The noble hostages were all drawn up around the trestle table in the center of their hall, and their faces were drawn, too. They were grouped in parties—D'Auguste and the loyalists at the eastern end of the table; Ghibelli at the western end with Marshall, Guelph, and Glasgow. They all faced the main archway, which was flanked by a dozen stone-faced soldiers with pikes at the ready. The room was very quiet.
Then Sir Maris stepped through the archway, announcing, "Milords, thy King!"
They all rose. Simple courtesy would dictate that—and Tuan had never demanded they kneel.
The King entered in full royal regalia, a purple robe trimmed with ermine swirling from his broad shoulders and framing a golden doublet, a jeweled crown on his head and a golden sceptre in his left arm, right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He came to a halt and turned his head slowly, surveying all the faces before him. Then he said quietly, "Milords, it is war."
Not a word was said, but he could almost feel the impact of his words physically, in the slight tightening in their bodies, the widening of their eyes. They had all known what he would announce, but hearing it from the King made it inevitable.
"I will not slay any man whose only crime is loyalty to his father," the King said, "in spite of the threat implicit in thy being hostages here. If thy parents should gain so much ground as to force me back here to Runnymede, I might then pronounce that threat, and if need be, thy death warrants. Yet I misdoubt me 'twill come to such a pass." He surveyed their faces again, slowly, and said, "Yet I will ask each of thee to surrender his arms to my seneschal, here and now, and bide within these walls, never going out for air or sun till this issue be resolved."
He held all their gazes, and the choice was clear, but unsaid.
What choice, really? They all knew their duty to their houses, regardless of their feelings. If the King lost, their fathers would forgive them; if the King won, their houses would still be intact.
Besides, some of them wanted to.
D'Auguste led, as usual. He stepped forward and knelt, saying, "Majesty, I am thy man. Command me in battle and I shall fight with all the strength of mine heart and mine arm."
There was silence for a moment; then Tuan said, his eyes moist, "Why, then, bless thee for a loyal liegeman! I shall accept thy service, and I shall not set thee 'gainst thine own blood!"
Chester came forward, then, kneeling. "Majesty, I too."
Then Graz, Maggiore, Basingstoke, and Llangolen knelt.
"I praise thee," Tuan murmured. "I accept thy service."
The room was very silent.
Then Ghibelli stepped forward to kneel. "Majesty, I am thy man."
And, one by one, his companions followed him.
The monks sat at their places in the refectory, but lamps burned on each table, for it was night. The Archbishop sat on his dais, with standing candelabra to each side of him—but his high table had been pushed aside, and his great chair stood in its place. He sat on it like a prince on a throne, in full panoply—golden cope and mitre, span new from the seamstresses of Reddering, his crazier resting in the crook of his arm—again, newly come from Reddering. But this was no celebration; his face was grim.
All the monks of the chapter filled the hall, faces drawn. Before the Archbishop stood Hoban with his head high, but his arms were lashed behind his back. The hall was totally silent, every eye fixed on the Archbishop and the culprit before him.
Father Rigori stood forth, crying, "Hearken and hear! Our
Brother Alfonso has gone from our midst! For two days and nights none have seen him! Whither hath he sped?"
The room was silent, every eye now on Hoban.
"Our Archbishop doth sit now in judgment!" Rigori declared. "He who can bear witness, let him stand forth!"
The room was still.
The Archbishop lifted his head and stated, "I was last to see him, this Tuesday night past at the commencement of vespers. He tarried in the garden when I went to the abbey. Hath any seen trace of him since?"
The hall was silent.
The Archbishop turned to his left, nodding at a monk who sat near. "Brother Molin."
Brother Molin stood, his hands trembling. "I have been night porter this week past. I have seen none pass the gate betwixt vespers and matins."
He sat, and the Archbishop turned to his right. "Brother Santo?"
"I have been porter for morning," said Brother Santo, rising. "He did not pass my gate 'twixt matins and nones."
"Brother Hillar?"
"He did not pass through the gate 'twixt nones and vespers."
"He might have climbed the wall," the Archbishop said grimly, "yet I misdoubt that he would have. Brother Loes-sing!"
In the center Brother Loessing stood up.
"Thou hast been gardener this month," the Archbishop stated. "Say what thou didst find when thou didst come to thy post this Wednesday last."
"The horseshoes, bent nails, and other old iron had been cleared from off the wall," Brother Loessing answered, "and cast into the manure pile. And when I came into the garden, there was a fairy ring in the grass."
An excited murmuring filled the hall, though all the monks had already heard this from gossip. It was another matter entirely to hear it from an eyewitness.
"From this we may know that elves had come into the garden," the Archbishop said, stone-faced, ignoring the Church's stand on supernatural beings. "Brother Livy!"
A tall, gaunt monk rose and said, in a quavering voice, "I stood guard on the wall by the gate that night, as our Lord
Archbishop hath lately commanded. I chanced to see down into the garden, and saw Brother Alfonso fall. He did not rise again, and therefore did I go to fetch Brother Parker; but when we came, the garden was empty."
The Archbishop's jaw clenched. "Brother Hasty!"
Brother Hasty stood. "I saw this postulant, Hoban, linger at the edge of the field overlong, near the wild flowers and weeds, and I saw his lips move. When I came to rebuke him, I saw the ground had been hoed so thoroughly that it might as well have been plowed. I thought naught of it at the time; yet now…" His voice trailed off; he spread his hands.
"There can be no question of it." The Archbishop glared down at Hoban. "Brother Alfonso hath been taken, and 'tis this man who told the elves how they might encompass the deed. Belike 'tis also he who cleared the shield of Cold Iron from the north field and the garden wall."
Hoban protested. "I did not take the iron from the field or the wall, milord."
"Yet thou didst speak to the elves?"
Hoban stood silent. Then he said, "I came to be a monk. At the least, I will not lie."
"Why!" the Archbishop spat. "Wherefore dist thou betray this Order?"
"From loyalty to my liege lord Tuan, King of Gramarye." Now that it was out, Hoban's boldness came clear again. "I came hither at his behest, to discover what evil genius did move thee."
The whole hall strained in shocked silence.
"And I did discover 'twas Brother Alfonso who had tempted thee to defy Rome," Hoban went on. "This did I tell the elves, as I told them of his walks with thee in a garden ringed by Cold Iron. This I did, and naught more!"
" 'Tis enough to have destroyed him!" the Archbishop raged. "How durst thou speak of temptation! How durst thou claim loyalty to an heretic and a corrupted Church as thy defense!"
"Thou hast asked." Hoban's face was hard, hiding the dread he felt. "And I have answered with truth."
"As I shall pronounce thy doom!" the Archbishop shouted, his face livid. "Thou art guilty of treason to thine Archbishop and this Order! And thou hast aided in the death of a monk!"
He glared around at the assembly. "Doth any speak in his defense?" His glare dared them to say a word.
But slowly, quaking, Anho rose.
The Archbishop stared, furious, but grated out, "Speak, Brother Anho!"