"I plead…" Anho croaked. "I beg thy mercy for my birth-brother and… friend!"
"Bethink thee what thou dost say." The Archbishop's voice was like a glacier pushing up gravel.
"He may have done foolishly," Anho said, gaining courage, "he may have committed vile sin. Yet he did believe, with the whole of his heart, that what he did was right!"
"Why! How canst thou know this of him!"
"Why, for that I have known this man from his birth," Anho declared. "I have dined with him, worked with him, rejoiced with him, wept with him. I know him as well as a man can know another—and never have I seen the smallest part of malice in him, nor of deceit. He is a plain, blunt, honest man, who hath no understanding of churchmen's casuistry, nor any liking for it. He doth believe as he was bred to believe."
The Archbiship's eyes burned, but he made no comment.
"There is this, too," Anho said, less stridently, "as my teachers here have shown me: that no mortal who doth claim to be a man of God, ought ever take the life of another, for any cause but defense of his own life."
The Archbishop reddened, remembering that he had been one of the teachers who had so maintained. "Well enough, then," he said, "thine eloquence hath saved thy brother's life; he shall but be flogged twenty strokes, and shall dwell henceforth in a bare and barred cell, alone and in solitude, and shalt have naught but bread for his food and water for his drink. But thou shalt ne'er more be chamberlain of mine, nor hold any office save work in the fields!"
"Thou art gracious, my lord." Anho bowed, and his voice trembled. "Gracious and merciful! And I thank thee with all of mine heart!"
"The more fool thou, then," the Archbishop snapped, and gestured to several burly monks who stood by. "Go, take this fellow away, and his brother with him! Take him, and lock him in our darkest cell, and never let me see him more!"
The monks were silent as the warders led Hoban and Anho away, and many felt their hearts sink in sympathy.
Then they sat in silence, for the Archbishop sat before them, chin on his breast, brooding.
Finally he raised his head and croaked, "Well enough, then. Now shalt thou—"
"My Lord Archbishop!" A monk came running into the hall.
The Archbishop whirled. "What… Brother Lyman! What dost thou from thy post by the gate!"
But a severe young man came following in Brother Lyman's wake, resplendent in an embroidered doublet and scarlet hose, a scroll in his hand.
A murmur sprang up throughout the hall. The Archbishop's face froze. "How came this man here?"
"My lord… I had thought… thou wouldst wish…"
"Naught were to enter!" the Archbishop stormed, but the young man spoke in a calm tone that nonetheless carried throughout the hall. "I am an herald of Tuan and Catharine, monarchs of Gramarye, come to summon thee to audience with the Right Reverend Morris McGee, Father-General of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode."
The hall was instantly silent.
The Archbishop stared at the courier. Then he stretched out a hand. "Give me!"
The herald stepped forward and placed the scroll in his hand. The Archbishop broke the seal, unrolled it, and read. As he did, his face turned white. He set the scroll in his lap with a trembling hand and said, "The insignia of our Order is there, pressed in wax—yet it must needs be forgery! The Father-General bides on distant, storied Terra, and hath never come unto Gramarye!"
"Nevertheless, 'twas his hand gave it me," the herald answered.
"And 'tis thy tongue shall bear him his answer! That I declare him a false, prating imposter, a pawn of unscrupulous Tuan Loguire! Nay, tell him I shall meet him indeed—with an army at my back!"
Tuan and Catharine stood atop the gate tower, looking down into the outer bailey. It was chaos within order, men sitting by tents burnishing their weapons, horses picketed against the south wall, auncients and knights coming and going between the various bands, distinct in their liveries.
"At the least," Catharine said, "not a one of thine own thralls failed to come at thy call."
Tuan nodded. "They are brave and good men, and their loyalty warms mine heart. And our household guard hath done well in their welcoming, in but one day bringing the levies to think of themselves as one in spirit."
" 'Tis not a one of thine own soldiers should not be an auncient, my lord."
"Truth." Tuan smiled. "Yet do not let them know it, I prithee. They are of the King's Guard; 'tis enough honor for them."
Sir Maris limped up to them, bowing. "The couriers are returned, Majesties."
Tuan's smile vanished; he was taut in a moment. "Their reports?"
"Di Medici, Stuart, Marshall, and Borgia are gone, as our spies had foretold; we doubt not they are with the Archbishop."
"There was never cause to doubt our intelligence from Ruddigore. And the rest?"
"Ruddigore sends word that his troops already hold the Plain of Despard, betwixt the Crag Mountains and the Ducat River; the Archbishop and Di Medici shall not strike through to Runnymede without cost. Yet he doth call upon thee as his liege to come quickly, for the enemy could obliterate him."
"Why, so we shall," Tuan said, his face grim. "How does my father?"
"Thy good sire is already afield, marching through Durandal Pass to join with Ruddigore."
"How blessed am I in my parentage!" Tuan cried, and Catharine gripped his arm more tightly. "And the others?"
"All send word that they march, Majesty; their men were summoned and provisioned, and but awaited thy call."
"We gain more than lust for preferment," Catharine said, her eyes glowing. "Here are no boot-licking sycophants, but men who desire our rule!"
Tuan nodded, restraining a grin. "They have come to think they are better with us than without us, or I misjudge. Mayhap these past years have not passed in vain. Send word, good Sir Maris! Tell all my vassals of my pleasure, and bid them meet me at Despard Plain. There shall we mass to ride to the abbey!"
With Hoban's arm around his neck, Anho stumbled into the darkened cell. Only starlight showed them its confines, scarcely four feet wide and ten long, with but one narrow window at the end wall; but Anho had been guiding his brother from the whipping post through totally dark hallways, and could see the narrow cot well enough. He guided Hoban there, then stumbled as he helped him to lie down, and Hoban landed hard. A moan escaped his clenched teeth.
"Regrets, regrets!" Tears wetted Anho's cheeks as he knelt by the pallet and pulled a small earthen pot from his sleeve. "I had not meant to drop thee, brother!"
" Tis I must beg thy pardon, for so spoiling thy chances here," Hoban gasped.
"What—my post as chamberlain?" Anho shook his head. "I care naught. I came here to become a parish priest, brother, not a monk. 'Twas the Archbishop—Abbot then—bade me to the cloister, and I was no more joyous in it than the rest of the friars; they did not think me fit, nor do I. Brace thy nerve, now, for the apothecary was merciful and did bring thee salve the whiles they did whip thee—and, oh! brother! That beast of a monk who did lash thee!"
"He did but as he was bid, brother, and was true to his lord, even as I was," Hoban gasped. "Nay, I of all men could scarce complain… Aieee!"
"I had warned thee," Anho said with tears in his eyes. "In minutes, though, it will lessen the pain… Oh, dear Lord!" He threw his head back, gazing up toward heaven. "I give thee thanks from all that I am, for the life of my brother! Each day will I offer a rosary, all the years of my life, in thanks!"
" 'Tis a hard vow," Hoban muttered. "I had not known I was so dear to thee."
"Ah, little fool!" cried big brother, exasperated. "Dost not know that, of all the friends God gives us, those we are born with are most precious? Yet 'fool' I said and 'fool' I meant, for daring to act against our holy Order and our merciful Archbishop!"