Toby bridled. “My name is Sir Toby, my wife is Lady Lazender, and I trouble you to give us respect in this house.”

The gray eyes, suddenly looking not drunk at all, stared at Toby. They seemed to suggest that Devorax could slit Toby apart, but then the bearded face laughed. “Your fortune, Sir Toby and Lady Campion, has been secured by Vavasour Devorax. Say thank you.”

Neither spoke. Devorax laughed. He looked at the bottle, decided he might as well finish it, and tipped it to his face. He wiped his lips when he had done, smearing more of the strange blackness in his beard.

“You are to meet me on Monday night. You’ll have to travel east, through Epping, and you’re to find a village called Bradwell.” He sneered. “A collection of hovels near the coast of Essex. You go through the village, keeping the river on your left, are you following me?”

Toby nodded. “Yes.”

“Just follow the coast. You’ll come to a barn. You can’t mistake it, it’s got a ruined tower attached, as if it was a church. On top of the tower is a beacon. That’s where I’ll be. Eight o’clock next Monday night. Understand?”

Toby nodded again. “Yes.”

“The nearest town is Maldon, but be careful. They’re all damned Puritans over there. They’d like to burn both of you at the stake. And one other thing.” He gave then his mocking, pitying smile. “Bring the Seal of St. Luke with you.”

“Yes.”

Campion let go of Toby’s hand. She frowned. “Why are you doing this if you dislike us so much?”

Devorax shrugged. “Do I have to like you? I was ordered to do it, remember? By Lopez.”

She looked at the ravaged face, half lit by the fire, half by the candles. “Why do you obey Lopez?”

“Why not?” He reached down beside his chair and pulled up a second bottle of wine. “We all have to obey someone, unless we’re the King, in which case we expect other people to get us out of the mess we’ve made.” He pulled the cork and looked at Toby. “You don’t mind if I drink, Sir Toby?” He mocked the title.

“You can give me a glass. I’m tired.”

“Playing soldiers?” Devorax sneered. “The soldiers I fought with never took wine by the glass. They drank it out of the bottle.” He poured wine into the glass that Toby held out. Devorax leaned back. “That was real soldiering, not this prancing about in fancy sashes shouting prayers.”

“Men are dying here,” Toby said.

“Doesn’t take death to make a war,” Devorax said. He shut his eyes. “It takes hatred. Savagery.” He opened his eyes. “You know the King’s going to lose?”

“Is he?”

“Oh yes. There’s a new army being raised in the east.” He adopted his mocking tone again. “The New Model Army. Saints with swords, Sir Toby. They’re the most dangerous. A man would rather kill for his God than for his King. They’re going to win this war.” He drank. “I hope for England’s sake it doesn’t get like Germany.”