Morgan snatched his other boot from Duncan and snorted, “Ha! You know you love it!” He began dusting the boot energetically. “By the way, any trouble last night?”

“Only getting to sleep,” Duncan replied. He watched as Morgan began pulling on his boots, then picked up his cousin’s discarded mail shirt and turned it right side out. Morgan stuck his head and arms into the mail and settled it over his shoulders, smoothed the light links over the white linen shirt he had donned after his bath.

Over that, he pulled on a fine, light-weight shirt of scarlet silk and began lacing it up the front. Duncan laced the sleeves close to his wrists, then held out a black velvet doublet edged with gold embroidery and pearls. Morgan whistled lightly under his breath at the extravagance of the garment, then eased it on without further comment. He adjusted the full, split sleeves to show the scarlet beneath, then held up his arms while Duncan wrapped his waist with a wide crimson sash.

As he reached for his sword in its worn leather scabbard, clipped it to a ring hidden in the sash, Duncan stepped back to view the overall effect. The priest gave him a long, appraising stare, then shook his head and raised an eyebrow in mock despair.

“No, I’m afraid there’s simply no getting around it,” he muttered. “In spite of everything, I do believe you’ll be the most devilishly handsome Champion we’ve had in a long time!”

“I do believe you may be absolutely right!” Morgan agreed, striking a pose.

“And you may also be the most conceited Champion we have ever had!” his cousin went on.

“What?”

Duncan wagged an indignant finger. “Now, Alaric, remember. I am your spiritual father. I only tell you this for your own good!”

It was no longer possible to maintain a straight face. Morgan was the first to dissolve into peals of laughter, hands held helplessly to his sides. Almost simultaneously, Duncan, too, burst out laughing and collapsed weakly in the overstuffed chair, no longer able to control himself.

Presently, a red-liveried attendant poked his head through the doorway to Kelson’s dressing room. His expression was very disapproving, for he had heard the laughter even inside, and his tone was cool as he addressed the two young lords.

“Is there anything wrong, Your Grace?”

Morgan managed to control his laughter enough to shake his head and wave the man off, then sobered and called out again. “Is His Highness ready yet? Monsignor McLain must leave soon for the cathedral.”

“I’m ready now, Father,” Kelson said, sweeping into the room.

As Morgan straightened, Duncan came to his feet, both of them scarcely able to believe that this white-and-gold-clad king was the same boy who had knelt with them so frightened the night before.