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Chapter 6
Gray
 

I'm told that, often, there comes a time in the life of a knight of the Red Sword when he finds the sword more of a blessing than a burden.

I am, I am sorely afraid, coming to that time. I can no longer sit in judgment of the Khan, I think; it was impious of me, perhaps, to ever think that I could, from the moment I took him in hand. Bear used to talk about how it was Vlaovic that changed all that, but that there still and always was the opportunity for all, even including me, for hope and repentance, even after.

Bear was my not merely my companion, but my friend, and I mourn his death every day. But I'll mourn him in my own way, and do him the honor of thinking of him in death as he was in life:

In this, my beloved friend was entirely on sound theological grounds.

But he was a fool.

—Gray

Getting permission had been faster and easier than he had thought it would be. He hadn't had to go directly to His Majesty—Gray had just had a page send a note, which had come back within a surprisingly short hour with a short "Do as you think best. I'll handle the duke. Godspeed. M.R." scribbled on the bottom of it.

Which may have been why the abbot general had immediately sent word that he would receive Gray, when he had begged an audience, also via the proper channels. King's Messengers were not exactly in short supply at Pendragon castle, and the use of them a prerogative of the Order, and while the best writing that Gray could do with his remaining hand was none too good, it was at least legible, and he hadn't had to find a scribe to do for him what it was only right and proper that he do for himself.

And waiting gave him more time to practice.

He would, of course, never again be the swordsman that he once was, not with his right hand but a stump, but left-handed swordsman did have some advantages when foining, after all, as most swordsmen, right- or left-handed, had difficulty adjusting.

He would never be able to tie his own boots again, but he could give a decent account of himself with his mundane sword.

The best of it, though, was the hand-to-hand. The soldiers of the House Guard were always on a one-in-six guard schedule, which left plenty of time for practice at the skills of their trade, which included unarmed as well as armed combat, and if an Order Knight asked a guard captain to provide him with a few opponents, it was hardly surprising that he had had a half a dozen of the larger, tougher privates and one barrel-bellied sergeant reporting to him every morning.

It felt good to hit people, and the being hit never bothered him. Hurt, yes; bothered, no.

Truth to tell, on average, the best of them were almost the equal of Order Knights in most respects, save only for the swordsmanship. Hacking at an enemy while maintaining their ranks wasn't something that Order Knights spent any time at all on, after all—but hand-to-hand, like swordsmanship, was a skill that had to be built over years and maintained for a lifetime, or it would surely wither even more quickly than the slow way that age would rob them of it.

And, in that, he found that his stump was every bit as useful as a fist—more so, perhaps, as it seemed incapable of pain, not that pain would have slowed him down.

Cully had always said that it was a strange thing that a knight of the Order had the right—not merely the privilege—to walk into the presence of the king himself without let or hindrance, but had to apply for an appointment with lesser men, like the abbot general, although he couldn't remember Cully referring to him by title, except when in his presence, and then only grudgingly.

So, of course, Gray had sent his request for an audience by royal messenger, and it had been less than a day later that a tired rider had appeared at Pendragon castle, and even before Gray could order a horse saddled from the stables, word had arrived from the king that, yes, Gray was to do as he would, but to keep His Majesty personally informed of his whereabouts, something that His Majesty had said over the preceding months on more than one occasion, and which Gray hadn't needed to have repeated.

As Gray rode slowly under the elm-lined road, noon had given way to afternoon, and dark, oily clouds loomed in the west, promising a downpour.

Alton, as both the home and school of the Order, was always busy, with Order Knights not on mission or leave in residence, both to keep them under the eye of the abbot and to keep them available for assignment. And since skills when not practiced grew rusty with disuse, whether it was polishing their languages or their fighting skills, Order Knights resident in the North Tower worked every bit as hard as the novices living at the school buildings did, and often at much of the same things.

And, truth to tell, the majority of the knights of the Order were from common backgrounds, and unable to maintain a household of their own, although in the village a few miles to the east, several of the better-off maintained town homes. If Gray's cell in the North Tower was unavailable, he would not have to go hat in hand or find a place in a stable to sleep; Swift or Linsen or the Beast (if he was in Alton, which was unlikely) would have seen to his lodgings, and if there was more than one of them in residence, they would have vied for his guesting with them, playing at draughts for the privilege, more likely than not.

Knighthood in the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon was, in financial terms, no more well-paying than that in any other holy order was. Yes, it was far more expensive to the Crown to equip a knight than it was for the Church to robe an Anglian, but the Order was appropriately miserly when it came to disbursing personal funds. Yes, ample Crown funds were available on mission, but they were for duty, not to line a knight's own purse. Those who came from noble or merchant families, like Bear or Sir Robert or the Beast, of course, always had stipends and such from their families, but that hardly applied to Gray.

Still, a knight of the Order missed a meal only out of duty, not poverty; the Order provided.

He forced the horse not to canter up, trying to enjoy the moment as much as he was capable of.

It was coming home, after all. A man should have a home, and while the dockyard orphan called Grayling had been lucky to find an alley to sleep in unmolested, the novice Joshua Grayling and the knight Sir Joshua Grayling had always had Alton.

It could be argued that his life really had begun the day he had walked, barefoot and ragged, through these gates, among the gaggle of boys that Father Cully had gathered up, but that was an argument that Gray would not have made; his life had really begun on a dark, miserable night on the docks, when through the pain and humiliation that he had become resolved to accepting as his lot in life, he had heard a quiet voice saying the words he would hear again, and again: Not while I breathe.

But it wasn't a moment for remembering; it was a moment for trying to relish the familiar, and the right.

Over near the edge of the woods, a trio of knights armored cap-a-pie were working out with blunted swords and bucklers, while the clang-clang-clanging sounds and the smoke from both chimneys of the smithy spoke of others polishing their blacksmithing skills.

If Gray had been the sort to be amused by such things, he would have found very amusing the four squares of mixed knights and novices over by the stables going through some complex estampie while a single lutist—also in knightly robes—plucked away at a tune, his timing far more precise than his fingering. The novices wearing red sashes about their waists that proclaimed that they were taking the women's roles weren't as clumsy in their movements as usual, which was just as well, and the novices absent the sashes seemed to move as featly as the knights themselves, although from this distance, the only knight he could make out was Sir Daniel of Farmount, and that only because of his great height and immense belly.

Still, they were all doing quite well.

In Gray's time at Alton, that hadn't always been the case, at least among even the senior novices. He still remembered his very first ball at Kent, where he'd managed to step on the foot of some young noblewoman whose name and face his memory was weak and generous enough to have blotted out at the moment, although both name and face, no doubt, would return to him sooner than later.

Gray vaguely recognized the moves, which seemed elegant enough to be French while broad enough to be Neapolitan; apparently it was some new variation that was popular in some court or courts. Being able to mingle among nobility was simply another of the skills that Order Knights were expected not merely to learn while novices, but to maintain their mastery of as knights.

The novices were already out in force, as well, in their short tunics and blousy trousers. Shaved-headed first-form novices trimming the hedges and shrubbery under the eyes of not just their upperclassman monitors, but of old Sir Robert Linsen, who was dressed not in the particularly ordinary robes that he donned on formal occasions, but a carefully tailored, finer set, with what Gray assumed was a deliberately short sleeve for the left arm that displayed the old man's naked stump. Shorter than Gray's; Linsen had lost his arm above the elbow, but at least it had been his left.

Linsen, a twinkle in his eye, raised the stump in a quick greeting that Gray ignored, as the abbot himself was walking quickly down the front steps of the keep, clearly heading toward where Gray was just dismounting; Gray's intention had been to let the horse cool off on his way to the stables.

Two novices trailed in the abbot general's dignified wake. Without a word one held out a hand and ducked his head, asking for the reins to the brown gelding, then quickly led it away while the other handed Gray a goblet of icy-cold water, waited for Gray to drain it, then accepted it back, then quickly made himself absent as well.

