“Your pardon, Nigel, but this is welcome news. Gentlemen, I have in my hand a dispatch from General Gloddruth, who, as most of you know, was with Duke Jared’s army at Ren—”

Exclamations of excitement and disbelief cut off further speech, and Morgan had to rap on the table with his knuckles before order was restored. It was with obvious restraint that the men ceased their excited speculation and listened for his next words.

“Gloddruth says that Jared was definitely wounded and captured, not killed,” Morgan went on, consulting the letter, “along with the Earl of Jenas, the Sieur de Canlavay, and Lords Lester, Harkness, Collier, and Bishop Richard of Nyford. He says that he and Lord Burchard managed to bring out about a hundred men between them, and he thinks that a few hundred more may have escaped to the west.”

There was a ragged cheer at this last, but Morgan held up his hand for silence.

“This is welcome news, of course, but Gloddruth goes on to say that he counts the battle a total rout. They were taken completely by surprise. He estimates that sixty per cent of the army was killed outright, and almost all of the others were taken captive. He will meet us at Drellingham tomorrow, with those he was able to bring out.”

“Sixty per cent?”

“The Hell you say!”

“Morgan, where did—”

“What else does it say, Your Grace?”

Morgan shook his head and began easing his way to the door, brandishing the dispatch beside his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, you now know as much as I do. Nigel, I’ll rejoin you shortly. Duncan and the king will want to know about this.”

He could not readily find Duncan. And Kelson was, at the moment, occupied with matters far more trying, if less urgent, than what had just transpired in the council chamber. After leaving the war council, Kelson had gone, as he had said he would, to search out the apartments of Bran Coris’s wife, the Countess Richenda. He had finally located her quarters on an upper floor of the east wing, but it had taken what seemed like an eternity for the lady’s servants to rouse their mistress from her sleep.

Kelson waited uneasily in the apartment’s dayroom while a few sleepy servants tidied the place and brought in a rack of candles on a floor standard. White moonlight streamed through an open eastern window, creating an eerie, ghostly atmosphere that made Kelson even more uncomfortable than he had been.

At last the door to an inner chamber opened and the lady appeared. Even then, Kelson was not prepared for the young, reed-slim figure in white who glided into the room and made her graceful curtsy.

Beauty he had been prepared for, knowing Bran Coris; and Richenda of Marley had that in abundance, though of a less earthy sort than Kelson had envisioned. The delicate, heart-shaped face was framed by masses of reddish-gold hair bound with a white lace kerchief; the eyes were of a deep, sea-blue shade that Kelson had never seen before. In addition, though he knew that she was Bran Coris’s wife and the mother of his young heir, he found it difficult to remember that she was probably a dozen years his senior, not a maiden barely out of girlhood.