Emilia
West Sussex, 1662
She should move faster. Soon these corridors will be crowded with servants stoking fires, preparing breakfast and lugging buckets of water in from the pump. Emilia Lennox is expected to be dressed and seated in the great hall of Walden House by eight. Lady Agnes, her mother-in-law, won’t tolerate any disruption to the routine she has imposed on the household. Emilia increases her pace. She could visit the gallery during the day, but it’s not the same. There’s something magical about being alone with the paintings, communing with them in the near-dark. Robert’s grandfather had assembled the collection. Before he took possession of Walden House, the artworks – including some masterpieces by Van der Weyden and Bandinelli – were languishing in a damp storeroom, their brilliance smothered by layers of cloth. The former earl, possessing little knowledge of art, had purchased the bulk of the paintings through a series of art dealers, hoping to please his young wife. When she died, he ordered them taken down and hidden away. His son recognised them for what they were – glimpses into countless lives and places, portals to other worlds. Emilia is their custodian now. It has taken years of wasted canvas, ruined parchment and frustrated tears for her to understand how important they are to her. Now, when she goes to her studio in the old folly tower, she will be ready. She will not doubt her abilities or give in to distraction. Her inner critic will be silent, keeping its opinions to itself.
She hurries up the grand staircase, flinching at the cold. The threat of autumn is balanced by the promise of red leaves and bare branches and ripe plums. She pictures the plums nestled in a porcelain bowl. Five – no, seven. Odd numbers look more interesting on the page. She’s never painted fruit before but perhaps she is ready. She will sketch them in silver chalk before applying a wash of carmine mixed with umber. The plum’s skin is tight and rubbery. If you caress it with your thumb, it leaves a bluish bruise. How to capture this? What colour comes closest to such a bold shade?
Hidden in her dresser is a small pot of precious lapis lazuli which she’s been saving for months. She ordered it on a whim, even though the cost was exorbitant. It arrived along with brushes and other pigments, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a lump of wax bearing the tradesman’s mark. A letter tucked inside the parcel provided a detailed description of each item and a short recipe for use. Addressing her as ‘my lady’, the supplier had thanked Emilia for her patronage and invited her to visit his workshop in person, should she ever find herself in London. I have many items which might interest you, he had written. I can source anything Your Ladyship requires. Emilia pictured herself entering the workshop, greeting the man at his counter, filling a basket with supplies. Then she crumpled the note and threw it in the fire. She could no sooner travel to London to buy art materials than leap out the window and fly. Even if she could convince Robert’s family to allow her to leave, a tradesman’s shop run by a stranger was no place for a woman. Someone would need to accompany her. Who could be trusted with such a mission? Sir John’s valet? One of the workers from the estate? She could not ask Robert. He was hardly ever home and knew nothing of her artmaking.
Passing a window, she hears the plaintive call of a nightingale. Its loneliness pricks her heart. Robert has spent more time away from home this year than ever before. He often stays in Suffolk or Kent with friends, fellow soldiers who fought to drive back the Roundheads at Dunbar. The men engage in day-long drinking sessions and lose themselves hunting in the forest. According to Robert, they share stories of their fallen comrades. Once, fuelled by grief and wine, they burned down an abandoned cottage. Robert doesn’t want to expose her to that kind of violence, so she must stay behind.
Lady Agnes and Sir John are here, but they’re Robert’s parents, not hers. After seven years of marriage, she still feels like a guest in their house, albeit one who has been given permission to roam. If she was a mother, things might be different. But Robert is seldom at home. So far, nothing has come of their efforts. Robert seemed understanding when they were first married. Over time, his patience has worn thin. Emilia suspects he blames her for their failure to conceive. She has come to dread their awkward couplings. He once remarked to her, in front of his parents, that barrenness was God’s punishment for a woman’s lack of faith. Hoping to prove him wrong, Emilia increased her prayers. It hasn’t helped.
At least she has her art and the masterpieces to keep her company. She chanced upon the gallery one morning shortly after her arrival, when a wrong turn led her not to the dining hall where Lady Agnes was waiting but to the corridor of priceless treasures. Sir John recounted the gallery’s history later that day, although he was more interested in showing her the heraldic plasterwork commemorating each branch of the family and inviting her to admire Walden’s perfectly symmetrical chimneystacks. He was excessively proud of the estate, which had been transferred to the Lennox family sometime during the thirteenth century in recognition of the loyalty they’d shown during a foiled rebellion.
