Pandart prostrated himself, kissed the Bishop’s shoe, remained kneeling with his clumsy head bowed down between his shoulders. He dreaded the truths that were upon his tongue, and it was only when Jocelyn spurned him that he began to speak.
“Ogier is dead, my lord,” he said.
Jocelyn started in his chair, held out a quivering arm, half in wrath, half in dismay.
“Ogier dead!”
“Sire, I found his carcass in the woods; wolves had mangled it, but I knew the face.”
“Whose hand did this?”
“Tristan his comrade, who served in the guard.”
Jocelyn fingered his smooth round chin. The natural cunning had crept into his face; he hid his wrath and dissembled fear, and for the moment his voice lost its priestly drawl.
“What of the woman Rosamunde?” he asked.
Pandart grovelled on the stones.