"It's good to see you, Sir Joshua," the abbot said, as soon as the boys were out of earshot. He offered his left hand for a clasp with Gray, and briefly clasped his right hand over their joined ones before releasing him. As always, his grip was firm and strong, and while the heat of the day had sweat running down his bald head and into the collar of his robes, it didn't seem to affect his dignity.

Sir Ralph Francis Wakefield, by the Grace of God and Order of His Majesty the King not only the archbishop of Canterbury, but the abbot general of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, was arrayed in his plain Order robes, the only concession to his other office a large golden cross on a thick chain. His sash was, as you'd expect with any Order Knight, belted tightly across his hips, keeping both of his swords in place, although Gray tried hard not to look at them, and failed.

The basket-hilted rapier was easily distinguished from the other sword, above it.

Jenn. The White Sword that Cully had carried, and which now decorated the abbot general's waist. An utterly plain cutting sword, with a simple wooden hilt, carried in a simple wooden scabbard.

It was hard not to hate the Abbot for the friendly smile, the apparent sincerity of which was somehow more maddening than any falsity would have been.

"Well, you've clearly had a long ride," the abbot said, taking his arm—his right arm, as though to leave the left free. "Let's see to getting you freshened up, and properly fed. And you will, of course, stay the night." He grinned. "I think you'll find your cell as you left it. If there's so much as a cobweb there, it's been spun since this morning."

"I'm at your service, Sir Abbot," he said, addressing him properly. If the abbot had been wearing his surplice and carrying his miter, it would have been "my Lord Archbishop," of course.

"Not quite as graciously spoken as I'd have hoped for," the abbot said. He pursed his lips for a moment. They seemed somehow redder than they should have, like a wound in his well-trimmed white beard.

"Then I humbly give apology," Gray said.

"Accepted, of course, of course. You've had provocation enough, I'd say." The abbot waved it away, then stopped, and looked around, before he spoke. "I'm not your enemy, Gray. And I'm not just your superior in the Order, either, although I am that.

"Sir, Father, and Brother Joshua Grayling," the abbot said, formally, "I am a priest and brother of the Order, just as you are, and . . ." he patted at Jenn's hilt, "a knight of the White Sword, as you are of the Red." He cocked his head to one side. "And if you were to tell me that Jenn should properly be in the sash of Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, I'll neither voice agreement nor disagreement, but remind you that he lost the honor of carrying Jenn by his own decision, not mine."

For a moment, the Abbot's face clouded over, but then he took a deep breath, and his expression became, if not as friendly as it had been, not hostile.

Gray didn't know what to say. He knew that Cully utterly despised the abbot, and of all living and all the dead, he loved Father Cully above even the Order—and above He Who should have been in Gray's mind and spirit above the Order—as sinful as that was.

But love is not agreement, and loyalty was to be informed by thought and insight, not practiced in reflexive blindness, and in the battle over Gray being given the Khan, it had been right that Father Cully had lost and the abbot had won. Perhaps it was possible for another man to mix his soul with the Khan's and avoid damnation, although Gray had his doubts.

It certainly wasn't possible for Gray.

But if ever there was a man who deserved Hell, it was Joshua Grayling, and the abbot had chosen wisely when he had ordered that the Khan be belted around Gray's waist.

Let Cully fault the abbot for that; Gray would not.

"Are you here to be asked to be relieved of, of it?" the Abbot asked.

A foolish question, for anybody who knew Gray, but the Abbot really didn't know Gray. "No, Sir Abbot, it's—"

"No. Gray, I—no." He stopped himself with a peremptory hand. "It—whatever it is—is a matter that can, unless you tell me otherwise now, wait a few hours, that's what it is, although I've my suspicions. You're a knight of the Red Sword, Sir Joshua, and arrived at the home of your Order, but you've as yet been met with scant hospitality, and for that I hold myself responsible, and beg your forgiveness. Can it wait until you've bathed and dined? Can you wait?"

"Yes, of course, Sir Abbot."

"Then let's see to that hospitality, first," the abbot said, picking up the pace with a cheerful bounce to his step. "You'll join me at table tonight, I hope? If you can remain for more than a day or two, it's only appropriate that you sit table with the rest, Sir Joshua. But if you'd be willing to go along with an old man's preference, as I hope you will, we shall dine alone this night."

"Yes, Sir Abbot; I'd be honored."

"But first, let's get some food in you. And if ever I've seen a man who would benefit from at least a little strong drink, I'm looking at him right now."

"As you command, of course. But there is one favor I have to ask. I'll bathe before, at your orders, and if you insist that I drink, Sir Abbot, I'll drink."

"And that favor is?"

He swallowed. "Will you hear my confession?"

If the abbot seemed surprised, it didn't show. "Of course. But your sins, no matter how grievous, surely can wait for an hour or so until you've cleaned yourself. I've always thought that cleansing the body goes well with cleansing the soul, in any case, so I guess we're both for our baths."

Which was fair enough. Gray tried to prepare his body as well as his mind when he heard confessions. It wasn't a theological necessity—the sacrament, thankfully, didn't depend on the cleanliness of the body or the mind of such as Sir Joshua Graying—but it was what he had been taught.

"Thank you," he said.

The Abbot's eyes met his. "I shall hear your confession, Sir Joshua, and assign such penance as I think just and proper. But . . ."

"But?" Was there some condition? How could that be?

The abbot shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I'm not a common tradesman, bargaining with you over your barrel of oats and mine of groats. I'm your superior in the Order, and neither no more nor no less a priest than you yourself are, Sir, Brother, and Father Joshua Grayling. I shall hear your confession, Sir Joshua, as is my duty to you, and to God, and I shall do that without reservation, and without condition." His eyes were fierce, and the fierceness was a comfort to Gray, although his words were not:

"And you, Sir Joshua Grayling," he said, and there was no hint of indecision in his voice, "you shall hear mine."

Dinner was quiet, and private, in the abbot's study—not his office. The difference was mainly a matter of degree than of kind; both study and office were lined with bookshelves, and each featured a large desk near the outside window. But the study had a table that could seat perhaps six, with ample room about it for the servants to move about and serve, without bumping into anybody.

There were true servants at Alton, of course—it couldn't have gotten by without cooks and bakers, stablemen and cobblers, coopers and smiths and all the other necessities—but all of what would have been the common domestic service in a great home was done by the novices.

Which was only right and proper. Many of the novices were from middle-class or lower families, but more than a few were of noble lineage, and if there was a better way to learn humility than emptying chamber pots and doing other scullery work, Gray couldn't think of it. Unless, of course, it was something specifically unpleasant like, say, mucking out then stoning a stable, just to pick one example not entirely at random.

There were differences, of course. In a noble house, one would hardly be introduced to the staff, save perhaps the majordomo, or butler, or the maid assigned to one's rooms. One would be given their names, perhaps, depending, but that was merely so you'd know how to call them.

But each of the novices had been formally introduced, and Gray tried hard to mark each of their names, and use them, and if he tended to be a touch more friendly to those of lower origin, well, that was only because it was far more common for a lowly born to make it all the way through the training and Alton, and to kneel before His Majesty, to arise as a knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon.

The boy who had been introduced as William McGowan gathered up the dishes. A well-made boy, by the looks of him, although Gray would not have made him as a Scotsman. It was sometimes difficult to tell the origin of a novice who had gone beyond his first couple of years, as traces of their local accents had been carefully extinguished, just as the orphan boy who had been called Grayling, after the fish that he supposedly resembled, had lost his dockside drawl more years ago than Gray could remember.

"Thank you, William," the abbot said. "Stay a moment." He turned to Gray. "If you don't mind, Sir Joshua?"

"Of course not. Should I excuse myself for a moment?"

"Not at all; please stay. Now, as to you, William . . .?"

The boy didn't answer; he simply ducked his head. Silence was the rule under such circumstances, except for responding to direct inquiries.

"Sir Aloysius," the abbot went on, "tells me that you're coming along remarkably well in all of the martial arts, that your table manners are unexceptionable, to say the least, and that your memory of the missal minor is as good as he's ever seen—"

The boy's face brightened.

