The Lady Richenda was also with them, muffled in a cloak of blue, her head bowed, sitting sidesaddle beside her kinsman Cardiel. She did not meet Morgan’s eyes as he and the king passed, though she did glance at Duncan. Somehow Morgan knew that she would have to be there. Resolutely he put her out of his mind and turned to face the enemy.

Across the field, more than half a mile away, a similar group of horsemen was already drawing away from the enemy lines, riding out under a glowering, watery sun. Morgan glanced aside at Kelson, at Duncan, who seemed to have attained a new inner peace in the past twenty-four hours, at Arilan, calm and serene in his episcopal violet. Then he faced straight ahead, sensing Kelson’s slow move forward from the corner of his eye and moving his horse to match pace. Duncan was at his right knee, Kelson to his left, with Arilan to Kelson’s left. Behind them, at a respectful distance, followed Nigel and the others, the royal Gwynedd banner in their midst. Before them lay the enemy and his train.

They rode forward until the distance had closed to two hundred yards, then drew rein. For a handful of heartbeats Kelson sat his horse statue-like, staring at four similar riders across the stretch of damp grass. Then he and his three companions swung down from their horses as one, handing over the reins to a squire who rode forward and then retreated. His departure left the four of them standing alone, shivering slightly in the damp morning air despite their heavy cloaks, the wind ruffling Kelson’s raven hair beneath his simple golden circlet.

“Where is the Council?” Morgan murmured, turning slightly toward Arilan as they began walking toward the enemy.

Arilan smiled slightly. “They are en route. They located those who were to impersonate them. The imposters have been dealt with, and the Council will appear on schedule. Except that they will not be those whom Wencit is expecting.”

Kelson scowled. “I hope it does some good. I don’t mind telling you—all of you!—that I am frightened.”

“So are we all, my prince,” Arilan murmured gently. “We can but do our best and trust to Divine Providence. The Lord will not suffer us to die the death if our faith is strong and our cause just.”

“Pray God those are not empty words, Bishop,” Kelson murmured. The four advancing enemy were within fifty yards now, and Kelson could begin to see their faces.

Wencit looked dour and almost worried this morning. He had appeared in something less than his usual splendor, choosing a simple tunic of violet velvet with his leaping hart on the chest, instead of more resplendent attire, and his kingly diadem was only slightly more ornate than Kelson’s own plain circlet. Lionel, on the left, was garbed in his customary black and silver, though his flame-bladed dagger was conspicuously absent; Bran, to Wencit’s immediate right, looked pale and nervous in royal blue. Rhydon, to the right of Bran, wore a plain tunic and cloak of midnight blue, his dark hair confined by a silver fillet across the brow. He and Wencit both kept glancing toward the hillocks to the north, as though expecting something—undoubtedly watching for the Council to arrive. Kelson wondered if they were getting suspicious.