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Chapter 12
Windsor
 

I have this unfortunate tendency to speak my mind. Granted, His Late Majesty was tolerant of that, mostly, particularly in private, but I think I came close to pushing it too far the time that, obedient to his order, I told him what I was thinking, something to the effect of that he should remember that even when he was sitting on the throne, he was still sitting on his ass.

—Cully

The small door in the massive gate to Windsor castle wasn't all that small, really. Ten men could have walked through it, abreast. It just seemed dwarfed by the massive gate to the castle.

It opened instantly when Niko dismounted, and a troop of the House Guard emerged from the nearby, slightly smaller door in the main gate, and took up a formation next to it.

The captain at the head of the Guard drew himself up to a stiff brace, immediately echoed by the rest of the Guard troop. Just into his forties, with what had been a massive chest threatening to sag into becoming a massive belly, although at Becket's glance, he sucked it in and came to an even straighter brace.

"Well, let's get to it," Becket said, as the novices who brought Becket set him down into his traveling chair.

"I'd be grateful if you'd but give me half a moment, Sir Martin." Fotheringay adjusted the shoulders of Niko's jacket, then gave the jacket a slight tug at the skirt, pulling all into place. He gave an approving nod. "There. That'll do, Sir Niko."

Becket had taken the indignities of being cleaned and re-dressed while the carriage was moving with his usual equanimity, which wasn't much. While the carriage had been intended to seat eight, that was eight for travel, not for doing anything more. The carriage had been crowded, what with the five of them. Both Niko and Fotheringay had had to crowd themselves into opposite corners to give the novices enough space to work on Becket, then carefully gather up the leather tarpaulin that they had set on the floor and tie its ends together. It had only taken a minute or two for the stench to disperse itself through the shuttered windows, and only a minute or two more for Niko, with Fotheringay's assistance, to change his own clothes.

Niko pushed the wheeled chair through the gate, past the guards who, if anything, came to an even stiffer brace.

There was a protocol to be observed, but it was a strange one, even for Niko, who had become used to strange protocols over the past year.

Fotheringay and the novices had to wait at the front gate—although there was little doubt that they would be summoned. But they would have to be summoned, while the Order Knights just walked right in.

There were no gardeners or servants working on the grounds inside the gates, although the roadway was free of dirt or dust, as though it had just been freshly swept, and the rose beds to the right and left of the roadway were lined with an explosion of red and yellow and gold, with no petals either wilting, or lying on the ground.

There was no sign of the House Guard barracks; that was, Niko had been told, beyond the castle itself, but well within the walls, and while guards marched atop the walls, only a pair of guardsmen and one sergeant stood in front of the massive oak door atop the front steps.

And as Niko pushed Becket's traveling chair up to front steps, not only was there no challenge from the soldiers of the House Guard, but the sergeant on duty bellowed a command, and immediately a pair of almost preposterously large men in the black-and-white livery of palace servants appeared through the open doorway, running down the stairs to lift the chair, and convey it up the steps, without so much as a challenge or a question.

They were met at the top by the lord chamberlain of the household.

The Earl of Somerset was a slim man, elegantly dressed in black and silver, the only other color the golden necklace with the pendant that marked his station, which matched his only other visible piece of jewelry: the signet ring on his right hand.

"Sir Niko, Sir Martin: welcome," he said, with a quick bow. He stood aside, as though to make it clear that he was greeting them, not barring their way, and then gave a quick nod to the two servants, who immediately set the chair down.

"Sir Niko can push my chair," Becket more growled than said, and the servant who had taken up a position behind his chair and gripped the frame leaped away as though the wood had burned his hands.

The chamberlain didn't appear to notice. "His Majesty is in his small study," Lord Henry said, leading the way down one long hall, and then to the right, down another. For whatever reason, the lord chamberlain kept his slippered feet off the red carpet that ran down the middle of the corridors, and Niko mimicked him.

This was strange enough as it was, and he was in constant fear of committing what probably would have been a solecism of some sort.

It was, as Becket had explained, simply a matter of protocol. Commoners and nobles, knights and ladies, waited upon the king's pleasure, or for his summons, as was only fitting. As a matter of law and tradition, knights of the Order had the right—no, the obligation—to go to His Majesty's side as they saw fit, and it had been that way ever since the final battle of Bedegraine. Yes, like any other of His Majesty's subjects, an Order Knight would be obedient to a summons; what was unique about their station was that they could be, well, self-summoning.

Becket chuckled, as the wheels of his chair made clickety-clickety-clicking sounds on the marble. "It's perfectly acceptable to roll my chair down the carpet, you know," he said, quietly. "Be bold, Sir Niko. Don't pussyfoot into the Presence—we've the right, and good enough reason."

The chamberlain gestured toward the door to the study before he gave them a slight nod, then walked away.

He needn't have bothered indicating which room it was; it was well marked. It wasn't just that His Majesty's study was just past the throne room: it was where John of Redhook stood at his ease, leaning up against an ancient tapestry—Niko assumed it was ancient, from the way that the colors of the greenery surrounding the fauns had faded—as though utterly unconcerned, but with his eyes missing nothing.

Those eyes swept across Niko and Becket, and Sir John gave just the barest of nods, as he raised his right hand in the Sign: thumb tucked into the palm, four fingers spread.

He was a big man, taller by half a head than even Bear had been, but long and lanky, without quite being skinny. His ruddy brown beard, thick and full but neatly trimmed nonetheless, framed a face that seemed to smile almost all of the time, but never too much, and as he stood, leaning against the tapestry, he seemed utterly in place, and at his ease, something Niko couldn't help but envy.

That didn't seem to be an issue for Becket, who snorted.

"In my day," he said, his voice too loud, "when a member of His Own was on duty, he was far too busy seeing to the safety of His Majesty to greet even members of his own Order, and far too much concerned with his duty to be lolling about a hall, leaning on a wall."

"Well, it was not much of a greeting," Sir John said, his thumb resting on the hilt of one of his two swords. "I meant only not to delay you. But since you apparently have the time to talk with me, Sir Martin, rather than hurry to His Majesty's side, I'll take the time to greet you properly." He gave a quick, stiff bow. "Sir Niko; Sir Martin. It's good to see you." His beard split into a wider grin at Becket's gasp. "Oh, be still, Sir Martin. I'm not on guard at the moment; the Beast is. I just decided that I'd sit in on your audience."

