“This same Tristan took her from us.”
“Ye gods, man, did you not fight?”
“My lord, this Tristan slew Ogier; he was too great for me. He would have slain me also had not the Lady Rosamunde held his hand.”
Jocelyn remained silent, staring down at Pandart’s face with its heavy servility and gaping fear. The man’s words had an import he could not ignore. Ogier, venal champion of the Church, was dead, and Rosamunde had escaped with Tristan into the woods.
“What more?” he asked anon, his black eyes gleaming in the light of the lamp, as he saw that Pandart had not ended his confession.
“My lord, concerning Columbe, whom Ogier slew——”
Jocelyn twisted in his chair, for the theme was bitter, and beyond his dignity. The realisation of Pandart’s knowledge was no pleasant draught to the episcopal palate.
“Whelp, what of Columbe?”
“This same Tristan was the girl’s brother.”
“Her brother?”