Under the direction of Romain Lizé, President, Magnificat Editor, Magnificat: Isabelle Galmiche Editors, Ignatius: Vivian Dudro, Gail Gavin Proofreader: Kathleen Hollenbeck Cover Designer: Gauthier Delauné Layout: Text’Oh Production: Thierry Dubus, Audrey Bord © 2025 by Magnificat, New York • Ignatius Press, San Francisco All rights reserved ISBN Magnificat 978-1-63967-143-4 • ISBN Ignatius Press 978-1-62164-762-1 Ebook ISBN 978-1-63967-153-3 As always, many thanks to my sharp-eyed editors, Ellen and Annette, and to my brother David for his graphic assistance
Contents 1 Freedom.................................................................... 9 2 Debt......................................................................... 23 3 The Forest................................................................. 41 4 Rescue....................................................................... 57 5 Valley Roads.............................................................. 71 6 Sight of Home. ......................................................... 93 7 The Order of Saint Michael...................................... 119 Northeastern Caol
To Isidore and to all my grandsons, knights in training
9 1 Freedom It was the bells that awakened Rogan, the bells again. This was the third morning it had happened. He had no idea why the bells were ringing; the peals weren’t those of alarm or mourning. They were light and joyous, as if something wonderful had happened, and the whole Kingdom of Caol was being called to rejoice. Rogan couldn’t hear much street noise through his cell window, but what he could hear sounded busier and more excited than usual. Something good had happened, and everyone in the city seemed delighted about it. Those who weren’t under sentence of death, of course. Rogan took a deep breath and sat up on the hard shelf that served as a bed in the dim, dank cell. A little morning light filtered through the cell window, which was twelve feet up on the far wall, barred, and too small even for a dog to get through. He was hungry and looked longingly at the plate and cup standing by the door. They’d be refreshed midday with the meager loaf and cup of water that would be his ration for the day. No use wasting provisions on a condemned man. With a sigh, Rogan stood up and walked what few steps he could around the small cell. Eleven—no, twelve; this was his twelfth day in this place. He hadn’t expected to be here even that long; most men weren’t. He had expected the knock on the door to come within a week of his being locked up, but the
11 10 only thing that had happened was the daily replacement of bread and water. He wondered what the delay was and whether it might have something to do with the bells. Rogan deserved to be here; even he acknowledged that. He’d always had trouble controlling his temper after a few tankards, and he’d had more than a few that night. He hadn’t even known his victim’s name until it was read at his trial, but it didn’t matter. The man had just been a drunken loudmouth in a tavern, picking a fight with another drunken loudmouth, who happened to be Rogan. It would have been just another brawl, ending when the owner threw them out or the watchmen turned up to thrash them both. But the stool that Rogan had swung, intending to knock the man across the room, had instead broken his neck. That instantly turned Rogan from a drunken nuisance into a murdering felon. The trial had been swift. The murdered man had been a tanner’s apprentice with a wife and two children, while Rogan was a jobless wastrel who frequented taverns, a ne’er-do-well all too familiar to the capital constabulary, and a Highlander to boot. There had been no question about the verdict. Since then, Rogan’s world had been this rank cell, and his life had been reduced to waiting for the key to turn in the lock for the last time. Then the guard would bind him, hood him, and lead him to the square, where a gallows had been erected. Perhaps a priest would walk beside him and offer him confession at the foot of the steps before he and likely several others were taken up and fitted with a hemp rope around the neck. Rogan had resigned himself to his fate as best he could. He was guilty and deserved his sentence. He intended to walk up those steps, clutching at least a little dignity. He didn’t want to be dragged up screaming and thrashing, as he’d seen at some hangings. There was noise outside the cell door and a clattering of keys. Rogan’s breath caught, and an icy chill gripped his insides. This was it, then. The dawn that had shone through his window would be his last in this life. He set his jaw and turned to face the door as it swung open. There stood two guards, one fumbling with a key ring. “C’mon, you,” one of the guards said gruffly, motioning Rogan out of the cell. Rogan swallowed hard and obeyed, though he wondered what was going on. Was he being taken to be hanged? The guards had no manacles for his wrists or hood for his head, though those might come later. The guards didn’t behave as if they’d come to lead him to execution. Rather, they seemed annoyed as they led him through the halls of the jail, turning him this way and that with rough shoves. All this seemed odd to Rogan, but he had to admit that he’d never taken the final walk before, so he didn’t know what to expect. The guards led Rogan up a short flight of steps and through a doorway into a small courtyard. Blinking in the morning sunlight, Rogan looked about and, for the first time, began to harbor hope that this wasn’t an execution. There was no crowd, no gallows, no ominous line of nooses. The courtyard was populated by nothing more than a handful of men and beasts going about their business. Not twenty yards away stood a wagon, beside which stood several guards surrounding four tattered-looking men. Oddly, at the men’s feet were large buckets of water. Beside them stood a man in uniform who gestured impatiently to the guards escorting Rogan. “Over there,” one of the guards barked, shoving Rogan toward the wagon. Rogan walked over and was yanked to a halt before one of the buckets. He looked around at the other men, who looked at least as bedraggled as he felt and wore expressions varying from fear to defiance to mystification.
