“From what I have heard,” Duncan said with a wry chuckle, “he will have his hands full convincing her of that. The Lady Richenda may be a very refined lady, but she seems to me a very stubborn one.”

Kelson smiled. “So I have come to suspect. But I cannot fault her when that stubbornness is for the Crown. Morgan, try to make her understand what we are up against. I have no right to ask her assistance under the circumstances. I shouldn’t even have allowed her to come.”

“I shall do my best, my prince,” Morgan agreed.

“Thank you. Now, Uncle Nigel, I wonder if you would come with me to look over the northernmost defenses. I am not convinced that they are adequate, and I should like your opinion.”

As Kelson pulled out several maps to show to his uncle and went on with his briefing, Morgan took his leave and slipped out of the royal pavilion. Kelson’s request both pleased and troubled him, for he had not been at all certain it was wise to seek out Richenda of Marley again—not after their all too brief but emotionally potent meeting at Dhassa.

A part of him, of course, positively yearned to see her again; but another, more cautious part of him—a part which, he strongly suspected, was closely bound up with his personal sense of honor—that part warned him to stay away, warned that no honor could come of permitting himself to become more emotionally involved with another man’s wife—especially if he might have to kill that man on the morrow.

But now the matter had been taken out of his hands. He had been given an order by his king, and he must obey. Pushing aside a curious sense of elation at being thus forced to circumvent the proddings of his conscience, he made his way through the camp until he came to Bishop Cardiel’s compound.

The bishop had not yet returned, was probably overseeing troop placement with Warin and Arilan somewhere, but the bishop’s guards passed the King’s Champion unchallenged. Very shortly Morgan was moving across the torchlit common before the Countess of Marley’s bright blue tent. Torches blazed to either side of the entry-way, but he could see through the open flap that the interior was lit by the softer glow of candles.

Swallowing nervously, Morgan stepped to the open flap of the tent and cleared his throat.

“My lady countess?” he called softly.

He heard a faint rustle of fabric, heralding the appearance of a tall, dark form in the opening to the tent. Morgan’s heart missed a beat for just an instant, then resumed its normal pace, for the woman was a sister, not the Lady Richenda.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the sister murmured, inclining her wimpled head. “Her Ladyship is within, putting the young master to bed. Did you wish to speak with her?”

“If you please, Sister. I have a message for her from the king.”

“I shall tell her, Your Grace. Wait here, please.” As the sister withdrew, Morgan turned to gaze out into the darkness beyond the circle of torchlight. After what seemed like only a few seconds, another rustling heralded the appearance of a different form: Richenda of Marley, with a sky-blue mantle drawn over a flowing white under-robe, her flame-colored hair trailing loosely down her back. A single candle held in a silver holder shed a golden light across her face.