“This is Stephen de Longueville, my lord,” he murmured. He held the earthen cup in steady hands, his eyes not leaving Bran’s.

“Excellent. My lord duke, is this man acceptable to you?”

Lionel shook his head. “Your surgeon could have prepared him in some special way, my lord. If you meant to poison us, he could have been given an antidote. May I make my own selection?”

“Certainly. I must ask that you not choose one of my officers, since I shall require their services while I am away, but any of the others is acceptable. Feel free to choose whomever you wish.”

Lionel handed his helmet to one of his men, then turned on his heel and strode back to the mounted Marley riders still surrounding his own escort. He scanned the men carefully, then stepped to the side of one of the riders and laid his hand on the horse’s bridle. The horse tossed its head and snorted.

“This man, my lord. There is no way he could have been prepared in advance. Let him sample the draught you would have us drink.”

Bran nodded and gave a curt hand signal, and the man swung down from his horse. As he crossed the grass toward Bran, Lionel followed at his elbow, watching him closely. When the man pulled off his helmet and attempted to hand it to one of his fellows standing in the earl’s menie, Lionel interposed and took the helmet himself, passing it on to the man for whom the soldier had intended it. The duke was taking no chances that something could be slipped to his test subject without his knowledge.

Motioning Merritt to guard the man, Lionel crossed to Bran and took the earthen cup from Cordan. His black eyes measured Bran for a long moment as he held the cup between them; irritation hinted in his lean face. Then he raised the cup slightly in salute and strode back to where Merritt and the soldier waited. One of Lionel’s men dismounted and took the cup to inspect it, sniffing at the contents suspiciously. Only then was Bran’s soldier brought closer to place his hands on the vessel. Lionel and Merritt stationed themselves on either side of the man to watch, Lionel casting a suspicious glance at Bran as they prepared to administer the test.

“What is the required dosage?”

“A goodly swallow is sufficient, my lord,” Cordan replied. “The drug is potent and acts very quickly.”

“Indeed,” Lionel murmured, returning his attention to the man and the cup. “Very well, my good fellow. Drink deep if you dare. Your commander is said to be a man of his word. If he is, you shall awaken later, no worse for the wear. Drink up.”

The man, guided by the cupbearer, brought the vessel to his lips and took a mouthful, raising his eyebrows at the obviously pleasant flavor, then glanced at Lionel and swallowed. He had time to lick his lips once in appreciation—Cordan was known for his use of fine wines in his potions. Then he reeled and would have fallen, had not Lionel and Merritt caught him under the elbows and eased him down. By the time he reached the ground, the man was fast asleep, and no amount of shaking or calling would rouse him.