The anger was thick and hot in him, an anger fed by the memories of his own mother’s treatment of him. Goodwife had been right! She should be beaten! He was humiliated in his own house and he would not suffer it. The anger gave him courage, his hands fumbled to pull his belt free, and the words shouted from him, “You’re a blasphemer, woman! A sinner! But you will be saved. You will!” The belt swung free and to Campion it was as if her father’s mantle, together with his money, had dropped on to Scammell’s shoulders. He cracked the belt in his right hand, bubbling incoherently in his wrath, and then stretched back to lash at her across the table.

She had gripped the table’s edge and now, with a strength she did not know she possessed, she heaved up and kept heaving so that the candle and tracts slid toward him, the light flickering, until the table crashed over into sudden darkness and the edge struck with all its weight on to Scammell’s foot.

He bellowed like a clumsily gelded calf, and the bellowing turned to self-pitying yelps. There was a rapping at the door.

“Master! Master!” It was Goodwife.

“Dear God! My foot’s broken!”

Campion stayed still.

“Master! Master!” Goodwife shouted.

“I’m coming!” Scammell blundered in the darkness, whimpering as he tripped again, and then fumbled at the door.

It opened to show him crouching, his face, twisted in pain, turned up to the candle Goodwife carried. “My foot’s broken!”

“Never mind that, sir.” Goodwife looked over the room at Campion and on her face was triumph. “The priest’s here, master. Book and all.”

Scammell half straightened, turned to look at Campion then back to Goodwife. “The priest?”

“Yes, master. For your wedding.” She looked at Campion, smiling with vindictive pleasure. “For Dorcas’s wedding. A happy night!”

There were voices in the hall. Campion shook her head. “No!”

“Yes.” Goodwife came into the room, putting the candle on a shelf. “Off you go, master, prepare yourself. I’ll stay with Dorcas. There’ll be no trouble.”

Campion’s day had begun in the sunlight of love with Toby, planning a future of love, yet now she was in utter darkness, and tonight she would be a bride. Scammell’s bride.

Twice Toby tried to leave Bull Inn Court and twice he saw picquets of soldiers guarding one of the narrow lanes. They had pounded through the area, their shouts echoing off the high walls, and had searched some houses, thrusting their long pikes under beds or into the dark corners of cellars and attics.

Night came. He was in torment because he had to escape, yet he was trapped. Mrs. Swan would do what he had asked of her, but she could not smuggle him past the soldiers, so he waited. He prayed hopelessly, helplessly, and tortured himself by imagining Campion’s fate.

It was past ten o’clock before the soldiers left and even then Toby had to move with infinite caution, seeking out each shadow before he crossed a street or moved down an alley. He went to the river, feeling naked under the flickering torch that illuminated the Temple Stairs, yet he knew this was the fastest way to find Scammell’s house.