The Shattered Rose Page 0,125

family.

He stopped, suddenly feeling surprisingly alone.

He'd grown up as part of a close-knit family, and once he married, there had been Jehanne who had soon become - as the Bible put it - his rib, his helpmeet, part of himself. He could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been by his side, ready to discuss, argue, advise, object, comfort. . . .

On crusade, he'd felt as if he had left part of himself behind, but he'd found Raoul and an unexpectedly deep friendship.

Now, however, he stood alone, most of his family back north, his father skulking at Waltham, and Raoul who knows where.

Vague thoughts of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane flickered in his mind, but he laughed and shook them away. He was not abandoned and betrayed. He had just come here too early.

He heard the bells sound for terce and crossed himself, offering a prayer of his own. He was beginning to worry about Raoul's absence, however, and sent another prayer that nothing had happened to Aline. She was as innocent as Donata in all this, and should not suffer.

A moment later Raoul hurried in, surprisingly flustered and disheveled.

There was no time to talk, however, as he was only a pace ahead of the page sent to lead them to the king's chamber. Raoul was of little practical help here, since he had no official status and didn't know English ways and customs, but Galeran was immensely pleased to no longer be alone.

The king awaited them in the same rich chamber in which they had been presented to him the previous day. On this occasion, however, Henry sat firmly on his throne, crown on his head. There were no courtiers or visitors here, though a number of people were present. Galeran tried to assess them all without taking his attention from the king, who was greeting him.

A monk at a high desk, ready to record the proceedings.

Two lords and a bishop. A couple of pages ready to run errands. Two armed guards.

The king had stopped speaking, so Galeran bowed again. "I thank you again, my liege, for your attention to this small matter."

"No matter is too small for my attention, Lord Galeran," said Henry, smiling like a wolf. "Have you news of your father?"

Galeran hoped his face was as expressionless as he wanted it to be. "No, sire. I am sure I would have heard if his condition had worsened, but I am concerned. As soon as the matter of the babe is settled, I intend to ride to Waltham Abbey."

Before the king could comment, the door opened to admit Flambard in full glory of gold-trimmed bishop's vestments, crook in hand. Behind him trailed Lowick, Brother Forthred, and a clerk. Brother Forthred looked at Galeran and smiled slightly, as if he scented revenge.

Galeran ignored that and studied Raymond of Lowick.

It was the first time he'd seen the man since leaving for the Holy Land, since the man had shared a bed with Jehanne. Lowick was still impressively handsome, damn him, but Galeran knew he wasn't worth the surge of rage in his gut, a rage that tried to pull his lips back from his teeth in a snarl.

He dragged his gaze away, fighting to calm his breathing. This was a place for law and reason, not vengeance. But part of him wanted to draw his sword and spray the elegant chamber with Raymond of Lowick's blood.

Raoul did have a purpose here after all. He'd stop such madness.

Galeran suddenly hoped it would come to a court battle, though. He wanted it. He needed it to drive away a deep pain that reason, understanding, and forgiveness did not seem to touch.

Flambard and Lowick were making their bows to the king.

Henry nodded to the two men, then called for extra benches to be placed in front of him. "This is not a formal legal matter, my friends. Sit at your ease as we try to settle it to the satisfaction of all."

Galeran and Raoul sat on one bench, Lowick and Flambard on the other, with the monks standing quietly behind. Galeran found it tempting to stare at his enemies and focused instead on the king.

"First," said Henry, "we make known to you our advisers in this. His lordship, the Bishop of London."

The elderly, sinewy man nodded.

"Henry Beaumont, Earl of Warwick."

Warwick was still a young man, but authority and strength stamped every line of his face and body.

"And Ralph Bassett, my legal adviser."

Bassett was surprisingly genial looking, with a scrubbed face.