Chapter 1

1717

‘To hell with you, girl.’ The footman gave a final shove and sent the housemaid tumbling down the remaining steps. ‘We should never have shown such kindness to a pauper, not your type. I said so from the start.’

The young girl gasped as she hit the ground and slid over the loose stones. The brutal manner of her treatment had provided no opportunity to soften the fall. As the footman scurried back up the steps, she winced and raised a hand to her forehead, where lines of grazed skin revealed a smudge of red. A circular gravel bed in front of a large country house was an abrasive surface upon which to founder.

Carefully, she leant onto one side and gently smoothed her hand over her midriff. The prominent swelling had taken the full impact, a fleeting but terrifying moment when the redhead had been unable to protect her unborn child.

‘There, there, sweetheart,’ she murmured softly. ‘Just a tiny bump, nothing more.’

A bag, carelessly thrown, flew past her head and bounced lightly on the gravel beyond. She stared at it momentarily. There was little inside; that was obvious from the lack of impact made when it had landed. But whatever it lacked she was now never likely to see again. Her willing packers had evidently helped themselves to the few treasured belongings she once possessed.

The footman descended the stone steps and bounded onto the gravel, crunching the stones around the fallen figure. His face displayed an unpleasant degree of satisfaction in the task he was clearly enjoying well beyond the call of duty.

He sneered contemptuously. ‘Look at you. Not so clever as you thought, are ye? Your grubby ways got caught out and now ye’re on the ground where ye rightly belongs, grovelling at the feet of ye masters.’

He spat on her clothes and then for good measure applied a hefty kick to her thigh. The laugh that followed was false and hollow, and in no way reflected the young man’s true feeling towards the housemaid.

‘Go on, what are ye waiting for? Get up and be off with you or I’ll drag ye te the gate myself.’ He began to circle the hapless figure, pawing at her sleeve and prodding with his foot. ‘Go on, get up. If there’s any sight of ye in five minutes, I’ll come after ye and damn well do as I please.’

He scoffed and turned dismissively, striding up two steps at a time towards the front entrance. Its use was a rare privilege – the door to the servants’ quarters lay at the back.

The girl sat up, gasping from the assault. She rubbed her bruised leg and looked to the ground floor, where a gallery watched from behind mullioned windows. The hard, austere countenance of the housekeeper and the contented air of a fellow maid were accompanied by the reproachful gazes she had expected to see.

Another face from a separate room gave little away. A guest who paid infrequent visits had shown a degree of kindness and understanding towards her, but now, as she stared back at his impassive expression, she could not gauge his feeling. Was he on her side or had his use for her finished? Perhaps wishful thinking and the mind of a naive orphan had created an impression that had never existed. She saw him turn from the window and disappear into the darkness of the room. It was up to her to do the same, albeit in the manner prescribed by the footman.

With the eyes of the housekeeper and housemaid upon her, she bent one leg under her body to help raise it up from the gravel. A sharp pain in her thigh ushered forth another grimace of discomfort. The force of the kick would not aid the very walk the young man had demanded.

‘Damn you, Willard. Never were a bright one, were you? Bet the squire never told you to treat me like that, not in full view of the house.’

In recent times the footman claimed he had never liked her but, to others, he had always had an eye for the maid, an obvious one that stemmed back to the time he had aided her father, the former coachman. However, with no encouragement offered, his interest had gradually turned into an unsavoury and unjustified bitterness. With her father no longer alive to protect her, there was now no one to stop what ill-tempered retribution the young man chose to inflict for the damage done to his fragile self-esteem.

Willard’s behaviour towards the girl had helped to open up her eyes to the precarious nature of her position in the household – the services of a respected coachman had been required, not an additional housemaid. After her father’s death, the squire had accommodated her presence by adding duties that only her sex could provide. Sadly, looks would always be the downfall for some, especially when others equated its use with undeserved gain. A pecking order existed in the servants’ quarters and the girl belonged on the bottom rung. With the squire’s sudden loss of favour, she had done more than assume her rightful place: she had fallen off the ladder completely.

She struggled to her feet. One step was enough to realise that the light domestic shoes worn for house duties would not get her far. She had little choice but to inspect the contents of the bag. The assumption that little lay inside proved accurate – no coat, insufficient clothing to guard against the cold, and most cruelly of all, no personal memento to remind an only daughter of her father. But there was a well-worn pair of outdoor shoes. She slipped them on, stashed the domestic shoes away, and turned her back on a life that now belonged to the past.

