“Magnificent! Magnificent! Your men will clear the gardens?” It was posed as a question, but Colonel Fuller knew better than to treat it as anything but an order.

“Of course, Sir Grenville.”

“With haste, Colonel, with haste. Ah! A loggia! A pity the guns damaged it. See if you have masons.”

“Yes, Sir Grenville.”

Sir Grenville climbed the single step into the loggia’s arcaded shadow. He looked at the vine, trailing where round shot had smashed its supports. “You say, Colonel, that the plate wasn’t found?”

“No, Sir Grenville. I believe it was sold for the enemy’s cause.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Or melted down. A pity, a pity.” He did not sound disappointed, nor, he reflected, should he be. Sir Grenville’s cup flowed over with success. True, the castle had fallen earlier than he had expected, but Ebenezer Slythe had not done anything so foolish as to run away with the seal. It had been delivered to Sir Grenville in Winchester when he had met Ebenezer returning with his sister to London. Sir Grenville now had two seals. No one, but no one, could now assemble three of the four except for him. The Covenant was safe.

Dorcas Slythe, of course, would die. At Winchester, in the tavern in Jewry Street where Sir Grenville had spoken with Ebenezer, he had given the younger man the warrant charging her with witchcraft and murder. Ebenezer, quietly pleased with himself, had read the words. “We could add heresy.”

“Heresy, dear boy? Do you not think the pie has enough plums already?”

Ebenezer gave his secret, slow smile. “The seal has a crucifix inside.”

“Indeed?”

Ebenezer showed the small, silver figure to Sir Grenville. “I don’t think Parliament will like that.”

“I’m sure they will not.” Sir Grenville smiled and poured himself wine. “But I would like it even less, Ebenezer, if we were to draw attention to the seals. No, dear boy. But by all means spread the rumor that she’s Romish. It will only whip up London against her.” He put the Seal of St. Matthew into his pocket. “You know what to do?”

Ebenezer nodded. “The Presentment first, then the Grand Jury.”

“Exactly.” Sir Grenville pushed a piece of paper over the table. “See this man, Caleb Higbed. He’s a good lawyer, he’ll do it all. Good! Good!”

The affable mood had lasted. Victory was Sir Grenville’s, and now Lazen Castle was his too. He had acquired much land in the last year, yet nothing to compare with this estate. The guns had knocked it about more than he cared, but the New House was splendidly undamaged. Soon, he thought, he might retire, and he could think of few places more fitting for him than this.

Retirement was a possibility, but only after his cause was victorious. That victory had come suddenly, splendidly nearer. News had arrived from the north of England, and the news was of a great victory by Parliament and the Scots over the Royalist forces. If the wind was turning against the King, then nowhere did it blow more cruel and cold than over bleak Marston Moor. A great victory which had loosed the north from the King, would lead soon, Sir Grenville knew, to the fall of York, and meant that the kingdom of Charles was shrinking fast.