Devorax had put his helmet back on and now he turned, the steel bars across his face beaded with raindrops. “Far enough?”

The other horsemen had followed. They waited a dozen yards away.

Devorax’s voice was mild. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Slythe. I thought we might do business.”

Ebenezer was still confused, still fearful, though he was reassured by the lack of menace in Devorax’s voice and posture. “Business?”

“Yes, Mr. Slythe. You see I’ve decided to stop being a soldier. I wish to retire.” Devorax grinned. “And I need money.”

A sudden gust of rain slashed into Ebenezer’s cheek. He wiped it irritably away, still frowning at Devorax. “Who are you?”

“I told you, Vavasour Devorax.” The soldier was leaning forward, his hands on the pommel of his saddle. “I’ve served a man called Mordecai Lopez most of my life. Do you know who he is?”

“I know. Served?”

“That’s right.” Vavasour Devorax took off his helmet again, hanging it by its strap on a pistol butt that was bolstered to his saddle. He moved slowly, not giving alarm, and undid his saddlebag. He took out a stone bottle, uncorked it, and drank. “You want some, Mr. Slythe? It’s Rumbullion from the Indies.”

Slythe shook his head, forcing himself to think clearly. He forgot the cold, the damp, and in his precise, flat voice he questioned Devorax about his long service to Mordecai Lopez. Devorax answered willingly, describing even how he had taken Campion from the Tower. He hid nothing, giving Ebenezer the address of Lopez’s house. “You can go there, Mr. Slythe. He’s not supposed to own a house in London so you might as well take what’s there. You can share the proceeds with me.” He grinned.

Ebenezer was still not satisfied. “Why are you betraying Lopez?”

“Betray?” Devorax laughed. “You can’t betray a Jew, Mr. Slythe. They killed our Savior, remember? You can cheat the bastards through eternity and it isn’t a sin.”

That made sense to Ebenezer, but he was still not satisfied. “Why did you serve him so long?”

“Wages, Mr. Slythe, wages. He paid me.” Devorax put the bottle to his lips and Ebenezer saw a dribble of dark liquid stain the short, gray beard. Devorax rested the bottle on his saddle and stared at the gallows where the two bodies turned slowly in the wind. “I’m getting old, Mr. Slythe, and I don’t want wages any more. I want a farm, and I want to die in my own bed, and I want enough money to be drunk every night and have a wife wake me for breakfast.” He seemed to become morose. “I’m tired of the damned Jew, Mr. Slythe. He pats me on the head as if I’m his lapdog. He throws me a bone now and then, but I won’t be a damned dog to anyone! You understand, Mr. Slythe? I’m no one’s damned dog!”

The sudden, savage anger surprised Ebenezer. “I understand.”

“I hope you do, Mr. Slythe, I hope you do. I’ve done that Jew’s dirty work throughout Europe. He’s given money to armies in England, the Low Countries, Sweden, Italy, France and Spain, and I’ve had to be there for him. Do this, do that, and then a bloody pat on the head. God’s bowels! I thought he’d give me something one day; a farm, a house, a business, but no, nothing. Then along comes Aretine’s bastard daughter and what does she get? Enough money to buy out a dozen stinking Jews. She doesn’t need the damned money, Mr. Slythe! She’s married her man, let him provide for her.”