As Faulkes de Breaute urged his destrier over the final rise between himself and his destiny he cursed the English rain. All around the moors burgeoned with dripping springtime growth and the wet earth fought every step his mighty war-horse took. given his choice he would have journeyed in a more forgiving season, but when the King offered a prize it did not do to let it wait upon the taking. And what a prize it was; a wealthy heiress dowered with castle, land and plump coffers of gold and coin. They said the Lady Margaret was young and comely too. So long as she's damp, yielding and fertile as this mud she'll do, mused de Breaute ruefully as Sultan's hooves sunk once more into the mire.