He could not think why she stayed away. He had insulted her perhaps, unwitting in his clumsiness, as before. Or she had simply changed her mind. Their time together did not mean to her what it did to him.

His appetite left him and he could not sleep. The small pleasures that had once sustained him – the baby sparrows leaping from their nests, the playful gambolling of lambs – could not touch him.

He helped Father spread manure and raked behind him as he led the oxen and plough, attached Bonny to the harrow and walked her up and down the field, May heat seeping through his tunic. The greening of the land and call of the song thrushes usually soothed his spirit at this time of year. Yet a fever lay upon him now, an unfamiliar restlessness to have his tasks done and be at the river. Every day he believed she would come. Every night she did not.

Daniel sat now with Father and Gabriel eating bread and collops under the shade of the largest oak and drinking ale. He listening to the stories Gabriel told of the village, and how all were unsettled. How all looked about with suspicion, for every man had a friend or neighbour that could tell a tale about him to interest the new magistrate.

‘It’s law books he recites before bed, not prayers, so they say,’ Gabriel said. ‘Carries that book of the King’s with him like it’s a Bible. There’ll be floggings on the green and worse now.’

‘There must be – there are those that live right and have nothing to fear, surely?’ Daniel asked.

Gabriel shrugged. Flicked away a spider that crawled over his leg.

‘At least you’ve kept your temper in check, lad, and free from trouble,’ Father said.

‘Aye.’ Gabriel swallowed the last mouthful. ‘I’m not afraid of this Wright anyhow, no matter what’s the stories told about him. Should trouble come my way, I have one ready to take the blame, like you said. Eh?’

He spoke to Father but looked at Daniel. The words stuck in Daniel’s throat and he choked on his food. Gabriel smirked.

Father glanced from Gabriel to Daniel and back again. ‘Enough, Gabriel. Had you been brothers you couldn’t have fought more. That is the last time you stir up trouble, lad,’ he said, his voice low but filled with threat. ‘Not one more. Or you shall be out and be damned with your sad tales of your sorry mam that needs you.’

Gabriel stood, a full head taller than Daniel and half as wide again. ‘Had we been brothers all this would come to me, and far a worthier heir to it I’d have made,’ he said.

Kicking his half-finished crust under the tree, Gabriel walked towards the yard. Daniel followed. But he carried Gabriel’s words like a splinter under a fingernail.