“Yes, sir!”

“Open up!” Devorax waved at the gate. “Lead on!”

They would cut through the city to avoid the great southern detour to the next bridge. The soldiers at London Bridge climbed on to the cart, but one view of the old man convinced them that they did not wish to search further in the filthy cart. It was the same at Ludgate and at the Knight’s Bridge where they were stopped for the third and last time. Campion was nervous the third time. Vavasour Devorax and his men had ridden well ahead, out of sight, and she feared what would happen if the soldiers suspected anything. Mason was not worried. He muttered the word “plague” and the soldiers hurried them onward.

Vavasour Devorax waited five miles further on. Mason, with relief, changed into his soldier’s clothes, buckling a sword over his orange sash and leather coat. Old Tom was lifted out of the cart and carried deep into the undergrowth. He was tipped out as food for scavenging birds and animals. Vavasour Devorax was amused. “He served his King, Old Tom.”

“His King?” Campion was puzzled.

“He fooled the King’s enemies, didn’t he? You said you can ride?”

“Side-saddle.”

They abandoned the cart, using the horse as a pack-animal to take Campion’s clothes, and she was mounted on a spare saddle horse. Devorax’s men seemed pleased to be out in the countryside, released from London, and even more pleased when they stopped early at an inn. Devorax grinned at her. “No point in stopping late and losing the best rooms.” He shouted for stable boys. “Come on, girl. There’s drink inside.”

She watched him that evening and saw a new Vavasour Devorax, a drunken man who blossomed in the company of the tavern and regaled them with hair-raising stories of battles old and recent. He sang songs, shouted jokes, and guarded her door that night with drunken snores where he lay on the floor outside.

They left the main road the next day and threaded the way across a fertile countryside. At one point, indistinguishable from the other places where they had stopped while men scouted the path ahead, Devorax gave an order that was greeted with a cheer. The men pulled off their orange sashes and brought out creased, white, royal favors. The sight reminded Campion of Toby. It cheered her up. Vavasour Devorax told her that they had pierced the ring of fortresses that surrounded Oxford. They were in Royalist territory.

Campion’s spirits rose all day. She had not seen the country since she had been taken to London. The crops were nearing ripeness, the woods and hedgerows overflowing with greenness, and once, after Devorax had galloped the troop up a gentle hill, she stood her horse and stared at larks that tumbled their song in the free sky.

Vavasour Devorax looked at the happiness on her face. His voice was mocking. “Try looking ahead of you.”

She did, and saw the silver thread of the river cutting across the landscape. Clouds threw vast shadows that mottled the countryside, but by the glint of the Thames, clear in the light, was Oxford. A city of stone, lavish with spires and towers, and surrounded by a vast, sprawling earthwork. The ramparts defended the King’s new capital from his enemies in nearby London. Devorax looked at her. “Looks good from here, yes?”