Duncan clutched at the windowsill and stifled a gasp, staring after the lad as he disappeared into the stairwell entrance. The sky-blue silk of the boy’s livery was long-familiar, known from earliest childhood, as was the sleeping lion badge emblazoned on the chest in silver-gray.

But the sky-blue had been grimy and ragged, stained with a hue more red than mud, the lion badge almost obliterated by a great rent that ran from throat to waist. What could have happened? Had the lad brought word from Duke Jared’s army?

The flash of a blade dispatching the foundering horse ended Duncan’s stunned speculation, and he came to his senses with a start. The lad would be brought directly to Kelson, he was sure. Duncan was just turning to look for Morgan and the king when the great doors of the chamber were thrown back to admit a guard and a grimy, towheaded page of perhaps nine or ten. Beneath a guard’s borrowed cloak, Duncan could see the tattered remains of McLain livery, stained, as he had feared, with the rich red-brown of blood long-dried. The lad sported a great bruise under his left eye, and a crusty, ugly-looking cut on his left elbow, in addition to other scrapes and bruises. His dazed gaze flitted anxiously around the room and he stumbled as he came through the doorway. He would have fallen then and there, had not his escort caught him under his good arm and supported most of his weight.

“Where is the king?” the boy gasped, reeling against his supporter and trying to keep his young eyes in focus. “I must see the king. I have urgent news of—Sire!”

At that instant he spotted Kelson, who had started toward him even as he spoke his first words. The boy reached out a grimy hand and started to sink to his knees, then winced and began to crumple. The guard eased him down, and Kelson was at his side almost at once. Morgan and Duncan pushed their way through the crowd to kneel down on either side, Morgan cushioning the boy’s head against his knee. The four were quickly surrounded by a bevy of astonished and apprehensive lords.

“He’s passed out from exhaustion,” Morgan said to no one in particular, touching the boy’s forehead and shaking his head. “He’s feverish from his wounds, too.”

“Conall, bring some wine,” Kelson ordered. “Father Duncan, he wears your father’s livery. Do you know who he is?”

Duncan shook his head, white-lipped. “If I saw him before, I have forgotten, Sire. I saw him arrive, though. He rode at least one horse to death to get here.”

“Hmm,” Morgan grunted, running his hands over the boy’s body to ascertain additional wounds or broken bones. “He’s certainly been through one devil of a time, I’ll say that much for—here, what’s this?”

He had felt an odd bulge under the boy’s tunic, next to his heart, and further investigation revealed a tattered scrap of silk, tightly folded.