She had no home, job or place to go and, without a friend and no money, little idea what to do other than follow the path that lay ahead. Her one comfort was the knowledge that she was not alone. She had someone to look after, someone whose future depended upon the very steps she now took. That was enough to spur her on and not to give in to those that wished her ill.

The gate was open when she reached the lodge, but there was no sign of the gateman. She laboured on past and, as her muscles warmed to the task and the pain in her thigh began to ease, quickened her pace. A hundred yards farther along and the lane forked. In one direction lay the parish church and the small village it served. In the other, countryside, unknown villages and a much spoken about capital that she had never seen. As a job was now her priority, and the priest had never displayed any warmth towards her – quite the opposite – the latter was the choice to follow.

After fifteen minutes of walking, the lane meandered into a shaded area of woodland. She had seen no one so far and was glad to have put distance between herself and the manor house. It was, however, the moment a trailing horseman had been waiting for. The gap between them gradually shrank and the sound of hoofs soon reached the girl’s ears.

She stopped and turned to look. The horseman immediately pulled on the reins. Although he was cloaked and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, it was not difficult to recognise her pursuer. But why was he there? Surely her crime was not so bad that the footman should be sent to … To do what exactly?

She considered stepping off the lane and darting into the trees, but that would provide no escape from someone with the obvious advantage of a horse. Besides, if he followed and caught up, it could only aid the concealment of whatever he had been told to do.

She broke the impasse and walked on, ears alert to the rhythmic patter of hoofs as they grew closer. Picking up her pace had no effect. She stopped and turned again; ignoring the potential danger was pointless. Willard drew to a halt. Now, not more than thirty yards away, his face was clearly visible. The look of hesitancy was one she recognised from the days when he was set upon impressing her. But what was he scared of now? What were his orders?

A faint noise in the distant undergrowth broke the brief stalemate. Through the intervening trees, they noticed a movement. The girl backed away and, as Willard wavered between pursuing her and identifying what lay in the shadows, a horseman sprang into the open and galloped up to his side.

In a fit of terror, Willard’s horse reared up and, as the footman fought to stay on, a fierce blow sent him tumbling to the ground.

The girl did not hesitate to clasp the strong arm that, moments later, swung down to hoist her into her rescuer’s saddle. As they made off into the trees, the housemaid glanced back. Willard lay on the ground clutching his arm. She smiled, hoping that the bones had been splintered. Whatever his mission, the footman would be in no state to follow her now.

Chapter 2

1718

‘The sea’s got a temper on tonight and no mistake,’ the young woman shouted into the wet, swirling gale. Positioned on the clifftop with the shoreline below, Elsa stood with a small group of womenfolk gazing upon the last rites of a forlorn maritime battle. With its cargo shifted, a three-masted merchant vessel leant perilously on its side, heading towards an unavoidable reckoning with the Cornish coastline.

‘She’s very low in the water,’ shouted another of the women. This was cause for concern; no one wanted the vessel sinking before it reached land. ‘Come on, lass, roll with the serpents and let the devil deliver you into our hands.’

Sadly, the lives of those on board were of secondary importance to what lay crated up inside the ship’s hold. If it sank, only a small window of opportunity existed before the customs officers turned up to secure it from the scavengers waiting on the beach.

The young woman cast an eye over her shoulder towards the meandering coastal path and then beyond to the drystone walls, windswept fields and stone-faced cottages set amongst rolling hills. All this was familiar, but she had a good reason to look, as did the women to stand in such a precarious position. They were the guard for the husbands, fathers, sweethearts and sons on the beach, the warning voice should armed officers appear on the scene to pick a fight.

She turned back to the sea, her sharp blue eyes having detected no danger. The vessel was winning its heroic battle against the storm and, as long as its hull remained intact, it would soon be on the beach and in the clutches of the wreckers.

The eyes on the beach were now visible to the struggling seamen. The captain, an old sea warrior, had no illusions about what lay ahead if he succeeded in grounding his vessel, even with two ex-soldiers on board. He felt inside his tunic for his loaded musket and shouted out an order for his men to stand by – they were nearly there. The seamen braced themselves as the bow lurched with the swell and finally hit the beach. Two rifle muskets swiftly appeared over the wooden bulkhead.

The wreckers stood back but were not intimidated by the long, threatening barrels. ‘Yield,’ a man cried out in a deep, gravelly voice. ‘Yield and no ’arm will come to thee.’

