“IN ORDER TO BREAK the deadlock between us and ensure peace in France and in your Continental domains, my lord duke, I have a proposal to put to you.” Louis of France sat forward on his throne, his fingers brushing the silver crucifix lying on his black-robed breast.
Tension gripped Henry’s body and he held his breath. He and Louis were seated on a dais in the great hall of a castle in Montmirail. Torches flared in the wall sconces, a fire blazed in the hearth, and smoke coiled upward through a hole in the roof. Sheaves of parchment, inkhorns, tablets, and quills littered an elmwood table at the foot of the dais. Witnesses and spectators packed the benches lining the hall.
“You have told us,” Louis continued, “of your earnest desire for a peaceful succession, and I am familiar with how you intend to bequeath your holdings.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, but he did not reply. The disposition of his domains was no secret, although he had not made a public declaration lest it irrevocably commit him.
Louis cleared his throat. “With this in mind, I propose that you officially divide up your empire between your three sons, and let them do homage for their lands now.”
Henry stared at Louis in disbelief. “Your Grace?”
“One day, when your sons come into possession of their inheritance, whether God has called you to Him or not, they will still hold their lands from the king of France as their overlord, even as you do. As part of the peace agreement why not have them swear homage to me now?”
Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, seated just behind him, murmured in his ear, “All well and good, but apart from your sons swearing homage to him, what else does he want?”
“Nothing else is involved, Your Grace?”
“You must renew your homage to me, of course, and later to my son, Philip, when he enters into his majority. Certain castles and lands must be returned to my vassals in Aquitaine and Brittany. Mere trifles, my lord duke.” Louis made a dismissive gesture with pale languid hands. They reminded Henry of a prelate’s, in sharp contrast to his own, scarred by the beaks of his falcons, callused by hours in the saddle.
“We can discuss the details later,” Louis added with a careful smile.
“I must think upon it.” Henry returned the smile. “Consult with my advisors.”
“Ask him to clarify his proposal still further,” de Lucy whispered. “Your sons will hold their lands how? Something disturbs me here, but I cannot put my finger on it.”
“Something Louis has said?”
“No, something he has not said.”
Bowing to his justiciar’s prudence, Henry slid a sideways glance at the French monarch, wondering what lurked behind that scrupulously polite expression.
“Can you be more specific, my lord king?”
Louis turned to one of his advisors, who whispered in his ear. After a moment Louis nodded slowly. “Your heir, Henry the Younger, will hold Normandy, Brittany, and Anjou sine medio from the king of France, either myself or my son Philip, when he inherits. Your second son, Richard, shall hold Poitou and Aquitaine, also sine medio from the French king, as the duchess Eleanor and her forebears have done for centuries.”
Henry nodded cautious agreement. He had not fully decided that Richard would be the future duke of his mother’s fief although he knew this son was the best choice.
“And your third son, Geoffrey, will hold Brittany from his eldest brother, and may marry the young Breton heiress, Constance, which will make him more acceptable to the Bretons.”
This was good news, as the Bretons had no love for the Normans.
“Sine medio,” muttered de Lucy. “I knew there was something.”
Henry saw it too and stiffened. “Hold directly, Your Grace? Without mediate?”
“That is correct.” Louis’s face held only a desire to please.
De Lucy leaned forward again. “Tell him we strongly object to the words ‘sine medio.’”
Henry turned around in his seat and lowered his voice. “I am not happy about the wording either, but is it worth disputing, my lord? Louis’s terms appear most generous. He sues for peace and ensures my sons’ succession. We can ensure the treaty is written to our advantage. Surely that is what we want?”
De Lucy frowned. “You understand, Your Grace, that this means your sons hold directly from France, without an intermediary? King Louis is their sole overlord. They can legally appeal to him to gain any rights—”
“My Latin is as sound as yours.” Henry shook his head. “What does it matter if the treaty says that my sons hold their lands directly from the French king? After all, I am their father, not Louis. My influence will prevail over his.”
“But with the treaty worded in this manner, Louis would be in a position to drive a wedge between you and your sons. Not now, while they are still too young to rule their possessions, but later.” De Lucy bit his lip. “Do not sign this, Your Grace, without weighing all the possible consequences.”
Henry turned to see Louis observing him in a fashion that reminded him of a black lizard lying on a rock, its pale eyes flickering.
