“He had tricked you in Agravale that he might learn the truth.”
Jocelyn started up and began to stride to and fro within the narrow compass of the walls. His hands played with the gold cross at his breast, and he frowned often, worked his white teeth upon his full red lip. Pandart knelt before the empty chair, watching his master with furtive awe. He had dreaded this truth-telling for many weeks.
“Well, fool, what else?”
Jocelyn stood and scowled at Pandart, evil prophet that he was. It was in his mood to vent his viciousness upon the man, since he was impotent to harm those who had baulked his passions.
“What more would my lord know?”
“Ape, what followed? Where is this Rosamunde?”
“The man Tristan rode with her into the woods.”
“Whither?”
Pandart spread his hands; his broad mouth twitched.
“My lord, I overheard certain words of theirs,” he said, “while I played eavesdropper in the garden. The woman spoke of the abbey of Holy Guard by the sea. She would turn nun. The man Tristan vowed to guard her thither.”