A colleague tutted and shook his head on sight of the heavy anchors disappearing into the wash. ‘That was a mistake. I wish they hadn’t done that.’

‘In the King’s name, I order you to stay away from this vessel,’ the captain yelled into the wind, drawing out his own musket. ‘No man should approach unless …’

His words were cut short by the sudden movement of the keel as the sea fought a private battle with the anchors for possession of the vessel.

‘Three muskets; that ain’t many,’ the gravelly voice murmured to those nearby.

‘He mentioned the King,’ another commented.

‘Aye, he did that. Must be summat of importance, summat of value they got on board.’

The vessel lurched forwards again, its anchors providing no more purchase on the sands than before.

‘Throw me a line,’ the captain ordered to the men standing back against the cliff. ‘In the name of the King, this boat must be secured.’

The order drew no response from the onlookers, who stared back defiantly.

‘Do we have a king in Cornwall?’ the gravelly voice asked.

‘Aye, Blackie, it’s you,’ his colleague answered, who, along with all others on the beach, knew which king they answered to.

‘Yield,’ Blackie shouted again. ‘Yield or let the sea devour thy souls.’

The next movement threw the captain and his crew onto their knees. With no help coming from the shore, action was required from those on deck. When the keel re-engaged with the beach, ropes were thrown over and two men coerced to follow. Each man slid down the rope and into the freezing water. The first collided against the solid hull with a sickening thud and vanished into the wash. The second managed to hold on and scramble ashore.

Nobody moved forwards to assist as the seaman staggered up the beach looking for a rock to secure the rope. He heard the deep drone of Blackie, a fleeting sound soon carried away by the wind. ‘Yield and ye will not be harmed.’

The seaman froze, looked over his shoulder and saw the captain and his two soldiers watching him closely. There was no rock close enough, so what was he supposed to do? Haul the vessel ashore by himself? The captain indicated to the soldiers to take aim. It was enough to cajole the seaman into movement, but when the ship lurched again, the rope slipped from his grasp and he dashed towards the cliff. Two muskets fired into the night, but the bullets were lost in the swirl of the wind and thudded harmlessly into the sand.

‘I yield,’ the deserter said, panting, as he reached the wreckers. He traipsed past the front line and quickly disappeared amongst those at the rear.

On board the vessel, another man being ordered over the side fought against the command of his captain. Whether by design or accident, his mutinous act was rewarded by the discharge of the sole remaining loaded weapon. Reloading in such conditions was impossible. Both soldiers and captain were now open to the danger posed by those they commanded. Two of the crew had already died; no one else intended to join them.

‘Stand back,’ the captain shouted, pointing an empty barrel at the encroaching crew. ‘I order you …’ But it was no good; he had given his last order to the bunch of unworthy outcasts who had been press-ganged into serving under him. Along with the two soldiers, he was swiftly disarmed and shown the quickest route to the beach.

It was the call for the wreckers to act. Blackie sprang forwards, ordering his men to grab the ropes. He ran up to the bow and shouted for the crew to hoist the anchors and throw more ropes. As long overdue staves were hammered deep into the sand, Blackie and willing helpers made sure the captain and the soldiers did not venture ashore. With their lungs awash with saltwater and liquid sand, they were dragged to the side and allowed to float away.

On the clifftop, having watched the men secure the vessel, Elsa suddenly remembered her primary role in the night’s drama. She spun around to look inland and immediately cursed her lack of attention. Not thirty yards away, a previously unobserved customs official sat astride a soaked, sorry-looking mare. She held out a hand to alert the woman to her side.

Her colleague scowled and flashed a quick glance left and right, searching for the official’s trusted shadow and any other men. There was no one to be seen. It could only mean the horseman was alone. She thumbed towards him and yelled into the stormy night, ‘Best go and do your work, Red. See what the blighter wants and, if it’s nothing more than a pretty lass, find out whether we’re clear to ’elp out below.’

Without another word, Elsa hurried away, glad to have the rain and wind on her back. As she approached the man widely known as the Rider, she raised her voice and acted as cheerfully as the dreadful conditions would allow. ‘Come alone, darlin’? Where are your boys, then, all tucked up in their beds dreaming about their rewards for catching us wreckers?’

The Rider – his long, drenched hair matted across his narrow, weatherworn face – did not find the quip amusing and offered no explanation for his missing men.