As was, of course, Sir John's right, every bit as much as it was theirs to have the audience in the first place. "We generally run a one-in-four in the castle," Sir John said, "except when himself has visitors." He grinned again. "You're not really a visitor, and His Majesty isn't alone."

"Inside, Sir Niko," Becket said.

Sir John followed them in.

Mordred V, by the grace of God the King of England, was much as Niko had seen him the first time: seated in a large, comfortable-looking chair, with a pile of papers on a table at his side, and a team of four scribes at a longer table behind him.

It was Sir Sebastian—the Beast, he was called, although Niko didn't find the nickname apropos; he was a handsome man, and looked entirely like a proper Order Knight—who stood over near the open window, and he didn't greet them with even a glance and a nod.

Niko stepped to the side of Becket's chair, and dropped to one knee, sweeping his swords properly up and behind him, while Sir John knelt on the other side of the chair, and Becket started to struggle out of it.

"Sit, Sir Martin," the king said. "That's not a suggestion."

Becket immediately sagged back into his wheeled chair. "Then may I make a request, Your Majesty?"

"As long as it's not something to the effect of you kneeling before your king, well, then, yes."

Becket just sat silent.

The king frowned. "Well, say something, man."

"Then the only request I have to make, Your Majesty, is that you tell these others of my Order to speak widely of my shame, as it's clearly deserved, coming from you, Sire."

The king looked at Sir John. "I told you he'd say something like that." He made a quick beckoning gesture with his fingers, and both Niko and Sir John quickly rose to their feet.

"Your Majesty is usually right," Sir John said, smiling. "But not always—I was thinking that age might have mellowed him."

"Hardly." The king shook his head. "Well, then . . ." He turned back to Becket. "No, Sir Martin. I'll not order that your brothers speak of it or not speak of it, as there's no shame involved. But if you must cause yourself pain in order to greet me as you see fit, then do so." He shook his head. "And the next time that I find myself irritated with a grouchy bird, I promise to think of you, and I can assure it will not be in a particularly kindly way."

Becket didn't let so much as a grunt of pain loose as he levered himself out of his chair, and to the floor beyond, catching himself on his hands to prevent falling flat on his face. His face grew red as he forced himself up to one knee, and let a deep breath in and out before he spoke.

"Thank you, Sire," he said.

Niko started toward Becket's side but stopped himself, until the king made the same gesture he had before, and both he and Sir John quickly had Becket up and back into his chair.

The king waited, patiently, not even holding out his hand for his pipe until Becket was properly seated.

"You've come a long way to see me," he finally said, finally reaching out his hand, into which a waiting servant quickly placed his pipe. "Probably in need of some food and rest—well, the lord chamberlain will see to your needs when we're finished here." As a servant produced a lit taper, he puffed his pipe to life. "But in the meantime, if you would do me the favor of sitting, I'd much appreciate it—I'm hurting my neck looking up at the two of you."

The only chairs available were heavily padded, and deep; Niko removed his swords, and placed them across the arms as he sat, noticing with some satisfaction that Sir John had done the same thing.

"So," the king said. "You want to go hunting the Amadan Dubh." Niko had expected His Majesty to lead up to it, but Becket just nodded, as though unsurprised that he'd gotten right to the point.

"And you come to us," the king went on, "rather than to the abbot, because it was faster to get from Colonsay to Londinium, and then to Windsor, than it would have been to Alton? Was that it was quicker to ask us than the abbot?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Becket said. "It is faster, at that. And, more to the point, I think that something this . . . unusual and serious is more a matter for Your Majesty to decide on than any lesser man, even the abbot."

The king snorted. "Sir Martin, you're not quite lying to me, but you're coming very close, and I don't much care for it. There's something else going on. You're not afraid to brace the abbot and tell him that you didn't follow his instructions to run Sir Niko out of the Order, to find him sufficiently lacking enough to disqualify him. Are you?"

There. It was out in the open. Niko had always suspected it, but . . .

Why hadn't Becket obeyed his orders?

"I'm not much for fear, Your Majesty," Becket said. "And it was at your orders that Niko was sent to me, and you made it my decision. Not the abbot's."

Sir John chuckled, then silenced himself after a quick glance from the king.

"Oh, never mind—speak up," the king said.

"Well, he's spoken a truth, Your Majesty," he said.

"Yes, but it's not the whole truth." The king eyed Becket levelly. "You would have told Ralph what?"

"I'd have told him, as I'd tell anyone, that the boy—that Sir Niko needs much more education. That he's slow in learning his letters, barely a fair hand in the armory or smithy, and weak in all the rest of the knightly arts. But I'd also say that when it all breaks apart around him, I've twice seen him act as a knight of the Order ought, with both courage and good sense, and he's taken to the, to the important part of what an Order Knight is as though he was born to it—and by God, I'd say that he was.

"If he's cast out of the Order, it won't be any of my doing."

"I see." The king nodded. "And that's all that you'd say to him?" He tilted his head to one side.

"No," Becket said, "I'd likely say more. I'd remind him that, in the final analysis, it's you who decides how you are to be served, and I'd say to him that if you wanted Sir Niko cast out, you'd hardly have sent a spy to watch over him, and to watch over me."

A spy?

Fotheringay?

The king grinned, and Sir John chuckled.

"I told you he'd figure that out, Sire," the knight said. "And I'm capable of being other than wrong, too. Meaning no disrespect for your station, Your Majesty, but you'd have made a great smith—you really do fit the tool to the task, and not use a single weld when you can arrange two. Or three."

"Whenever I can." The king nodded, then turned to Niko. "A falconer—I prefer the falconer metaphor to the smith one, and I'm accustomed to having my preferences served—finds that he uses different birds for different things. I don't know all of my Order Knights as well as I could—as well as I wish I did—and all I had on you, Sir Martin, was other men's words. I know that Ralph was none too fond of this whole thing, and that he can be very persuasive; it's one of the things that makes him valuable to us." He raised an admonishing finger. "And I don't want you to think that Fotheringay was an unfaithful servant. If you feel that way, I order you to forgive him."

