“I hardly think that likely,” the soldier began, beginning to get a little irritated with these two insistent monks. His prolonged conversation had attracted the attention of several of his colleagues, including the officer of the guard. “However, if you’d care to give me your names, I could—”

“What seems to be the trouble, Selden?” the guard officer asked, approaching slowly with several of his men at his back. “You brothers know you’re not meant to be here. Didn’t Selden tell you that?”

“Oh, he did, sir,” Duncan mumbled, bowing again. “But—”

“Sir,” one of the guards staring at Morgan interrupted suspiciously, “that man looks like he has something under his robe. Brother, what is th—”

As the man reached for his elbow, Morgan’s hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his sword, and he stepped back. The movement was sufficient to swirl the robes closer around the sheathed blade, silhouetting it beneath the cloth, and to show the toe of a riding boot instead of the sandals that should have gone with monastic attire.

Several of the soldiers gave a concerted gasp as the implication registered, and then they were rushing to grab Morgan’s arms, pinning him against the wall and entangling his sword arm. He was aware that Duncan, too, was under assault; and then someone got a grip on the shoulder of his robe and yanked until the fabric parted with a muffled, ripping sound. Morgan’s hair gleamed like a sleek golden helmet as the cowl fell away.

“God in Heaven, this is no monk!” one of the soldiers gasped, recoiling involuntarily from the impact of the cold gray eyes.

Even as Morgan was borne to the floor by the massed weight of five or six bodies, he continued to struggle, almost throwing off their restraints at one point. But then he was pinned, helpless, swords leveled at throat and side, one blade pressing dangerously hard against his jugular.

Abruptly he stopped fighting and let them disarm him, biting his lip as they removed even the stiletto in its slim wrist sheath. As they pulled away the black robes and discovered the mail beneath his riding leathers, he forced himself to relax, hoping to allay any senseless brutality. His captors appeared to appreciate the cooperation, for they merely consolidated their hold on him, one man sitting on each of his limbs while a fifth continued to hold a dagger to his throat. He decided against trying to raise his head to see what had happened to Duncan. He dared not risk getting his throat cut before he could talk his way out of this mess.

The guard officer straightened, breathing hard, and sheathed his sword in disgust as he glared down at the two prisoners.

“Who are you? Assassins?” He prodded Morgan in the ribs with the toe of his boot, none too gently. “What’s your name?”

“My name is for the bishops only,” Morgan said softly, staring up at the ceiling and forcing himself to remain calm.