The Roundheads were not interested in the castle, only in its cattle. They herded what cows they could find, driving them back to the mill, and Lady Margaret frowned because no enemy trooper had come within range of the shrunken garrison’s firearms. After watching for an hour she was resigned to the raid. “We’ll just have to take some of theirs. Oh, good! They’ve taken that very ill-tempered brindle cow. I don’t understand why we kept it alive over the winter.”

An hour later the Roundheads began to withdraw and there followed what, to Campion, was an extraordinary incident. A single man rode slowly towards the castle moat, his hands spread wide to show he meant no harm. He was dressed superbly. Instead of a helmet he wore a wide, velvet hat from which flowed an extravagant plume. His breastplate, shining as if it was silver, was strapped over a scarlet jacket. His tall boots were an improbable white, stained with mud, but impressively impractical. Captain Tugwell ordered his men not to shoot, and Lady Margaret, peering from one of the long gallery’s windows, suddenly smiled. “Sweet Lord! It’s Harry! Come, child!”

As she hurried Campion downstairs and into the garden, Lady Margaret explained who “Harry” was. “Lord Atheldene, dear. A very charming man. I always thought he’d be quite perfect for Anne, but she had to marry that bore Fleet.” She stopped at the edge of the moat. “Harry!”

Lord Atheldene swept his hat from his head. “Dear Lady Margaret.”

“How are you, Harry?”

“Busy. I do apologize for all this.”

“Don’t be foolish, Harry. We shall simply take them back from you. I suppose my son-in-law ordered it?”

Atheldene smiled. He was a handsome man, Campion guessed in his early thirties, who wore his blond hair long and curled. “He did, Lady Margaret. I fear he dare not show favoritism to you.”

“I notice he didn’t dare come himself. How’s that girl you married?”

“Very pregnant.” Atheldene smiled. “Sir George? Is he well?”

“So far as he tells me. He’s in Oxford. You can tell my son-in-law that he’s attacking defenseless women.”

Atheldene glanced at Lazen’s soldiers, smiled, but did not give Lady Margaret a rejoinder. She sniffed. “I’m sorry to see you fighting against your King, Harry.”

“Only against his advisers, Lady Margaret.”

“You’re cavilling, Harry!”

Again he did not accept the challenge. He turned his charm on to Campion. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Lady Margaret answered, “Nor will you be. She’s much too young to meet traitors.”

They exchanged family news, local gossip, and then Atheldene bowed low from his saddle and turned his horse. He waved a hand in salute of Captain Tugwell’s courtesy in not firing and then spurred his horse toward the village.

The incident puzzled Campion. She had an idea of the King’s enemies as men like her father, stern Puritans, dull-dressed and crop-haired, and it was difficult to imagine how a charming, elegant, polished nobleman like Lord Atheldene should be in their ranks. Lady Margaret explained. “The King’s an extremely foolish man, dear. He’s quite charming on two days of the year, but the rest of the time he’s exceedingly dull and pig-headed beyond belief. Every time he wanted money he invented a new reason. It wouldn’t do. He almost bled us dry, and he certainly wrung a fortune out of Harry. There were taxes here, taxes there, and when the taxes wouldn’t do he demanded loans that will never be repaid. Then he tried to do without Parliament and the English don’t like that. They like Parliament. It gives men like George something to do. I’m not at all surprised that so many good men rebelled.”