He’d ignored the sounds of servants about their business in the house, the wafts of fish stew, the sun streaming into the room through bed curtains he’d forgotten to close. But he couldn’t ignore the cheerful voice yelling from the street: “Hey! Slugabed! My Lord Hastings! Stir yourself! Hey!” Jane groaned and tightened against him. “Is that the time?” she whispered, but showed no sign of opening her eyes. He disentangled himself, stood up and stretched lazily, enjoying his freedom to look at her for as long as he wanted, disregarding the voice, which was still caterwauling away outside, for a moment longer. He knew that voice. It was Howard’s son, Thomas. He must want to walk to Council together. Without bothering to hide his nakedness—if Thomas Howard knew to find him here, he’d know why, and Hastings was proud of that—he went to the window and waved. Young Howard was leaning against a tree trunk. There were green shadows in his hair. “All right,” Hastings called, resigning himself to spending this glorious morning niggling over the details of the coronation next month.
