Inside the cathedral, the dukes and earls waited, even those who had been loyal to John, but who had declared for Brion as soon as they could. The younger sons took their places among the older men—dukes and earls themselves now, in place of fathers or elder brothers who had been attainted in the bloodless civil war, and who had not had a chance to declare for Brion in time. They had taken up with the synthodruids and enforced John’s edicts with relish and zest. Some of them sat in prison on this day, others had retired to monasteries, but most were simply exiled to their lands at home and barred from any further use of power.
As many of the London crowd as could, followed Brion’s homespun army into the cathedral. As the archbishop set the crown on his head, they rocked the rafters with their shouts of approval.
Then, though, a hush fell over the great church, for the new king commanded, “Let the assassin be brought forward!”
Two soldiers led the way with halberds, two followed, and between them came Sergeant Brock in chains, his wounded shoulder bandaged—but also dressed in new livery of fine cloth. He knelt before Brion, bowing his head.
“Did you slay my brother Gaheris?” Brion demanded in a voice that all could hear.
“Your Majesty, I did!” Brock’s voice was as loud as Brion’s, but still held the anguish of a man who bitterly regretted his actions. “I was fool enough to believe the lies that Niobhyte preached, thrice more foolish to do his bidding and slay your brother with a silver sickle!”
“Have you confessed your sins?” Brion demanded.
The archbishop stepped forward. “Your Majesty, he has. No matter what you do to his body, his soul will go to God—eventually.”
The whole crowd shuddered at the vision of Purgatorial tortures that “eventually” conjured up.
“I have repented, and am once again a Christian, and more devout than ever for my having strayed,” Brock called out. “But no confession or repentance can change the fact of what I have done! Do with me as you will! Send me naked into the forefront of battle or smite my head off here and now! It shall be as you wish, and I’ll not resist, nay, not even in the slightest!” So saying, he bowed his head again, stretching out his neck.
The crowd murmured in awe and apprehension.
“To slay the heir apparent warrants a traitor’s death,” Brion told him, face grim, “hanging, drawing, and quartering. But you have guarded the body of your rightful king, and saved my life at the risk of your own. What the one action has lost, the other has gained, and I have no doubt of your loyalty or good faith. Rise, good sergeant, and live!”
The crowd cheered, and Brock stood up, dazed, looking about him, seeming almost sad to be alive, so ready had he been to die.
When the clamor slackened, Brion said, “But such an action cannot go completely unpunished.”
Brock braced himself.
“You shall be exiled now and again,” Brion pronounced. “You have served the good Sir Orizhan as squire in battle— so may you serve him on your travels.” He turned to the knight, drawing his sword. “Sir Orizhan, kneel.”
Completely confused, the knight stepped forward and knelt at the king’s feet Brion laid the flat of his blade on one shoulder, then the other. “For your service to your princess and to the crown, I create you Earl of Orkney, and mine own vassal!” He sheathed his sword. “Rise, my lord!”
Sir Orizhan stood up, dazed.
Brion turned to Sergeant Brock. “An island off the coast of Scotland should be far enough to be counted as exile.”
Brock finally understood. A grin a yard wide broke out on his face; he fairly glowed.
“But before Lord Orizhan goes to take up the rule of his new domain, I shall require one further service of him.” Brion turned back to the new earl. “I bid you go, my lord, to Toulenge, to your homeland, and tell the princess-mother, the regent of Princess Rosamund, and all her people, that by the time you arrive there the princess shall be Queen of Bretanglia, and that if any wrong them, they shall have redress not only from the Queen of Merovence, but also from the King of Bretanglia.”
The crowd cheered, and Rosamund lowered her eyes, blushing modestly.
Then Brion turned and bowed to his fiancee. “Highness, have I your leave to send your liegeman to bear word to your home?”
“Majesty,” she said, “you have.”
Brion turned back to Lord Orizhan. “Take your squire now, and tarry with us two more days, then be off to Merovence and the south!”
Lord Orizhan bowed and stepped back as the crowd cheered.
“It would seem they approve of the king’s justice,” Papa said.
They stood in the sanctuary with the highest lords, but far enough away from Brion to get away with muttering.
“He decided well,” Matt said, “but he was still eating his heart out about it last night when I left him. It sort of condones the killing of the heir apparent, you see, providing you’re the agent of the new king, and that bodes ill for Brion’s children, if he has any.”
“How did he decide?”
Matt shrugged. “I left him to talk it out with Rosamund.”
“Of course.” Mama smiled. “I have a feeling our princess of Merovence will have a great deal to do with the governing of this land, though I doubt she’ll want it known.”
“Yes—everybody and his brother would be pestering her for favors,” Matt said. “Better to let Brion be the heat shield. That’s what a king is for, isn’t it?”
“One of the things,” Papa agreed.
“What has he decided to do with Niobhyte?” Mama asked.
“He can’t quite see his way clear to killing him in his sleep,” Matt said, “especially since he feels any man should have one last chance at repentance and confession—but I pointed out that if he wakes Niobhyte at all, there might be hell to pay.”
“Literally,” Papa said darkly. “So?”
“There’s a promising young wizard in the Abbey of Glastonbury,” Matt said.
Mama turned to him, staring. “A monk who is a wizard?”
Matt shrugged. “We don’t choose our talents, Mama, or our vocations, as you kept pointing out to me during my teen years.”
“Well, that is true,” Mama said, frowning.
“When the young monk is a mature monk,” Matt said, “and I’m convinced he’s powerful enough to handle a wide-awake Niobhyte, I’ll come back and stand guard while the kid offers him one last chance at redemption. Then Brion will hold a very quick trial and an execution.”
“Whether Niobhyte repents or not?”
“Right” Matt shuddered. “It doesn’t feel right, but Brion is convinced it’s the only way to go. Me, I just hope Niobhyte doesn’t find some way to wake up before then.”
“If his synthodruids are imprisoned or converted, he shouldn’t,” Papa said. “What will you do with them?”
“Brion is sending out all the young knights who are eager for reputation to scour the kingdom looking for false druids, and is sending the word to all his reeves and magistrates, too. If they find any, they’ll arrest them fast.”
“But most of them fled south,” Mama pointed out.
Matt nodded. “I had Stegoman do a reconnaissance, and most of them are indeed on the new Isle of Jersey. They’re going crazy without congregations to boss, trying to pull rank on each other.”
“And what do you mean to do about them?”
“I’ve already done it.” Matt grinned. “I put Buckeye into a magical sleep and hired a fisherman to row him to Jersey. He woke up as soon as the boat landed and went ashore.” He shrugged. “From there on he’s just following his natural inclinations. By this time next month any druids who haven’t sacrificed one another should be more than ready to surrender and repent”