“I touched them, sir, I touched them!”

Devorax chuckled. “You’re a liar, Hervey. You probably wet yourself as you did it.” He pushed the blade forward till the steel rested on the skin below Hervey’s eyeball. “Say goodbye to your eye, scum.”

“No!” Hervey wailed and, as he did, he lost control. His bowels loosened in sheer terror and a foul stench filled the room.

Devorax laughed, leaned back with his blade unbloodied, and shook his head. “I’ve seen nicer things than you fall out of a hog. Don’t move, Reverend. I’m going to tell you a story.”

He stood again. The room stank, but Hervey dared not move. His eyes watched as the big man paced slowly between the shuttered windows and the bookshelves. Goodwife watched, too, her ears avid for the big soldier’s words.

“Years ago, Reverend, I was a poet in this fair city. That was before scum like you turned it into a cesspit. I had a daughter and, do you know? I’ve never seen her from that day to this. But I know her name, Reverend, and so do you.” He grinned at Hervey. “What do you think it is?”

Hervey did not reply. Devorax grinned at Goodwife.

“You know who it is, don’t you?”

She knew. Ebenezer had recently told her that Dorcas was not his sister, but she had never known, till this moment, who the girl’s father was. The Slythes, keeping to the promise they made to Martha Slythe’s parents, had kept Dorcas’s illegitimacy a secret all their lives. Goodwife watched, horrified, as the black-haired soldier turned back to Faithful Unto Death Hervey.

“Her name, Reverend, is Dorcas Slythe. Or was. She’s married now, she’s a Lady.”

Hervey’s head was shaking. “No. No.”

“I’m going to kill you, Reverend, and everyone will know that Christopher Aretine came back to take his revenge on you.” He grinned. Hervey was quivering in his own filth. Devorax raised his voice, making sure Goodwife heard every word. “And not just you, Reverend. Tomorrow I’m going to Amsterdam, but I’ll be back in two weeks and then it will be the turn of Sir Grenville Cony. Do you want to know how I’ll kill him?”

Hervey summoned all his bravery, which was not much. He knew death was coming, and he tried desperately to fend it off with words. “You’re mad, sir! Think of what you do!”

“I do, Reverend, I do.” Devorax was walking slowly toward Hervey. “And you think, as you die, why you die. You die for what you did to my daughter. Do you understand?”

“No! No!”

“Yes.” The knife blade was levelled, going toward Hervey, and Devorax’s voice was as unforgiving as the winter wind. “She is my daughter, filth, and you used her. You played with her.”

Goodwife watched. The Reverend Hervey, not daring to move or fight, had tipped his head back away from the blade. His Adam’s apple was still, his eyes wide, and his lank, straw hair was on the table top. Devorax held the knife vertically above the priest’s tilted face. “I hate you, Reverend, and I’ll see you in hell.” He began pushing the blade down.