The Cup of the World Read Online Free PDF

king's men and bowed again, this time to a short, fair man who stood among the soldiers and bowed in return. A Trant horse was led up. The man mounted, and the king's men withdrew.
    ‘Now your company is made up,’ said the bishop, standing beside her stirrup. ‘And my fools will be another hour yet. Trant is confident, to travel with so few.’
    It dawned on Phaedra that Father had abandoned herin the presence of this unpredictable churchman, whom she knew only from his forceful reputation.
    ‘He might be confident indeed, sir,’ she said carefully. ‘When he knew we were to travel two-thirds of our way home with you.’
    ‘Ha! His sort are supposed to protect me, and not the other way about. Next time I come to Tuscolo I too will think less of my honour and more on speed. We do not need armies about us this year. Have a pasty, girl. There will be more delay yet.’
    Phaedra bowed her head and nudged her pony away. She was thankful to be dismissed. At her knee a bored servant raised a tray of mutton-bones and other breakfast things. She shook her head and returned to the Trant party to wait for things to happen.
    It was typical of Father, she thought crossly, both that he should have left her like that in the company of a man he had just needled, and that they should now be faced with this wait. He had roused them all at dawn, and bullied them through packing, not in spite of but
because
of the size of the bishop's party, which would delay them long after every last Trantish strap was tied down. Now they would stand here, perhaps for hours, with their comforts packed away and the sun climbing higher above the dust and heat of the middle courtyard. She wondered why she had not taken more time over her own preparations, to be ready at her convenience, rather than Father's. She could even have made him a fool in front of all the others whom he had harried to be ready.
    She might have done it. Now that home beckoned, she could feel herself straining to break out of the mouldof the demure daughter that she had worn here, and to live more as she did in her own house. He knew better than to try to punish her if she did not do as he wanted. There had been a moment that morning when he had hung in her doorway as she and her maid Dilly were packing her things – her clothes, her precious book, her cup-and-ball game, candles and candlestick, basin, soap, jewels. He had seen she was going about her part with a will. And there had been relief in his voice as he had turned to bellow at the next man he met upon the stairs.
    All the same, this was a victory for Trant. Small in number, they could still start their journey with their heads high among the bishop's great company, for they had shown that Trant knew its business. She was of Trant, no less than Father. And she too was longing to be home.
    Horse-steps and harness sounded by her. Father towered over her on his big charger. Beside him was the fair-haired man she had seen at the gate, mounted now, and looking down at her out of the sun. She put up an arm to shield her eyes.
    ‘My daughter and only living child, sir, Phaedra, who will be your hostess at Trant. Phaedra, this is the Baron of Lackmere, Aun, who is to be our guest.’
    A guest. And
why
should she endure a stranger at Trant?
    This baron was an unsmiling man. He was probably younger than Father – between thirty and forty years – but his lined and unpleasant face, with heavy brows and a pointed chin, made him seem older. He was indeed short – a head below Father as he sat in the saddle, and not much more above Phaedra than the difference between hishorse and her pony. He wore his hair shoulder length, and had no beard, after the fashion of the provinces. His surplice was white and blue, and his badge appeared to be a staff held crosswise before a wolf's head. She guessed that he must be one of the lesser barons of the south. He seemed to have no attendants of his own.
    ‘Now Michael guard us, my lady’ said