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would presume to tell you what to do, but there’s information you’d have no other way of knowing.” He swallowed, looking suddenly apprehensive. “You’re—not angry, are you, Sire? We only did it to help you.”
    Javan could only stare at Charlan in disbelief for several seconds, though he knew that every word the man had spoken was the truth. But as the implications began to sink in, he clapped Charlan on the shoulder and rose, shaking his head as a faint smile played on his lips.
    â€œHow could I be angry, Charlan?” he said quietly. “You’ve given me real hope, where it all was theory and wishful thinking before.”
    Forcing himself to turn to other practicalities—for if they did not get out of there, all the young knight’s efforts would be for nought, as well as Javan’s own—he moved to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out the riding tunic he had worn for his last trip to Rhemuth, the month before. It was black, like every other garment he owned there at the abbey, cut high-collared like a cassock but reaching only to the knee, and slit fore and aft for riding. It would be stifling in the summer heat, for it was a heavier wool than the soutane he had discarded, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to look the part of a prince, and this was all he had.
    He did not speak as he dressed, and Charlan respected his silence. When he had buttoned the tunic, all but the top three buttons, he pulled a plain black leather belt out of the trunk and buckled it around his waist, then retrieved a small leather pouch from under his mattress.
    Inside were his own signet ring, bearing the Haldane arms differenced with the label of a second son, and the mate to Rhys Michael’s earring. After slipping the signet onto his left little finger, he gave his hair a few swipes with a comb made of horn, then let Charlan help him thread the twisted wire of the earring through the hole in his right earlobe. He had no mirror to check the overall impression, but he gathered, by Charlan’s expression, that he passed muster.
    â€œWe’d better ride now,” he murmured, glancing around the cell for the last time. “You can brief me more on the way. We’ll hope that matters haven’t gotten out of hand down in the yard while we tarried here.”
    As Charlan opened the door, Javan bent down and blew out the rushlight, serene but eager as he followed the young knight back along the dim-lit corridor toward the night stair. He had what he wanted from this place, and he did not look back.

C HAPTER T HREE
    These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself .
    â€”Psalms 50:21
    Down in the abbey yard, things had not gotten precisely out of hand, but the half-dozen Custodes monks and priests initially drawn to the yard by the arrival of Charlan and his men had now been joined by nearly a score of Custodes knights. The royal knights sat their horses in a quiet but uneasy knot near the gate, most of them with torches in their hands, two of the men holding extra mounts. The Custodes men were drawn up in two precise lines across the front of the abbey steps, many of them also holding torches.
    Javan assessed the situation at a glance as he came out the postern door, Charlan at his elbow and the abbot and his two monks at his heels. If it came to an armed confrontation, he did not like the odds. The Custodes men outnumbered Charlan’s knights by nearly two to one and were better armored as well, with steel greaves and vambraces protecting legs and arms and the gleam of steel at the throats of black brigantines. The royal knights were well mounted and armed, but they wore no real armor—only leather jacks and light steel caps, in deference to the heat. Up on the cloister wall, though Javan could not see them against the torches’ glare, he knew there would be at least half a dozen Custodes