“Yes, sir.”

“And you?” He leaned forward, his small eyes intent on her.

“Yes, sir.” It was an inadequate answer, one that made her father stir in suppressed wrath, but Scammell leaned back happy enough.

“Praise the Lord. Amen and amen.”

The conversation, thankfully, passed from the state of her soul to the latest stories of Catholic atrocities in Ireland. Matthew Slythe warmed to the subject, anger giving his words wings, and Campion let the phrases hammer unheard about her head. She noticed that Samuel Scammell was stealing constant looks at her, smiling once when he caught her eye, and she found it unsettling.

Toby Lazender had said she was beautiful. She wondered what he did in London, how he liked a city “cleansed” by the Puritans he so disliked. She had asked Charity, three weeks before, if a visitor had been in church and Charity had said yes. A strong young man, she said, with red hair, who had bellowed out the psalms in a loud voice. Campion was sad. She guessed Toby must have thought she did not want to see him again. She saw Samuel Scammell staring at her again and it reminded her of the way other men looked at her, even, though she found it hard to believe, the Reverend Hervey. Scammell seemed to eye her as a bull might a heifer.

The owl that hunted the beech ridge sounded in the night.

Samuel Scammell excused himself from the table and walked down the stone-flagged passage that led to the close-chamber.

Her father waited till his footsteps stopped, then looked at his daughter. “Well?”

“Father?”

“Do you like Brother Scammell?”

Her father did, so her answer was obvious. “Yes, father.”

Scammell had not closed the chamber door and she could hear him urinating into the stone trough, a sound just like that of a horse staling in the stable-yard. It seemed to go on forever.

Ebenezer scowled at the candles. “He seems sound in his beliefs, father.”

“He is, son, he is.” Matthew Slythe leaned forward, his face gloomy as he stared at the remains of the apple pie. “He is blessed of God.”

The splashing still sounded. He must have the bladder of an ox, Campion thought. “Is he here to preach, father?”

“Business.” Her father gripped the table top and seemed to brood. A pulse throbbed at his forehead. The sound of Scammell’s pissing stopped, started again, then faded in spurts. Campion felt sick. She had hardly eaten. She wanted to be out of this room, she wanted to be in her bed where she could lie and dream her private dreams of the world beyond the high yew hedge.

Samuel Scammell’s footsteps were loud in the passage. Matthew Slythe blinked, then put a welcoming smile on his face. “Ah! Brother Scammell, you’re back.”

“Indeed and indeed.” He waved a pudgy hand toward the passage. “A well-appointed house, brother.”

“Praise God.”

“Indeed and indeed.” Scammell was standing by his chair, waiting for the mutual praise of God to cease. Campion saw a dark, damp patch on his breeches. She looked at the table instead.