‘Edward was the king then,’ he told her. ‘Or was it Richard? In any case, the rebels were rounded up and taken to the Tower of London where they were… they were…’ He trailed off, seeming suddenly to lose his place. As he gazed at her, Emilia had the uncomfortable impression he did not recognise her. She was about to ask if he needed to sit down when he caught sight of the gardens through the windows and his expression brightened. Hurrying her downstairs, he began praising Walden’s exotic blooms, grown in distant soils and transplanted to the estate’s flowerbeds. ‘None as fair as you, my dear. You are a rose surrounded by common daisies.’
His vociferous praise, coming so soon after his abandoned tale, felt like an obvious attempt to mask his forgetfulness. Emilia chose not to embarrass him. She knew she was fortunate to live here. The artwork alone was worth any amount of discomfort.
Reaching the darkened gallery, she pauses. Her candle casts a beam across the ornate floral runner. The descending quiet seems laden with expectation, as if the paintings have just stopped talking. Emilia breathes in their intoxicating scent of oil paint and varnish. Tell me your secrets, she prays, stepping over the threshold. Give me your approval. Lend me your light.
Once the final resting place of broken furniture and faded tapestries, the folly tower where Emilia paints now resembles one of those sky-filled eyries favoured by astronomers. Constructed during the last century by Robert’s grandfather, the building was originally intended to be decorative rather than functional. Medieval flourishes in the form of arched doors and flying buttresses add a touch of twelfth-century Gothic grandeur to the exterior. Two large windows lend sufficient light to the sketching easel at the room’s far end and the circular table which holds an arrangement of flowers. Emilia changes the flowers herself, waiting until she is sure they have nothing more to teach her before disposing of them in the little wilderness bordering the drive. Capturing their transformation from vibrant blossoms to withered stalks was one of the first challenges she set herself. It seemed to her a dry but important study, the kind of exercise an artist’s apprentice might be required to complete to his master’s satisfaction before graduating to the fussier elements of flesh and fabric. She returns to the practice often, pleased to note the gradual improvement of her skills.
Her first clumsy attempts were fed to the fire. The next few turned out better. Once, excited by her progress, she invited Lady Agnes to join her after morning prayers. She should have known better. The woman’s scowl as she gazed at the canvas alerted Emilia to her error. Too late, she saw the piece through her visitor’s eyes, its flaws as evident as its merits.
‘A sorry waste of effort. Did you reprimand the serving girl for letting the fire go out in the library last week? That would have been a better use of your time. You’ll never learn to be the mistress of a great house, Emilia, if you can’t command the staff.’
Emilia swore afterwards that she would never reveal her work to anyone before it was ready. She hasn’t shown Robert up to the tower. She dreads seeing her mother-in-law’s expression cross his placid face. Before the marriage banns were read, Robert promised to protect her interests and make her happy. Emilia is certain this does not include the pursuit of hobbies that Lady Agnes considers a regrettable use of energy and resources. Sir John is aware of her artistic pursuits. Emilia had to tell him. When she decided to take up painting, hoping to fill the long hours in which Robert was absent, she had to ask Sir John if knew of any place on the property she could claim for her studio. She couldn’t paint in her bedchamber; at night the fumes would bother her and there was no room for the kinds of materials an artist required – an easel, a pumice stone to smooth roughened canvas, a pig’s bladder to store wet paint.
Sir John’s suggestion of the folly tower turned out to be ideal, even if, when she first mounted the stairs and looked around, she was dismayed to find the place was damp and smelled of mice. A rotting bedframe stood against one wall. Torn books were scattered across the floor. Stained clothing hung on a rusted coat hook and an iron pike gathered dust in a corner. Someone had lived up there once and their essence – slippery, elusive – remained, trapped in all the broken things they’d left behind. A foul smell – not quite as powerful as the urine stink of the mice colony but equally unpleasant – lingered in the abandoned belongings. Emilia was afraid it would persist. Once she’d cleared the clutter, the smell disappeared and she was grateful to have a place to which she could slip away and turn her gaze inwards, sifting through the information she’d absorbed during the morning’s perusal of the gallery.
