He aimed for the poky chamber that served as an informal common room for the Earl’s senior staff, where the first person he met was Thomas Kipps, the Lord Chancellor’s Seal Bearer. Kipps was an amiable, friendly fellow, who was never less than perfectly attired. He winced when he saw Chaloner’s coat, and advanced purposefully with a damp cloth. ‘How was Russia?’ he asked as he set about the mess with determined vigour. Before Chaloner could reply, they were joined by Humphrey Leigh, the Earl’s Sergeant at Arms, a small, truculent martinet with a massive moustache. ‘I have heard it is nothing but windswept plains and bogs,’ Leigh said. ‘And its people are brutish and stupid.’ ‘Worse, there is not a single inn in the entire country.’ Kipps spoke in a shocked whisper. ‘I cannot imagine life without ale. Indeed, I am surprised it is possible.’ ‘Were you right about Archangel, Chaloner?’ asked Leigh. ‘I recall you saying before you left that the port would be closed by ice, and that no ship would be able to get through.’ ‘Like the Thames,’ mused Kipps, pausing in his scrubbing.
