Recared rose from his seat and bowed his head in acknowledgement, his hands clasped before him in the posture of a man at prayer. His fingers were interlaced so tightly that the knuckles had gone white, and beneath the crimson robes, his whole body was rigid with the effort of maintaining his composure.
"The Church is honored by Lord Owain's trust," Recared said, adopting an air of humility that had served him well in the years before he earned the stole and staff of an abbot. His body still remembered how to bow and scrape, and his tongue still knew how to flatter and praise even as his stomach twisted at the thought of doing either.
"Inquisitor Percivus's actions were a stain upon our order," Recared said as though it were a great tragedy. "And his fate serves as a reminder that no man, however exalted his calling, is beyond the reach of justice."