13 12 “My name,” said the uniformed man sharply to the prisoners, “is Hubert, and I am chief constable of Caolbridge. You don’t need to tell me your names, for I know every one of them, as well as your sorry histories.” He glared at the five men with ill-concealed disgust. Was it Rogan’s imagination, or did the constable’s eyes linger on him a little longer? Hubert. Rogan had heard the name and had even seen him in the streets from time to time. As chief constable, Hubert bore responsibility for maintaining order here in the capital. That made Hubert a high-ranking official, not the sort of person who would normally be dealing with condemned criminals. What was he doing here? “If matters were up to me,” Hubert continued, “I would be taking you gallows fodder to a different courtyard and giving you a different treatment.” He paused as if trying to contain some inner frustration. “But due to recent developments, the palace has requested the presence of you fine men.” Rogan was stunned. Recent developments? The palace? What on earth? Hubert was continuing, speaking and looking as if he were sucking on a particularly sour pickle. “Since we can’t have you appearing at the palace gates looking like you do, you are first to scrub down”—Hubert gestured to the buckets at their feet—“after which you will put on the garments provided.” He indicated some piles on the back of the wagon. “If your washing does not meet standards, the guards will assist you. Now hurry! You have an appointment at the palace.” With that he turned and stalked away, leaving the five prisoners to stare at one another in stunned silence. “You heard him,” said one of the guards, prodding Rogan with a spear butt. “Strip and scrub, or we’ll do it for you.” “Strip? Is there a chamber or—” one of the other men protested. “No, there isn’t,” the guard barked. “You strip and scrub right here. If you don’t like it, scrub quicker, so you can dress quicker. Just be sure you scrub well, or you’ll have to do it again. Move!” Rogan and the others removed their clothes, filthy from the prison, and quickly raked wet brushes across their shivering bodies. Rogan was glad to feel clean again, and all the more curious about why this was necessary. He took a chance at muttering to the man next to him. “Recent developments? What developments?” “Haven’t you heard? The queen has borne a prince—her firstborn.” “Shut up there!” one of the guards growled. “No talking!” Rogan finished washing in silence as he pondered. A prince born—that was certainly the reason for the bells and the levity, but it didn’t explain why five condemned were bathing in a courtyard. At least whatever was happening was upsetting the constable, which lent Rogan hope that his appointment with the noose might be deferred. “All right, you! Time to get dressed. Look sharp!” There were five piles of clothing—including boots— the wagon, and each man took one. The clothes were simple, ordinary street clothes, new and clean. They were the nicest clothes Rogan had had in a long time. “If you lords are quite ready,” Hubert said snidely, “the palace awaits you. Needless to say, if there’s any funny business or attempts to run off, this will be a very brief journey for you. Now move!” Hubert turned and strode toward the courtyard gate. The five prisoners followed him, surrounded by the guards. They walked toward the palace on the city streets, drawing puzzled stares as they went. Rogan glanced about. They were being taken through the nicer parts of the city, the streets lined with
15 14 large, well-kept homes. He had rarely visited this district; the deputies hereabouts kept watch for people like him and ran them off. When they reached the Royal Square, Rogan could see that the celebration of the prince’s birth was on full display. All the windows were decorated with flowers; ribbons and bunting fluttered from every door and rooftop; and huge kingdom flags hung from balconies. The festive air made Rogan more keenly aware of his drab appearance. At the palace gates, Hubert spoke with one of the guards, who promptly went off somewhere within the palace. The group waited at the gate for some time, with the prisoners being reminded periodically to stand straight and look smart. Eventually a small squad of six guards came marching toward the gate, led by an officer wearing the most elaborate uniform Rogan had ever seen. “This is Osric, captain of the palace guard,” Hubert told the prisoners. “He and his men will take you to your destination. After today, I don’t want to see any of your faces again, and you’d better hope you don’t see mine. If you do, expect no mercy!” Rogan stared after Hubert as the constable left with his