Niko didn't know what to say. Fotheringay? Unfaithful? How?

"I hope you won't order me to forgive him." Becket's voice was too controlled. "I'd find it difficult. An undisclosed loyalty—"

"Is there an Englishman who isn't supposed to be loyal to the King? And hold that loyalty above any other loyalty, to all men, living or dead?" The king seemed more amused than anything else. He turned to Niko. "As you may recall, Sergeant Fotheringay was a problem for me. I couldn't not offer him a knighthood, under the circumstances, and, as I largely expected, he found that going back to the Fleet as a hero was more than a little . . . disruptive for his new company." The king's mouth twitched. "Although you'd think that a captain in my Marines wouldn't be so bloody deferential to a sergeant and—yes, yes, bring him in," he said, looking past where the knights sat. "The novices can wait."

Fotheringay dropped to one knee as he entered, rising instantly at His Majesty's gesture.

"Sit yourself down, too," the king said.

"Yes, Sire." Fotheringay sat.

"Any regrets, Fotheringay?" the king asked.

Fotheringay barely hesitated. "About asking Sir Niko for a position?"

"Well, man, what the hell else do you think I'm asking about? Yes, have you any regrets over that?"

"No, Sire."

The king's irritation vanished. "Very well, then," he said, gently. "And can you find it in you to speak your mind, and your heart? I know such things don't come easy to you—but we've discussed this once before, when I sent for you."

"Yes, Sire. I . . . I'm used to serving," Fotheringay said. "Lost that when I lost my captain on the Serenity." He shook his head. "I spent a fair number of years watching his back, and . . ."

"And you've no objection to watching Sir Niko's." It wasn't a question.

"No objection, Sire. I'd prefer to."

"Well, good."

"If he'll still have me."

The king cocked his head to one side again, perversely reminding Niko of a hunting bird. "Why wouldn't he have you? Did you lie to your master?"

"Well, no. Not quite. I asked for a position, just like you told me to do, but . . ."

"You didn't tell him any more, as I also told you to. And, just as I'd predicted, he assumed you'd gotten yourself in some trouble, and didn't want to know about it, and just accepted you into his service." He raised a finger. "I wish all of what I had to do, to decide, was quite this easy." He took a long draw on his pipe. "So, that's settled. And I take it you would not think it beneath your new station to be his squire, rather than his servant? Much the same thing, you know. Although the pay should be better."

Fotheringay didn't answer right away.

"Well, out with it, man, out with it."

"New station, Sire?"

"I told you that I'd knight you when you were retired from the Marines; I meant it." The king tapped on a sheet of paper at his elbow. "You're retiring, Sergeant, at the command and pleasure of your sovereign, and your sovereign is, among other things, a man who likes to keep his promises. And be still, Becket—he's getting the Order of the Guard, not the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, and if there's one thing that continually irritates every other knight who serves this Crown, it's that you lot always act as though you're the only Order that matters. You're not."

The king reached out his hand, and one of the scribes quickly brought over an inkwell and pen; the king signed the sheet of paper with a few quick strokes. "Will that be enough for you, Fotheringay, or do I have to break out the Seal?" He turned to Becket without waiting for an answer. "And your novices. Are they ready to be knighted?"

"Ready enough. They'll have to go—"

"Yes, they'll have to go see Her." Mordred gestured to one of the scribes, who quickly rushed out of the room. "You'll have to make do with more . . . traditional servants, until I can order up another pair from Alton for you, to help you train Sir Niko—Scoville and Winslow are leaving for the Arroy now." He grinned. "Unless you find the need to say good-bye? And think that's worth delaying them?"

Becket actually grinned. "Delaying seeing Her? Just so they can take their leave of me? I wouldn't want them to bear ill will against me, not for that. If they resent me being a hard teacher, well, that's perhaps as it should be. Yes, they would be grateful on their way, but . . ."

"Yes, but they'd later think that their lives began the moment that they touched Her hand, and curse you for the lost hours, or even minutes. Auntie does have that effect on most—and She probably would on me, if She wanted to. I'm just as happy that She doesn't, all things considered. My family's been quite good about avoiding incest since the days of the Tyrant, and it would be best to keep it that way." The king sobered. "On to the other matter. Sir John wishes to be involved in this, and I'm disposed to have him join you; his judgment is generally good, and he's happier spending time in the open air, and has begun to pout."

The big knight grinned again. "I'll serve as you think best, Your Majesty. But part of that service is—"

"Yes, yes, part of it is telling your sovereign how he'll be best served by you, oftimes repeatedly." He turned back to Niko and Becket. "His only concern is our safety," the king went on. "And since I've promised to stay in the castle until Lady Ellen can join His Own . . . ?"

"Then you'll hear no objection from me, Sire," Sir John said. "Not on that."

The king cocked his head to one side. "I'd think you'd want to see her."

"Yes, Sire, I do." The big knight's faces was impassive. "And if I could, consistent with my duty, I surely would. But that's not the issue here. Three of His Own should be enough to see to your safety, unless you're planning on entertaining more than usual—my concern is about Sir Martin."

Becket nodded. "Be a problem hauling what remains of this body up and down the hills of Colonsay."

Sir John shook his head. "That was not what I was speaking of. Servants for that, generally, and when not, well, I've a stronger back than most. My concern is putting you in danger when there's no benefit to it, none that I can see. Your courage isn't at issue, Sir Martin—but taking risks without benefit doesn't seem to me to be wise."

The king leaned forward. "But there is a benefit, and I can see it, even if you can't. You heard him. Sir Niko's education isn't finished, and I'm not disposed to change teachers. Seems to have worked out well enough. And if that means that Sir Martin gets to go along as the two of you chase down this Amadan Dubh—and whatever the hell else is going on Colonsay—well, that's your problem, and his." He eyed Sir Niko levelly. "I'm a suspicious man, by nature. Ascribe it to being almost murdered in my cradle by my late uncle. I've the feeling that many of the . . . strange events of the past year are linked, somehow—I just can't see what the pattern amounts to, and I'm not the only one who can't.

"If I had a way for you to prick at the heart of this spider's web, I'd do it, without a moment of regret, without a second thought, and leave this other matter alone, for the time being.

"But I don't. So you will handle this, whether it's part of it, or something else, and you can help Sir Martin train Sir Niko, as much as time allows."

