The young woman licked dry lips. Where could she go? The villagers would drive her out. Father Augustine? He would only shout at her. Perhaps she should go back to the Hermitage! She might get help there, if she told her friends what she knew. But which way? She looked around, vividly remembering her younger days when she and the other village children used to play along the cliff tops pretending to be elves or fairy queens. They would close their eyes and build make-believe palaces. But what could she do now? She moved forward, then froze as a twig snapped behind her.

'Marina!' a soft voice called. 'Marina!'

She could stand it no longer. She ran blindly, not caring whether she blundered into pool or marsh. As long as she ran she was safe. The ground beneath her feet, however, seemed to take on a life of its own. The briars and brambles clutched like cruel sharp fingernails at her ankles. She saw a light beckoning and could have shouted with joy. Her legs were growing heavy. She ran, but a bramble bush caught her ankle like a noose. She crashed to the hard, cold ground. She was beginning to scramble to her feet when she heard the soft footfall behind her. She half-turned, but the garrotte tightened around her neck.

The loud knocking of the steward summoned Corbett and his two companions down to the manor hall. Gurney's servants had laid the great table down the centre of the room. They'd covered it with green samite cloth and judiciously placed two-branched candlesticks to provide soft pools of light. The place smelt sweet – aromatic herbs had been placed in small pots beneath the table and scattered on the roaring fire and on the small capped braziers that stood in each corner.