“I am the King’s servant,” he said.
The ship had drawn in towards the shore. She was lying to with her sails put aback, her black hull rising and falling morosely against the tumultuous purple of the clouds. Nearer still a small galley came heading for the shore with a gush of foam at her prow as the men in her bent to the oars. The galley came swinging in on the broad backs of the sluggish waves, and shooting the surf, grounded on the sands, the men in her leaping out and dragging her beyond the reach of the sea.
There was a more mellow light on Mark’s face as he pointed Jehan to the boat, and the ship swaying on the sun-gilded waves.
“They will carry you to Caerleon,” he said.
“And you, sire?”
“There is need of me at Tintagel.”
“I have sworn troth.”
Jehan stood and looked into the west at the clouds gold-ribbed, domed, snow, and purple. His face might have been lit by the warm glow of a lamp, so clear and radiant was it. He had thrust the King’s ring into his bosom.
“The Lord Jesu speed me,” he said; “through the Lady Igraine’s face I am no longer a coward. God speed me to save her!”
Mark kissed him on the forehead.