“My justiciar has some misgivings, my lord king.”
“And you?”
Henry paused. De Lucy had succeeded in planting a seed of doubt in his mind. If, heaven forefend, one of his sons should have a grievance, he could go straight to the French king for redress of any wrong, bypassing his own father. But for the life of him, Henry could not envision such a circumstance. When he had been made duke of Normandy while his father was still count of Anjou, and had a difference of opinion developed between them, they would have dealt with the matter themselves, not gone to their French overlord. Still . . . He spread his hands to indicate he needed more convincing.
“Let me allay whatever misgivings exist.” Louis paused. “As a measure of good faith and to form yet another alliance between our two houses, I offer my ten-year-old daughter, Alais, as wife to your second son, Richard.”
God’s eyes! Marguerite’s younger sister was a great prize. Henry had long hoped for such a match but never thought it would fall into his lap with such ease. Two English princes married to princesses of France! Eleanor would be overjoyed. He wished he could tell her himself.
“We need to discuss her dowry, of course, and I would also like to see your daughter, my lord king.” It would be prudent to view the child first. Eleanor would never forgive him if her darling Richard were betrothed to a misshapen creature with a harelip, or an ugly squint, or the wits of a goose.
Louis nodded. “I will send someone to fetch her.”
Henry turned to de Lucy. “A fair offer?”
The justiciar tapped a cautious finger against his mouth. “I must confess, this was not what I expected.”
“We gain a truce, plus my sons’ future inheritance is secured, and now an advantageous alliance. It strikes me that Louis wants this treaty even more than I do.”
De Lucy held up a cautious finger. “But why does he want it? On the surface it appears to benefit you more than him.”
God save him from lawyers, Henry thought in irritation, and their everlasting suspicions. He accepted a goblet of wine from a servitor and let his glance take in the hall, making note of those present: French nobles, Angevin lords, Norman vassals, and, as he had expected, rebel barons from Poitou who had fled to the protection of France. Fortunately there was no sign of the de Lusignan brothers or he would have declared war on France then and there.
Even to this day, nine months after the Lusignan disaster, Henry’s heart lurched at the memory, and his own unwitting part in bringing it about, God assoil him. Bad enough that Salisbury was murdered and his nephew abducted, but suppose Eleanor had been captured as well? His body broke out into a cold sweat at the grim possibility. When the news had reached him in Rouen, he had been wild with anguish and fury, imagining a horde of savage insurgents descending on Poitiers and holding his children for ransom. Henry had gathered a strong fighting force and was ready to depart for Poitou when a courier arrived from Eleanor with the glad tidings that the danger had lessened, she had returned a measure of control to the area, and she did not require Norman troops on the scene to inflame the populace. He had been skeptical but she had been right; the duchy did seem to be settling down. Still, it had been a near thing. In truth, the never-ending rebellions, simmering hatreds, and constant skirmishes that had long marked Aquitaine and Brittany, and were starting to erupt even in Anjou, were of such growing concern that Henry had come to the conference with King Louis ready and willing to make concessions in the hope that peace with France might well ensure that peace would spread to all his lands as well. Thus far no concessions had been demanded of him. Excepting the wording of the treaty, which concerned de Lucy far more than it did him. . . .
Idly, Henry’s gaze moved to a group of churchmen standing against the far wall then suddenly flashed back. God’s eyes! Conspicuous by his height was the black-robed figure of Thomas Becket, head bent, flanked by two papal envoys. For a moment Henry had not recognized the gaunt, almost skeletal figure with the gray tonsure. How long had it been? Four years. The head lifted and Thomas’s burning gaze met his with the impact of a lance penetrating his chest.
With an effort he looked away, glancing around the hall until he found his three sons, seated on a bench with William Marshal and their entourage. Immediately he felt calmer. Eleanor had done him proud. Henry’s heart swelled as his gaze rested on his handsome offspring. Glowing like jewels, the three boys were the cynosure of every eye, and Henry basked in their reflected admiration. My glorious sons. My future. My posterity.
“Here she is, my lord king.” Louis’s voice interrupted his reflections.
“Ah, yes.”
