This was the most difficult moment for Devorax. In his left sleeve he had concealed a length of rope which now, as Hervey’s back was turned, he whipped free and looped about Goodwife’s body. She screamed.

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll scrape the tripes out of you.”

“Sir!” Faithful Unto Death had turned. He stared at the huge man who yanked the rope tight about his housekeeper. Devorax’s growl had terrified Goodwife, yet the soldier knew she might begin to struggle at any moment.

“You’ll be dead meat if you make a sound.”

“Sir!” Hervey still clutched the robe over his nakedness. He hovered, irresolute and appalled.

Devorax’s voice came strong. He was stooping to tie Goodwife’s ankles, then her wrists, one to each arm of the chair. “The business of the Commons is strange, sir, but all will be explained.”

He straightened, went behind Goodwife, and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He had her trussed now, tighter than a roasting chicken, but for good measure he gagged her. It had been easier than he thought. His threats had kept her still, and now her small, red-circled eyes stared in fright at him. He walked toward Hervey, a smile on his face. “I come for knowledge, brother.”

“Knowledge?” Hervey backed away.

“Indeed.” Devorax smiled, reached out a hand then pulled the robe from Faithful Unto Death. Hervey clung on, but Devorax yanked it with all his power, jerking it free, then laughed at the naked, white minister. “Sit down, bastard.”

Hervey clutched two hands over his manhood. “Explain yourself, sir!”

Devorax’s knife hissed out of its scabbard, whipped round in a blur of candle-reflected light, and pricked at Hervey’s chest. “Sit.”

Hervey sat. He crossed his thin legs and kept his hands cupped at his loins.

Devorax laughed at him. “Do you shave your chest, Hervey?”

“Sir?”

Devorax sat on the corner of the table. Goodwife watched through wide, terrified eyes. The big soldier smiled at Hervey. “You’re not married, are you?”

Hervey did not reply. He was watching the blade of the knife with which Devorax idled. The knife blade suddenly swung toward him. “I asked if you were married.”

“No, sir. No!”

“Finding texts in someone else’s Bible were you?”

Hervey was in sheer terror. He could not take his eyes from the horridly pointed steel. Devorax’s voice was amused. “A whore, is she? Her price above rubies?”

“No!”

“Oh! A volunteer. Giving it away.” Devorax laughed. “They’ll be the ruin of a perfectly good profession one day.”

Hervey summoned his courage. He pressed down with his hands, drew up his knees, and frowned. “What do you want, sir?”

“Want? I want a talk with you.” Devorax stood up and walked about the room, peering at books, at ornaments, glancing at Goodwife tied to her chair. He could think of no better way of proving Aretine’s supposed presence in Europe than this public punishment of an avowed enemy of Aretine’s daughter. He needed the witness to carry what he said to Sir Grenville Cony. He stopped, turned to the scared, naked minister and raised his voice. “I came to talk to you about Dorcas Slythe.”