The archbishop had announced
an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had
impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both
urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command,
the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate
would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he
would wait in the gardens.
An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had
that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's
fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and
re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set
up a tuneful jingle.
So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The
prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with
them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him.
He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he
had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian
done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His
motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way
for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who
oppose him.
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