Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) Read Online Free PDF Page B

the stone gatehouse. My horse stamped his feet and shook out his mane, and I leaned forward to pat his neck before dismounting.
    The Archbishop of York, John le Romeyn, was waiting for us in the porch, protected from the rain by an overhanging roof. Born illegitimate (to a churchman!), he had degrees from Oxford and the University of Paris, and in my few interactions with him, I’d found him to be a reasonable man. All things being equal, I wasn’t sorry to see him today. Like Peckham, he concerned himself mostly with the behavior of the priests, monks, and nuns within his purview, and was less concerned about the individual beliefs of the common folk.
    Though Romeyn started towards me, I gestured that he should stay where he was, calling out to him. “There’s no point in both of us getting wet.”
    A Welsh soldier took the bridle of my horse, even as the young monks who doubled as stable boys ran towards us from the shelter of the adjacent stable. It wasn’t large enough to house all thirty horses, but at least their gear could be removed and kept dry while I was speaking with Acquasparta.
    I set off across the courtyard, Callum and Carew in tow.
    “Sire.” Romeyn bowed when I reached him. “If it pleases you, Archbishop Peckham is prepared to receive you.”
    “Thank you, Romeyn.”
    My castle at Canterbury was one of the oldest in England, built by William I shortly after the Norman Conquest and later expanded by King Henry I. The main keep alone was over eighty feet high, with a foundation that was nearly a hundred feet wide on each side. And that was just the keep. The Archbishop’s palace was equally enormous, but it was less well fortified, which made it a more comfortable place to live. Men of the Church liked their luxuries. If nothing else, the palace had bigger windows because nobody was worried about trebuchet missiles coming through them.
    Once inside, I openly admired the decorations—the ornate tapestries on the walls, the carvings on the cornices, and the painted ceilings—rather than focusing on what lay ahead of me. It was better not to wind myself up about this meeting any more than I already had, because I didn’t know what Cardinal Acquasparta was going to say. Until I did, there wasn’t much point in speculating about it. I was here. I would find out what he wanted in a minute.
    Carew paced beside Archbishop Romeyn, and Callum walked a little behind me to the left. It seemed to me that his breathing was coming more easily than mine.
    I was expecting to meet first with Peckham, since the whole reason I’d come to Canterbury in the first place was because Acquasparta was on his deathbed, but we entered the reception room to find both men drinking wine before a roaring fire. The legate was dressed in rich red robes, and I almost laughed at the contrast, since I had dripped water and left muddy boot prints all the way down the fine hallway behind me. Still, I’d dressed well underneath the black outer cloak that swathed me from head to foot. Serving temporarily as my squire, Carew helped me remove it to reveal a gold-embroidered mantle and blue tunic.
    Once I was clear of the threshold, Peckham moved towards me, his arm outstretched, and when he came within hailing distance, he bowed his head. “Sire! Thank you for coming. You honor us with your presence today.” I didn’t kiss Archbishop Peckham’s ring (nor he mine), as it wasn’t customary between us. We would see in a moment if Acquasparta thought it should have been.
    I allowed Peckham to gesture me towards the fireplace, at which point he introduced me to Acquasparta, who inclined his head in greeting. Acquasparta was a thin man in his fifties, tall, with a full head of dark hair and a patrician nose.
    I’d grown used to the pomp by now, and even if it didn’t come naturally to me, I’d learned to read meaning into every bent waist and bowed head. Acquasparta was showing me the proper amount of respect, and I extended an olive