Kelson gave a curt hand signal, and one of the guards holding Loris pulled a cloth from his tunic so that his colleague could begin gagging the archbishop.

“You were warned,” Kelson said, eyeing Loris, then the rest of them, with a cold intensity. “Now, which is it to be? We have not the time to delay any longer while you ponder.”

Bishop Creoda coughed nervously and glanced at his colleagues, then stepped forward. “Sire, I cannot speak for my brethren, but I wish no further argument with you. If it please Your Majesty, I shall retire to Carbury for the duration. I do not really know what I believe anymore.”

Kelson nodded curtly, then scanned the rest. After a slight hesitation, Ifor and Carsten also stepped forward, Ifor bowing slightly before he spoke. “We, too, ask your indulgence, Sire. We accept your offer, and will retire to our respective sees. You have our word on it.”

Kelson nodded. “What of the rest of you? I told you, I haven’t all day.”

Bishop Conlan, with a decisive movement, crossed to Kelson and dropped to one knee before him. “I kneel to you once more, Sire. I abjure my support of what followed the Saint Torin affair. If you believe in the innocence of Morgan and McLain, that is sufficient for me. We were all of us caught up in what happened there. Pray, forgive us, Sire.”

“I forgive you freely, Bishop Conlan.” Kelson reached down to touch Conlan lightly on the shoulder. “Do you ride north with us, then?”

“With all my heart, Sire.”

“Thank you.” Kelson returned his gaze to the rest of them: to Loris, struggling in the hands of his captors, making incoherent noises behind his gag; to Creoda and Ifor and Carsten, who would be going into seclusion; then to the two remaining prelates who had not yet declared themselves.

“De Lacey, I have not heard your answer.”

De Lacey averted his eyes for a long moment, then rose stiffly from his seat and slowly sank to his knees in place. “Forgive my seeming indecision, young Sire, but I am an old man, and the old ways die slowly. I am not accustomed to disobeying either my archbishop or my king.”

“Unfortunately, it appears that you shall be obliged to disobey one of us, my lord. Who is it to be?”

De Lacey bowed his head. “I shall ride with you, Sire. If I might have a horse-litter instead of a warhorse, however…I fear that my bones are too old to travel astride a horse at the pace you will demand.”

Kelson inclined his head in agreement. “Captain, see to a litter for His Excellency. And Archbishop Corrigan—what about you? Must I ask each of you individually? Surely you have had time to decide by now.”

Corrigan was ashen, his fat face clammy and glistening with perspiration. He cast long looks at his colleagues, at his henchman Loris in the soldiers’ bonds, then pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face as he lumbered slowly toward Kelson. When he had come to within a few paces of the young king, he cast a final look behind him at Loris, then cast his eyes down and studied his hands, twisting his handkerchief between stubby fingers.