men, and his heart leapt. “After today”? Hubert seemed to have implied that they’d have a tomorrow, which no condemned man dared hope for. What was going on? Rogan had no time to ponder, for Osric began grouping the prisoners between two rows of palace guards and berating them on their posture and behavior. “Look smart there! Stand straight; lift your head! Stay between the guards! No gawking! Keep your eyes straight ahead, and don’t even think of doing anything funny. You’re here on sufferance, and I’m watching for the least reason to rescind it. Now march!” The prisoners were given no time to gawk or wander, for the guard set off at a pace they could barely maintain. They didn’t approach the main door of the palace but marched around the side to an entrance that Rogan guessed was for receiving supplies. Inside the palace, they passed along plain passages and corridors that were clearly for use by servants. After a few turns, they entered a room. Though this room was one of the public spaces of the palace, it had sparse furnishings and few decorations. This was certainly some lesser chamber, a secondary space used to support functions held in more official rooms like the council chambers or ballroom. Rogan guessed the royal family wasn’t even aware this room existed. Captain Osric ordered the prisoners into place. They were lined up close to a wall, facing the main door into the room. Behind each prisoner stood a guard, with a sixth guard standing at the end of the line, watching for the smallest misstep. Osric shouted orders at them, though the orders made little sense— what was he talking about? “You will remain silent. In the unlikely event that you are addressed, you will respond simply—yes or no, ma’am or sir … or Your Royal Highness will suffice. You will keep your heads up, but do not stare. You will not move. If you give even the least hint that you’re starting any trouble, I will deal with you harshly, after which I will return you to the tender ministrations of Constable Hubert. Is that understood?” When this elicited random mumblings from the prisoners, he asked in a severe tone, “I asked, is that understood?” Rogan and the others replied with a clear “Yes, sir!” “Good. Now kneel.” The guards behind the prisoners lay heavy hands on their shoulders to make the order clear. The men knelt. Rogan was on the left end of the line, which was to
17 16 the right of anyone who came through the door. He glanced down the line at the other prisoners, who were all strangers to him. The man who had informed him of the birth of the prince was kneeling just to his right, and Rogan caught the man’s eye. Conversation was impossible, but Rogan gave the slightest lift of his eyebrows, which the man answered with the barest hint of a shrug. Presently a page stuck his head through the door, exchanged a few quiet words with Captain Osric, and departed. The room was silent for a while longer. Rogan’s legs began to stiffen. Just when he was beginning to wonder whether anything would come of this, or whether they’d just kneel here for a time only to be stood up and marched back to jail, the door opened. The atmosphere of the room became abruptly more formal. The guard at the end of the line clicked his heels and stood straighter. Captain Osric knelt, and the prisoners reflexively bowed their heads. Rogan bowed, but not so far as to prevent him from watching the door. A courtier in royal livery came in and stood to one side of the door. Then, to Rogan’s utter amazement, the king himself entered, and then the queen, who was holding what looked like a bundle of cloth in her arms. Last came a friar of some kind, who stood beside and a little behind the queen. Rogan had caught only a glimpse of the king once before, on a holiday, when the monarch had stood on one of the palace balconies to greet his subjects. But today he wasn’t wearing all the court finery and thus looked much less imposing. He was glancing about the room, looking at anything but the prisoners. Rogan got the impression that the king would rather be anywhere else. The queen, though, looked entrancing. She wasn’t a stunning beauty, but what beauty she had was enhanced by the simple, elegant dress she wore. She looked around the room with a glowing smile and sparkling eyes, occasionally gazing down at the bundle in her arms. Rogan suddenly put it together: the bundle held a baby, certainly the newborn prince! This was more puzzling than ever—what was the royal family doing in this side room with a handful of condemned criminals? The first man who had entered the room was clearly some kind of herald, for he unrolled a scroll and read from it in an official voice: “In