"No, not a cardinal, lady." Mabor drew another breath, delighted. "I am to herald the right honorable the Count of Azay, ambassador of His Britannic Majesty, William V, called the Great, Defender of the Faith, King of Eng land, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, King of France and Spain and his dominions beyond the seas, Ham mer of the Moors, Rex Britanniae Maioris et Imperator Occidentalis!"
Nigel's eyebrows shot up. "Good God," he said quietly.
They'd heard some news from Europe since he arrived here on a Tasmanian ship, fleeing Mad King Charles and dropping all unknowing into the War of the Eye. But no direct contact…
There were two guards in full fig by the entranceway, longbow and quiver over their backs, sword and buckler at belt, and spears with the long heads polished bright in their hands-a mistake by Sutterdown, for while Juniper loved ceremony she hated swank. Now the two snapped to attention and rapped their spear butts on the ground.
Six of the party that entered were guardsmen, one in the full plate of a man-at arms and the others longbow men in chain mail shirts and open-faced sallets. Nigel knew the gear; he'd designed the green-enameled armor himself on the Isle of Wight, that first winter while they were fighting off the hordes of starving refugees and wondering if they'd survive to the next harvest.
A tall man with a limp came through behind the soldiers; he was in riding breeches and a coat of Harris tweed, with a plain sword belt around it and an equally plain longsword whose hilt had sweat stained rawhide bindings. The man was near Nigel's own mid-sixties, countenance scored by years and turned ruddy by a youth spent under the unmer ciful sun of the hot countries. He still had a full thatch of hair, white with some gray, and his hard scarred face was dominated by a great beak of a nose above a wide thin-lipped gash of mouth and a knobby chin; the little finger on his left hand was missing. His eyes were dark green, level and watchful, marksman's eyes.
"Good God, " Nigel said, still quietly. "Tony Knolles!"
The last time they'd seen each other had been more than a decade ago, over lowered lances. Charles had still been king then, and Knolles still a strong supporter…
"Nigel!"
The aquiline face split in a smile-not much of one, but a great ear to ear grin if you knew the man, who made Nigel Loring look like an excitable Latin. Nigel stepped forward, hand outstretched; they gripped with sword callused strength and each searched the other man's face. Nigel was suddenly conscious of how he'd gone egg-bald himself except for a fringe and his mus tache, and white haired except for a few fading streaks of yellow. For the rest he was still trim and upright, even if things creaked and moved more slowly nowadays.
"Good God, Tony!" After a moment of struggling to find words: "And a count, no less!"
"His Majesty was badly advised enough to do me that honor."
Nigel shook his head again, hauling his wits together by main force. "My dear, an old friend and comrade in arms, Tony Knolles, who saved my life many times."
"And only tried to kill him once," Knolles said, bowing over her hand. "Lady Juniper."
"My husband has told me a good deal of you, Lord Anthony," she said. With an impish smile: "Both the good and the bad of it, sure."
Two small figures came through the crowd. Nigel went on:
"Our eldest daughter, Maude."
At twelve Maude was already nearly as tall as her mother's five foot-and a-bit, slender and all limbs and hands and feet, her hair a darker red, her eyes blue as Nigel's. She curtsied, solemn in her green shirt, silver buckled shoes, kilt and plaid and feathered Scots bon net. Knolles winced slightly; Maude had been the name of Nigel's first wife, Alleyne's mother. She'd been killed by the Icelandic mercenaries holding the Lorings prisoner on Charles's orders, during the rescue and escape.
"And Fiorbhinn, our youngest," he said.
"Hello, Lord Anthony." The eight year old had her mother's leaf-green eyes; her long hair was the yellow white color of ripe wheat. She gave the English emissary's hand a confident shake.
"Fiorbhinn means Truesweet," she went on, with a wide white smile. "It's the name of a famous harp. I can play the harp already! And Mom says I have perfect pitch. She knows 'cause she does too."
Nigel smiled, watching Knolles blink, and knowing that that hard-souled man of war was instantly made a slave for life.
The visitor cleared his throat. "And this is my son Robert, Lady Juniper. Robert, your godfather."
The guard commander in the suit of plate slid the visor of his sallet up. The face within was Knolles's own, minus forty-odd years and with the nose shrunk to more human proportions, though paler and freckled and with a lock of raven hair hanging down on the forehead.
Nigel shook his hand after he made his bow to Juniper-carefully, which you had to do when the other man was wearing an articulated steel gauntlet; he marveled a little, remembering the gangly child he'd known… Where did the years go?
Down into the West without returning, he thought, and added aloud, "I hope your mother's well? She was expecting when I… ah… left England."
"Mother is very well, thank you, Sir Nigel," he said, with a charming smile of his own. "And I have two younger sisters and a brother now. My brother's name is Nigel, by the way."
"Ah…" Knolles senior pulled himself together. "My credentials?"
Nigel saved him from embarrassment with a quick flick of the eyes, and he presented the ribbon-bound documents to Juniper.
She took them gravely. "Be welcome here as my guests and the guests of Clan Mackenzie, Lord Count, Lord Robert. Welcome as the voice of your king, and still more for yourself."
Then, raising her voice slightly to take in the whole party and the lookers-on: "Well, if you good people would like to share dinner, there's just time to get freshened up."
She clapped her hands as the watching crowd buzzed. "The Clan has guests from afar, bringing luck beneath our roof on Samhain's holy eve! Rooms for them! Hot water and soap! See to their horses! And tell the cooks dinner is going to be very welcome!"
Nigel saw Knolles blink as the bagpipers paced around the inner side of the tables, the wild skirling sound filling the great room. Below, knives flashed as a roast pig-a yearling, with an apple in its mouth-and a smoking side of beef were reduced to manageable proportions. The other dishes came in with a proud procession of polished salvers.
When the musicians had marched out of the room-to shed their instruments and scurry back in for the meal-Juniper Mackenzie rose to her feet and lifted the silver-mouthed horn from its rest before her to make the invocation and libation:
Harvest Lord who dies for the ripened grain Corn Mother who births the fertile field Blessed be those who share this bounty;
And blessed the mortals who toiled with
You Their hands helping Earth to bring forth life.
Then she poured out a portion into a bowl and raised the horn high: "To the Lord, to the Lady, to the Luck of the Clan- drink hail !"
"Wassail!"
Fifty voices roared reply as she drank; Nigel took a sip of his wine. Knolles senior and junior did the same, and then looked down at their glasses with identical surprised respect.
"And to the Clan's guests, come across the sea from the lands of our ancestors-may there always be peace and friendship between usdrink hail!"
"Wassail!"
As she sat, Knolles leaned close to whisper in Nigel's ear: "Whatever else I expected, it wasn't to find you playing at king of the Picts, old boy."
Nigel looked down at his ruffled shirt, jacket, kilt, plaid pinned at his shoulder with a brooch of silver knotwork and turquoise.
"More the prince consort of the pseudo-Celts, I'm afraid. Make no mistake, Tony, Juniper is the Chief, not I. I'm one of her military advisors-armsmen, we say-in my official capacity, and that's all."