“This is getting us nowhere.” Jehan stalked from end to end of the room they all shared in the guesthouse. They had it to themselves; it was spacious, the walls painted with faded vistas, a brazier set in the center of it to ward off winter’s chill. Nikki sat crosslegged on the bed Jehan shared with Alf, mending a rent in his mantle. Alf sat on a stool near the brazier, turning the pages of a book he had found in the library. Both had glanced up as Jehan spoke, a flash of black and one of silver. He stopped just short of a peeling pomegranate tree and spun about. “A full month we’ve been here. In a little while it will be Lent. And what do we have to show for it? One copy of Silvestris’ Cosmographia. Two pairs of blistered feet.” “Fifteen pages of the Gospels in a slightly antiquated hand.” Alf’s irony was not clearly perceptible. He closed the book and let it lie in his lap, regarding Jehan with a cool and steady stare. The Bishop of Sarum raked his fingers through his beard.