"—but that you can barely get through a passage of Agesilaus or The Art of Horsemanship without stumbling, that your penmanship is sloppy, and that you seem to be particularly hard on that Injan boy in your cohort, almost to the point of bullying, while you let a spot of insolence from Lord Wellington pass the other day with no more than a word of caution. None of that is acceptable."

The boy's face fell.

"I'll see you here after morning prayers," the abbot said, pausing, "one month from today, on the fifth of York. We'll decide what to do about you then. If that suits you?"

"Yes, Sir Abbot," the boy said, his face a stony mask.

"You may leave."

When the door shut behind the boy, the abbot let his face split into a grin. "I'm of the opinion that he'll shape up. He's really not quite as bad as all that; just needs to behave a little better with some of his juniors, really, and spend more time with his books." He sobered. "Besides, Jenn's of the opinion that he's got the heart of a knight of the Order," he added, as he brought his free hand up to the table and clasped it on the other in front of him.

Gray hadn't seen the abbot's hand dip to the side of his chair, where both of his swords stood in a boot lashed to the chair, as did Gray's own. A knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon was, in at least a theoretical sense, always on duty, and while there were rare occasions when that duty prohibited him carrying his swords, those were rare.

Gray had not been tempted to touch his finger to the Khan's steel until now, but he found himself doing so.

Hmmm. The Khan was unimpressed. I've never understood why you people think that washing feet and mucking out thundermugs has anything to do with being a warrior. Better training would be to have the boys ride down a few peasants—and a few peasant girls—to see if they've got the stomach for conquest.

It was an old argument, and one Gray didn't feel like continuing at the moment, particularly since he well knew that if he did mention to the Khan that there was much more than fighting to being a knight, the Khan would only bring up Vlaovic, among other things.

So he touched his thumb again to the Khan's steel anyway, and said as much.

The Khan was amused. Vlaovic. Szebernica. Dunladen. Pironesia. Pantelleria—should I go on? If you had the heart and the manstick for it, you could burn your way from—

He pulled his thumb from the Khan.

"Yes." The abbot nodded. "A heavy burden, indeed, the Khan. Probably more than the Sandoval; certainly more than the Tinker, say, or Croom'l. And the boy Niko seems to find his new Red Sword less than a heavy cross he must bear, eh?" He sipped at the single glass of wine that was all that he had allowed himself through dinner. Moderation in all things, the abbot preached, and at least appeared to practice, most of the time.

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as though to see if he could arrive at what he had been told in Gray's confession otherwise.

No, that was unworthy. The abbot respected the seal of the confessional as much as anyone, if not more, and if he could not help letting his thoughts escape into the rest of his mind—and Gray doubted that anyone could—he would not go further, not without the permission that he would not so much as hint a request for.

But the permission could be given without a request, after all.

"Please, Sir Abbot," Gray said. "We're alone; what . . . what I said to you before, please feel free refer to it—or need I repeat it here?" The begging sounded despicable in his ears.

"No." The abbot was firm. "Those sins which God has forgiven are not yours any longer." He raised a finger. "I can't make you forgive yourself, Gray, but I can tell you that as much as you repent of the sin of pride, as much as you repent of your sin of despair, as much as you continue to repeat those sins, you continue to endanger your salvation." His face was grim. "But your sins of the past, Sir, Father, and Brother, are in other Hands than yours, and borne by He who can bear them all, and He can bear them lightly; do not trouble yourself more with them. I've done what I can, and will do what I can, and not merely because you are my Brother, Sir Joshua. I've served you badly." He shook his head. "My predecessor should have had you in this office, years and years ago, while your head was still shaven, and sent you away. Not that you've served badly—quite the contrary. You should never have been a knight of the Order. I had my misgivings, but in those days, Cully was capable of persuading me, and he did—my predecessor listened to both Sir Cully and to me, and well, you were quite the hero in those days, even as a novice, eh?"

Gray ducked his head, accepting the reproach.

"Lift up your head, Sir Joshua Grayling, and conduct yourself as a knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, in private with me as you do so well in public, when you're among others. I'm not criticizing you, boy; I'm criticizing myself. It was my fault, just as much as Cully's—I listened to him, fool that I am, and I put my misgivings aside." His voice softened. "But I'm always overcritical, I'm told. I'm always worried that each time that I let a boy kneel before His Majesty I've helped him create not a knight, but a monster—but that's not my worry with you, Gray. It's not now, and it wasn't then.

"It was your relationship with Cully. I could say that I don't understand it, or I could say that I do—but it doesn't matter: the truth is you've always loved him too much." He shook his head. "We serve God, the Crown, the king, and the Order—and we do so in that order." He held out both of his hands, palms up. "If I were to put the life of Sir Cully of Cully's Woode in your left hand, and that of the king in your, in another hand, which would weigh more heavily upon you?"

"The king's," Gray said, instantly. It hadn't required thought. That wasn't the point. Of course he would turn his back on Cully to protect the King, as he had as a fourth-form novice, during the York Disgrace.

To the end of his days, he would still see the late king's screaming face, demanding to be turned loose and given a sword, and he would hear Cully's cries of pain from behind him as he held the door by himself, Sir Bedivere having fallen moments that felt like hours before.

He had not wavered, not for a moment. He would have turned from the king only if Father Cully had fallen, and not a moment before. And, although he was then only a novice, he would have taken up Father Cully's borrowed sword. And yes, he would have died there, beside Cully, but that thought had not frightened the young Grayling in the least.

Would he do it again?

Of course he would.

How could he face Cully if he did otherwise?

"Yes," the abbot said, nodding. "And is it because of your oath?" He shook his head. "We both know better than that: it is because you know that Father Cully would want it that way, that he would, once again, order you to protect this king rather than himself with your own body, if necessary, as you did the king's father?" He raised a palm. "Don't answer. Don't even think about it."

"Yes, Sir Abbot. I'll try."

The abbot took a long breath. "You haven't asked it of me, but I'll tell you: I'd relieve you of the Khan in a heartbeat if I thought there was another better able to wield it.

"But I don't. Neither does the king. That's why you bear it.

"Of the worst of the Red Swords, do you think that I'm such a fool as to not consider with utmost care which knights should be trusted with them? It wasn't accidental that my predecessor put the Sandoval in Lady Mary's hands and . . ."

He stopped when Gray ducked his head and murmured a brief prayer, then sighing, joined him, and was silent for a moment when he went on.

"Yes, our Mary, our lovely Mary, was no accident, any more than it was when Abbot Oakley begged His Late Majesty to make her a knight, even though it's an unwomanly thing. I worry about who is given White; I have nightmares about you Reds, and about the Khan more than any."

He made as though to pat at Jenn's hilt, but stopped the motion. "The Reds are more common, and usually of less power, which is as it should be; evil should bow before the right. The Whites, rarer though they are, are much safer; they mainly tempt those of us who carry them into pride, and a few days on one's hands and knees with brick and sand in a stable is a good remedy for pride," he said, smiling. "As I'm about to have a reminder of, over the next few days. You give a sound penance, Father Joshua, if not a light one. Well, it'll be good for my soul, if not my hands and knees. They'll heal, even at my age." He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly.

"But you've come a long way for a not particularly good meal and a much-needed confession. I'd say I'm honored that you chose me as your confessor, but I'm not. You came to ask me something, something you could have asked the king for."

Gray shook his head. Yes, Order Knights had unlimited access to the Royal Presence, but that was for the king's benefit, not their own.

He said as much. Asking the king for leave, via messenger, was entirely proper; going into the king's Presence for the purpose of asking the king himself for a personal favor was another matter.

"True enough. We have access to him for his sake, not our own, and it's rare that an Order Knight abuses it." The abbot nodded. "I think it was as much because of that as anything else that His Late Majesty didn't even consider acceding to Cully's request, the time he came to him over you." He frowned. "Although, to give the devil his due—and none of that; it's just a figure of speech, Sir Joshua—I think that Sir Cully went to the king out as much out of a sense of duty toward the Order as because he thought you too weak to bear the Khan." He cocked his head to one side. "You could have done the same as he did; you could have gone to the king. But you didn't do that. Instead, you quite properly come to the abbot general of the Order, and ask . . .?"

