Christopher Aretine did not hear her. He stood on the shore and watched the ship bearing his daughter away, taking her to safety, taking her with the love that he had so desperately wished for her. He watched till the dark shape of the boat was lost in the night.

She looked like her mother. To look at Campion was to remember the girl of so long ago, to bring back to Aretine the pain of hope and laughter, love and enjoyment, the memories. A hundred times he had wanted to tell Campion the truth, and a hundred times he had held back. Yet now she knew, and now she could find him if she so desired. She knew.

He turned, crunched over the shells and climbed the humped ridge of the turf. He envied her her love.

Aretine walked back into the barn, his eyes as empty as the sea. He picked up the wine bottle and drank, then looked at Sir Grenville. “Time for you now, Cony.”

Sir Grenville frowned. His belly hurt, but he still hoped. “Can’t we talk, Devorax?”

The big soldier laughed. “Devorax! You don’t remember me, do you? You only remember me when I was young, when you wanted me in your stinking sheets, when you had my portrait painted on to Narcissus.” Devorax laughed at the quaking flesh beneath him. “Do you still have the picture, Cony? Do you look at it and lust?”

Cony was shaking with fear.

Kit Aretine smiled. “I came back from Maryland when the war began, Cony. I prayed you would be my enemy.”

“No!” The word seemed to be torn from the lawyer as if by a flesh-hook.

“Yes.” Aretine turned to Ebenezer, and his voice was colder than the wind that carried Campion away. “My name is Christopher Aretine. Your sister pleaded for you. Should I let you live?”

Ebenezer could not answer. His bowels had turned to liquid. He could only remember this man hacking the corpse at Tyburn, slicing into the dead flesh with horrid skill.

Aretine turned away from them. His daughter had begged Ebenezer’s life, but he was in no mood to grant it. He looked at his men and his hand gestured about the whole building. “Kill them all.”

He walked out of the old stone building that had once been a church, and he heard the cries for mercy, the shrieking of Sir Grenville Cony. He heard the old, old sound of steel blades butchering men. He took no notice of their deaths. He walked to the ridge of turf and stared at the empty, empty sea and he thought of his daughter who had grown so straight and he felt a pity for himself. He drank.

Campion was crying, “He’s my father!”

Toby stared at the four seals, together on the table, and shook his head. “He didn’t want you to know till it was too late.”

There was an inked legend inside the lid of the polished box. “To Campion, with what I suppose is Love. Your father, Devorax, Aretine, Kit.” Campion shook her head. “I don’t understand!”