A man came up leading a large roan stallion. Gustaf mounted. The spirited animal snorted and pulled, but the robo-psychologist expertly calmed and brought it into line.

Gustaf smiled at Hamilton.

“Personally, I get all the vicarious connection with the past I’ll ever need. What I’m really interested in is winning another honorary profession! You know how that feels!”

He winked once again, then wheeled his stallion into line with a row of armored men.

The procession was halfway to the cathedral before Cooper had a chance to speak to Gustaf. When he did, it was with an arched eyebrow.

“If Your Grace will pardon me for asking, wasn’t that just a little dangerous?”

Gustaf shrugged. He waved at the crowd and smiled. The stallion marched along proudly.

“I don’t think so, Farrell. After all, I didn’t lie to him. Everything I said was the literal truth.”

Farrell Cooper frowned. “That fellow is not stupid, sir. Telling the truth in the manner you did might be taken as patronizing, if he figured it out. He has power, after a fashion, and could harm us if he tried.”

“He won’t.” Gustaf grinned. “I trust Hamilton. He won’t let us down.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cooper muttered, dodging a sudden shower of rose petals.

Shouts greeted them on all sides as they rode, the skirling bagpipes leading the way. Gustaf waved as he laughed.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss, anyway, Farrell. The work week starts again on Monday, and we all go back to our vocations. For now I’m enjoying my ancestors’ gift!”

“And if you had to enjoy that gift every day, for the rest of your life, Your Grace?”

“Bite your tongue!”

“Yes, my liege.”

It was the first time a polo game had ever sold out East Thames Stadium. In fact, it was the first time a match had ever been played before a hundred and fifty thousand spectators, plus a sizable video audience. The professional and amateur sportscasters and pundits all attributed the revival to the recent notoriety of one of the players.