The Camelot Chamber was exquisitely decorated, and its carved mantled hearth, with a woodwose in the middle and a Robin Goodfellow face on either side, housed a merrily spitting fire. The flames crackled the pine-scented logs and illuminated the gorgeous arras that adorned the pink-plastered walls above the polished oak wainscoting. The floor had a tiled mosaic replicating what the master mason had seen in an ancient Roman villa along the Great North Road: a brilliant depiction of leaping dolphins above cream-crested blue waves. The chamber was dominated by the splendid round table furnished with high-backed chairs cushioned in purple and red stuffing. In the centre of the table rose the gold-encrusted replica of the ship that took Arthur into the Eternal West. Simon Roseblood always met his council of sworn men here. Tonight the conclave was most serious in the face of the threats gathering against him. Raphael stared hard at his father: his black and silver hair was combed back to reveal his leathery face, and those clever eyes looked deeply troubled, whilst the resolute chin and mouth betrayed some of the tension he must be feeling.
