Wearing her Tudor treasure, Merry crept out of the wardrobe and listened at the door. She heard footsteps and chatter and a swishing of silk as lords and ladies and maybe even the king passed by and headed downstairs to the Great Hall, to their dinner.

Merry still had no idea who had followed her or if they were still attempting to follow her, but she couldn’t hide any longer. Everyone, both noble and low-born, would be occupied with the feast. Now was her best chance of escape.

She gave it five minutes, hoping that everyone would now be at the dinner; then she hurried down the main staircase, past the watching portraits. If anyone saw her, all she could do was run. She could hear the sound of the banquet booming out of the Great Hall. Raucous laughter, the clanging of metal plates, some kind of twanging string instrument, probably a mandolin.

She crept towards the door by the staircase that led to the kitchen area – her route out, via the dungeons. She pulled it open a few inches. A procession of servants were rushing up, carrying huge platters of food and jugs of steaming wine. She closed the door. They’d spot her as an interloper.

She hurried back to the main part of the castle, turned a corner and almost collided with an elderly man dressed in velvets and frills. He was leaning against the wall with a lost look on his face. Merry recoiled, waiting for him to shout, grab her, or react in any way. But he just blinked in surprise. Merry could see his eyes were covered in filmy white cataracts. Whoever he was, he seemed trapped inside his own dementia.

‘The feast,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘Why aren’t you there? Will you take me back in?’ He pointed vaguely with a trembling hand.

Merry realized he probably couldn’t see her threadbare clothes, her bare feet. She put on her best aristocratic voice.

‘Er, yes, of course. But I must first have some fresh air,’ she said, hurrying off towards the front door.

She was committed now. She strode purposefully towards the door, hauled it open.

A blast of cold air hit her. The full moon lit the courtyard, which had a stable block in one corner. It looked beautiful, eerie and best of all, deserted. Merry closed the huge door behind her and hurried across the cobbles. They were cold, slippery underfoot with the evening dew.

And there was the drawbridge. Thankfully it was down and the portcullis was raised. She rushed on. Then the castle door crashed open just as she reached the stables. Merry spun around. The old man teetered out. Two woman hurried after him, calling him. They were focussed on him but they’d see her any second, especially if she darted to the drawbridge. She ducked inside the stables.

Heart pounding, she breathed in the smell of horse and manure and wet straw. She could hear no signs of humans, but that didn’t mean there weren’t grooms sleeping in the hayloft. She blinked in the darkness, waited for her vision to adjust. Stiffened. She could feel eyes on her. There was a low snort.

She saw a dark face above the half-door to a stall. The dished head, the black eyes blazing with intelligence and curiosity and just a touch of indignation. It was the Arab horse. The one she’d seen the countess riding on the hunt. The horse snorted again. Merry moved closer, offered him her palm to sniff.

Don’t give me away, please, she thought. She heard footsteps outside on the cobbles, the plaintive voice of the old man, and the two women arguing with him.

‘She’s out here,’ the old man was saying. ‘Fresh air. She needed fresh air.’

‘Come on, Father,’ said a crisp but loving voice. ‘There’s no one here. Look around.’

‘Excuse me, my Lady,’ came a voice. ‘I think he’s right. I saw someone slip into the stables.’

Merry felt a wave of panic. She’d be discovered. Again. And this time she would not be able to explain herself, pretend to be a groom. She had to get away. And quickly. She pulled back the bolt to the horse’s door, eased into the stall.

Trying to slow her breathing, summoning calm, Merry reached up to stroke him. She should go slow to win him over, but she didn’t have time. They’d be here in seconds. She had to escape now.

She took the bridle hanging outside his stall and slipped it on him. She was distracted by the task, trying not to let the metal bit jangle. She didn’t hear the soft whisper of skirts.

As she buckled the bridle, a hand grabbed her arm. Merry gasped in terror, turned.

The lady of the hunt stood there, lavish in velvet and rubies, her eyes narrowed in fury.

‘Who are you and what are you doing in my stable?’ she demanded.

Merry knew those eyes. She’d seen them in her portrait – five hundred years into the future.