Henry looked down from the dais. In front of him stood a maid dressed in a white gown and blue tunic, the Virgin’s colors, her eyes downcast, her manner demure. She was small and fine-boned like Marguerite, but not nearly so pretty, and as dark as her sister was fair. In the glossy black hair wound around her head in two thick braids, in her olive skin and aquiline nose could be seen the blood of her mother, Constance of Castile, Louis’s second wife, who had died at the girl’s birth.
“Alais is truly a pious child,” said Louis, with obvious affection, “who often goes with me to kiss the feet of the poor. A devoted daughter of Holy Church.”
“Admirable.” Henry pursed his lips in an effort not to laugh. “Although that is not the only quality one looks for in a future bride.”
“Indeed, I quite understand, my lord king,” Louis added hastily. “She is in excellent health, never fear, highly intelligent and even lettered. When her half sisters, my two oldest daughters, Marie and Alix”—Louis paused, and a fleeting expression that Henry could not read crossed his face—“when they were being educated, I saw no reason to exclude Alais, young as she was. Sound in mind and limb, you have my word.”
Louis’s two oldest daughters were also Eleanor’s. And had that expression on the king’s face been one of remembered loss, an indication that Louis had not entirely forgotten the errant wife who had escaped her destiny as queen of France?
“Her qualifications are most impressive,” said Richard de Lucy, “but what dowry does she bring?”
“The affluent county of Bourges. Satisfactory, I trust?”
More than satisfactory, Henry thought, but merely nodded.
“Greet the Norman duke, my child.”
The girl looked up and Henry felt himself collide head-on with a pair of huge brilliant eyes, dark as midnight, fringed by thick lashes. They did not belong in the face of a ten-year-old maid. Neither did the smile she gave him. Between her lips, which resembled twin halves of a ripe cherry, he could see little white teeth like a vixen. Both eyes and smile transformed the plain little face. “Devout” was not the word that came to mind when he looked at Alais of France, but he was pleased with what he saw. Someone like Alais, if she lived up to her promise, would be just the kind of wife to wean Richard away from his mother’s influence.
“Yes,” Henry said, smiling down at the girl. “She will do very nicely indeed.”
Louis nodded and dismissed his daughter.
“We have done well for ourselves,” Henry murmured to his justiciar.
“Yes and no. Sine medio is still a potential Pandora’s box and—”
“Your views are clear, my lord.” Henry made a gesture of dismissal. He knew his sons would never betray him.
He had gotten what he came for, and more besides. Much more. As he stepped down from the dais, Henry noticed a slight, close-lipped smile flit across Louis’s face. It looked—no, it must be a trick of the torchlight. But for an instant Henry thought he had glimpsed a smile of triumph.
The next morning Henry, seated on a gilded throne, watched his two older sons, Harry and Richard, kneel, place their hands between King Louis’s, and promise to be his men. His third son, young Geoffrey, standing behind him, whispered, “When may I do homage to my brother for Brittany?” As the only Plantagenet son not invested with a title, he had a disconsolate look on his face.
“When Harry is crowned king of England and invested with the title of duke of Normandy.”
“But when will that happen, Father? So long as there is no archbishop of Canterbury my brother Harry cannot be crowned king in your lifetime. Or even after, may that be many years hence.” Geoffrey crossed himself.
“Now that there is peace with France it is a matter to which I intend to devote all my attention.” Henry glanced curiously at this son, the one he knew least.
At the moment Geoffrey’s nose was understandably out of joint, but under normal circumstances he had every appearance of being a bright, astute boy. Geoffrey had been the only one of his sons to recognize the full implications of the lack of an archbishop of Canterbury. More time must be given to this son—to all his sons, he resolved—so that he understood each one as a separate individual and could better meet their needs. Even when they came into their majority, they would still depend upon him, their father after all, for advice and judgment.
“Harry is only fourteen, my son. Be patient.”
Geoffrey smiled politely. “When my brother is older, will Thomas Becket have returned to England by then?”
The boy was like a hound worrying a bone, although the seriousness of the situation could not be denied. The absence of an archbishop of Canterbury was indeed a major stumbling block, as there was no other way that Harry could be crowned—or none that he had yet found, Henry amended to himself.
When the homage ceremony was over, Geoffrey left to join his brothers, and Henry accepted the congratulations of the attending magnates. With the aid of his justiciar, he agreed on the return of particular lands and the exchange of nobles being held hostage. When the clerks had noted everything on their wax tablets, ready to transfer to parchment for signing, Henry rose to take his leave, wearied of sitting so long.
