Slowly she came towards him, noting the new lines of pain and disappointment in his face. His limp, which he thought she did not see, was more pronounced than ever.

She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Husband?’ she said softly. ‘You are welcome home.’

He looked up from the ground before him and when she met his dark eyes she recoiled. ‘John?’ she whispered. ‘Oh my John, what has he done to you?’

It was the worst thing she could have said. He reared up, his face hard. ‘Nothing. What d’you mean?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Come and sit down.’ She led him to the stone bench before the house, and felt his hand tremble in her own. ‘Sit,’ she said tenderly. ‘I will get you a cup of ale, or would you like something hot?’

‘Anything,’ he said.

She hesitated. J was still at work, cutting back and weeding in the fruit garden, at the other side of the great house. She did not send for him yet, she feared a quarrel between father and son, and when she looked at John’s weary face she feared that his son would be the victor. John had come home an old man. She whisked into the house and brought out a mug of ale and a slice of her home-made bread. She put them on the bench beside him and said nothing while he drank. He did not eat.

‘We heard that it was a defeat,’ she said at last. ‘I was afraid that you were hurt.’ She shot a sideways look at him, wondering if there were some physical injury that he was keeping from her.

‘I took not a scratch,’ he said simply.

The pain was in his soul, then. ‘And his lordship?’

There was a flash across his face, instantly hidden, like lightning on a dark night. ‘He is well, praise God. He is with the king who has rejoiced in his return, with his wife at his side, thank God.’

She bowed her head briefly but found she could not say ‘Amen’.

‘And you …’ she prompted him gently. ‘I can see that all is not well with you, John. I can see that there is no rejoicing for you.’

He met her eyes and she thought that never before in their life together had she seen him look as if the light had gone out for him.

‘I will not burden you with my sorrows, Elizabeth,’ he said gently. ‘I will mend. I am not a boy in springtime. I will mend.’

Her grave look never wavered. ‘Perhaps you should tell me, John. Or tell your Saviour. A hidden secret is like a hidden pain, it can only grow worse.’

He nodded as if he knew all about hidden pain now. ‘I shall try to pray. But I am afraid that my faith was never very strong, and I seem to have lost it.’