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“Well?” John said softly.

“As I said before, there are several good men in Bannaster’s army that I would trust with my life—were I fighting on their side,” Philip added.

“But do they at least agree that Bannaster should not be allowed up into the tower alone?”

“They did, but he is their lord. How would they stop him?”

“They would have the help of Alderley’s soldier on guard, but what would stop Bannaster from having his own man killed for disobeying him?”

“And then again, in his anger at being denied, he might turn to the real heiress.”

Though Philip spoke in a low voice, John winced. “You should not speak such things aloud.”

“I was not followed.”

“Are you so confident in your abilities?” John asked, telling himself to relax.

“You taught me to be that.”

Suddenly Philip’s head jerked forward, and he pitched into John’s arms, unconscious. John only had the briefest glimpse of a club aimed at his own head. He let go of Philip’s body to bring the crutch up, but he was too late. The blow caught him across the temple, a sharp, searing pain. The dark corridor turned to deep black as he passed out.

* * *

As John woke up, he couldn’t decide whether his eyes were open or closed. There was nothing but blackness, and a dank, unused odor, and the faint sound of dripping water echoing in the distance.

And pain; he winced with the way his head pounded. It took him several moments before his thoughts became clear. He remembered Philip falling into him, then a club aimed at his head. It had all happened too fast for him to see the man wielding it.

He was lying on something hard and uneven, damp in spots. He reached above him as he sat up, not wanting to hit his head again.

A pounding ache made him hold still until the nausea subsided. He reached up and felt his face; he wasn’t wearing a blindfold. He touched something wet at his temple, and knew he was bleeding. He followed the trace down his face, to his clothing, and detected no terrible wetness, so hopefully it was not too serious a wound.

He ran his hand over what he was sitting on, and it had the deep coldness of stone, rough where it had been carved.

Someone nearby groaned.

John went still. “Philip?” Was he actually lucky enough to be imprisoned with his man-at-arms?

For a moment, all he heard was deep, sporadic breathing.

“John?” Philip’s voice was husky, ragged.

“I’m here. I just woke up.”

“Can you see?”

“Nay, I cannot. At least we’ve not been blinded.”

“Unless we’ve been blinded together.”

John grunted. “I’m lying on a rock ledge.”

“And I as well. You’ve explored no farther?”

“I was about to, until I heard you.”

“Do you know what happened? I remember speaking with you and then—nothing.”

“You were hit from behind, fell into me, and then I was clubbed across the head. From the way my voice sounds, I don’t believe we’re in a big room. I am going to follow the wall behind me and see where it leads. Can you stand?”