Sir John nodded. "As you wish, Your Majesty," he said, and then he frowned.

"I thought we'd settled that," the king said.

The knight raised a hand. "No, Sire, not that. Just trying to figure out what else we need. Ship or ships, a wizard or two, a troop of Marines, and—"

"Enough." The king frowned. "I'm not going to bargain with you, John. Take what you need, and if you've any difficulty, say that you'll send the problem to me if you're not satisfied. As you would."

The knight nodded, and the king went on. "I don't much like this; I'd rather we could leave well enough alone. The Old Ones . . . well, most of them are gone now, or mostly gone. I've heard it said that they bred too much with us mortals, and that their blood has thinned; there are those who call what's left waterkin.

"Now, if there's a few true gruagach left in Scotland and Ireland, watching over the sheep and cattle, I've no problem with that; if the worst they do is spoil some milk when they're not attended to, then, well, let the Scots and the Irish give them their milk offerings, or not cry over spoiled milk. I'm not looking to make war on the race, what's left of it—and as you may remember, my many-times-great aunt is waterkin, herself, and ample proof that the old blood does not necessarily run so very thin." His lips drew themselves into a line. "But that tolerance does not apply to the Caillach, if she's still around, and it wouldn't apply to the bean nighe, either, and it most certainly does not apply to any one, of any race, who would enchant my people—my people—into madness and murder, not excepting this Fairy Fool."

"And then there's the politics, Sir," Sir John said.

The king frowned. "I'm rather more well aware of that than you are, Sir John. Be still."

Sir John sat motionless, his face holding no trace whatsoever of expression, then nodded. "I can keep a quiet tongue in my mouth, if that's your wish, Sire."

The king grunted. "Sir Martin's already figured it out, I'd expect."

Becket shook his head. "With respect, Your Majesty," he said, "I can see the general issue, but not the specific."

The king looked him over. "The specific, then: the Duke of New England is due to set sail on the eighth of Leeds, just under six weeks from now. I'd rather this matter be settled before that."

Niko would have to ask Fotheringay, later, what this was all about; it was well over his head. It was, obviously, something that he was supposed to know, and—

No. "Excuse me, Your Majesty, but I don't know what you and Sir John and Sir Martin are talking about." Let them think him a fool; it was still the right thing to say. To sit in silence and let his king think that Niko was smarter than he was would be a betrayal, and if revealing his own slackwittedness had consequences, well then, he would bear up under them.

Becket started to mutter a curse, but the king silenced him with a quick motion.

"It's not your fault, Sir Niko," he said, smiling. "You're not attuned to disloyalty—or, yes, John, to the possibility of disloyalty. To put it simply, Sir Niko: if the Crown can't deal with a rebellion this small and this close to Londinium, what thoughts do you think might enter my uncle's mind as he makes the long voyage to New England? I've no evidence of Uncle William's disloyalty, or he'd not be going back. But . . ." The king drew himself up straight, and rose from his chair, with a quick be-still gesture to Becket, keeping him in his seat while Niko and Sir John rose. "Sir Niko, Sir John, Sir Martin—rid me of this Amadan Dubh."

"Yes, Sire."

It sounded like a dismissal; Niko started to turn, but the king shook his head.

"No, you're not dismissed yet." He took a few steps forward and held out his hand. "Would you do me the favor of loaning me your sword? Oh, I'm only asking for your mundane sword, boy—I'm not suicidal."

Niko drew the scabbard from his sash, and presented the sword, hilt first, to the king. His Majesty drew the sword slowly, setting the scabbard aside. "Nothing fancy, eh? Plain, but serviceable," he said, with a grin. "Entirely appropriate, under the circumstances, given the subject in question." He turned to Fotheringay. "I'd prefer that this be done publicly and with proper ceremony, not quickly and in private. But not even my preferences are always decisive.

"Kneel, Nigel Fotheringay," the king said, his voice taking on a formal tone.

Fotheringay did so, and Mordred V tapped him once, lightly, on each shoulder.

"With this sword, I, Mordred Pendragon, King, do now dub thee knight of His Majesty's Guard," he said, quietly, slowly, not rushing the words. "It is a good and worthy order; be thou a good and worthy knight. Please rise, Sir Nigel."

The king slipped the sword back into the scabbard and tossed it to Niko, then turned back to Fotheringay. "When I knight a man, it's traditional that I present him with a sword. And most of the time, it's for show, not for use—most of the time, but probably not this one. More than a fair selection in the armory—pick one that feels right, and if you don't find one that does, well, talk to the lord armorer, and see what he can do overnight." He gave Fotheringay a stern look. "That is a command from your sovereign—it's not a suggestion, Sir Nigel. I don't want to hear that I've given you some trophy to put over your mantel—

"Doubt Sir Nigel has a mantel," Sir John said, rewarded by something between a smile and a glare from his sovereign.

"—but there's no time to do more than fit new grips to a prime Sheffield blade. There's enough of those, and one of them ought to serve. You four are to be billeted here tonight; you leave in the morning.

"Find the amadan dubh, and kill him," the king said. "Don't expend yourselves unless necessary. Try to avoid making it necessary. All of you." He met first Big John's eyes, then Becket's, then Niko's, and waited for a "yes, Sire" from each of them before he turned to Fotheringay.

"Watch Sir Niko's back, Sir Nigel," the king said. "But spare some attention for your own, if you can. And if you ever get tired of squiring for Sir Niko, you send word to us, and we will find another use for you."

"Aye-aye, Sire."

"Ever the sergeant, eh? No, don't bother correcting yourself; I didn't take it as impertinence." The king smiled. But it wasn't a pleasant smile. "Now you're dismissed," he said.

The king met Niko's eyes for a moment, and nodded, as though echoing Niko's thoughts.

Why rush Fotheringay's knighting? He would be no more faithful as Sir Nigel than he had been as Sergeant Fotheringay.

But it was obvious. The king thought it a distinct possibility that he was sending Fotheringay, and the knights—and the other knights—to his death, and would not withhold the honor that was due.

Niko met Fotheringay's eyes, and Fotheringay gave him his usual toothless smile.

Niko glanced behind him as he left; the king had already picked up his stack of papers, and was examining them closely.

