I looked from Mortigen to Black Duncan and then back to Mortigen. “But you were in contest for the Lady Emeline ...”
He frowned suddenly and glared at me—intensely, murderously. “Oh, I am, Sir Galaren. I am. The wench—Rosemary—never got close. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”
He glanced from me to Black Duncan—anxiously, I thought. Uneasily. “Black Duncan, on the other hand, has a different story. Don’t you now, good sir? Why don’t you tell him. Tell Sir Galaren the Born Again what you told me.”
And, indeed, he was about to do that when the great door of the freezer suddenly unlatched and swung open and we launched ourselves at it without hesitation—in time to see, not just a wheelbarrow piled high with armor and weapons, but a pale, lithe figure, a woman, a progenitrix, by the sh
