring it up under his chin. Their legs were braced, feet struggling for purchase in the slippery mud.
    It was Joscelin who faltered. I saw it, as they heaved and strained, saw his left foot slide, almost of its own volition, saw his left knee buckle. Overborne by L’Envers’ shield, their blades entangled, he went down. With a crow of victory, Barquiel L’Envers wrenched his sword free and leveled the blade, tip pointing at Joscelin’s throat. “Do you yield, Messire Cassiline?”
    On his back, Joscelin put up his hands. “My lord, I yield.”
    The army roared its approval and I let out a sigh, glad it was over. Barquiel L’Envers chuckled and handed his sword and shield to his squire. Removing his helmet, he tucked it under one arm and extended the other hand to Joscelin, pulling him to his feet. “Well fought, Messire Verreuil, though I daresay your lady won’t thank me for the condition of your attire. Still, you’ve earned her the right to her questions. Shall we retire to my quarters? I’ll give you a proper welcome and see if my valet can’t do something about that mud.”
    And with that, we were adjourned.
    The Royal Commander’s quarters at Champs-de-Guerre were spacious and well appointed, though not luxurious. A scattering of Akkadian pillows and carpets gave it Barquiel L’Envers’ stamp. No sign of a woman’s hand was in evidence. In all the years I have known him, I’ve met the Duc’s wife only once. A strong woman in her own right, she seems content to run their ancestral estates in Namarre while her ambitious husband plies his skills elsewhere.
    True to his word, L’Envers made Joscelin the loan of a pair of clean breeches, sending his mire-sodden doublet and hose with his valet. A repast of cold chicken was served, along with salted melon slices, crusty bread and a sharp white cheese. Afterward, Joscelin sat cross-legged on the floor in his linen shirt and borrowed breeches, methodically cleaning mud from his weapons and gear while I spoke to Barquiel L’Envers.
    “My lady Phèdre.” Still pleased with his victory, the Duc was in an expansive mood. “What is this matter you wish to discuss with me?”
    “Your grace.” I inclined my head to him. “What do you know of Imriel de la Courcel?”
    “Melisande’s boy.” L’Envers shot me a shrewd glance. “Why? What do you know, Comtesse?”
    I shrugged. “You have looked for him, my lord. I know that much.”
    He pursed his lips and stared into his wineglass,