Roger Bland smiled like a cynical old priest listening to a confession.
“A very presentable question, sir. Let me amplify it. You found people at Woodmere, Morgan?”
The Welshman tried to get his imagination into its stride, but my lord would not let him gallop.
“You saw no more than one man?”
“A giant, sir, a devil of a fellow in white harness, plated from poll to toes.”
“Ah, a paladin! You say that he killed Swartz and five more?”
“He was like an iron bull, my lord.”
“And so you ran away! Yes, yes—I have no patience to waste, fool, on your paltry lies. You saw nothing of a woman?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Very well. Out with you—out of my sight! Master Rich, come here to me.”