‘Well, I think he’s a barefaced traitor.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I’m not stupid, Dan,’ said Rye, tapping his chest. ‘You may think we’re cut off down here in this little village but we get to hear things and we remember them. When the Duke or Lord Churchill or whatever you want to call him beat the rebels on that bloodthirsty day, he did so in the name of King James. Am I right or wrong?’

‘You’re quite right, Martin.’

‘Yet three years later, when he should have supported his king once again, he turns his back on him and joins up with a Dutchman, William of Orange. King James was forced into exile. That’s treachery to me.’

‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’

‘He stabbed King James in the back.’

‘That’s not what happened at all.’

‘I see what I see,’ affirmed Rye, thrusting out his jaw. ‘You can lick the Duke of Marlborough’s arse all you want but I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my two brothers.’ He nodded at the gravestone. ‘Unlike you, I could never serve a butcher who helped to put my father in the ground.’

Turning on his heel, he stalked off and gathered up his children. Daniel was chastened. Caught up in his uncritical veneration of Marlborough, he’d forgotten that the Duke didn’t enjoy universal praise even in his own country. It was not only scheming politicians who harboured a grudge against the great man. Humble people like Martin Rye had long memories and still nursed wounds inflicted at the battle of Sedgemoor. Daniel stared down at the grave with unease. He wondered what Nathan Rawson would say if he knew that his son had now served a man who’d once helped to quash the rebellion to which the farmer and retired soldier had dedicated himself.

When Daniel rode off, the words of Martin Rye rang in his ears.