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Chapter 12
Windsor
 

I have this unfortunate tendency to speak my mind. Granted, His Late Majesty was tolerant of that, mostly, particularly in private, but I think I came close to pushing it too far the time that, obedient to his order, I told him what I was thinking, something to the effect of that he should remember that even when he was sitting on the throne, he was still sitting on his ass.

—Cully

The small door in the massive gate to Windsor castle wasn't all that small, really. Ten men could have walked through it, abreast. It just seemed dwarfed by the massive gate to the castle.

It opened instantly when Niko dismounted, and a troop of the House Guard emerged from the nearby, slightly smaller door in the main gate, and took up a formation next to it.

The captain at the head of the Guard drew himself up to a stiff brace, immediately echoed by the rest of the Guard troop. Just into his forties, with what had been a massive chest threatening to sag into becoming a massive belly, although at Becket's glance, he sucked it in and came to an even straighter brace.

"Well, let's get to it," Becket said, as the novices who brought Becket set him down into his traveling chair.

"I'd be grateful if you'd but give me half a moment, Sir Martin." Fotheringay adjusted the shoulders of Niko's jacket, then gave the jacket a slight tug at the skirt, pulling all into place. He gave an approving nod. "There. That'll do, Sir Niko."

Becket had taken the indignities of being cleaned and re-dressed while the carriage was moving with his usual equanimity, which wasn't much. While the carriage had been intended to seat eight, that was eight for travel, not for doing anything more. The carriage had been crowded, what with the five of them. Both Niko and Fotheringay had had to crowd themselves into opposite corners to give the novices enough space to work on Becket, then carefully gather up the leather tarpaulin that they had set on the floor and tie its ends together. It had only taken a minute or two for the stench to disperse itself through the shuttered windows, and only a minute or two more for Niko, with Fotheringay's assistance, to change his own clothes.

Niko pushed the wheeled chair through the gate, past the guards who, if anything, came to an even stiffer brace.

There was a protocol to be observed, but it was a strange one, even for Niko, who had become used to strange protocols over the past year.

Fotheringay and the novices had to wait at the front gate—although there was little doubt that they would be summoned. But they would have to be summoned, while the Order Knights just walked right in.

There were no gardeners or servants working on the grounds inside the gates, although the roadway was free of dirt or dust, as though it had just been freshly swept, and the rose beds to the right and left of the roadway were lined with an explosion of red and yellow and gold, with no petals either wilting, or lying on the ground.

There was no sign of the House Guard barracks; that was, Niko had been told, beyond the castle itself, but well within the walls, and while guards marched atop the walls, only a pair of guardsmen and one sergeant stood in front of the massive oak door atop the front steps.

And as Niko pushed Becket's traveling chair up to front steps, not only was there no challenge from the soldiers of the House Guard, but the sergeant on duty bellowed a command, and immediately a pair of almost preposterously large men in the black-and-white livery of palace servants appeared through the open doorway, running down the stairs to lift the chair, and convey it up the steps, without so much as a challenge or a question.

They were met at the top by the lord chamberlain of the household.

The Earl of Somerset was a slim man, elegantly dressed in black and silver, the only other color the golden necklace with the pendant that marked his station, which matched his only other visible piece of jewelry: the signet ring on his right hand.

"Sir Niko, Sir Martin: welcome," he said, with a quick bow. He stood aside, as though to make it clear that he was greeting them, not barring their way, and then gave a quick nod to the two servants, who immediately set the chair down.

"Sir Niko can push my chair," Becket more growled than said, and the servant who had taken up a position behind his chair and gripped the frame leaped away as though the wood had burned his hands.

The chamberlain didn't appear to notice. "His Majesty is in his small study," Lord Henry said, leading the way down one long hall, and then to the right, down another. For whatever reason, the lord chamberlain kept his slippered feet off the red carpet that ran down the middle of the corridors, and Niko mimicked him.

This was strange enough as it was, and he was in constant fear of committing what probably would have been a solecism of some sort.

It was, as Becket had explained, simply a matter of protocol. Commoners and nobles, knights and ladies, waited upon the king's pleasure, or for his summons, as was only fitting. As a matter of law and tradition, knights of the Order had the right—no, the obligation—to go to His Majesty's side as they saw fit, and it had been that way ever since the final battle of Bedegraine. Yes, like any other of His Majesty's subjects, an Order Knight would be obedient to a summons; what was unique about their station was that they could be, well, self-summoning.

Becket chuckled, as the wheels of his chair made clickety-clickety-clicking sounds on the marble. "It's perfectly acceptable to roll my chair down the carpet, you know," he said, quietly. "Be bold, Sir Niko. Don't pussyfoot into the Presence—we've the right, and good enough reason."

The chamberlain gestured toward the door to the study before he gave them a slight nod, then walked away.

He needn't have bothered indicating which room it was; it was well marked. It wasn't just that His Majesty's study was just past the throne room: it was where John of Redhook stood at his ease, leaning up against an ancient tapestry—Niko assumed it was ancient, from the way that the colors of the greenery surrounding the fauns had faded—as though utterly unconcerned, but with his eyes missing nothing.

Those eyes swept across Niko and Becket, and Sir John gave just the barest of nods, as he raised his right hand in the Sign: thumb tucked into the palm, four fingers spread.

He was a big man, taller by half a head than even Bear had been, but long and lanky, without quite being skinny. His ruddy brown beard, thick and full but neatly trimmed nonetheless, framed a face that seemed to smile almost all of the time, but never too much, and as he stood, leaning against the tapestry, he seemed utterly in place, and at his ease, something Niko couldn't help but envy.

That didn't seem to be an issue for Becket, who snorted.

"In my day," he said, his voice too loud, "when a member of His Own was on duty, he was far too busy seeing to the safety of His Majesty to greet even members of his own Order, and far too much concerned with his duty to be lolling about a hall, leaning on a wall."

"Well, it was not much of a greeting," Sir John said, his thumb resting on the hilt of one of his two swords. "I meant only not to delay you. But since you apparently have the time to talk with me, Sir Martin, rather than hurry to His Majesty's side, I'll take the time to greet you properly." He gave a quick, stiff bow. "Sir Niko; Sir Martin. It's good to see you." His beard split into a wider grin at Becket's gasp. "Oh, be still, Sir Martin. I'm not on guard at the moment; the Beast is. I just decided that I'd sit in on your audience."

