Without thinking, Rotaida snatched up the fallen Frankish banner, saw Prince Charles’s fleur-de-lis on it, and handed it up to Martin. She had no time to respond to the astonished look on his face. Saxon soldiers pointed their short swords and seaxes at her. With the Frank banner high again, the Frankish army rallied.

Prince Charles lay bleeding a man’s-length from her feet. Thrun’s body, spear pierced, sprawled across the prince. From the corner of her eye, she saw two Franks shove Thrun aside, seize Prince Charles, and carry him from the field.

    At the edge of her vision, a sword slashed at her from the side. Rotaida whirled and parried. Her steel dagger cut her attacker’s thigh. Too late, she saw his face. She had wounded her friend Padraig, and with the very dagger he had given her.

    How could this happen? she groaned inwardly. Mon Dieu, this is terrible! He mistook me for a Frankish soldier when I hoisted their banner, and I struck to defend myself before I saw who he was.

    Still gripped by Morag’s potion, he thrust his sword at her with no recognition on his face.