“I think so.”

“Well, you take the wagon. Who knows, maybe he’ll pay for you?” She laughed, then took Campion to the huge inn where the wagons left, and kissed her farewell. “You’re a good girl, I can tell. The Lord protect you, child. We’ll pray for you.”

And perhaps the prayers worked, for at Southampton Campion met Mrs. Swan, and although Mildred Swan was not the likeliest person to be God’s instrument, she was undoubtedly effective. Within minutes of seeing Campion, lost and frightened, she had taken the girl under her wing. They shared a bed and Campion listened to the interminable story of Mildred Swan’s life.

She had been visiting her sister who was married to a clergyman in Southampton and was now returning to her own home in London. The story, interrupted by sleep, was picked up the next morning as they waited in the cobbled yard. “I’m a widow, dear, so I knows about sorrows and troubles.” She had a huge, untidy bundle on the ground, next to a basket filled with pies and fruit. As she turned to check on their safety she saw an ostler loitering near her belongings. “Get your thieving eyes off them! I’m a Christian woman travelling defenseless! Don’t you think you can thieve from me!” The ostler, astonished, made a hasty retreat. Mrs. Swan, who liked to arrange the world about her, smiled happily at Campion. “You must tell me about your mother, dear.”

Mildred Swan was a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a dress of faded blue, with a gaudy, flowered scarf about her shoulders and a bright red bonnet crammed on unruly, fair hair. She did not wait for Campion to answer, instead she wanted to know whether Campion planned to travel on top or inside the coach. Campion said she did not know.

“You’d better travel with me, dear. Inside. Then we can protect each other against the men.” The last words were spoken loudly enough for a tall, gloomy looking minister to hear. Mrs. Swan watched him to make sure the words had registered, then looked back to Campion. “So?”

Campion had changed her story a little. She had kept a sick, failing mother, but now she claimed to be travelling to London to see a lawyer about an inheritance. It was close enough to the truth, for Campion had conceived the idea that Grenville Cony must be the lawyer who had arranged the Covenant.

By the time Campion had explained about the inheritance they were inside the wagon, perched on a cushioned bench, and Mrs. Swan had jostled the other passengers unmercifully to make herself ample space. The minister, a Bible now in his hands, sat opposite Campion by the window.

Mrs. Swan was fascinated by Campion’s sick mother. “She’s got thin blood, has she, dear?”

“Yes.”

“Buttercups, dear, buttercups. Buttercups work for thin blood, dear. My mother had thin blood. She died, of course, but it wasn’t just the thin blood. Oh no.” She said the last words darkly as though they enshrined a terrible secret. “What else does she have, dear?”