The Dutch seamen bent their oars in the water. Spray broke on the bows and spattered back.

Campion turned. Devorax still stood in the surf. “Will we see you again, Colonel?”

“Who knows?” His voice sounded harsh again. The boat pulled away from him. Already Campion could see a bubbling, streaked wake behind her. The oars creaked in the rowlocks.

Toby held her. It was bitterly cold on the water. To his left he could see the sea broken into a stretch of serried, small breaking waves where the tide was frustrated by the great mudbanks. His arm was tight round his wife’s shoulders. “I’m glad he wasn’t our enemy.”

“So am I.” She felt the seals under her cloak. They were safe. She was taking them from her enemies, from the war, to the fortune her father had wished on her so long before. She was leaving England.

She turned again, but already the shore was indistinct. She could see the sharp, pointed gable of the old barn against the night sky, but she could not see Vavasour Devorax. She gave a strange laugh. “He kissed my hand.”

“Perhaps he liked you after all.”

The ship’s boat bumped against the Wanderer. Men handed Campion up the ship’s waist, strong hands leaned down to pull her to the safety of the deck. The ship smelt of tar and salt. The wind slapped ropes in the rigging.

The captain, bearded and smiling, took them to the large stern cabin. It was lit by shielded lanterns and made comfortable with cushioned seats. He gave them boat cloaks for warmth, promised them soup, and begged they excuse him while he set sail.

Campion looked at Toby. She was nervous and excited at the thought of a sea voyage. They were alone. They could look back on the night, remember its fears, the kisses beneath the threatening pistol muzzle, and the strange moment when Devorax had revealed himself to be Lopez’s man still. Campion smiled. “I love you.”

Bare feet ran on the deck over their heads. Toby smiled. “I love you.” He put the package for Lopez on the cabin table, and froze.

A name was inked on the paper: “Lady Campion Lazender.”

“It’s yours.”

For a moment she stared at it, then, with cold fingers, she tore at the string and paper. Inside was a varnished wooden box. It was five inches deep, six inches square, with an elaborate metal latch.

She did not feel the ship lurch as the anchor sucked free of the mud. She did not sense the ship lean before the land-freeing wind.

She opened the lid, and she knew already what she would find.

The box was molded inside, lined with red velvet. Four holes had been made for the four seals, and three were empty.

In the fourth hole, its chain wound about the protruding embossed steel, was the golden seal of St. John.

She opened one of the stern windows and she screamed into the night. She screamed like a gull on that desolate coast. She screamed at the marsh, the saltings, at the dark line of the bleak land, “Father!”