Athelstan held those anxious green eyes. He recalled Barakâs corpse, the arbalest lying nearby.
âWas Barak left- or right-handed?â he asked.
âRight-handed, like myself,â Rachael replied. âWhy?â
âI donât know,â Athelstan murmured. âMistress, I truly donât.â
â
Pax et Bonum!
â They all whirled round. Thibault stood at the doorway, his thick coat glistening with freshly fallen snow. Behind him was an old woman grasping the hand of a small girl. Rosselyn, Lascelles and a group of archers also came through the doorway, armed as if for battle. Thibault, quiet as a cat, crossed the hall. Cranston lumbered to his feet; the rest followed. Thibault stopped in front of them and gave a small bow. Athelstan couldnât decide whether he was being courteous, mocking or both. Thibault brought his hands from beneath his cloak and allowed the velvety skinned ferret, its lithe body rippling with muscle, to scramble up the folds of his gown before catching it, nursing it in the crook of his arm as he gently stroked it with one satin-gloved finger.
âFather!â the little girl broke free of her stern-faced, grey-gowned nurse and began to leap up and down, trying to take the ferret. âFather, please let me have Galahad.â Thibault knelt and carefully handed the ferret over before grasping his daughter by her arms, pulling her close and kissing her tenderly on cheek and brow. Athelstan watched this viper in human flesh, as Cranston had once described him, stroke his daughterâs hair, a look of pure adoration on his smiling face.
âItâs yours, Isabella,â he lisped, âbut promise me â prayers then bed, yes?â Thibault turned back, his hooded eyes watchful, as if noticing them for the first time. âMaster Samuel,â he beckoned. âRosselyn will provide you and your companions with comfortable chambers.â He smiled. âEach of you will have a room in one of the towers where,â he waved a hand, âyou will be more safe and secure than here.â He clapped his hands. âSir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace awaits us.â
Gaunt was sitting in the great sanctuary chair, which had been brought around the rood screen to stand before Hellâs mouth. At any other time Athelstan would have been amused at how close this subtle, cunning prince was to Hell. Gauntâs face was devoid of all graciousness and humour. He sat enthroned, wrapped in a thick, dark blue gown of pure wool which emphasized his beautiful but sharp face, his eyes no longer amused but glass-like. He glared at Athelstan before fixing on Cranston as they were both ushered to stools before him. Gaunt gestured at them to sit then picked up the long-stemmed, jewel-encrusted goblet and sipped carefully. Master Thibault stood close to his right while on a quilted bench to the Regentâs left sat the younger Oudernarde and his secretary, the bland-faced Cornelius.
âYour Grace,â Thibaultâs voice was scarcely above a whisper, âI have said goodnight to Isabella. She sends you her love. Captain Rosselyn will see to the Straw Men; they will be given chambers and forbidden to leave the Tower on pain of death.â
âNot together,â Gaunt declared brusquely. âThey must be kept apart.â
âOf course, Your Grace. They have been provided with separate quarters throughout the Tower. Barakâs possessions have been searched; nothing untoward was discovered.â Athelstan was sure Gaunt whispered, âTraitor!â For a while the Regent just sat on his chair, cradling his wine. He rocked slightly backwards and forwards while staring at a point above their heads, his face muscles rippled. Now and again he blinked furiously, as he fought what Cranston knew to be a savage temper. The silence in the chapel grew oppressive. Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stared calmly at
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