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an unwed daughter and four sons, one of whom, at least, should marry soon, into a Friendly House. And your father has two daughters and two sons of marriageable age, one of whom is you. But I can see from your face that you had no thought of that in your mind. Speak up, lad, what are you thinking about?”

      “The new Pope.”

      “The new Pope! Now yon’s a dull topic. What about him? And why would a young knight from Anjou be thinking about a new Pope?”

      Hugh shrugged his broad shoulders, but no trace of a smile touched his face. “Because he is new, and all men—all knights at least—should be thinking about him. I am told he has pledged himself to put an end to what he calls ‘the problem of warring and contentious knights.’”

      St. Clair was frowning now, looking from Hugh to Baron Hugo. “What’s this? The Pope said that? I have heard nothing of this. What problem is he talking about?”

      Baron Hugo answered him. “The same one that plagued us in our youth, Stephen, save that it’s worse than ever. The problem of outlets for youthful energy. You would not be as aware of it in England today as we are here, because you have lived in a constant state of rebellion and insurrection, with continuous military activity over there for the past two decades, keeping your damned Saxons in their place. But the problem is real everywhere else throughout Christendom. And of course, although no one will ever admit it, its main cause, just as much now as it was in our day, is the Church itself, the damnable, officious zealotry of the priests. In England, surrounded by hostile Saxons, you have more than enough to keep your knights occupied and safely out of mischief, but over here knights are forbidden by law—which means of course forbidden by the Church, which makes the law—to fight among themselves in time of peace, or to brawl, or to break the civil amity in any way. And when they do—as they always do, being young and full of life and swarming everywhere one looks—the damn priests frown and punish them, fining them heavily, and sometimes even imprisoning them under pain of excommunication.”

      The Baron drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Anyway, it is unhealthy and it has been going on for far too long and growing ever worse. But these last two decades, under Gregory as Pope, have been appalling. We are at the point of total anarchy and the entire situation is now untenable. The rule of law as we know it is being challenged and thwarted everywhere by the priests. That is how almost every knight at this Gathering would describe what is happening, and they would be echoed by their fellows everywhere in Christendom. But what is truly happening, the reality underlying the entire situation, is much more worrisome.”

      St. Clair had been listening closely, his eyebrows rising higher as the Baron went on, and now he flicked a hand in irritation. “I see where you are going, Hugo, but you are wrong. Gregory was an ambitious Pope, granted, but only for the spiritual dominion of the Church. His enthusiasm was for reform within the Church. And God knows it was needed.”

      “It is still needed, and Gregory is dead.”

      St. Clair paid no attention to the interruption. “But Gregory had no interest in governing the world. He was an autocrat—all popes are—but he was no would-be dictator. In his view of things, Rome should rule the world spiritually, through religion, but only after it had cleansed its own house of the stink and filth of corruption. And even then political government would always be the function of kings and ministers. He was not a comfortable man to be around, the Seventh Gregory—and particularly so for errant priests and bishops—but his dreams were all of God’s glory, not his own.”

      The Baron shrugged. “That may be true, but few of the characters surrounding him possessed his gifts or his vision, and only his strength held them under control. And now he has been dead for three years, and the man who took his place was a spineless nonentity who let the zealots run wild, doing what they wished. The upshot of three years of that is what we have in force today. The churchmen strut everywhere like peacocks, challenging the status quo everywhere and trying to wrest all power from the temporal lords in every land of Christendom.”

      He paused as though deliberating whether to continue, and then added, for St. Clair’s benefit, “That, by the way, is what they have begun calling folk like you and me, were you aware of that? We are now designated ‘temporal lords,’ lords for the time being. Some clever little cleric in Rome doubtless came up with that piece of sophistry, undermining our ancient authority. They on the other hand, being anointed clerics and therefore God’s personal representatives, are to be viewed as permanent and immutable.” His voice became heavy with disgust. “It is a thing that has been building up for years now. I have discussed it with my lord the Count of Champagne, and with Count Fulk of Anjou, and several of the others, and there seems to be nothing we can do about it, other than resist in silence and refuse to suffer their damned arrogance.”

      The Baron glanced again from man to man, bringing all of them into what he was saying. “There is nothing of God in this, and I know you all know that. The breed of priests with whom we have to deal here care nothing for the things of God, save when it pleases them to wield His name as a weapon on their own behalf. They are all of this world, and hungry for the power and pleasures it contains. They buy their offices and live in fornication and they must stink in the nostrils of God.

      “Gregory tried to stop all that, to reverse the trends, and he did well, for a while. But he was but one man, his reign too brief, and now they are back in power. This new Pope, Urban, is an unknown quantity. He may or may not align himself with the zealots. If he does, however, and if they win—if we permit them to win—then the whole world will be governed by priests and clerics, and men like us might as well lie down and die.”

      “But they won’t win. They can’t.” St. Clair’s voice was heavy with anger. “They are but priests, when all is said. That is iniquitous.”

      “Not so, Stephen. They believe otherwise. It is inevitable, in their eyes. It is the will of God, they say, and who is to contradict them, since only priests may speak with God to discover His wishes? But it is iniquitous. I will not disagree with you on that. And it is iniquity bred of greed and hypocrisy and the stench of corruption. But even if it comes to pass, it will require a long time to accomplish such an end.

      “Urban was elected only recently, in March this year. He is very young and apparently full of ideals, according to the reports I have heard. He has sworn to put an end to all the nonsense—the publicly seen nonsense at the very least—and to resolve the matter of the knights and their uncontrolled violence. How he might do that without abolishing either the knighthood or the priesthood is a mystery to me, and to everyone else who even starts to think about it, but he has undertaken to do it.”

      Hugh had been listening avidly, thrilled to be a participant in a discussion of such depth, and now, emboldened by the fact that everyone plainly recognized his right to be there, he spoke up, surprising himself with the firmness of his own tone. “Well, he is the Pope. He could always start a war somewhere, in his own holy name. That would be nothing new, and it would give the knights something new to think about. They would all flock to a new war, and kill themselves off in admirable numbers. Of course, that would do nothing about the problem of the priests.” Hugh was being facetious, but the Baron took him seriously.

      “And where would he start this new war, boy? That’s not a foolish idea, but it’s impossible. There’s no place to do it. This problem has infected all of Christendom. Everywhere. There’s nowhere you can go to get away from it. There are only two kinds of men in our world—fighters and clerics, knights and priests. You do see that, do you not?”

      Hugh nodded. “Aye, Father, I see it. Our world is, as you say, half-filled with knights, and in the eyes of those who fill the other half—the priests—they are become a plague.” He looked to Sir Stephen St. Clair, who had been listening quietly, but had just reared upright in his chair, and now sat rigid, his eyes gazing off into some far distant place. After a few moments, he sat back again, beginning to scratch at his chin reflectively with one finger.

      “You know, lad, you have just led me to a startling thought,” he said. “You and your father, both. Christendom, the world, is full of knights, you said, and in the eyes of the Church they are

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