His mind drifted. Was Maeve well in London? And baby Eleanor? He shook himself and went back to his prayers, but he found it difficult to concentrate. He gave up, crossed himself and lay, dozing, on the bed. After a little while he undressed, got into bed properly, pulled the blankets about him and went instantly to sleep, dreaming about running across a lonely beacon, pursued by dark, hooded figures.

When he awoke the next morning, Ranulf and Maltote, still fully dressed, were lying on their beds looking, as Ranulf would have put it, as happy as pigs in a mire. Corbett opened the shutters. The wind had dropped, the mist had almost gone and he glimpsed an ice-blue sky. Rubbing his hands against the cold, he washed, shaved, dressed and went down to the buttery. The hour candle on its iron spigot made him realize how late he had slept, for the flame had already reached the tenth circle. Gurney came in, cheery-faced, stamping his feet and blowing his hands.

'Good morning, Hugh. Why do horses always give trouble in winter?'

He poured himself some mulled ale and hungrily snatched mouthfuls of bread and meat as he walked up and down the buttery. Alice came in with Selditch. They stood discussing the day's events, the atmosphere jovial because Monck had already gone walking.

'By himself as usual,' Gurney added wryly. 'Never have I met a man who liked his own company so much.' Then he put his tankard down as a clamour came from the front of the house. With a clatter of boots Catchpole came rushing into the buttery.

'Sir Simon!' Catchpole leaned against the door jamb to catch his breath. 'Sir Simon, Sir Hugh, you'd best come, now!'

'What's the matter?' Alice asked, her voice high.