Tying an apron over her silk dress, she picks up a stick of graphite and settles herself in front of her easel, staring at the flowers in their vase until the petals imprint themselves on her eyelids and she can still see them when she looks away. Observation is the hardest thing to learn. To make the picture in her head match the one on the parchment, she must cast off the things people say she is – a beautiful woman, an exotic flower, an earl’s daughter-in-law, a childless bride. For a few hours, she must find inside herself a space generous enough to accommodate the demands of her consciousness. She must transform fear into courage. Blessed by her favourite artists, how can she possibly fail?
As she is sketching the curved sepal of a striped tulip, she hears hoofbeats floating up from the drive below. Robert returning early. A flicker of irritation at the disruption is followed swiftly by a surge of guilt. Sighing, she takes off her apron and goes to greet him.
But it is not Robert. The stranger has already dismounted by the time she reaches the courtyard. A wide-eyed stableboy clutches the panting horse’s reins. Sir John stands on the man’s left, gesturing at the house and grounds. As Emilia approaches, he is describing the variety of animals roaming the woodlands.
‘Giant stags, sir, dozens of them.’
‘I thought they favoured wetter conditions.’
Sir John’s chin wobbles as he shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. They prefer a dry, shaded wilderness. But they must still have water. You see that hillock there?’ He points. ‘That’s the source of a stream which runs all the way through the property. If Robert were here, I’d ask him to show you. Follow that stream and you’ll have all the deer your heart desires.’
The stranger grins. The skin on his hands and face is heavily freckled. An embroidered gold crest, the Stuart coat of arms, blazes on his dark coat. Reaching into a bag slung across his chest, he produces a coin which he hands to the stableboy. The boy bows and leads the horse away in the direction of the stables. The stranger must be important, Emilia thinks. Deer are precious. But who is he? She hears the stranger ask Sir John what else one might expect to find.
‘Oh, coneys, pheasants, pine martens. But the giant bucks are the star attraction. At last count there were thirty-two. I recorded the number in a little book. The largest buck was a legend in the district. The workers called him Colossus. It took six hours for us to track him through the forest, another two to bring him to his knees. Now the beast’s head hangs in the great hall, greeting Walden’s guests and presiding over our family’s meals.’
‘How interesting,’ the stranger replies. ‘And do you welcome many visitors here? Are the roads busy now that the countryside has been rid of the Parliamentarian rabble?’
Before Sir John has a chance to answer, Emilia steps out of the shadows.
The stranger’s mouth falls open and he blinks several times. ‘And who is this fair beauty?’
Sir John beams. ‘My daughter-in-law, Emilia. Isn’t she a vision? When she was just a child – our families have enjoyed a long association – an artist begged her mother for permission to paint her portrait. He said her hair was the same colour as a frozen waterfall he’d glimpsed on his travels throughout Christendom. We heard a rumour the painting was purchased by someone in the old king’s retinue and displayed on the walls of the palace at Whitehall. Then the war began, and no one knows what became of it. Fortunately for us, we can admire the original. When my son Robert told me he intended to make her his bride, I advised him to hurry lest his older brother swoop in and marry her first. Will was always a fool for a pretty face.’
The stranger, emboldened by Sir John’s praise, runs his eyes up and down her figure appreciatively before bowing his head. ‘Lady Emilia, permit me to present myself. My name is Hugh Bancroft. I am an agent of His Majesty, the King of England.’
Curtseying low, Emilia forces herself to smile. ‘And what brings you to Walden, Mr Bancroft?’
‘I’m here at the king’s request. Sir John has generously offered to host me until my duties are completed. I plan to stay one night, perhaps two, depending on how long it takes.’
‘How long what takes?’
He makes no reply but continues to smile. Experiencing a sudden chill, Emilia glances up, expecting to find the sun has vanished behind a cloud. The bright disc is still there, its rays glancing off Walden’s gleaming gables and chimneystacks. Sir John’s favourite saying resounds in her head. The sun shines on Walden like God smiles upon His blessed flock.
Sir John turns and leads them towards the house, leaving Emilia to fall into step with the king’s man.
‘Your husband is away,’ he observes.
‘He’s visiting some friends in Suffolk.’
‘Is he frequently absent? Does he often leave you alone?’
‘I’m not alone. Sir John is here, and Lady Agnes. All the servants. Some of them fought in the king’s army at Hayward Heath. They hid after the Royalists fell and returned when it was safe to do so.’
‘What about your brother-in-law?’ He glances at her sideways. ‘Will, is it? Is he at home? Does he visit?’
A ribbon of fear unfurls in her stomach. ‘William no longer lives here. We haven’t seen him in years.’
