Paul Doherty: Herald of Hell

The Master of Secrets glanced up. ‘You will remember your promise, Brother? My daughter, my beloved Isabella …’

Athelstan caught the pleading in this ruthless man’s voice.

‘I will keep my promise,’ the friar replied. ‘She will be safe, but will you be?’

Thibault forced a smile. ‘I will be in the Tower.’

‘Even though your lord and master is moving slowly north?’ Cranston leaned down, his face only a few inches from Thibault’s. ‘The storm is about to break.’ Thibault just shrugged. ‘You will be in the Tower, Thibault – you, Gaunt’s Master of Secrets – but you will not be alone.’ Cranston forced a smile. ‘Royal serjeants bearing the King’s own letter, sealed orders for my Lord of Gaunt. They are on the road now.’ Thibault’s face went slack. ‘Sealed orders,’ Cranston hissed, ‘instructing Gaunt to hand over his eldest son, Henry of Lancaster. He is to be brought south. He will be lodged with the King, so where Richard goes, Henry goes with him, very, very close.’ Cranston lifted his hand, fingers interlaced. ‘Close as this, Master Thibault! Even the most skilled of archers could not put an arrow between them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Thibault’s face was pallid, a sheen of sweat prickling his smooth forehead.

‘He means,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘that when the storm breaks and the lightning flashes in one corner of heaven to light up the other, we shall all be sheltering under the same tree, Master Thibault.’