She pointed to a level area of ground outside the back door. The ground was marked out with pegs and twines into a square shape containing the serpentine twists of a maze. ‘I was going to make it with chalk stones and flints in patterns of black and white,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anything tender will thrive because of the chickens.’

‘You can’t have chickens in a knot garden,’ John said decidedly.

She chuckled and John looked down and saw with surprise that rosy happy face again. ‘Well, we have to have chickens for their eggs and for your dinner,’ she said. ‘So you must think of a way that chickens can be kept out.’

John laughed. ‘At Theobalds I am plagued with deer!’ he said. ‘It seems very hard that in my own garden I shall still have pests to come and spoil my plants.’

‘Perhaps we could get another plot of land for the chickens,’ she suggested. ‘And fence this off so that you might grow whatever you wish.’

John glanced down at the overworked light brown soil and the nearby midden. ‘It is hardly the ideal place,’ he said.

At once he saw the colour and the happiness drain from her face. She looked weary. ‘Not after Theobalds Palace, I suppose.’

‘Elizabeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I did not mean …’

She turned away from him and was leading the way into the cottage.

He stepped after her and was about to take her hand but some stupid shyness checked the movement. ‘Elizabeth!’ he said more gently.

She hesitated, but she did not turn. ‘I was afraid you were never coming back,’ she whispered. ‘I was afraid that you had married me to fulfil the agreement, and to get my dowry, and that you would never come back to me at all.’

‘Of course! Of course I would come back!’ He was astounded at her. ‘I married you in good faith! Of course I would come back!’

She dipped her head down and then pulled up her apron to rub at her eyes. Still she did not turn around to him. ‘You did not write,’ she said softly. ‘And it has been two months.’

Now it was he who turned away. He looked away from the house, over the little plot where his horse grazed, and towards the hill where the square-towered church pointed up at the sky. ‘I know,’ he said shortly. ‘I meant to …’

She raised her head but still she did not turn around. He thought they must look a pair of fools, back to back in their own yard instead of in each other’s arms.

‘Why did you not?’ she asked softly.

He cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. ‘I cannot write very fair,’ he said awkwardly. ‘That is to say, I cannot write at all. I can read a bit, I can reckon very swiftly, but I cannot write. And anyway … I should not know what to say.’