‘Do you really think,’ Rachael’s voice stilled the merriment, ‘that Barak was an assassin?’ Athelstan held those anxious green eyes. He recalled Barak’s corpse, the arbalest lying nearby.
‘Was Barak left- or right-handed?’ he asked.
‘Right-handed, like myself,’ Rachael replied. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress, I truly don’t.’
‘Pax et Bonum!’ 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 couldn’t 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.
‘Father!’ the little girl broke free of her stern-faced, grey-gowned nurse and began to leap up and down, trying to take the ferret. ‘Father, please let me have Galahad.’ 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 daughter’s hair, a look of pure adoration on his smiling face.
‘It’s yours, Isabella,’ he lisped, ‘but promise me – prayers then bed, yes?’ Thibault turned back, his hooded eyes watchful, as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Master Samuel,’ he beckoned. ‘Rosselyn will provide you and your companions with comfortable chambers.’ He smiled. ‘Each of you will have a room in one of the towers where,’ he waved a hand, ‘you will be more safe and secure than here.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace awaits us.’
Gaunt was sitting in the great sanctuary chair, which had been brought around the rood screen to stand before Hell’s mouth. At any other time Athelstan would have been amused at how close this subtle, cunning prince was to Hell. Gaunt’s 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 Regent’s left sat the younger Oudernarde and his secretary, the bland-faced Cornelius.
‘Your Grace,’ Thibault’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, ‘I 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.’
‘Not together,’ Gaunt declared brusquely. ‘They must be kept apart.’
‘Of course, Your Grace. They have been provided with separate quarters throughout the Tower. Barak’s possessions have been searched; nothing untoward was discovered.’ Athelstan was sure Gaunt whispered, ‘Traitor!’ 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 this brother of the Black Prince, uncle and protector of the young King Richard, Duke of Lancaster, possible heir to the throne of Castile, patron of the arts and of religion, even if it meant favouring heretics like Wycliffe, builder of this palace and that, and fervent enemy of both the Commons and London. Gaunt was truly a formidable opponent. The Regent broke from his reverie, lifting a satin-gloved hand.
Thibault stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan – you saw how much I love my daughter, Isabella?’
Neither replied.
‘Before I took minor orders,’ Thibault explained, ‘her mother died in childbirth. Do you love the Lady Maude, Sir John, your twin sons?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Brother Athelstan, whom do you love? You, a priest who is supposed to love everybody – do you love anybody?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The good widow Benedicta, perhaps?’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied calmly, ‘as I love you, Brother Thibault. Isn’t that what Christ commanded?’
Gaunt smiled bleakly.
‘Very good, very good.’ Thibault took a step forward. ‘And His Grace dearly loves Meister Oudernarde who, thanks be to God, is recovering, although he still lies gravely wounded. He will be moved to the hospital at Saint Bartholomew’s for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his coffin. The Regent’s guests, Brother Athelstan, Sir
