White-faced, he is lunging forward, arms outstretched. 'My Lord! No!' Swivelling, he sees Robert. Then from within the folds a shape lurches forward and he raises the knife to finish them.
The gold and silver threads protect his assailant like thin armour. He launches himself at the unseen assassin. A narrow-bladed knife appears in his hand.
He catches a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye and gives a shout. A real wind from an open window tuckers underneath as he reaches the door and one of the tapestries bulges to meet him. The embroidered leaves seem rustled by the wind as the tapestries billow from the wall. Tapestries on both sides sway with his urgent haste, their own gold thread bringing the scenes of the hunt to life, a falcon stooping to its prey, a stag among the trees with huntsmen closing for the kill. He glitters, sheds light as he strides along, his red-gold hair, his lucent skin, his shimmering garments, brighter than fire. The flickering fires of the cressets that line the corridor are not more bright than he is. His brocade gown, wide sleeved, embroidered with silver harts and gold crowns, is swinging loosely open as he hurries towards his bathhouse. He is wearing soft kidskin ankle boots that make no sound on the polished tiles. Steam billows through the half-open door ahead. A tall fair young man strides down the narrow corridor towards the sound of splashing water.
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