As was, of course, Sir John's right, every bit as much as it was theirs to have the audience in the first place. "We generally run a one-in-four in the castle," Sir John said, "except when himself has visitors." He grinned again. "You're not really a visitor, and His Majesty isn't alone."

"Inside, Sir Niko," Becket said.

Sir John followed them in.

Mordred V, by the grace of God the King of England, was much as Niko had seen him the first time: seated in a large, comfortable-looking chair, with a pile of papers on a table at his side, and a team of four scribes at a longer table behind him.

It was Sir Sebastian—the Beast, he was called, although Niko didn't find the nickname apropos; he was a handsome man, and looked entirely like a proper Order Knight—who stood over near the open window, and he didn't greet them with even a glance and a nod.

Niko stepped to the side of Becket's chair, and dropped to one knee, sweeping his swords properly up and behind him, while Sir John knelt on the other side of the chair, and Becket started to struggle out of it.

"Sit, Sir Martin," the king said. "That's not a suggestion."

Becket immediately sagged back into his wheeled chair. "Then may I make a request, Your Majesty?"

"As long as it's not something to the effect of you kneeling before your king, well, then, yes."

Becket just sat silent.

The king frowned. "Well, say something, man."

"Then the only request I have to make, Your Majesty, is that you tell these others of my Order to speak widely of my shame, as it's clearly deserved, coming from you, Sire."

The king looked at Sir John. "I told you he'd say something like that." He made a quick beckoning gesture with his fingers, and both Niko and Sir John quickly rose to their feet.

"Your Majesty is usually right," Sir John said, smiling. "But not always—I was thinking that age might have mellowed him."

"Hardly." The king shook his head. "Well, then . . ." He turned back to Becket. "No, Sir Martin. I'll not order that your brothers speak of it or not speak of it, as there's no shame involved. But if you must cause yourself pain in order to greet me as you see fit, then do so." He shook his head. "And the next time that I find myself irritated with a grouchy bird, I promise to think of you, and I can assure it will not be in a particularly kindly way."

Becket didn't let so much as a grunt of pain loose as he levered himself out of his chair, and to the floor beyond, catching himself on his hands to prevent falling flat on his face. His face grew red as he forced himself up to one knee, and let a deep breath in and out before he spoke.

"Thank you, Sire," he said.

Niko started toward Becket's side but stopped himself, until the king made the same gesture he had before, and both he and Sir John quickly had Becket up and back into his chair.

The king waited, patiently, not even holding out his hand for his pipe until Becket was properly seated.

"You've come a long way to see me," he finally said, finally reaching out his hand, into which a waiting servant quickly placed his pipe. "Probably in need of some food and rest—well, the lord chamberlain will see to your needs when we're finished here." As a servant produced a lit taper, he puffed his pipe to life. "But in the meantime, if you would do me the favor of sitting, I'd much appreciate it—I'm hurting my neck looking up at the two of you."

The only chairs available were heavily padded, and deep; Niko removed his swords, and placed them across the arms as he sat, noticing with some satisfaction that Sir John had done the same thing.

"So," the king said. "You want to go hunting the Amadan Dubh." Niko had expected His Majesty to lead up to it, but Becket just nodded, as though unsurprised that he'd gotten right to the point.

"And you come to us," the king went on, "rather than to the abbot, because it was faster to get from Colonsay to Londinium, and then to Windsor, than it would have been to Alton? Was that it was quicker to ask us than the abbot?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Becket said. "It is faster, at that. And, more to the point, I think that something this . . . unusual and serious is more a matter for Your Majesty to decide on than any lesser man, even the abbot."

The king snorted. "Sir Martin, you're not quite lying to me, but you're coming very close, and I don't much care for it. There's something else going on. You're not afraid to brace the abbot and tell him that you didn't follow his instructions to run Sir Niko out of the Order, to find him sufficiently lacking enough to disqualify him. Are you?"

There. It was out in the open. Niko had always suspected it, but . . .

Why hadn't Becket obeyed his orders?

"I'm not much for fear, Your Majesty," Becket said. "And it was at your orders that Niko was sent to me, and you made it my decision. Not the abbot's."

Sir John chuckled, then silenced himself after a quick glance from the king.

"Oh, never mind—speak up," the king said.

"Well, he's spoken a truth, Your Majesty," he said.

"Yes, but it's not the whole truth." The king eyed Becket levelly. "You would have told Ralph what?"

"I'd have told him, as I'd tell anyone, that the boy—that Sir Niko needs much more education. That he's slow in learning his letters, barely a fair hand in the armory or smithy, and weak in all the rest of the knightly arts. But I'd also say that when it all breaks apart around him, I've twice seen him act as a knight of the Order ought, with both courage and good sense, and he's taken to the, to the important part of what an Order Knight is as though he was born to it—and by God, I'd say that he was.

"If he's cast out of the Order, it won't be any of my doing."

"I see." The king nodded. "And that's all that you'd say to him?" He tilted his head to one side.

"No," Becket said, "I'd likely say more. I'd remind him that, in the final analysis, it's you who decides how you are to be served, and I'd say to him that if you wanted Sir Niko cast out, you'd hardly have sent a spy to watch over him, and to watch over me."

A spy?

Fotheringay?

The king grinned, and Sir John chuckled.

"I told you he'd figure that out, Sire," the knight said. "And I'm capable of being other than wrong, too. Meaning no disrespect for your station, Your Majesty, but you'd have made a great smith—you really do fit the tool to the task, and not use a single weld when you can arrange two. Or three."

"Whenever I can." The king nodded, then turned to Niko. "A falconer—I prefer the falconer metaphor to the smith one, and I'm accustomed to having my preferences served—finds that he uses different birds for different things. I don't know all of my Order Knights as well as I could—as well as I wish I did—and all I had on you, Sir Martin, was other men's words. I know that Ralph was none too fond of this whole thing, and that he can be very persuasive; it's one of the things that makes him valuable to us." He raised an admonishing finger. "And I don't want you to think that Fotheringay was an unfaithful servant. If you feel that way, I order you to forgive him."

