look as though you’re very comfortable.”
“I doubt I could move if I wanted to,” Duncan said with a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and set aside his glass.
He had seen someone on the road back to Castle Coroth. He wondered again who it could have been.
And why?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Who is she that looketh forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?”
SONG OF SOLOMON 6:10
AS the cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him.
Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan acknowledged. Which was probably a good thing, since someone had to do the blasted things. It didn’t seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job . . .
Morgan sighed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.
But he had been restless even before Duncan’s arrival. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture.
He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be a welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again—not least, the young king. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises that were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy’s mind right now.
Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man’s lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been resentful over the judgment, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong.
No matter, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think you have troubles now, just wait until Loris and Corrigan lower the Interdict. You have no idea what trouble is.
It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after seeing off the last of his guests, Morgan had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the archbishops’ messenger had said when he delivered their missive the night before. Duncan had returned hours later with a long face and a troubled mind, for Tolliver had been almost evasive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messenger had frightened Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing.
As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there came a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the
“I doubt I could move if I wanted to,” Duncan said with a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and set aside his glass.
He had seen someone on the road back to Castle Coroth. He wondered again who it could have been.
And why?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Who is she that looketh forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?”
SONG OF SOLOMON 6:10
AS the cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him.
Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan acknowledged. Which was probably a good thing, since someone had to do the blasted things. It didn’t seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job . . .
Morgan sighed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.
But he had been restless even before Duncan’s arrival. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture.
He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be a welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again—not least, the young king. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises that were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy’s mind right now.
Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man’s lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been resentful over the judgment, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong.
No matter, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think you have troubles now, just wait until Loris and Corrigan lower the Interdict. You have no idea what trouble is.
It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after seeing off the last of his guests, Morgan had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the archbishops’ messenger had said when he delivered their missive the night before. Duncan had returned hours later with a long face and a troubled mind, for Tolliver had been almost evasive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messenger had frightened Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing.
As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there came a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the
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