Holding her skirts, she hurries to catch up with Sir John, following him into the entrance hall where the scent of turf, burned a hundred years ago by Lennox ancestors, seems to linger, lending a sweet earthy note to the aromas of beeswax and warm bread rising from the kitchens below. The house is curiously hushed. As Sir John shows the king’s man to the library, Emilia asks a passing serving girl where her mistress might be found. The girl informs her that Lady Agnes has taken to her bed with a headache. Emilia is relieved. Agnes’s blunt, forthright manner would not suit the circumstances; better that Emilia uncover the reason for Hugh Bancroft’s visit without causing offence. Entering the library, she hears Sir John offering to show Bancroft his translated copy of Brant’s Ship of Fools. Bancroft gives the folio a quick glance then asks if he might look around. Sir John is busily engrossed in his book, so it is up to Emilia to offer to accompany him.
‘No need,’ the man replies. ‘I will do nicely on my own.’
‘But the house is large,’ Emilia says, following him out into the hall. ‘The woods are extensive. It’s very easy to get lost.’
For some reason, she thinks of protecting the gallery, keeping the precious masterpieces safe from the unsettling gaze of this strange man. He won’t be deterred.
‘Your concern is noted, madam. Don’t worry about me. A long walk is just what’s needed after so many hours riding. I can take care of myself.’ After checking when he needs to return for supper, he wanders off in the direction of the Great Hall, leaving Emilia to face her misgivings alone.
Six hours later, as they are eating their first course, she questions Bancroft. He grew up, he tells her, in a village near London. His family bred horses. When the war broke out, the horses were donated to the army in support of the Royalist cause.
‘Did you see much of the fighting?’
Bancroft stops chewing and sets down his fork. His gaze is trained on the steaming pie the serving girl has just begun to carve, rich juices spilling onto the silver platter. ‘I did, my lady. I had never seen a dead body before I went soldiering to defend the king. Now I see them everywhere. Friends and comrades, enemies, too. They’re like restless ghosts, haunting me.’
‘Robert was in the cavalry. He fought at the Battle of Dunbar, under David Leslie.’
‘A coward, that Leslie.’ Bancroft’s expression hardens. Anger flickers in his pale eyes and there is a film of sweat on his skin. He looks different, Emilia thinks, and yet more like himself – as though she has scrubbed away the topmost layer of a painting and found the original sketch lurking beneath. He is right about David Leslie. Robert once described the disastrous Roundhead rout in vivid detail. The explosion of muskets, the thud of bodies, the unnatural screaming of horses. Years later, the nightmares continue to haunt him. She wonders if he regrets recounting those ghoulish experiences to her in the darkness of their bedchamber. Perhaps it explains why he seemed to change almost overnight once they wed. Why he was suddenly so eager to escape her company. The first time he’d gone off without a word, a few months after their marriage, she’d been distressed. But Lady Agnes told her that she should not expect to be informed of his every movement. A good wife did not question her husband’s motives or express concern over his whereabouts. A good wife obeyed.
‘War casts a long shadow,’ she says, then, trying to lighten the sombre mood, she adds, ‘but things have been set right, praise God. The king has returned.’
‘A mighty great thing,’ Bancroft agrees. ‘England has been given a chance to correct the mistakes of the past – and people can now be brought to account.’
‘Which people?’
‘Why, the regicides. The criminals who committed treason and betrayed the king’s father.’
Emilia’s mouth is dry. ‘Those men have already been punished, sir, if memory serves.’
Accounts of the rebels’ deaths had leaked into the countryside. Even those lucky enough to meet their maker before the king’s return had been tortured posthumously, their bodies exhumed and treated to the same punishment reserved for those yet living. Emilia’s childhood friend Arabella, now living in London, sent her a letter which spared none of the grisly detail. Their heads sit atop a set of spikes over London Bridge, a reminder of their great crimes against king and country.
Bancroft drums his fingers lightly against the table. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, my lady, that not all the men involved have been brought to justice. The king, in his great wisdom, asked me to track down the last of them. Perhaps you heard of the recent capture of the villainous fugitives Okey, Barkstead and Corbet? That was me. They fled to Delft after Cromwell’s death and I found where they were hiding. They were dragged back to England, where they met the same fate as their fellows, which was no more than they deserved.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Sir John raises his glass.
