Father grunted as he sat down, waiting as Bett filled a basket with a jug of ale and bread for them to take to the fields. ‘Ploughing first, lad, before the day heats.’

Daniel yawned and nodded. ‘Late night, was it?’ Bett asked.

Father raised an eyebrow. ‘Out till after dark again.’

Daniel tried to wipe the smile from his face. The beat of his days was changed, now daylight and the farm just an interlude until he was once again with her. The scent of her skin, brush of her hair against his face, taste of her lips. Evenings of firelight and starlight. Whisper of a life together.

Bett snorted and tucked a clump of hair back into her coif. ‘May is the month for it.’

Father cleared his throat. ‘And check that ox, the one we thought was running lame the other day, and please God it’s recovered. I can’t abide the cost of a sick animal.’

‘I will,’ he said, passing Bett the cloth she pointed to, glad to talk of the farm once more. It suited him that they thought he was only shaking the sheets with a local lass he would soon tire of. Though he could imagine doing no such thing. The nearest he had come was the faltering initiation into the sweet pleasures of flesh that Bett had led him in many years past, and it was she who had wearied of their fumbling encounters.

With Sarah he felt their very beings had begun to meld into one. To leave her would be to rip part of himself away. And they had not even begun to explore the landscape that Bett had so willingly laid out for him.

Daniel took the basket, thanked Bett and left before they asked more of his night-time entertainments.

He led the oxen to the field, waiting as the stubborn beasts obstructed his will by stopping to eat the hedgerow. He had found none lame, at least, and was relieved to have good news for Father. There was no hurry. A scent of blossom, hay and dung sat sweet in the air and a wayward moon glimmered down from a clear sky, not ready yet to retire. The delay afforded him a moment to imagine exploring the white river of Sarah’s skin hidden from sight.

‘She is a lovely girl, is she not?’ a voice spoke in his ear. Parson Walsh.

‘I – who is?’

‘The young lady that holds your heart.’

Daniel feared for a moment that the parson had an actual godly power to read his thoughts. Or perhaps he had truly lost his grip on himself and spoken aloud. He stared speechless as the oxen began to stamp their impatience.

Parson Walsh stepped closer, a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. Too close, and Daniel fought the instinct to back away.