Such towers were a part of Rutledge’s own heritage, and he found them of absorbing interest—an architectural as well as a military solution to what must have been wretched years of constant danger. The Routledges, his own ancestors, had once been Borderers on the English side, raiding with the best of them, until a widow with three young sons had moved south in search of a more peaceful climate in which to raise them. Shrewd and capable, she’d found prosperity there as well. The Borderer had proved to be a match for clever, sophisticated Tudor London. In more ways than one.

There was a painting of her in the London house, with an impeccable ruff like a halo behind her head, a firm chin, and lively, intelligent eyes that the Elizabethan painter had captured so well that they seemed to follow the viewer about the room, staring directly, knowingly, at him wherever he stood. As a small child, Rutledge had understandably confused her with God.

He tramped across the fallow field that surrounded the tower base and heard the clamor of sheep somewhere in the distance, even before he smelled them on the damp air. Standing at the foot of the massive stone walls, looking up at the broken top where birds had nested and wind whipped through the empty windows, he became aware of someone moving toward him. Turning, he saw a man in the rough clothes of a farmer, his face reddened by the sun, his hat jammed on his head like a fixture.

“Good morning!” he called as he saw Rutledge turn. “Looking for something?”

“No, just interested in the stonework.” Rutledge waited until the man was nearer and added, “It’s amazing, the craftsmanship of the people who built this. It’s stood here what—four or five hundred years?”

“About that. Fine workmanship, I agree. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, if you like. It belonged to my wife’s family. She knows the history of it better than I do.” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “God, everything smells of sheep. I’m a horse breeder by preference. Draft horses. But the Army took nearly every animal I had, and I’ve got to start again. Meanwhile, the sheep are tiding me over.” He grinned. “It’s a near thing whether I’ll kill them first or they’ll be the death of me. Stupid beasts, they are. Even the dogs find them irritating.”

He spoke well for a farmer. An educated man.

“I’d have as little to do with them as possible,” Rutledge agreed.

“Here on holiday? There’s some good walking in the district if you know where to look. The rule is, close gates you find closed and leave open gates you find open. There’s a nasty-tempered ram here and there, but you’ll see him before he sees you.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”