The abbot already knew. How?

"There's loose talk in the palace—Admiral DuPuy thinks that he's on the track of the maker of the new live swords, and . . ."

"And you think you ought to be there. You want to be there. And since His Majesty hasn't ordered you to stay at Pendragon castle, and you haven't been sent away on leave or mission, you come to me and ask that I put you on mission and order you to join him." The abbot sat silently for a while, then chuckled. "You're different from Cully; I'll give you that. He'd have taken a note from the king like the one in your pouch and used it to commandeer a fast ship, even though that wasn't the intent of it.

"But, instead, you come to me, and you ask.

"And you ask that knowing that I've little faith in Sir Cully's good sense, that I think him reckless and foolish, and you hope that I'll think that you'd be a steadying influence on him, rather than him tempting you into sin or excess."

Yes, there was that. And there was more. Cully understood how close Gray was to the breaking, how he always had been, and how, with Bear dead and the Nameless in another's hands, the only check on Gray and the Khan was Gray himself, and that that could easily not be enough.

He remembered the screams in Vlaovic, and the Plaza of Heroes in Pironesia, and he knew that there would come a time when he would draw the Khan, and would have to be stopped, for the unified person that was the Gray Khan was far too dangerous to be allowed to live for long, if at all.

And perhaps there would be no one who could stop him.

Service, honor, faith, and obedience. He was bereft of faith, and a murderer of thousands was a man without honor. His obedience was merely subordinate to service. If he had slipped out of England, the Khan in his hand, how many other knights, Red or White, would have had to be dispatched to chase the traitor Gray? How much service would go undone while the likes of Big John, or Sir Walter, or the Beast, or the Saracen hunted Gray down?

No.

"There is another option," the abbot said. "And I know it's one you've thought of. Lay the Khan upon my desk, surrender your vows, and walk out. No, I'll not demand that you surrender it—but I'd not stop you. I'll allow you to leave the Order. I'll find another to bear it. I'll have to, eventually." He gestured toward the door. "Perhaps Sir John de Ros, although I worry about his corruptibility. Perhaps Sir Niko, who you seem to think so highly of, would be of more use with the Khan than with that little Red of his." He gestured at Gray's stump. "But then, you think to yourself, how much aid could you be to Father Cully with but the one hand? Instead of leaving the Order, perhaps you should simply surrender the sword and let me put you on the Reserve List, like old Becket. But that wouldn't serve your purpose, would it?"

"No, Sir Abbot, it would not."

"Well, I'll tell you: I think it's a bad idea. Not the worst in the world, mind. Cully needs a steadying influence, and I'm none too sanguine about the possibility of Sir Guy being that. If I thought it were up to me—if it were up to Ralph Wakefield, not the abbot general—it would be easy. I'd say no. I'd say to hell with that arrogant bastard, Cully of Cully's Woode, and hope that he manages to get himself killed before he does more damage than he already has, because where Cully goes, destruction always follows in his wake, even though salvation has been known to, as well. But ever and always the damnable destruction accompanies him." The abbot's voice was barely under control; he took a moment to calm himself.

"But . . ." The abbot rose from the table and walked to his desk. There were two sheets of parchment sitting under the same paperweight of plain stone that Gray remembered from his novicehood. The abbot sat down behind the desk and put the papers before him, signing both in turn, carefully pouring blotting powder on each in turn before tipping the excess into the stone bowl.

"But I think if I did that, you might well resign, and leave the Khan on the table, that I would lose the combination of you and the Khan to the Order, and His Majesty is of the opinion that, as he says, 'the combination is near perfect,' and like you, I'm the servant of the king.

"And there's another reason, which I'll get to in a moment.

"So here," he said, "is your authority. This is for you. Guard it carefully. You've held a paper like this once before; it grants you my own authority, as both abbot general and archbishop of Canterbury, and it's been signed with my coded signature as both. Yes, as my vicar, it makes you Cully's superior in the Order, once more, although scant good that's done or will likely do. Don't expect it to move DuPuy, though. His authority comes from the king; mine comes through the king.

"The second paper is a dispatch to His Majesty; it will leave Alton within the hour. It informs him that I've sent you out again—after the live swords, yes, but to use your own judgment as to where that may take you. And it's not just for his eyes; there'll be copies to Admiral Dougherty, as well as to DuPuy, and my suspicion is that there'll be a fast ship waiting to convey you to wherever you think you need to go when you reach Londinium, without you having to go through the rigmarole that you did the last time.

"Of course, if and when you find Cully, he will tell you that this is all merely a machination of mine. He'll say that I'm simply relaxing to the inevitable, and have taken advantage of the situation to try to keep him under some sort of control, as you're one of the few that he will ever listen to—although not much, alas—and that I've seduced you by my kindness tonight, which you'll long remember, Joshua, as you've seen scant kindness in your life.

"And that will be true, too," the abbot said, nodding to himself. "Life is full of contradictions, after all, and there's few times in my life as abbot that I'd done a thing for one reason and that one reason alone.

"But there are other truths, as well," he said, taking up the third sheet of parchment. Unlike the others, it was small, and folded over several times. "You'd best read this, although I'll want it back after you do. It arrived a week ago, and I've been dreading the each day ever since. One of Her damned crows dropped it right on my desk." He chuckled. "I'd take to closing my windows, but I doubt that would inconvenience Her.

"Still, I wish She had been more specific; I'd been expecting that it would be Cully riding onto the grounds, and I was almost embarrassingly relieved to get your message that it was you who wanted an audience with me." He made a get-on-with-it-gesture with his right hand. "Well, read it. Read it."

Gray unfolded it. The parchment was ragged along the edges, and not even vaguely square, and a few clumps of wool still clung to the edges, as though it had not been properly scraped before being dried.

The words were written in red.

Not the ruddy brown of dried blood, or the cheery crimson of colored ink, but the too-deep red of fresh blood from the heart, though the letters were dry to the touch, and unsmeared, even though the parchment had manifestly been folded and refolded many times.

I bid you: do as he asks. Salve his soul if you can, although I hold little hope there. Do as he asks. But tell him to come see Me first, they said.

"She has sent for you, Gray." The abbot ducked his head. "Do give Her my best wishes." He started to speak, then stopped.

It wasn't necessary, for Gray knew what the abbot wanted to say, although he wouldn't. For once, long ago, the abbot general had been the boy Ralph Francis Wakefield, the novice whose last task before being knighted was to go into Arroy for a private audience with Her, and he had fallen in love with Her because all the boys always fell in love with Her, because that was Her nature, after all.

How could you not fall in love with the Queen of Air and Darkness? How could you not ache to lay your sword or your life, or whatever She wanted, at her feet?

Was that the origin of the hatred between the abbot and Cully? That She loved Cully more than him? Or that Cully loved Her more than the likes of lesser men such as Ralph Wakefield and Joshua Grayling were capable of?

Everybody knew that the abbot was jealous of Cully, but Gray had always thought that it was the fame and the legend that had grown up around the York Disgrace, of the stories of Sir Cully raising an army of novices that had delayed the traitors almost long enough, and of the final moments, of Cully standing in the doorway over Sir Bedivere's body, while the two surviving boys and the prince's nurse stood behind him, Mary murmuring soft lullabies to the infant prince, quieting him, while Gray and Alexander held the king to one side, of the promises of riches and titles that came through the doorway as much as the arrows and swords, of oaths sworn on all that was holy that all save the king and prince would be spared, and be rewarded, if only the door would be opened, and if the knight would stand aside. . .

And the knight who would not stand aside, and the quiet whisper, of Not while I breathe.

The abbot could be jealous of that, but, no. It was an unworthy thought. All of it was unworthy.

The abbot folded the parchment twice, very carefully, and if he touched it briefly to his lips before he tucked it into his robes, Gray didn't have to notice.

But there was one last surprise, in what was said, if nothing else.

The abbot met Gray's eyes. "Oh, and yes, do send Her my love."

It wasn't a request.

