To this forgotten church in a place where the gulls screamed above a desolate shore, Vavasour Devorax and Ebenezer Slythe brought their men. Here, too, had come Sir Grenville Cony, reassured by the men he had sent ahead that all was safe and well. His coach could go no further than the nearest farm, and from there Sir Grenville had walked. He crossed the low ridge of turf, all that was left of a Roman rampart, to see the rest of his advance guard dead or prisoners. Armed men faced him, musketoons levelled, and he turned, frantic, to see the horsemen galloping behind. Sir Grenville was taken, his men tied hand and foot, and ushered into the old building.

Vavasour Devorax, with a touch of the dramatic, had prepared the barn for the seals. The earthen floor had been cleared of debris, the hurdles that penned the sheep on the marshes pushed to one wall, and a table had been fetched from the village. About the table were five chairs, one at the head facing two on either side, and on the table were two tall groups of candles. Ebenezer, who had ridden ahead from the farm, sat smiling his treachery behind the table. A pistol rested in front of him.

Vavasour Devorax came forward. “Sir Grenville! Good Sir Grenville!”

“Who the devil are you?” Sir Grenville’s bulging eyes flicked about the room. Guards grinned as they watched him.

“My name is Vavasour Devorax.” He wore his barred helmet and, in the gloom of the barn, Sir Grenville could see little of the scarred face. He could see, though, that the tall, bearded soldier was smiling. “I am the man who killed Faithful Unto Death Hervey. I used another name, of course, but I know you’ll forgive me that. Otherwise we would not have the pleasure of your fat company. Sit down, Sir Grenville, next to Mr. Slythe.”

Sir Grenville’s world, that had been buttressed so long by the seals, was falling about him. No Aretine! No victory either. He had been gulled here, tricked, yet his face showed no alarm or anger. He was thinking. He ignored Ebenezer, smiling his supercilious smile beyond the table, and looked instead at the tall, soft-speaking soldier. “We should talk, Devorax. I’m a man of business. We can reach an agreement.”

The soft-speaking soldier suddenly snarled, became vicious. “If you don’t put your fat ass on a chair, Cony, I’ll rip your spine out with my bare hands. Now move!”

Sir Grenville sat next to Ebenezer. They did not talk. Devorax smiled again, his voice resuming a silky, low politeness. “Now we wait.”

Sir Grenville, still thinking how to avoid this trap, frowned. “For what?”

“For St. Luke, Sir Grenville. What else?” Devorax laughed. “For St. Luke.”

Toby and Campion could not escape. They were met by armed men, surrounded by barred faces, and in the dusk they stripped Toby of his sword and pistol. Toby fought, doubling one man with his fist, but then he was gripped and held, a sword threatening his throat, and Campion screamed at him to stop struggling.