Henry threw himself back in his chair.
For one moment Chris did not know whether it was wrath or laughter that shook him. His face grew crimson, and his narrow eyes disappeared into shining slits; his fat hands were on his knees, and his great body shook. From his round open mouth came silent gusts of quick breath, and he began to sway a little from side to side.
Across the Archbishop’s face came a deferential and sympathetic smile, and he looked quickly and nervously from the King to the group and back again. Sir James had fallen back a pace at the King’s laughter, and stood rigid and staring. Chris took a step close to him and gripped his hand firmly.
There was a footstep behind, and the King leaned forward again, wiping the tears away with his sleeve.
“Oh, Michael, Michael!” he sobbed, “here is a fine tale.”
A dark-dressed man stepped forward from behind, and stood expectant.
“God! What a happy family!” said the King. “And this fellow here?”
He motioned towards Nicholas, with a feeble gesture. He was still weak with laughter.
The young squire moved forward a step, rigid and indignant.