thanksgiving to Almighty God for the birth of crown prince and royal heir Michael, the Crown decrees a complete pardon for all subjects currently under sentence of death. May this day be one of rejoicing throughout our realm. Given by our hand this first of October …” The man kept reading, but Rogan heard none of it. His ears were filled with a strange roaring, as if they couldn’t receive what they were hearing. His eyes wide and his mouth agape, he lifted his head to see the herald rolling up the scroll. A complete pardon? The other prisoners looked about with expressions ranging from blank incomprehension to dawning wonder. The man beside Rogan stood frozen in wide-eyed shock. Rogan looked up at the king, who stared alternately at the ceiling, the walls, and his fingernails. Captain Osric maintained his best paradeground face—Rogan could guess what he thought of the proceedings. The queen, however, gazed at the prisoners with a brilliant smile. Rogan suddenly suspected whose idea this pardon had been. “Well, then,” the king said, “if that’s all there is—” “If it please Your Majesty,” the queen interrupted, “perhaps these men would like to meet the one responsible for their freedom?”
19 18 Rogan hid a smile, for based on the king’s expression, this proposal didn’t please the sovereign one bit. But with five docile men kneeling on the ground and outnumbered by vigilant guards, the king could hardly raise any practical objections. Besides, Rogan suspected that the mother of the hoped-for heir was getting pretty much whatever she wanted these days. “Well, ah …,” the king grumbled, “very well.” The queen walked to the other end of the line of prisoners, closely attended by her serving maid. Behind them, Captain Osric fixed the prisoners with an ominous glare. Pardon or no, if there was even a whisper of misbehavior, the consequences would be swift and severe. The queen made her way down the line, showing each man the baby nestled in her arms. The responses varied widely— these men had little idea what to make of any baby, much less a prince. As Rogan watched her move down the row, it seemed he was seeing no longer a queen, but a happy young mother delighting in her baby and eager to share her joy with anyone— even a group of felons. Rogan’s heart warmed toward her and the child. The queen must have sensed this, for when she came to Rogan, she beamed more brightly than ever as she held the prince for him to admire. He gazed fondly on the little figure, who was sleeping. “Would you like to hold him?” the queen asked Rogan. Behind her, the king looked up sharply, while Captain Osric opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. With these cautionary signs, Rogan was tempted to decline, but when he saw how eager the queen was, he acquiesced. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Rogan replied. Her face radiant, the queen leaned over and gently laid the bundle in Rogan’s arms. He’d had some experience with babies, so he made sure to position his arms securely. He was sure that Osric was watching his every move, but he was focused on the baby. He looked like any other baby, but this little life was why Rogan would now live. “Hello, Prince—” Rogan began to say, then stopped. He’d forgotten the prince’s name. “Michael,” the queen offered. “Hello, Prince Michael. Thank you,” Rogan said gently. Then he gave the child back to his mother. “Will there be anything else?” the king asked gruffly. “No, Your Majesty,” the queen replied. “Thank you. Captain Osric, Brother Nathanael here will accompany the pardoned subjects to the palace gates.” “Very well, Your Majesty,” Captain Osric acknowledged stiffly. The royal family and attendants departed, leaving behind one grim captain, five stunned convicts, six bemused guards, and a calm friar. “Stand up, you men,” Captain Osric commanded. Rogan and the others pushed their way to their feet, their legs stiff from kneeling so long. “Follow us,” Osric ordered, gesturing his men through the side door by which they’d entered. Once in the courtyard, the guards formed up and marched, but Rogan and the others just walked behind, followed by the friar. Rogan half expected the little parade to turn aside somewhere or for a messenger to come running from the palace to inform them that the king had called back the pardons, but none of that happened. Presently they found themselves at the main palace gate, where Osric dismissed the guards. “I hope you appreciate the chance you’ve been given,” Osric said. “I can add nothing to what Constable Hubert said earlier. If we’re both lucky, we’ll never see one another's faces again. Now go.”
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