Emilia suspects he’s only half-following. The vagueness she observed when she first arrived at Walden has worsened of late. It’s as if he can no longer follow the thread of a conversation, so he inserts a contribution at the end of someone else’s statement and hopes it will fit. Tonight, flushed with wine, he seems especially lost. Draining his glass, he smacks his lips, shiny with grease. Emilia is embarrassed for him.
Turning to Bancroft, she says, ‘It seems odd for you to come all the way here, sir. The criminals are dead. The rest have surely fled England. Are we to assume your business lies elsewhere? Are you stopping at Walden on your way through?’
Bancroft meets her eye. ‘I’m tying up loose ends. Those men didn’t journey to Holland unassisted. They had help. I’m searching for a man called Will Marshall.’
‘I know nobody by that name,’ Emilia says.
The king’s agent laughs. ‘Of course you don’t. Naturally he used an alias. But Marshall’s real name is William Lennox, and I believe he is your husband’s brother. I want to know where he’s hiding.’
Emilia is aware of a sudden tautness in her body. Blood clamours in her ears. She draws a steadying breath.
‘I’m afraid we cannot help you. William left Walden when he was twenty-three. He’s not lived here since.’
‘He’s a traitor,’ Bancroft spits. ‘He killed innocents. Led others to their deaths. Betrayed his captains and laughed while he watched them die. Have you ever seen a man speared by a pike? Have you heard him scream in agony, calling for his wife, his mother, begging for mercy? I have. It’s not a pleasant death, my lady. He’s also a turncoat. It’s my understanding that after the war ended, he tried to sell the rebel’s secrets to our side. Catching wind of his treachery, the rebels pursued him. But a weasel has his ways. He knows how to hide. Lennox must pay for his crimes. Justice must be served so that peace can reign.’
‘I understand. But William is not here. He did not come back after the war.’
‘That’s the truth?’
‘I swear it is.’ Beneath the table, her hands are shaking. Her body feels weak, and her breathing is shallow. She reminds herself that they have nothing to fear; William isn’t here, and they don’t know his whereabouts. Bancroft will return to London empty-handed, and they will be left in peace.
The tense silence is broken by the sound of Sir John pouring wine into his goblet. ‘A fine drop,’ he mutters. ‘Stored away in…’ He frowns. ‘I’m afraid the exact year escapes me.’
‘I’m surprised you did not note it down, Sir John,’ Bancroft says drily. ‘You seem to me to be a most diligent record-keeper. It must have been a fine year, whatever the date, for the wine is excellent.’
Emilia’s father-in-law smiles at this compliment, and she wonders again how much of their conversation he has understood.
At the conclusion of supper, two servants enter the room to clear away the food. The elder of the two – a man named Nathanial – piles bones and crusts silently onto a tray. A puckered scar on his cheek gleams in the candlelight. Emilia knows that he obtained it when he was fighting the Roundheads at Munster. They’ve spoken a few times, enough for her to learn that he served in the king’s army and that he and his wife have been at Walden longer than most of the other servants. The young woman working by his side is his daughter Lucy. Dark-haired with slender wrists, she copies her father’s movements, scraping liquid waste into a bowl then bending to scoop up a fallen napkin. Emilia notices Bancroft’s gaze shift. He stares hungrily at the young woman’s figure, not bothering to hide the intensity of his absorption. Emilia’s stomach churns. Revulsion lies thickly on her tongue, making it almost impossible to speak. Somehow, she manages to say, ‘I expect you’d like to see your quarters, Mr Bancroft. You must be exhausted after your journey and your long excursion around Walden.’
Reluctantly, Bancroft transfers his attention to Emilia. ‘You are right, my lady. I am suddenly overcome with tiredness. It must be the good food and wine.’
He yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. As Lucy leans across the table to retrieve his goblet, his hand shoots out to seize her wrist.
‘This maid can show me the way. I’m sure she knows how best to prepare a chamber for a good night’s rest.’
Lucy’s eyes widen. Panicked, she looks to her father for help. Nathanial, holding out the tray of leavings, has frozen. Pressing his lips together, he frowns.
‘I’m afraid Lucy is needed here,’ Emilia says, her tone light yet firm. ‘Nathanial will be more than happy to escort you.’
Bancroft’s face flushes. His grip tightens, causing Lucy to wince. Emilia holds her breath; she is certain he will not be diverted. But he releases the girl a second later.
‘Lead the way, then,’ he says to Nathanial, who has placed his tray on the table. Ignoring Emilia, Bancroft turns to Sir John and wishes him a pleasant evening.
