Elizabeth set water to heat, pulled out the big wooden washtub and set it on the stone flags of the floor. John stripped off his clothes and left them at a heap near the door.

‘God be praised, I am glad to be home,’ he said and gave her a smile. She did not smile back at him, nor did she come into his arms and put her face against his warm bare chest. John did not hold out his arms. He was afraid he might smell and he knew his head and his beard harboured lice. But he would have been glad of a greeting which was passionate, or even affectionate. Elizabeth pouring hot water into the tub offered a dutiful welcome; not an exciting one.

‘I am glad to see you safe home,’ she said calmly, and put on another pot of water to heat.

John tested the water with his foot and then stepped in. Elizabeth handed him the washball of herbs tied in cotton, and a bowl of sludgy soap.

‘I was afraid you might be fired on, sailing past the Spanish coast,’ she said. ‘There were rumours that the fleet would go against Spain.’

‘I would have thought you would have been glad to see me put a cannonball into the heart of Papistry,’ John observed, sitting in a bath of soapy water and sponging the salty grime of several months’ voyage off his neck.

‘Not if they fired back,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I thought your quarrel was with the infidels.’

John splashed water into his face and puffed out like a grampus whale. ‘We had orders which could be read any way you wanted,’ he said. ‘It makes no sense to me. When I leave the garden for any length of time I say to the gardeners, take care of this, and when this flowers do this. I don’t say to them, use your judgement, do as you wish. And that way, when I come home again, I know if they have done well or badly, and they know it too.’

‘But the king?’ Elizabeth asked.

John lowered his voice. ‘The king gave them orders which told them to attack the infidel and release our poor captured countrymen, and gave them secret orders to attack Spain, and then orders which were to be open which told them to respect Spain as an ally.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘This is dishonesty,’ she said flatly.

John smiled, as if at an old half-forgotten joke. ‘It’s practice. But not principle.’

‘It’s a sin.’

John looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re very sure what makes a sin and what does not, my wife. Are you setting up to be a preacher like your father?’