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Andrew past the soldiers’ tents, the infirmary, and the kirk, to a half-timbered house of imposing size. A clerk greeted him at the door and led him through a hall in which several men lounged, all with the presence and expensive clothing of nobles, and on into a windowless chamber monopolised by a large table with intricately carved legs. A leather-backed chair stood behind it, a hide-covered bench before it. Three oil lamps illuminated the table, the doorway and the chairs. Andrew settled on the bench. Presently a servant arrived with wine, a bowl of fragrant soup and a chunk of brown bread.
    ‘Master Thomas invites you to take some nourishment and assures you he will not come so hastily that you need hurry.’
    Andrew was not acquainted with Master Thomas. He wondered whether he should be pleased by the courtesy or whether he should prepare himself for a long delay. It irked him that he might have taken some rest in the dormitory after all. But the soup warmed him, the bread filled him, and the wine soothed him.
    He would like to know the lie of the land before speaking with Master Thomas. According to Abbot Adam, Master Thomas had been vague about precisely why he required an additional priest, particularly one well versed in diplomacy. It was to be assumed that King Edward trusted Master Thomas or he would have replaced him; thereforehe would share Abbot Adam’s rather than Andrew’s political affinity, at least officially. Andrew must trust to his own skill at divining the man’s heart, a difficult task with a stranger. He bowed his head and prayed for God’s guidance.
    Approaching voices brought him to his feet. The door opened and a large man in a dark gown quite tight about the middle paused, his head turned away, still summarising orders to a clerk. When he dismissed the clerk, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, bringing short-fingered, dimpled hands to rest on his belly.
    ‘Father Andrew Kerr, at last.’ The voice was nasal despite a hawk-like nose that should have provided sufficient breath for more resonance. Master Thomas had deep-set eyes, heavy brows, fleshy lips, several chins and ears with oddly elongated lobes. His grey hair was clipped short about his tonsure and oiled.
    Andrew thought him an exceedingly ugly man. ‘ Benedictie , Master Thomas.’
    The master sniffed. ‘We expected you a week ago. I pray it was not misfortune that delayed you.’
    ‘I am surprised that my coming was so long in the planning as you imply. I learned of it but a few days before departing.’
    Thomas’s expression was unreadable as he motioned Andrew to sit. Moving around the table to the chair behind, he walked heavily and with a pronounced limp.
    As he took his seat Thomas frowned and shook his head, jiggling his many chins. ‘I find myself in a parlous position, Father Andrew. I have gathered all my wits about me and keep them well honed.’
    Andrew thought this an odd beginning.
    Thomas blotted his flushed, sweaty face with a cloth. ‘I am not a doubter by nature, so I blunder.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, stubby hands folded. ‘War kills courtesy. So I ask you frankly, where is your heart in this matter of the king of Scots?’
    Although surprised by the man’s abruptness, Andrew had prepared for this question. ‘My mission is to serve God and to obey my master. Whether I hear the confession of an Englishman or a Scotsman, I keep the sanctity of the confessional.’
    ‘I inquired about your heart, not your head.’
    ‘I do not think about it.’
    ‘You still answer with your head. You are a man, you must feel one way or another.’
    ‘I mean no disrespect, but you are wrong that a man must take sides in this. My ultimate Master is God, the Pope his mortal representative, and he is neither an Englishman nor a Scotsman.’ Andrew bowed his head, praying that the man would be satisfied.
    Thomas sighed and fidgeted with his ring, the blue stone catching the light. He rose