By King's Decree. Shari Anton

to walk?”

      “Aye, my lord.”

      He gave a long, resigned sigh, then held out his hands. “Come, Ardith. Ride with me.”

      The thought of riding on a warhorse gave her pause. Black as coal, sleek as silk, the destrier stood several hands taller than her palfrey. Warhorses were said to be mean as jackals, fierce fighters, protective of their masters.

      “I thought ‘twas bad luck for a destrier to carry a woman,” she argued.

      “Superstitious nonsense.”

      Ardith looked back. Everyone waited. Riding pillion was little better than riding in the litter. But if she refused Gerard’s invitation, all would consider the rejection an insult to the baron.