Louis, still seated on his gilded throne, looked up at him. “Since we are doubly allied now with the hope of mutual heirs in the form of grandsons, I beg a favor.”
Henry’s head went up like a pointer’s. “Should it lie in my power.”
“If, at the moment, there is someone more powerful than the king of England, name him.” Louis’s unctuous smile set Henry’s teeth on edge. “I have at my court two papal envoys sent by Rome, and it is not only their commission but their most fervent desire that you consent to meet with the archbishop of Canterbury.”
“The See of Canterbury is vacant of possession. There is no archbishop at the moment.”
“Indeed? The pope has not deposed him, my lord duke, and it is not in a king’s gift to depose an archbishop.”
At Louis’s look of feigned innocence, anger welled up in Henry. What cheek! Thomas’s doing, of course. How like him to take advantage of this situation just at the moment when it would be most awkward to refuse a meeting. But from the instant he’d seen Thomas in the crowded hall, Henry had known they must finally confront each other.
Louis made a placating gesture. “I wish only to aid in your reconciliation with the archbishop. What is your response?”
Henry forced a cordial tone to his voice. “I am not the prime mover in this quarrel, my lord king, and have never refused to make my peace with Thomas. After all, he was the one who fled England in secret, deserting his church, abandoning his flock. No one drove Thomas out of the kingdom.”
Louis held up his hands. “The tale has been told to me, lord king. Many times.”
“And no doubt you weary of the telling.” Henry laughed shortly. “If you wish to arrange a meeting, I will attend. But my sons and their entourage return to Poitou today. First I must see them off.” He bowed and left the hall.
Outside in the courtyard, Henry kissed the three boys. The French princess, Alais, was accompanying the Plantagenet entourage to Poitou, where, as Richard’s betrothed, she would be brought up under Eleanor’s supervision along with her sister Marguerite, who had been under Eleanor’s care for some years. It was the custom for the daughters who were betrothed to be brought up at the court of their future husbands.
“Your Grace?”
Henry turned to see Adela of Champagne, Louis’s third wife and queen of France, at his side, flanked by her two brothers, Count Henri of Champagne and Count Theobald of Blois. He had met Adela the night before at the celebratory feast held in the great hall in honor of the new accord. She held the young heir, four-year-old Philip of France, tightly by one hand and the princess Alais by the other. She bent to whisper something in Alais’s ear; the girl kissed her little half brother on each cheek and ran off to join Richard, who, after a disdainful look, ignored her.
“Your son doesn’t like his new betrothed, does he?” said Adela, a sullen, overripe woman with hard blue-gray eyes.
Unfortunately, Henry had come to a similar conclusion. The night before, the two had been seated together and Richard had treated Alais with obvious distaste. Henry could not imagine why, as the French princess appeared to have charmed both Harry and young Geoffrey.
“My son has barely met her,” he said. “After all, he is of an age where swords and armor are of more interest than girls.”
The queen raised her heavy brows. Henry recalled hearing that Adela was rumored to be wildly ambitious and the real power behind the French throne. Her first act as queen of France had been to marry off two of her brothers to Louis’s daughters by Eleanor, thus firmly binding her family to the House of Capet. Her third brother had already been appointed archbishop of Rheims. The vassals of France supposedly hated her, but Adela had produced the long-hoped-for male heir and could therefore do no wrong in Louis’s eyes.
“You have not met my son, Philip, who will one day be your overlord,” Adela said in a silky voice, thrusting the boy in front of her. Jeweled fingers with unusually long nails—they reminded Henry of talons—gripped the lad’s shoulders.
Henry looked down. So this was “the hammer of the English.” At first glance the boy looked puny and unprepossessing, a typical little Capet, with the light-blue eyes and fair hair of his father. But there the resemblance ended. One could see intention in that surly gaze, an aggressive thrust to the jaw, and something in his stance that indicated a willful and stubborn nature. Henry was somewhat taken aback to see that Philip was taking his measure even as he was taking the boy’s. He could just imagine all the hateful things the French prince must have been told about the king of England. The Antichrist himself. The Arch-Fiend incarnate.