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Framed

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Chapter 6
Gray
 

I'm told that, often, there comes a time in the life of a knight of the Red Sword when he finds the sword more of a blessing than a burden.

I am, I am sorely afraid, coming to that time. I can no longer sit in judgment of the Khan, I think; it was impious of me, perhaps, to ever think that I could, from the moment I took him in hand. Bear used to talk about how it was Vlaovic that changed all that, but that there still and always was the opportunity for all, even including me, for hope and repentance, even after.

Bear was my not merely my companion, but my friend, and I mourn his death every day. But I'll mourn him in my own way, and do him the honor of thinking of him in death as he was in life:

In this, my beloved friend was entirely on sound theological grounds.

But he was a fool.

—Gray

Getting permission had been faster and easier than he had thought it would be. He hadn't had to go directly to His Majesty—Gray had just had a page send a note, which had come back within a surprisingly short hour with a short "Do as you think best. I'll handle the duke. Godspeed. M.R." scribbled on the bottom of it.

Which may have been why the abbot general had immediately sent word that he would receive Gray, when he had begged an audience, also via the proper channels. King's Messengers were not exactly in short supply at Pendragon castle, and the use of them a prerogative of the Order, and while the best writing that Gray could do with his remaining hand was none too good, it was at least legible, and he hadn't had to find a scribe to do for him what it was only right and proper that he do for himself.

And waiting gave him more time to practice.

He would, of course, never again be the swordsman that he once was, not with his right hand but a stump, but left-handed swordsman did have some advantages when foining, after all, as most swordsmen, right- or left-handed, had difficulty adjusting.

He would never be able to tie his own boots again, but he could give a decent account of himself with his mundane sword.

The best of it, though, was the hand-to-hand. The soldiers of the House Guard were always on a one-in-six guard schedule, which left plenty of time for practice at the skills of their trade, which included unarmed as well as armed combat, and if an Order Knight asked a guard captain to provide him with a few opponents, it was hardly surprising that he had had a half a dozen of the larger, tougher privates and one barrel-bellied sergeant reporting to him every morning.

It felt good to hit people, and the being hit never bothered him. Hurt, yes; bothered, no.

Truth to tell, on average, the best of them were almost the equal of Order Knights in most respects, save only for the swordsmanship. Hacking at an enemy while maintaining their ranks wasn't something that Order Knights spent any time at all on, after all—but hand-to-hand, like swordsmanship, was a skill that had to be built over years and maintained for a lifetime, or it would surely wither even more quickly than the slow way that age would rob them of it.

And, in that, he found that his stump was every bit as useful as a fist—more so, perhaps, as it seemed incapable of pain, not that pain would have slowed him down.

Cully had always said that it was a strange thing that a knight of the Order had the right—not merely the privilege—to walk into the presence of the king himself without let or hindrance, but had to apply for an appointment with lesser men, like the abbot general, although he couldn't remember Cully referring to him by title, except when in his presence, and then only grudgingly.

So, of course, Gray had sent his request for an audience by royal messenger, and it had been less than a day later that a tired rider had appeared at Pendragon castle, and even before Gray could order a horse saddled from the stables, word had arrived from the king that, yes, Gray was to do as he would, but to keep His Majesty personally informed of his whereabouts, something that His Majesty had said over the preceding months on more than one occasion, and which Gray hadn't needed to have repeated.

As Gray rode slowly under the elm-lined road, noon had given way to afternoon, and dark, oily clouds loomed in the west, promising a downpour.

Alton, as both the home and school of the Order, was always busy, with Order Knights not on mission or leave in residence, both to keep them under the eye of the abbot and to keep them available for assignment. And since skills when not practiced grew rusty with disuse, whether it was polishing their languages or their fighting skills, Order Knights resident in the North Tower worked every bit as hard as the novices living at the school buildings did, and often at much of the same things.

And, truth to tell, the majority of the knights of the Order were from common backgrounds, and unable to maintain a household of their own, although in the village a few miles to the east, several of the better-off maintained town homes. If Gray's cell in the North Tower was unavailable, he would not have to go hat in hand or find a place in a stable to sleep; Swift or Linsen or the Beast (if he was in Alton, which was unlikely) would have seen to his lodgings, and if there was more than one of them in residence, they would have vied for his guesting with them, playing at draughts for the privilege, more likely than not.

Knighthood in the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon was, in financial terms, no more well-paying than that in any other holy order was. Yes, it was far more expensive to the Crown to equip a knight than it was for the Church to robe an Anglian, but the Order was appropriately miserly when it came to disbursing personal funds. Yes, ample Crown funds were available on mission, but they were for duty, not to line a knight's own purse. Those who came from noble or merchant families, like Bear or Sir Robert or the Beast, of course, always had stipends and such from their families, but that hardly applied to Gray.

Still, a knight of the Order missed a meal only out of duty, not poverty; the Order provided.

He forced the horse not to canter up, trying to enjoy the moment as much as he was capable of.

It was coming home, after all. A man should have a home, and while the dockyard orphan called Grayling had been lucky to find an alley to sleep in unmolested, the novice Joshua Grayling and the knight Sir Joshua Grayling had always had Alton.

It could be argued that his life really had begun the day he had walked, barefoot and ragged, through these gates, among the gaggle of boys that Father Cully had gathered up, but that was an argument that Gray would not have made; his life had really begun on a dark, miserable night on the docks, when through the pain and humiliation that he had become resolved to accepting as his lot in life, he had heard a quiet voice saying the words he would hear again, and again: Not while I breathe.

But it wasn't a moment for remembering; it was a moment for trying to relish the familiar, and the right.

Over near the edge of the woods, a trio of knights armored cap-a-pie were working out with blunted swords and bucklers, while the clang-clang-clanging sounds and the smoke from both chimneys of the smithy spoke of others polishing their blacksmithing skills.

If Gray had been the sort to be amused by such things, he would have found very amusing the four squares of mixed knights and novices over by the stables going through some complex estampie while a single lutist—also in knightly robes—plucked away at a tune, his timing far more precise than his fingering. The novices wearing red sashes about their waists that proclaimed that they were taking the women's roles weren't as clumsy in their movements as usual, which was just as well, and the novices absent the sashes seemed to move as featly as the knights themselves, although from this distance, the only knight he could make out was Sir Daniel of Farmount, and that only because of his great height and immense belly.

Still, they were all doing quite well.

In Gray's time at Alton, that hadn't always been the case, at least among even the senior novices. He still remembered his very first ball at Kent, where he'd managed to step on the foot of some young noblewoman whose name and face his memory was weak and generous enough to have blotted out at the moment, although both name and face, no doubt, would return to him sooner than later.

Gray vaguely recognized the moves, which seemed elegant enough to be French while broad enough to be Neapolitan; apparently it was some new variation that was popular in some court or courts. Being able to mingle among nobility was simply another of the skills that Order Knights were expected not merely to learn while novices, but to maintain their mastery of as knights.

The novices were already out in force, as well, in their short tunics and blousy trousers. Shaved-headed first-form novices trimming the hedges and shrubbery under the eyes of not just their upperclassman monitors, but of old Sir Robert Linsen, who was dressed not in the particularly ordinary robes that he donned on formal occasions, but a carefully tailored, finer set, with what Gray assumed was a deliberately short sleeve for the left arm that displayed the old man's naked stump. Shorter than Gray's; Linsen had lost his arm above the elbow, but at least it had been his left.

Linsen, a twinkle in his eye, raised the stump in a quick greeting that Gray ignored, as the abbot himself was walking quickly down the front steps of the keep, clearly heading toward where Gray was just dismounting; Gray's intention had been to let the horse cool off on his way to the stables.

Two novices trailed in the abbot general's dignified wake. Without a word one held out a hand and ducked his head, asking for the reins to the brown gelding, then quickly led it away while the other handed Gray a goblet of icy-cold water, waited for Gray to drain it, then accepted it back, then quickly made himself absent as well.

