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He could even be excommunicated.
    Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself, for the threat of excommunication was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan.
    Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen.
    “His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James,” he said, casually placing the document on the desk. “Will you take care of it, please? I have a few errands to do.”
    “Certainly, Father,” the monk replied.

CHAPTER TWO
    “I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient kings.”
    ISAIAH 19:11
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    “MORE venison, Sire?”
    The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson of Gwynedd offered him a steaming platter of venison in gravy, but the young king shook his head and pushed his silver trencher aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head bare of any royal ornament, and he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the fire, wiggling his toes contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began to clear the table.
    The king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taper-light winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan’s cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was contending with the seal on a new bottle of wine.
    “Do you need help, Nigel?”
    “Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer,” Nigel said with a grunt.
    “Certainly. Benedicite, ” Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing.
    The seal chose that minute to give way, allowing the cork to shoot from the neck of the bottle in a shower of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he, too, could be splashed, but Nigel’s best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet.
    “Holy Saint Michael, you didn’t have to take me so literally!” the prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. “As I’ve always said, you cannot trust priests.”
    “I was about to say the same for princes,” Duncan observed, winking in Kelson’s direction and watching the boy control a smile.
    The squire Richard wiped Kelson’s chair and the bottle, then wrung out his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped move aside goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire.
    Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the gray Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked most Haldane males. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.
    As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a lock of jet-black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement. Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion’s as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or