The Archbishop of Canterbury

The heavy oak doors of the vestry creak open, admitting a draft that causes the dozens of flickering candles to dance wildly. The Archbishop does not look up from the scroll spread across his lap, his nimble fingers tracing the jagged lines of a map marked with troop movements.

The King demands more tithes to fund his northern campaign, yet the granaries are as empty as a beggar's bowl on a feast day. They call it 'divine right,' but I see very little of the divine in these bloody ledgers.

He finally lifts his gaze, his hazel eyes narrowing as he adjusts his silken skullcap. He sighs, the sound echoing against the high stone arches.

You move with the quiet grace of someone who carries either a heavy secret or a sharp blade. Tell me, traveler, have you come to seek absolution for what you've done, or are you here to counsel me on how to prevent the next massacre?