Niko didn't know what to say. Fotheringay? Unfaithful? How?

"I hope you won't order me to forgive him." Becket's voice was too controlled. "I'd find it difficult. An undisclosed loyalty—"

"Is there an Englishman who isn't supposed to be loyal to the King? And hold that loyalty above any other loyalty, to all men, living or dead?" The king seemed more amused than anything else. He turned to Niko. "As you may recall, Sergeant Fotheringay was a problem for me. I couldn't not offer him a knighthood, under the circumstances, and, as I largely expected, he found that going back to the Fleet as a hero was more than a little . . . disruptive for his new company." The king's mouth twitched. "Although you'd think that a captain in my Marines wouldn't be so bloody deferential to a sergeant and—yes, yes, bring him in," he said, looking past where the knights sat. "The novices can wait."

Fotheringay dropped to one knee as he entered, rising instantly at His Majesty's gesture.

"Sit yourself down, too," the king said.

"Yes, Sire." Fotheringay sat.

"Any regrets, Fotheringay?" the king asked.

Fotheringay barely hesitated. "About asking Sir Niko for a position?"

"Well, man, what the hell else do you think I'm asking about? Yes, have you any regrets over that?"

"No, Sire."

The king's irritation vanished. "Very well, then," he said, gently. "And can you find it in you to speak your mind, and your heart? I know such things don't come easy to you—but we've discussed this once before, when I sent for you."

"Yes, Sire. I . . . I'm used to serving," Fotheringay said. "Lost that when I lost my captain on the Serenity." He shook his head. "I spent a fair number of years watching his back, and . . ."

"And you've no objection to watching Sir Niko's." It wasn't a question.

"No objection, Sire. I'd prefer to."

"Well, good."

"If he'll still have me."

The king cocked his head to one side again, perversely reminding Niko of a hunting bird. "Why wouldn't he have you? Did you lie to your master?"

"Well, no. Not quite. I asked for a position, just like you told me to do, but . . ."

"You didn't tell him any more, as I also told you to. And, just as I'd predicted, he assumed you'd gotten yourself in some trouble, and didn't want to know about it, and just accepted you into his service." He raised a finger. "I wish all of what I had to do, to decide, was quite this easy." He took a long draw on his pipe. "So, that's settled. And I take it you would not think it beneath your new station to be his squire, rather than his servant? Much the same thing, you know. Although the pay should be better."

Fotheringay didn't answer right away.

"Well, out with it, man, out with it."

"New station, Sire?"

"I told you that I'd knight you when you were retired from the Marines; I meant it." The king tapped on a sheet of paper at his elbow. "You're retiring, Sergeant, at the command and pleasure of your sovereign, and your sovereign is, among other things, a man who likes to keep his promises. And be still, Becket—he's getting the Order of the Guard, not the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, and if there's one thing that continually irritates every other knight who serves this Crown, it's that you lot always act as though you're the only Order that matters. You're not."

The king reached out his hand, and one of the scribes quickly brought over an inkwell and pen; the king signed the sheet of paper with a few quick strokes. "Will that be enough for you, Fotheringay, or do I have to break out the Seal?" He turned to Becket without waiting for an answer. "And your novices. Are they ready to be knighted?"

"Ready enough. They'll have to go—"

"Yes, they'll have to go see Her." Mordred gestured to one of the scribes, who quickly rushed out of the room. "You'll have to make do with more . . . traditional servants, until I can order up another pair from Alton for you, to help you train Sir Niko—Scoville and Winslow are leaving for the Arroy now." He grinned. "Unless you find the need to say good-bye? And think that's worth delaying them?"

Becket actually grinned. "Delaying seeing Her? Just so they can take their leave of me? I wouldn't want them to bear ill will against me, not for that. If they resent me being a hard teacher, well, that's perhaps as it should be. Yes, they would be grateful on their way, but . . ."

"Yes, but they'd later think that their lives began the moment that they touched Her hand, and curse you for the lost hours, or even minutes. Auntie does have that effect on most—and She probably would on me, if She wanted to. I'm just as happy that She doesn't, all things considered. My family's been quite good about avoiding incest since the days of the Tyrant, and it would be best to keep it that way." The king sobered. "On to the other matter. Sir John wishes to be involved in this, and I'm disposed to have him join you; his judgment is generally good, and he's happier spending time in the open air, and has begun to pout."

The big knight grinned again. "I'll serve as you think best, Your Majesty. But part of that service is—"

"Yes, yes, part of it is telling your sovereign how he'll be best served by you, oftimes repeatedly." He turned back to Niko and Becket. "His only concern is our safety," the king went on. "And since I've promised to stay in the castle until Lady Ellen can join His Own . . . ?"

"Then you'll hear no objection from me, Sire," Sir John said. "Not on that."

The king cocked his head to one side. "I'd think you'd want to see her."

"Yes, Sire, I do." The big knight's faces was impassive. "And if I could, consistent with my duty, I surely would. But that's not the issue here. Three of His Own should be enough to see to your safety, unless you're planning on entertaining more than usual—my concern is about Sir Martin."

Becket nodded. "Be a problem hauling what remains of this body up and down the hills of Colonsay."

Sir John shook his head. "That was not what I was speaking of. Servants for that, generally, and when not, well, I've a stronger back than most. My concern is putting you in danger when there's no benefit to it, none that I can see. Your courage isn't at issue, Sir Martin—but taking risks without benefit doesn't seem to me to be wise."

The king leaned forward. "But there is a benefit, and I can see it, even if you can't. You heard him. Sir Niko's education isn't finished, and I'm not disposed to change teachers. Seems to have worked out well enough. And if that means that Sir Martin gets to go along as the two of you chase down this Amadan Dubh—and whatever the hell else is going on Colonsay—well, that's your problem, and his." He eyed Sir Niko levelly. "I'm a suspicious man, by nature. Ascribe it to being almost murdered in my cradle by my late uncle. I've the feeling that many of the . . . strange events of the past year are linked, somehow—I just can't see what the pattern amounts to, and I'm not the only one who can't.

"If I had a way for you to prick at the heart of this spider's web, I'd do it, without a moment of regret, without a second thought, and leave this other matter alone, for the time being.

"But I don't. So you will handle this, whether it's part of it, or something else, and you can help Sir Martin train Sir Niko, as much as time allows."