"It's good to see you, Sir Joshua," the abbot said, as soon as the boys were out of earshot. He offered his left hand for a clasp with Gray, and briefly clasped his right hand over their joined ones before releasing him. As always, his grip was firm and strong, and while the heat of the day had sweat running down his bald head and into the collar of his robes, it didn't seem to affect his dignity.

Sir Ralph Francis Wakefield, by the Grace of God and Order of His Majesty the King not only the archbishop of Canterbury, but the abbot general of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, was arrayed in his plain Order robes, the only concession to his other office a large golden cross on a thick chain. His sash was, as you'd expect with any Order Knight, belted tightly across his hips, keeping both of his swords in place, although Gray tried hard not to look at them, and failed.

The basket-hilted rapier was easily distinguished from the other sword, above it.

Jenn. The White Sword that Cully had carried, and which now decorated the abbot general's waist. An utterly plain cutting sword, with a simple wooden hilt, carried in a simple wooden scabbard.

It was hard not to hate the Abbot for the friendly smile, the apparent sincerity of which was somehow more maddening than any falsity would have been.

"Well, you've clearly had a long ride," the abbot said, taking his arm—his right arm, as though to leave the left free. "Let's see to getting you freshened up, and properly fed. And you will, of course, stay the night." He grinned. "I think you'll find your cell as you left it. If there's so much as a cobweb there, it's been spun since this morning."

"I'm at your service, Sir Abbot," he said, addressing him properly. If the abbot had been wearing his surplice and carrying his miter, it would have been "my Lord Archbishop," of course.

"Not quite as graciously spoken as I'd have hoped for," the abbot said. He pursed his lips for a moment. They seemed somehow redder than they should have, like a wound in his well-trimmed white beard.

"Then I humbly give apology," Gray said.

"Accepted, of course, of course. You've had provocation enough, I'd say." The abbot waved it away, then stopped, and looked around, before he spoke. "I'm not your enemy, Gray. And I'm not just your superior in the Order, either, although I am that.

"Sir, Father, and Brother Joshua Grayling," the abbot said, formally, "I am a priest and brother of the Order, just as you are, and . . ." he patted at Jenn's hilt, "a knight of the White Sword, as you are of the Red." He cocked his head to one side. "And if you were to tell me that Jenn should properly be in the sash of Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, I'll neither voice agreement nor disagreement, but remind you that he lost the honor of carrying Jenn by his own decision, not mine."

For a moment, the Abbot's face clouded over, but then he took a deep breath, and his expression became, if not as friendly as it had been, not hostile.

Gray didn't know what to say. He knew that Cully utterly despised the abbot, and of all living and all the dead, he loved Father Cully above even the Order—and above He Who should have been in Gray's mind and spirit above the Order—as sinful as that was.

But love is not agreement, and loyalty was to be informed by thought and insight, not practiced in reflexive blindness, and in the battle over Gray being given the Khan, it had been right that Father Cully had lost and the abbot had won. Perhaps it was possible for another man to mix his soul with the Khan's and avoid damnation, although Gray had his doubts.

It certainly wasn't possible for Gray.

But if ever there was a man who deserved Hell, it was Joshua Grayling, and the abbot had chosen wisely when he had ordered that the Khan be belted around Gray's waist.

Let Cully fault the abbot for that; Gray would not.

"Are you here to be asked to be relieved of, of it?" the Abbot asked.

A foolish question, for anybody who knew Gray, but the Abbot really didn't know Gray. "No, Sir Abbot, it's—"

"No. Gray, I—no." He stopped himself with a peremptory hand. "It—whatever it is—is a matter that can, unless you tell me otherwise now, wait a few hours, that's what it is, although I've my suspicions. You're a knight of the Red Sword, Sir Joshua, and arrived at the home of your Order, but you've as yet been met with scant hospitality, and for that I hold myself responsible, and beg your forgiveness. Can it wait until you've bathed and dined? Can you wait?"

"Yes, of course, Sir Abbot."

"Then let's see to that hospitality, first," the abbot said, picking up the pace with a cheerful bounce to his step. "You'll join me at table tonight, I hope? If you can remain for more than a day or two, it's only appropriate that you sit table with the rest, Sir Joshua. But if you'd be willing to go along with an old man's preference, as I hope you will, we shall dine alone this night."

"Yes, Sir Abbot; I'd be honored."

"But first, let's get some food in you. And if ever I've seen a man who would benefit from at least a little strong drink, I'm looking at him right now."

"As you command, of course. But there is one favor I have to ask. I'll bathe before, at your orders, and if you insist that I drink, Sir Abbot, I'll drink."

"And that favor is?"

He swallowed. "Will you hear my confession?"

If the abbot seemed surprised, it didn't show. "Of course. But your sins, no matter how grievous, surely can wait for an hour or so until you've cleaned yourself. I've always thought that cleansing the body goes well with cleansing the soul, in any case, so I guess we're both for our baths."

Which was fair enough. Gray tried to prepare his body as well as his mind when he heard confessions. It wasn't a theological necessity—the sacrament, thankfully, didn't depend on the cleanliness of the body or the mind of such as Sir Joshua Graying—but it was what he had been taught.

"Thank you," he said.

The Abbot's eyes met his. "I shall hear your confession, Sir Joshua, and assign such penance as I think just and proper. But . . ."

"But?" Was there some condition? How could that be?

The abbot shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I'm not a common tradesman, bargaining with you over your barrel of oats and mine of groats. I'm your superior in the Order, and neither no more nor no less a priest than you yourself are, Sir, Brother, and Father Joshua Grayling. I shall hear your confession, Sir Joshua, as is my duty to you, and to God, and I shall do that without reservation, and without condition." His eyes were fierce, and the fierceness was a comfort to Gray, although his words were not:

"And you, Sir Joshua Grayling," he said, and there was no hint of indecision in his voice, "you shall hear mine."

Dinner was quiet, and private, in the abbot's study—not his office. The difference was mainly a matter of degree than of kind; both study and office were lined with bookshelves, and each featured a large desk near the outside window. But the study had a table that could seat perhaps six, with ample room about it for the servants to move about and serve, without bumping into anybody.

There were true servants at Alton, of course—it couldn't have gotten by without cooks and bakers, stablemen and cobblers, coopers and smiths and all the other necessities—but all of what would have been the common domestic service in a great home was done by the novices.

Which was only right and proper. Many of the novices were from middle-class or lower families, but more than a few were of noble lineage, and if there was a better way to learn humility than emptying chamber pots and doing other scullery work, Gray couldn't think of it. Unless, of course, it was something specifically unpleasant like, say, mucking out then stoning a stable, just to pick one example not entirely at random.

There were differences, of course. In a noble house, one would hardly be introduced to the staff, save perhaps the majordomo, or butler, or the maid assigned to one's rooms. One would be given their names, perhaps, depending, but that was merely so you'd know how to call them.

But each of the novices had been formally introduced, and Gray tried hard to mark each of their names, and use them, and if he tended to be a touch more friendly to those of lower origin, well, that was only because it was far more common for a lowly born to make it all the way through the training and Alton, and to kneel before His Majesty, to arise as a knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon.

The boy who had been introduced as William McGowan gathered up the dishes. A well-made boy, by the looks of him, although Gray would not have made him as a Scotsman. It was sometimes difficult to tell the origin of a novice who had gone beyond his first couple of years, as traces of their local accents had been carefully extinguished, just as the orphan boy who had been called Grayling, after the fish that he supposedly resembled, had lost his dockside drawl more years ago than Gray could remember.

"Thank you, William," the abbot said. "Stay a moment." He turned to Gray. "If you don't mind, Sir Joshua?"

"Of course not. Should I excuse myself for a moment?"

"Not at all; please stay. Now, as to you, William . . .?"

The boy didn't answer; he simply ducked his head. Silence was the rule under such circumstances, except for responding to direct inquiries.

"Sir Aloysius," the abbot went on, "tells me that you're coming along remarkably well in all of the martial arts, that your table manners are unexceptionable, to say the least, and that your memory of the missal minor is as good as he's ever seen—"

The boy's face brightened.

