The battlements were wreathed in a sea mist curling like smoke over the grey stones and shrouding the huddled rooves of Scarborough from sight. The visitor, wearing scarlet velvet and a ring with the crossed keys of St Peter embossed on it, had been riding hard from York. Now he strode into the hall, flinging his cloak to a waiting servant, and demanding, ‘Where is he?’
At his voice a tall, languid knight emerged from a chamber off the main hall. ‘Say nothing, your grace.’ He made a perfunctory flourish. ‘We shall continue to hunt these peasants with their seditious writings. Entertain no doubts.’
‘You’ve made a poor showing of it so far,’ the visitor observed mildly.
‘Ever vigilant, your grace. The hounds of God never rest.’
Wine was brought. The two men settled down to discuss recent events in the county in greater detail. Outside came the incessant battering of the sea against the foundations of the castle rock.