Sir John nodded. "As you wish, Your Majesty," he said, and then he frowned.

"I thought we'd settled that," the king said.

The knight raised a hand. "No, Sire, not that. Just trying to figure out what else we need. Ship or ships, a wizard or two, a troop of Marines, and—"

"Enough." The king frowned. "I'm not going to bargain with you, John. Take what you need, and if you've any difficulty, say that you'll send the problem to me if you're not satisfied. As you would."

The knight nodded, and the king went on. "I don't much like this; I'd rather we could leave well enough alone. The Old Ones . . . well, most of them are gone now, or mostly gone. I've heard it said that they bred too much with us mortals, and that their blood has thinned; there are those who call what's left waterkin.

"Now, if there's a few true gruagach left in Scotland and Ireland, watching over the sheep and cattle, I've no problem with that; if the worst they do is spoil some milk when they're not attended to, then, well, let the Scots and the Irish give them their milk offerings, or not cry over spoiled milk. I'm not looking to make war on the race, what's left of it—and as you may remember, my many-times-great aunt is waterkin, herself, and ample proof that the old blood does not necessarily run so very thin." His lips drew themselves into a line. "But that tolerance does not apply to the Caillach, if she's still around, and it wouldn't apply to the bean nighe, either, and it most certainly does not apply to any one, of any race, who would enchant my people—my people—into madness and murder, not excepting this Fairy Fool."

"And then there's the politics, Sir," Sir John said.

The king frowned. "I'm rather more well aware of that than you are, Sir John. Be still."

Sir John sat motionless, his face holding no trace whatsoever of expression, then nodded. "I can keep a quiet tongue in my mouth, if that's your wish, Sire."

The king grunted. "Sir Martin's already figured it out, I'd expect."

Becket shook his head. "With respect, Your Majesty," he said, "I can see the general issue, but not the specific."

The king looked him over. "The specific, then: the Duke of New England is due to set sail on the eighth of Leeds, just under six weeks from now. I'd rather this matter be settled before that."

Niko would have to ask Fotheringay, later, what this was all about; it was well over his head. It was, obviously, something that he was supposed to know, and—

No. "Excuse me, Your Majesty, but I don't know what you and Sir John and Sir Martin are talking about." Let them think him a fool; it was still the right thing to say. To sit in silence and let his king think that Niko was smarter than he was would be a betrayal, and if revealing his own slackwittedness had consequences, well then, he would bear up under them.

Becket started to mutter a curse, but the king silenced him with a quick motion.

"It's not your fault, Sir Niko," he said, smiling. "You're not attuned to disloyalty—or, yes, John, to the possibility of disloyalty. To put it simply, Sir Niko: if the Crown can't deal with a rebellion this small and this close to Londinium, what thoughts do you think might enter my uncle's mind as he makes the long voyage to New England? I've no evidence of Uncle William's disloyalty, or he'd not be going back. But . . ." The king drew himself up straight, and rose from his chair, with a quick be-still gesture to Becket, keeping him in his seat while Niko and Sir John rose. "Sir Niko, Sir John, Sir Martin—rid me of this Amadan Dubh."

"Yes, Sire."

It sounded like a dismissal; Niko started to turn, but the king shook his head.

"No, you're not dismissed yet." He took a few steps forward and held out his hand. "Would you do me the favor of loaning me your sword? Oh, I'm only asking for your mundane sword, boy—I'm not suicidal."

Niko drew the scabbard from his sash, and presented the sword, hilt first, to the king. His Majesty drew the sword slowly, setting the scabbard aside. "Nothing fancy, eh? Plain, but serviceable," he said, with a grin. "Entirely appropriate, under the circumstances, given the subject in question." He turned to Fotheringay. "I'd prefer that this be done publicly and with proper ceremony, not quickly and in private. But not even my preferences are always decisive.

"Kneel, Nigel Fotheringay," the king said, his voice taking on a formal tone.

Fotheringay did so, and Mordred V tapped him once, lightly, on each shoulder.

"With this sword, I, Mordred Pendragon, King, do now dub thee knight of His Majesty's Guard," he said, quietly, slowly, not rushing the words. "It is a good and worthy order; be thou a good and worthy knight. Please rise, Sir Nigel."

The king slipped the sword back into the scabbard and tossed it to Niko, then turned back to Fotheringay. "When I knight a man, it's traditional that I present him with a sword. And most of the time, it's for show, not for use—most of the time, but probably not this one. More than a fair selection in the armory—pick one that feels right, and if you don't find one that does, well, talk to the lord armorer, and see what he can do overnight." He gave Fotheringay a stern look. "That is a command from your sovereign—it's not a suggestion, Sir Nigel. I don't want to hear that I've given you some trophy to put over your mantel—

"Doubt Sir Nigel has a mantel," Sir John said, rewarded by something between a smile and a glare from his sovereign.

"—but there's no time to do more than fit new grips to a prime Sheffield blade. There's enough of those, and one of them ought to serve. You four are to be billeted here tonight; you leave in the morning.

"Find the amadan dubh, and kill him," the king said. "Don't expend yourselves unless necessary. Try to avoid making it necessary. All of you." He met first Big John's eyes, then Becket's, then Niko's, and waited for a "yes, Sire" from each of them before he turned to Fotheringay.

"Watch Sir Niko's back, Sir Nigel," the king said. "But spare some attention for your own, if you can. And if you ever get tired of squiring for Sir Niko, you send word to us, and we will find another use for you."

"Aye-aye, Sire."

"Ever the sergeant, eh? No, don't bother correcting yourself; I didn't take it as impertinence." The king smiled. But it wasn't a pleasant smile. "Now you're dismissed," he said.

The king met Niko's eyes for a moment, and nodded, as though echoing Niko's thoughts.

Why rush Fotheringay's knighting? He would be no more faithful as Sir Nigel than he had been as Sergeant Fotheringay.

But it was obvious. The king thought it a distinct possibility that he was sending Fotheringay, and the knights—and the other knights—to his death, and would not withhold the honor that was due.

Niko met Fotheringay's eyes, and Fotheringay gave him his usual toothless smile.

Niko glanced behind him as he left; the king had already picked up his stack of papers, and was examining them closely.

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