"—but that you can barely get through a passage of Agesilaus or The Art of Horsemanship without stumbling, that your penmanship is sloppy, and that you seem to be particularly hard on that Injan boy in your cohort, almost to the point of bullying, while you let a spot of insolence from Lord Wellington pass the other day with no more than a word of caution. None of that is acceptable."

The boy's face fell.

"I'll see you here after morning prayers," the abbot said, pausing, "one month from today, on the fifth of York. We'll decide what to do about you then. If that suits you?"

"Yes, Sir Abbot," the boy said, his face a stony mask.

"You may leave."

When the door shut behind the boy, the abbot let his face split into a grin. "I'm of the opinion that he'll shape up. He's really not quite as bad as all that; just needs to behave a little better with some of his juniors, really, and spend more time with his books." He sobered. "Besides, Jenn's of the opinion that he's got the heart of a knight of the Order," he added, as he brought his free hand up to the table and clasped it on the other in front of him.

Gray hadn't seen the abbot's hand dip to the side of his chair, where both of his swords stood in a boot lashed to the chair, as did Gray's own. A knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon was, in at least a theoretical sense, always on duty, and while there were rare occasions when that duty prohibited him carrying his swords, those were rare.

Gray had not been tempted to touch his finger to the Khan's steel until now, but he found himself doing so.

Hmmm. The Khan was unimpressed. I've never understood why you people think that washing feet and mucking out thundermugs has anything to do with being a warrior. Better training would be to have the boys ride down a few peasants—and a few peasant girls—to see if they've got the stomach for conquest.

It was an old argument, and one Gray didn't feel like continuing at the moment, particularly since he well knew that if he did mention to the Khan that there was much more than fighting to being a knight, the Khan would only bring up Vlaovic, among other things.

So he touched his thumb again to the Khan's steel anyway, and said as much.

The Khan was amused. Vlaovic. Szebernica. Dunladen. Pironesia. Pantelleria—should I go on? If you had the heart and the manstick for it, you could burn your way from—

He pulled his thumb from the Khan.

"Yes." The abbot nodded. "A heavy burden, indeed, the Khan. Probably more than the Sandoval; certainly more than the Tinker, say, or Croom'l. And the boy Niko seems to find his new Red Sword less than a heavy cross he must bear, eh?" He sipped at the single glass of wine that was all that he had allowed himself through dinner. Moderation in all things, the abbot preached, and at least appeared to practice, most of the time.

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as though to see if he could arrive at what he had been told in Gray's confession otherwise.

No, that was unworthy. The abbot respected the seal of the confessional as much as anyone, if not more, and if he could not help letting his thoughts escape into the rest of his mind—and Gray doubted that anyone could—he would not go further, not without the permission that he would not so much as hint a request for.

But the permission could be given without a request, after all.

"Please, Sir Abbot," Gray said. "We're alone; what . . . what I said to you before, please feel free refer to it—or need I repeat it here?" The begging sounded despicable in his ears.

"No." The abbot was firm. "Those sins which God has forgiven are not yours any longer." He raised a finger. "I can't make you forgive yourself, Gray, but I can tell you that as much as you repent of the sin of pride, as much as you repent of your sin of despair, as much as you continue to repeat those sins, you continue to endanger your salvation." His face was grim. "But your sins of the past, Sir, Father, and Brother, are in other Hands than yours, and borne by He who can bear them all, and He can bear them lightly; do not trouble yourself more with them. I've done what I can, and will do what I can, and not merely because you are my Brother, Sir Joshua. I've served you badly." He shook his head. "My predecessor should have had you in this office, years and years ago, while your head was still shaven, and sent you away. Not that you've served badly—quite the contrary. You should never have been a knight of the Order. I had my misgivings, but in those days, Cully was capable of persuading me, and he did—my predecessor listened to both Sir Cully and to me, and well, you were quite the hero in those days, even as a novice, eh?"

Gray ducked his head, accepting the reproach.

"Lift up your head, Sir Joshua Grayling, and conduct yourself as a knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, in private with me as you do so well in public, when you're among others. I'm not criticizing you, boy; I'm criticizing myself. It was my fault, just as much as Cully's—I listened to him, fool that I am, and I put my misgivings aside." His voice softened. "But I'm always overcritical, I'm told. I'm always worried that each time that I let a boy kneel before His Majesty I've helped him create not a knight, but a monster—but that's not my worry with you, Gray. It's not now, and it wasn't then.

"It was your relationship with Cully. I could say that I don't understand it, or I could say that I do—but it doesn't matter: the truth is you've always loved him too much." He shook his head. "We serve God, the Crown, the king, and the Order—and we do so in that order." He held out both of his hands, palms up. "If I were to put the life of Sir Cully of Cully's Woode in your left hand, and that of the king in your, in another hand, which would weigh more heavily upon you?"

"The king's," Gray said, instantly. It hadn't required thought. That wasn't the point. Of course he would turn his back on Cully to protect the King, as he had as a fourth-form novice, during the York Disgrace.

To the end of his days, he would still see the late king's screaming face, demanding to be turned loose and given a sword, and he would hear Cully's cries of pain from behind him as he held the door by himself, Sir Bedivere having fallen moments that felt like hours before.

He had not wavered, not for a moment. He would have turned from the king only if Father Cully had fallen, and not a moment before. And, although he was then only a novice, he would have taken up Father Cully's borrowed sword. And yes, he would have died there, beside Cully, but that thought had not frightened the young Grayling in the least.

Would he do it again?

Of course he would.

How could he face Cully if he did otherwise?

"Yes," the abbot said, nodding. "And is it because of your oath?" He shook his head. "We both know better than that: it is because you know that Father Cully would want it that way, that he would, once again, order you to protect this king rather than himself with your own body, if necessary, as you did the king's father?" He raised a palm. "Don't answer. Don't even think about it."

"Yes, Sir Abbot. I'll try."

The abbot took a long breath. "You haven't asked it of me, but I'll tell you: I'd relieve you of the Khan in a heartbeat if I thought there was another better able to wield it.

"But I don't. Neither does the king. That's why you bear it.

"Of the worst of the Red Swords, do you think that I'm such a fool as to not consider with utmost care which knights should be trusted with them? It wasn't accidental that my predecessor put the Sandoval in Lady Mary's hands and . . ."

He stopped when Gray ducked his head and murmured a brief prayer, then sighing, joined him, and was silent for a moment when he went on.

"Yes, our Mary, our lovely Mary, was no accident, any more than it was when Abbot Oakley begged His Late Majesty to make her a knight, even though it's an unwomanly thing. I worry about who is given White; I have nightmares about you Reds, and about the Khan more than any."

He made as though to pat at Jenn's hilt, but stopped the motion. "The Reds are more common, and usually of less power, which is as it should be; evil should bow before the right. The Whites, rarer though they are, are much safer; they mainly tempt those of us who carry them into pride, and a few days on one's hands and knees with brick and sand in a stable is a good remedy for pride," he said, smiling. "As I'm about to have a reminder of, over the next few days. You give a sound penance, Father Joshua, if not a light one. Well, it'll be good for my soul, if not my hands and knees. They'll heal, even at my age." He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly.

"But you've come a long way for a not particularly good meal and a much-needed confession. I'd say I'm honored that you chose me as your confessor, but I'm not. You came to ask me something, something you could have asked the king for."

Gray shook his head. Yes, Order Knights had unlimited access to the Royal Presence, but that was for the king's benefit, not their own.

He said as much. Asking the king for leave, via messenger, was entirely proper; going into the king's Presence for the purpose of asking the king himself for a personal favor was another matter.

"True enough. We have access to him for his sake, not our own, and it's rare that an Order Knight abuses it." The abbot nodded. "I think it was as much because of that as anything else that His Late Majesty didn't even consider acceding to Cully's request, the time he came to him over you." He frowned. "Although, to give the devil his due—and none of that; it's just a figure of speech, Sir Joshua—I think that Sir Cully went to the king out as much out of a sense of duty toward the Order as because he thought you too weak to bear the Khan." He cocked his head to one side. "You could have done the same as he did; you could have gone to the king. But you didn't do that. Instead, you quite properly come to the abbot general of the Order, and ask . . .?"