“A fine lad,” Henry forced himself to say. “You will miss your sister, Alais, I expect.”
“Yes.” Philip spoke in a clear high voice.
Adela pushed him away. “Run along now.”
The boy bowed and, with a last look over his shoulder, obediently ran off. Henry, who felt as if a shadow had just come between him and the sun, was relieved to see him go. “You will miss your stepdaughter too, madam,” Henry said, searching for something to say.
“Miss Alais?” Adela gave an unpleasant laugh. “On the contrary, I shall be glad to see her go.”
Henry was taken aback. “Her father thinks most highly of her.”
“Oh, her father. All his children are candidates for sainthood.” Adela shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “The things I could tell you about that girl!”
Henry felt his civility wearing thin and abruptly changed the subject.
“Did your wives come with you?” he asked Adela’s brothers, Counts Theobald and Henri, curious to see Eleanor’s now-grown daughters.
Theobald of Blois looked down his nose. “Women have no place at such a gathering.”
“My wife, Marie, is holding court in Champagne,” said Count Henri, more pleasant and better-looking than his brother. “She has invited a host of troubadours and jongleurs for entertainment.” He laughed indulgently. “The countess is a patron of the arts.”
“Ah, she takes after her mother!”
“Her mother?” Henri of Champagne exchanged puzzled glances with his sister and brother.
“My wife, Eleanor,” said Henry distinctly, “the former queen of France, now queen of England as well as duchess of Aquitaine, is your wife’s mother, my lord. Or had you forgotten?”
The count’s eyes popped and he looked as if someone had just made an unpleasant smell. Not only forgotten, Henry realized, but was deeply resentful at being reminded of this deplorable fact.
“I must see my children off,” murmured Henry, who felt as if he just trodden on a nest of vipers. What a family.
After the boys had left for Poitou, Henry went back inside the castle to prepare for his confrontation with Thomas Becket. When he thought about Marie of Champagne, he could not help but smile. How extraordinary that this child whom Eleanor had not seen since she was four years old should share her mother’s tastes so perfectly.
“Blood will tell,” he said to de Lucy, who had joined him. “After all, how far does the apple fall from the tree?”
“Your Grace?”
“My heart goes out to poor Marie, forced into that wretched family of bloodsuckers and parasites.” Henry smote his fist into his palm, then slowed his step as an idea struck him. “My lord, I want you to arrange for a courier to be sent to the countess of Champagne. Now, before the count returns.” Henry stroked his chin reflectively as they walked down the passage.
“The courier is to say he is from the countess’s mother. Something to the effect that, let me see, the duchess of Aquitaine greets her daughter, the countess of Champagne, and ah, invites her to visit Poitiers at her earliest convenience. It has been far too long since they saw one another and so on.”
De Lucy glanced at him strangely, but the corner of a smile twitched at his lips. “The man is to commit that to memory naturally; nothing is to be written or traced back to its source.”
Henry grinned. “Exactly so.” After a moment his grin slowly faded. “What have you found out?”
De Lucy glanced both ways down the empty passage then lowered his voice. “This meeting was Thomas’s idea, apparently, but he has the pope’s blessing.”
“What does he want?”
“What he has always wanted, my lord king. To return to Canterbury with a free hand and no royal interference.”
Henry let out a long sigh. “And I want a free hand in England without church interference. One of us must yield. ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’ Nor can a crown divided. Is there any chance of seeing him alone?”
“I am sure those envoys will stick to him like mud. If I may offer a word of advice? If a compromise can be made, I beg you to make it. We need him in Canterbury, Your Grace.”
“I will do my best.”
Two papal envoys approached and de Lucy stood aside.
“We will escort you to a private chamber,” said one. “Thomas will join you there.”
“I would prefer to see Thomas alone,” said Henry.
“It is the pope’s wish that there be witnesses to this meeting, Your Grace. I am sure you understand.”
Only too well. In the pope’s place he would have made the same request.
“Just there.” The envoy pointed to a door at the far end of the passage. “The Holy Father sends you his love and blessing, Your Grace. He hopes this meeting will have a positive outcome.”
Henry was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed on the door. All thoughts of Eleanor and Marie of Champagne were gone from his mind. Much to his vexation, his palms felt damp, and his heart hammered. One of the papal envoys darted ahead to open the door.
