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“Your Grace. Reverend Mother,” he said with a bow, then stood. “Do you oft greet visitors here?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

He’d been here many times in the past with his father, so he knew the usual way of things.

“Only ones such as yourself.”

But how could she have known they were coming?

“I jest, Licheford,” she said with a small smile. “We were just walking the cloister when your men approached.”

She glanced at Cait then, and Conrad introduced her as his cousin. If either she or the bishop found it odd that Cait should be traveling with him, sans a chaperone, neither said a word.

“It seems you’ve embroiled yourself quite deeply in the king’s affairs?” the Reverend Mother asked.

Conrad was about to respond when the bishop interjected.

“While your guest settles for the evening,” he said to Conrad, “I would speak with you privately.” He pointed to the covered walkway, which was lined at intervals with several glowing lanterns. The cost of keeping them lit, likely every eve, must be staggering.

Conrad nodded, trying not to smile at Cait’s foiled plans. For an innocent, she was surprisingly bold, and though he very much enjoyed every moment they were together, he feared each night may be the one he dishonored her. Conrad had thought the bond of friendship he’d forged with Terric, Lance, and Guy to be stronger than any other.

He loved those men above all others.

Until Cait.

He wanted to know her. All of her. The idea of it consumed his every waking thought, even in the midst of his present mission. Even now, as one of the most powerful men in the Church was asking to speak with him.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He took one final glance at Cait, confident she would be taken care of, and fell in step with one of the most important supporters of their cause.

“I am surprised to find you here,” Conrad said, glancing at his companion in the dim light.

“Are you?”

An intelligent man, one whose history with the king was as long and storied as his own, shoved his hands together beneath the long sleeves of his robes.

“So close to London,” he speculated. “And so far from St. Christopher’s.”

“’Tis not an accident, Licheford.”

“I was once Conrad to you.”

Bishop Salerno stopped, and Conrad did the same.

“You are no young knight any longer. Nor are you just the son of a well-respected man. You are the leader of a rebellion against the Crown, an earl in your own right, and so Lord Licheford will do nicely, I believe. As such, you must also excuse the bluntness of what I am about to say.”

This man had given the order enough coin to send a mercenary army back to France. One that could have, would have, fought for the king. Without him, their cause would have been lost last year.

So aye, Conrad would hold his gaze and listen to him with as much respect as he would have given his own father.

“I came to the same conclusion as you, which is why I am here, in the south. We’ve few enough resources to overcome John’s supporters one by one. But if you take London peaceably, showing him popular support is with us, I believe he will be forced to negotiate.”

So far, his words were not cause for concern. It was the very conclusion they had reached at Licheford, and the reason he was on his current mission. But the bishop knew all of that already. He was the kind of man who knew things before they happened.

“Aye,” he agreed.

“If you fail in London, the rebellion is over.”

“Perhaps. Taking London would certainly be preferable. Though we lost the support of Lennox with the earl’s death, Lindemere is sending men instead.”