The abbot already knew. How?

"There's loose talk in the palace—Admiral DuPuy thinks that he's on the track of the maker of the new live swords, and . . ."

"And you think you ought to be there. You want to be there. And since His Majesty hasn't ordered you to stay at Pendragon castle, and you haven't been sent away on leave or mission, you come to me and ask that I put you on mission and order you to join him." The abbot sat silently for a while, then chuckled. "You're different from Cully; I'll give you that. He'd have taken a note from the king like the one in your pouch and used it to commandeer a fast ship, even though that wasn't the intent of it.

"But, instead, you come to me, and you ask.

"And you ask that knowing that I've little faith in Sir Cully's good sense, that I think him reckless and foolish, and you hope that I'll think that you'd be a steadying influence on him, rather than him tempting you into sin or excess."

Yes, there was that. And there was more. Cully understood how close Gray was to the breaking, how he always had been, and how, with Bear dead and the Nameless in another's hands, the only check on Gray and the Khan was Gray himself, and that that could easily not be enough.

He remembered the screams in Vlaovic, and the Plaza of Heroes in Pironesia, and he knew that there would come a time when he would draw the Khan, and would have to be stopped, for the unified person that was the Gray Khan was far too dangerous to be allowed to live for long, if at all.

And perhaps there would be no one who could stop him.

Service, honor, faith, and obedience. He was bereft of faith, and a murderer of thousands was a man without honor. His obedience was merely subordinate to service. If he had slipped out of England, the Khan in his hand, how many other knights, Red or White, would have had to be dispatched to chase the traitor Gray? How much service would go undone while the likes of Big John, or Sir Walter, or the Beast, or the Saracen hunted Gray down?

No.

"There is another option," the abbot said. "And I know it's one you've thought of. Lay the Khan upon my desk, surrender your vows, and walk out. No, I'll not demand that you surrender it—but I'd not stop you. I'll allow you to leave the Order. I'll find another to bear it. I'll have to, eventually." He gestured toward the door. "Perhaps Sir John de Ros, although I worry about his corruptibility. Perhaps Sir Niko, who you seem to think so highly of, would be of more use with the Khan than with that little Red of his." He gestured at Gray's stump. "But then, you think to yourself, how much aid could you be to Father Cully with but the one hand? Instead of leaving the Order, perhaps you should simply surrender the sword and let me put you on the Reserve List, like old Becket. But that wouldn't serve your purpose, would it?"

"No, Sir Abbot, it would not."

"Well, I'll tell you: I think it's a bad idea. Not the worst in the world, mind. Cully needs a steadying influence, and I'm none too sanguine about the possibility of Sir Guy being that. If I thought it were up to me—if it were up to Ralph Wakefield, not the abbot general—it would be easy. I'd say no. I'd say to hell with that arrogant bastard, Cully of Cully's Woode, and hope that he manages to get himself killed before he does more damage than he already has, because where Cully goes, destruction always follows in his wake, even though salvation has been known to, as well. But ever and always the damnable destruction accompanies him." The abbot's voice was barely under control; he took a moment to calm himself.

"But . . ." The abbot rose from the table and walked to his desk. There were two sheets of parchment sitting under the same paperweight of plain stone that Gray remembered from his novicehood. The abbot sat down behind the desk and put the papers before him, signing both in turn, carefully pouring blotting powder on each in turn before tipping the excess into the stone bowl.

"But I think if I did that, you might well resign, and leave the Khan on the table, that I would lose the combination of you and the Khan to the Order, and His Majesty is of the opinion that, as he says, 'the combination is near perfect,' and like you, I'm the servant of the king.

"And there's another reason, which I'll get to in a moment.

"So here," he said, "is your authority. This is for you. Guard it carefully. You've held a paper like this once before; it grants you my own authority, as both abbot general and archbishop of Canterbury, and it's been signed with my coded signature as both. Yes, as my vicar, it makes you Cully's superior in the Order, once more, although scant good that's done or will likely do. Don't expect it to move DuPuy, though. His authority comes from the king; mine comes through the king.

"The second paper is a dispatch to His Majesty; it will leave Alton within the hour. It informs him that I've sent you out again—after the live swords, yes, but to use your own judgment as to where that may take you. And it's not just for his eyes; there'll be copies to Admiral Dougherty, as well as to DuPuy, and my suspicion is that there'll be a fast ship waiting to convey you to wherever you think you need to go when you reach Londinium, without you having to go through the rigmarole that you did the last time.

"Of course, if and when you find Cully, he will tell you that this is all merely a machination of mine. He'll say that I'm simply relaxing to the inevitable, and have taken advantage of the situation to try to keep him under some sort of control, as you're one of the few that he will ever listen to—although not much, alas—and that I've seduced you by my kindness tonight, which you'll long remember, Joshua, as you've seen scant kindness in your life.

"And that will be true, too," the abbot said, nodding to himself. "Life is full of contradictions, after all, and there's few times in my life as abbot that I'd done a thing for one reason and that one reason alone.

"But there are other truths, as well," he said, taking up the third sheet of parchment. Unlike the others, it was small, and folded over several times. "You'd best read this, although I'll want it back after you do. It arrived a week ago, and I've been dreading the each day ever since. One of Her damned crows dropped it right on my desk." He chuckled. "I'd take to closing my windows, but I doubt that would inconvenience Her.

"Still, I wish She had been more specific; I'd been expecting that it would be Cully riding onto the grounds, and I was almost embarrassingly relieved to get your message that it was you who wanted an audience with me." He made a get-on-with-it-gesture with his right hand. "Well, read it. Read it."

Gray unfolded it. The parchment was ragged along the edges, and not even vaguely square, and a few clumps of wool still clung to the edges, as though it had not been properly scraped before being dried.

The words were written in red.

Not the ruddy brown of dried blood, or the cheery crimson of colored ink, but the too-deep red of fresh blood from the heart, though the letters were dry to the touch, and unsmeared, even though the parchment had manifestly been folded and refolded many times.

I bid you: do as he asks. Salve his soul if you can, although I hold little hope there. Do as he asks. But tell him to come see Me first, they said.

"She has sent for you, Gray." The abbot ducked his head. "Do give Her my best wishes." He started to speak, then stopped.

It wasn't necessary, for Gray knew what the abbot wanted to say, although he wouldn't. For once, long ago, the abbot general had been the boy Ralph Francis Wakefield, the novice whose last task before being knighted was to go into Arroy for a private audience with Her, and he had fallen in love with Her because all the boys always fell in love with Her, because that was Her nature, after all.

How could you not fall in love with the Queen of Air and Darkness? How could you not ache to lay your sword or your life, or whatever She wanted, at her feet?

Was that the origin of the hatred between the abbot and Cully? That She loved Cully more than him? Or that Cully loved Her more than the likes of lesser men such as Ralph Wakefield and Joshua Grayling were capable of?

Everybody knew that the abbot was jealous of Cully, but Gray had always thought that it was the fame and the legend that had grown up around the York Disgrace, of the stories of Sir Cully raising an army of novices that had delayed the traitors almost long enough, and of the final moments, of Cully standing in the doorway over Sir Bedivere's body, while the two surviving boys and the prince's nurse stood behind him, Mary murmuring soft lullabies to the infant prince, quieting him, while Gray and Alexander held the king to one side, of the promises of riches and titles that came through the doorway as much as the arrows and swords, of oaths sworn on all that was holy that all save the king and prince would be spared, and be rewarded, if only the door would be opened, and if the knight would stand aside. . .

And the knight who would not stand aside, and the quiet whisper, of Not while I breathe.

The abbot could be jealous of that, but, no. It was an unworthy thought. All of it was unworthy.

The abbot folded the parchment twice, very carefully, and if he touched it briefly to his lips before he tucked it into his robes, Gray didn't have to notice.

But there was one last surprise, in what was said, if nothing else.

The abbot met Gray's eyes. "Oh, and yes, do send Her my love."

It wasn't a request.

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Framed