Emilia accepts the snub without complaint. Her fear of angering him is eased by the grateful smile Lucy casts her as she resumes clearing the table. As Bancroft follows Nathanial out of the room, Sir John tries to stand. Staggering, he clutches the table for support and almost falls. Too much wine. He’s drunk almost an entire bottle. Emilia hurries to support him. As she helps him back into his chair, he sighs heavily and pats her arm.
‘You’re a good woman, Agnes,’ he says.
Emilia tenses. ‘It’s me, Sir John. Emilia. Lady Agnes is upstairs.’
Sir John appears not to have heard her. Reaching for his goblet, he drains the last of the wine then looks up at the family portrait hanging on the opposite wall. In the picture, Robert and William stand stiffly beside their parents, young boys on the cusp of manhood. Who could have guessed that their paths would soon diverge, taking them far from home and from each other? Emilia doesn’t remember much about Robert’s brother, except that he had a quick temper and enjoyed talking about himself. He was good at swordplay, often forcing Robert to spar with him, never holding back during practice. Robert still bears a scar on his right shoulder from William’s blade. He doesn’t speak of William now.
‘He was the most handsome baby,’ Sir John says, softly, and Emilia is alarmed to see his eyes are damp. ‘Do you remember? Everyone wanted to hold him. He was so beautiful. The perfect Lennox heir.’ He shakes his head. ‘What happened? Where did we go wrong?’
Emilia is silent. Whatever answer she gives, it will not be right. Lucy excuses herself and leaves the room. Emilia wishes she could follow her. After another minute’s silent contemplation, Sir John’s despondency turns to bitterness.
‘It was those friends,’ he says, glowering at the painting. ‘I should have known they were rotten. They turned his head. He would never have thought about going soldiering on his own.’ Sir John suddenly takes one of Emilia’s hands in his. His expression softens and he wears the look of intimate vulnerability she has caught a few times passing between himself and Lady Agnes. He appears to have forgotten all about their guest. ‘I don’t think I ever told you, my dear, that one of those wretched louts had the audacity to come here after William returned, begging for food and shelter. I sent the blackguard away. Wasn’t it dangerous enough for us to keep William hidden here, let alone his friend? You seemed so sure things could go back to the way they were. That he could be the old William. But boys grow up, don’t they, Agnes? They grow up and turn into men. Before you know it, they’re shouting, accusing you of being a terrible father, stealing away in the night with the silver plate tucked into their doublet…’
He begins to weep. The fire crackles. In its red glare, Emilia glimpses a shadow darkening the wall. She turns. Dread clouds her vision. It’s William, she thinks, come back to reclaim his birthright. But William is long gone. Hugh Bancroft fills the doorway, listening to Sir John’s garbled confession. Some part of her is unsurprised. She should have expected him to double back, to make some excuse to return to the room and catch Sir John out.
She closes her eyes. When she opens them, Bancroft is watching her, his smile triumphant.
Bancroft prepares to depart for London a little before dawn. Emilia, watching from the window, sees lanterns flicker in the stable as his horse is led out into the courtyard. She throws on her mantle and hurries to catch him.
‘Sir, please. There’s been a misunderstanding. If you could wait a day or so, I can send for Robert. He will explain everything.’
Wind howls through the courtyard, whipping her hair about her face. She shrinks deeper into the mantle. Her teeth chatter. She hasn’t slept. Stars appear to whirl overhead, their erratic trajectory making her queasy and light-headed.
Bancroft, dressed in a black riding cloak trimmed with rabbit fur, takes the reins from the stablehand. Grunting, he swings himself up into the saddle.
‘No explanation is required. You should never have lied about harbouring a known regicide in your house. That was dishonourable. Whether it was ten years ago or five, any information that can be used to locate the whereabouts of the king’s enemies is of the greatest urgency and importance to the Crown. Your entire family must now suffer the consequences of your actions.’ He pauses to gaze down at her. The horse stamps its feet, eager to be gone. ‘A pity it turned out this way, for you are uncommonly handsome. Your beauty cannot save you, though. Soon enough it will fade, and then you will have to live like all the other women who cannot use their looks to flatter men and tempt them to sin. For your husband’s military service, I will recommend leniency. You may expect some correspondence within the week. I imagine the house will be seized, along with the bulk of your possessions. You would do well to heed my warning and prepare your family for great loss.’