Inside was an unadorned stone chamber with an elmwood table and cushioned bench. Apart from two clerks perched on high stools, styli and tablets in hand, the chamber was empty. Henry felt a surge of resentment. Was Thomas deliberately keeping him waiting? He seated himself on the cushioned bench while one of the papal envoys poured wine into a pewter goblet. Suddenly the door opened. Startled, Henry half rose then sank back onto the bench, setting down his goblet.
Thomas stood on the threshold looking like the angel of death with his ashen face and funereal robes. He walked a few paces into the chamber, stopped, then threw himself at Henry’s feet. This was so unexpected that Henry had no time to mask his reaction. He stared down at the gray-tonsured head, struggling to hold back a rush of emotion. Come home to Canterbury, Henry longed to say, the words trembling on his lips. I accept your terms. Come home and let us work together as we used to do in the days of our glory and invincibility. The iron fist in the iron gauntlet.
Composing himself with great effort, Henry rose and gently raised Thomas to his feet.
“Old friend.” Henry stopped, embarrassed by the gruff sound of his own voice. “Are you as bone-weary as I am from all the years of contention and backbiting? Are you truly willing to resolve our differences?”
“Nothing would please me more, my lord king.” Thomas’s cheeks were damp with tears. “As God is my witness, I have missed you.”
Before Henry could respond, one of the papal envoys broke in excitedly, “Will you submit to the king’s will, my lord archbishop? To the wishes of the pope and the prelates in England?”
After a moment’s pause, Thomas said, “‘I held my tongue and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me.’”
The words of the Psalmist grated on Henry’s ears. It was not an answer.
“Will you do as the papal envoy says, Thomas? Will you have peace between us?”
“You treated me as a pariah, my lord king, and abjured our friendship.” Thomas’s brooding gaze searched Henry’s face.
“Not so. You forget all the favors I bestowed upon you. Did I not raise you up from obscure law clerk to the highest office in the land? Proofs of my abiding affection and respect.” Henry sensed the propitious moment was passing.
“I forget nothing.” The archbishop’s voice throbbed with suppressed emotion.
The papal envoy frowned. “Then why do you rebuff the king’s rule instead of showing gratitude?”
“I never failed in my loyalty to the crown.” Thomas wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Neither as chancellor nor as primate. The world knows that. Nor am I ungrateful for your gifts, my lord king. But it is no longer to you alone I must show gratitude, not at the expense of obedience to God.”
The second papal envoy looked exasperated. “Do you suggest that you cannot obey the king’s will and serve God as well?”
“In any conflict between God and king, I must choose God. Whatever the consequences.” Thomas signed himself.
Henry masked his frustration and turned to the papal envoy. “Let Thomas behave to me as the most holy of his predecessors did toward the least of mine, and I will be content. If he agrees, I welcome him back to Canterbury.” Henry was reminding them of the document he had presented to the bishops at Clarendon—the one based on ancient customs of the realm, the one that would have ensured that churchmen who committed crimes were subject to the law of the king’s courts, the same as any other citizen. But he had also opened a loophole here, and he hoped Thomas would take advantage of it to slip through.
“Well said, my lord king.” One of the papal envoys nodded his approval. He turned to Thomas. “Your Grace?”
“If my predecessors, most of them far holier than I, had not given in to the reigning king but held firm against the abuses leveled at Holy Church, there would be no need for me to fight against these abuses now.”
“The English king has humbled himself,” said the second papal envoy in a cold voice. “It would behoove you to do the same, Your Grace.”
Thomas looked up toward heaven. “I humble my spirit in daily prayer, and my body in fasting and penances.”
“Excessive spiritual fervor is the stuff of martyrs, Your Grace,” added the first envoy, “and no one, including the Holy Father, has required this of you. Your flock needs you in Canterbury. What say you to the king’s offer?”
There was no response. With a heavy heart, Henry could see Thomas struggling with his pride, his conscience, his desire to be right. The primate burned with an inner flame, convinced he was serving the highest power of all, Almighty God. But all the while Thomas was serving only to justify his own uncompromising judgments. How could one reason with such a zealot? The silence became ominous.
Henry bowed to the envoys. “There is no more to be said. Nothing has changed.”
Without a backward glance he walked briskly out of the chamber.