‘Ye comin’ back to see me later on when we’re finished?’ Elsa asked invitingly. ‘No point in ye comin’ all this way for nothing.’

‘No point at all,’ the Rider conceded, though with more of an eye for the women on the clifftop facing him. ‘But later, much later,’ he shouted, fighting to be heard. ‘I have work to do first. Inform your boys they have an hour before I return with my men. And tell Blackie I want to know everything he finds on that ship.’

The Rider pulled on the reins and headed off along the coastal path. The girl smiled – an hour would do just fine. She held up one finger to the watching women. They understood and moved to convey the message to the beach. The girl followed, knowing that her work that night would not end with the pillaging of the cargo. She had the company and dubious pleasure of a late-night caller to look forward to as well.

Chapter 3

1526

Fettori crouched down to run his fingers through the dark-brown soil. It was damp and had a good texture; with care and planning, it would continue to serve them well. Subsistence farming, augmented by fish from the local river, was all a small priory and its outlying village needed to maintain a way of life that stretched back long before he arrived.

The young priest stood up, brushed the soil from his hand and noticed Brother Devra scaling the incline towards him. In ankle-length habit and thin sandals, the elderly priest was making slow progress. Fettori switched his attention to the low-lying cloud and frowned – more rain was on the way. He hadn’t thought it possible to find a place where the rainy season lasted three hundred and sixty-five days of the year and, yet, here he had found it. A day keeping dry and warm was a rare luxury.

When Brother Devra finally reached the uppermost point of the field and drew breath, he cast his eyes over the idyllic rural scene, where scattered workers quietly tilled the ground in preparation for sowing. ‘Well, Fettori, what do you think?’ he asked.

No rank or title was attached to the young priest. He wished to be known by the name bestowed at birth and nothing else. He shrugged. ‘If we do not expect too much, we will not be disappointed. Maybe this year we will see a period of sun to complement the abundant rainfall that your skies never cease to bestow upon us.’

Brother Devra smiled. His colleague certainly aspired to miracles if he thought the climate in the north of England could ever match that of his Florentine homeland. In the two years since he joined the priory, his dislike for the weather had provoked many mumblings of discontent but, as Brother Devra had indicated on numerous occasions, it had been the young man’s choice to journey to a place that lacked the warmth he had become accustomed to. ‘Judging the time to sow the first seeds is never an easy one and no guarantee can be made that a late frost will not destroy the fledgling shoots.’

Fettori agreed. Farming in his adopted country contrasted strongly to his horticultural memories of childhood where the seasons willingly obeyed the predictable patterns of preceding years. Life was so much simpler when the weather played a helpful hand.

On a distant part of the field, one of the workers shouted and pointed urgently along the track to the village. Small figures could be seen scurrying between the dwellings, many heading towards the adjacent river. Dropping their tools, the workers sped hastily towards the commotion, leaving the priests to watch in horror as horsemen, clad in chainmail, set fire to the straw roofs.

‘They’ve come at last, just as we feared,’ Brother Devra uttered in dismay.

The priory’s decision to remain faithful to Rome and its spiritual leader rather than take the oath of succession to the King had made the visit inevitable. But the priests had assumed retribution would be directed towards them, not the villagers.

‘For the love of God, surely they cannot destroy their homes,’ Fettori said, looking on in abject despair.

Brother Devra cast a terrified glance back towards the priory – a small church with outbuildings for habitation, crafts and workshops. Faith and their naive trust in humanity had made them vulnerable. Only now was the price of their supposed treachery clear. ‘We must warn our brothers,’ he said frantically.

Fettori noticed the riders emerging from the village; the distance to the priory was a quarter of a mile at most. There were children being taught inside and none would be aware of the approaching party. He began to scramble down the slope, shouting as he went and attracting the attention of at least one of his brethren working in the animal pen. On recognising the danger, word was hastily conveyed inside. If they had any sense, they would run – all of them – and be quick about it.

‘They will show us no favours,’ Brother Devra cried out as he tentatively followed his fellow priest. ‘None of us are safe.’

‘We must do what we can,’ Fettori shouted back.

‘The type of men who set fire to a village possess no mercy. Do not get in their way.’

Fettori did not heed the warning. With his head full of hot-blooded fury, he screamed for the horsemen to pull up, but the thundering hoofs of sturdy thoroughbred horses drowned out his cries.

