She sighed lightly and tucked Brendan’s furs more closely around him, then froze as a sound outside her tent caught her attention. Standing up as quietly as possible, she moved to the doorway of the inner chamber and saw a man silhouetted in the outer doorway. He had not been challenged by the guards and made no move to step closer—did not, in fact, appear to be menacing—but who was he? She took a few steps into the outer chamber, squinting against the deeper darkness of the outside to discern his features.

“Who’s there?” she said in a low voice, not wishing to rouse Brendan or Sister Luke. “Have you a message for me?”

The man in the doorway slipped just inside and dropped to one knee. “I am Sean Lord Derry, my lady—Morgan’s aide. I—could you come to the king’s tent with me right away? Lord Warin has taken quite ill, and Morgan is unable to attend him at this time. Father Duncan thought you might be able to help.”

“Well, of course. I mean, I’ll try,” she said. She took a cloak from behind the inner doorway and began to fasten it around her shoulders. “What ails Lord Warin? Have you any idea?”

Derry shook his head and got to his feet. “No, my lady. I’m afraid I don’t. He’s feverish, delirious….”

Richenda finished fastening the cloak and gestured toward the tent flap. “I’m ready, then. Lead the way.”

Derry glanced at the floor in seeming embarrassment. “My lady, before we go, I—well, I don’t know how to say this so that you won’t think me foolish, but the king is—well, the king wishes you to bring young Lord Brendan with you.”

“He wants me to bring Brendan? Why on earth—”

“Please, my lady, I—Bishop Arilan and Father Duncan fear that Wencit and your husband might try to kidnap the boy if he’s left alone. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions. Besides, Morgan has given me some measure of protection.”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Richenda murmured, crossing herself hastily and rushing to the doorway of the inner chamber. She stood there for several seconds without moving, staring at the sleeping child, then turned back to face Derry.

“They’re right. It could be a plot. Bran loves Brendan dearly. He might very well be able to coerce Wencit into trying to steal him away. Please help me wrap him in this cloak, Derry,” she whispered, handing Derry a fur-lined cloak and moving toward the boy’s bed. “But be careful not to wake Sister Luke. We’ll be all right.”

Derry smiled to himself, but she could not see, since he was bent over the sleeping boy. “Of course you will, my lady,” he said in a very low voice. “These priests must be humored sometimes, though. Come. Warin needs your aid.”

MINUTES later, Richenda and Derry were entering the royal pavilion, Derry carrying the sleeping Brendan. It was bright inside, after the torch-touched blackness of the outer camp, and it took Richenda’s eyes a moment to adjust to the new light level. Derry moved across the chamber and laid the boy atop a pile of furs in the center of the room, then gestured to the side where Warin lay. As Richenda crossed to Warin’s side, Derry stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, a slight smile on his face; but Richenda did not notice.