"Uh, he is mayhap seeking protection for the princess, Your Grace, and intends to join up with King Harold's army."

"Harold is dead and what remains of his army has been scattered by the barbarian horde!" the minister roared. "Even if Humphrey did not know this for a certainty, he would never risk taking Isabelle into an area of battle. He is her sworn protector," he said, more calmly. "Unlike some I could mention, Sir Humphrey takes his duties seriously." Moorcroft sank back in his chair and chewed nervously on a fingernail. Captain Goetz continued to stare at the wall behind the minister.

"Humphrey is no fool," Moorcroft said softly. "He would attempt to lead us away from his true destination. If he was heard to ride east, we can be assured that he is not headed in that direction." He leaned forward and glared at Goetz. "Send men to the south. He may try to seek aid from some of the Barons who are still loyal to Harold, although I doubt if he would risk Isabelle's safety on such a fragile hope." He fingered his thin moustache and asked, "I take it we still know where the queen is located?"

"Aye, Your Grace," Goetz said with assurance. "Queen Frances is still a 'guest' of Baron Carmichael, and is under constant guard at Montstairs Abbey."

"We may only hope, captain," Moorcroft said, again without attempting to hide his sarcasm. "To be on the safe side, send messenger birds to the south, advising Cramichael and his group of our situation, and warn him to be on the lookout for Humphrey, just on the off chance he does head in that direction." He paused in thought for a moment, then added, "Send birds to our new 'friends' in the east, as well. No sense overlooking any possibility, no matter how slim."

"Aye, Your Grace. It shall be done immediately."

Moorcroft leaned back in his chair and waved his hand in dismissal. "I want updated reports on your search, captain, morning and evening. Now, begone."

"Your Grace," Goetz said and bowed, backing away. He turned near the door and left the room, as Marc held the door open for him.

"Fetch me some wine, Marc. I have a great ache in my head," Moorcroft moaned, then closed his eyes as the boy ran out. He rubbed at his temples with pudgy fingers, willing the pain to go away.

"Your Grace appears tired," a voice quite close to him said. Moorcroft started in fright, his hand going to a dagger worn at his belt. He whirled in the direction of the voice, but slowly relaxed when he saw Calibex standing near his chair.

"Damn you, man," Moorcroft said softly, his voice shaking, slightly. "How did you get in here?"

The wizard shrugged his shoulders. "I go where I am needed, Your Grace," he replied with a thin smile, but his eyes did not reflect any mirth--they appeared cold and hard as old steel. "I sensed that you may have need of my council."