Igraine gave him a look that made his mouth close like a trap and his body stiffen in his chair. Radamanth continued his reading.
“The second chain was sold to John of Glastonbury. The third to the most noble Uther, Prince of Britain.”
Radamanth closed the book, and returned it to the press—orderly even in trifles. Lilith and Igraine had exchanged a mute look that meant everything. Slipping away without a word to either man, they went to Igraine’s bedroom, a great chamber hung with heavy red hangings and richly garnished. A carved bed stood in the centre. The two girls sat on it and stared into each other’s eyes. Igraine was breathing fast, and her face was pale.
“Know you Bedivere?” she said.
Lilith shook her head.
“Or John of Glastonbury?”
“No.”
“Or Uther?”
Lilith’s brown eyes brightened.
“Noble Uther I have often seen,” she said, “riding through Winchester on a black horse. A dark man, and sad-looking. He would be much like your Pelleas.”