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little training and prac-tice, though, and you’ll never see a better troop of cavalry—I hope. Who’s this?” He stopped, scowling at a brown-robed figure with a neat round bald spot who sat cross-legged about fifty yards ahead of them, a huge book open in his lap. He had an inkhorn in his left hand, and a quill in his right.
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    “A good friar, it would seem,” Gwen answered. “Why art thou concerned, mine husband?”
    “Because I don’t remember ordering any.” Rod strode up to the monk. “Good morning, Father.”
    “Good morning to thee, goodman.” The priest turned a sunny, beaming countenance up to Rod. Then his jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet. “Why, ‘tis the High Warlock!”
    “Careful, there; don’t spill your ink.” Rod reached out a hand to steady the inkhorn. “It’s nice to be recognized, but I’m not worth jumping up for—not unless you’re in uniform, anyway.”
    “Nay; I know thee for one of the greatest men ever to walk the soil of Gramarye.” Everything about the monk was round—his stomach, his face, his eyes. “Who else could have rescued Catharine the Queen from the peasant mob who sought her life and the band of barons who sought her throne?”
    “Well, her husband did a pretty good job; he was in on that, too, if you re-member. In fact, that battle had a lot to do with his becoming her husband.”
    “Yet, not so much as thyself,” the monk chirped.
    Rod cleared his throat; the friar was coming unpleasantly close to the truth. Time for a change of subject.
    “What’re you doing here, Father?”
    “Oh!” The monk looked down at his book. “Only amusing an idle moment, Lord Warlock. A wise man will ever be doing; so, when there is naught else afoot, I fill the time with the writing of a chronicle of the events that occur whiles I live.”
    “A Chronicle? Hey! History in the making!” Rod couldn’t resist. “Am I in it?”
    “Indeed, Lord Warlock! What Historie of Gramarye could be complete with-out full accounting of thee?”
    “I had rather account for him at home,” Gwen said dourly, coming up beside Rod. “Yet I do not think thou didst quite catch mine husband’s meaning, good Father.”
    “Yeah? Oh! Yeah!” Rod looked up, and cleared his throat. “That’s right, Fa-ther. When I said,
    ‘What’re you doing here?’ I meant, here with the army, not just at this particular moment. What’s your business?”
    “Why, the saving of souls,” answered the priest in round-eyed innocence. “Our good Abbot hath appointed me chaplain to the King’s Foot—but His Maj-esty did say to me that he had a surfeit of chaplains, and sent me to thee.”
    “Oh, he did, did he?” Rod could see Tuan doing it, too. The young King loved all his subjects, but the average medieval monk tended to be continually exhort-ing, which could try even Tuan’s patience. “I can see I’ll have to have a word with His Majesty. Well, at least he sent me an amateur historian.”
    “Milord!” A squire came galloping up and reined in near Rod. “Lord O’Berin’s greetings, milord. He doth send to tell thee the folk from Loguire have come!”
    “Oh, really!” Rod grabbed the priest’s hand and gave it a quick shake, quill-pen and all. “Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Father, but I’ve gotta run now… Uh, what was your name again?”
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    “Brother Chillde, I am called. But do not stay to speak with a foolish friar, Lord Warlock, when matters of state await thee.”
    “Well, military matters, really. Gwen, come listen.” He caught her hand as he turned away, pacing down the hill. “These’re a few of the survivors from the beastman attack.”
    “Ah! I will listen, and gladly.” A frown puckered Gwen’s brow. “I misdoubt me that there may have been something of magic about these