Brother Devra stopped and watched as Fettori ran towards certain death. If this was gallantry, it was reckless and self-indulgent, and not for him. He would embrace death when the time came but he would not readily sacrifice his life. He yelled again for his friend to stop but Fettori had set a determined course to intercept the horsemen.

When the young priest reached the track, he waved frantically, but to no avail. Without breaking stride, the leading horseman leant over and brought his torch crashing into his chest. Fettori was knocked backwards and left to writhe in agony as the other riders galloped past.

‘We’ll finish that one off when we’ve dealt with the priory,’ the horseman shouted to his men. ‘Make sure none of the priests escape.’

The knights and men-at-arms entered the priory grounds and selected a thatched outhouse to herd the frightened priests into. No explanation was given and all pleas were treated with the same ruthless force as meted out on Fettori. Only the children from the village were allowed to flee.

‘Forget the books and let the animals run free,’ their leader ordered. ‘Once everyone is inside, set fire to the whole building. Let them be an example to all others who prefer treason to the King’s rule.’

Fettori staggered to his feet clutching his chest. He was lucky to be in one piece with nothing worse than a scorched habit. Brother Devra was right: these people possessed no humanity, not even for the servants of their maker. Any further attempt to intervene and he would die just like the others. He would probably die anyway, a pointless sacrifice to end what had become a long and pointless journey.

Tiny feet pounded past as children headed for the village where terrified parents rushed to meet them. The priest was urged to follow, but he waved them away knowing that his presence would only heighten their danger.

‘Fettori, hurry!’ Against his better judgement, Brother Devra had scampered down the slope to help his friend. He frantically gestured for the young priest to follow him back the way he had come – the forest was their only means of escape.

Fettori did not hesitate. With the air surging back into his lungs, he started to run.

One of the horsemen noticed the priests fleeing up the slope. ‘Do we let them go?’ he asked.

Gradvar, the leading knight, watched as the two men struggled through the mud. It was obvious where they were heading. ‘Those are not our orders for this priory, Maylor. All must pay the penalty for treachery. You may fetch them yourself and, if they do not return of their own freewill, bring them back in as many pieces as you choose.’

Maylor tossed his torch onto the thatched roof and bared his yellow teeth in a contented grin – he liked his orders.

‘Quickly.’ Brother Devra wheezed as Fettori – still in pain – stumbled on past. ‘Do not wait for me, there is no time.’

Fettori needed no persuasion; both could see the horseman ascending the hill. The priory and their brethren were all now beyond help. If they did not disappear into the cover of the trees, they would suffer the same fate.

They heard the scraping of metal, quickly followed by a bellowing cry for them to stop or suffer the cutting edge of a sword.

Fettori ignored the threat. When set against certain death, reaching a forest that would not provide an easy path to strangers was a risk worth taking.

Brother Devra glanced over his shoulder; his act of chivalry had left him with little chance of outrunning the horseman. ‘Dear, dear, Lord …’ he began to whimper. He closed his eyes, imagining the sword raised above the head of the horseman.

A rush of air flew past. It was the moment he had expected the struggle to end, with a final, deadly blow. Instead he heard the loud, shrill cry of the horse as it keeled over next to him. With a sickening thud, the horseman followed. Brother Devra opened his eyes to see Fettori staggering back to his feet clutching a grubbing hoe. He had managed to trip the horse and was now ready to strike a fatal blow to the fallen rider.

‘No!’ Brother Devra shouted. The reflex action was an undeserved act of humanity in the face of extreme evil, but one that Fettori had no need to heed. The horseman lay dead, his neck twisted to one side.

Brother Devra looked down to the burning priory. Several of the horsemen were staring up at the priests and their motionless comrade. Shock and anger quickly turned into action. ‘Run, Fettori. Quickly,’ the priest cried out.

Fettori dropped the hoe but chose not to follow. Instead, he grabbed the horse’s reins and inspected its shins. He had given them a hefty clout, but the battle-hardened steed was no more than startled. He stroked its head and made brief soothing noises to gain its confidence. A moment later he was in the saddle. ‘Brother, climb up behind me,’ he said urgently.

Brother Devra readily obliged. It was not the time to mention he had never once sat astride a horse’s back.

‘Hold on tight and keep as still as you can,’ said Fettori. The young priest looked back fleetingly, then dug his heals firmly into the horse’s side and rode into the forest.

After a brief conference, once they had reached their fallen colleague, the horsemen followed.