But it was for none of these things that I went. What mattered to me—I see it clearly now—was to be alone in the secret dark, where a man is his own master, except for death.

Mostly I went to what I called my ‘cave’. This had been part of some main chimney-shaft, and the top of it had crumbled, so that one could see the sky. It had held magic for me since the day I had looked up at midday and had seen, faint but unmistakable, a star. Now, when I went in at night I would curl up on my bed of stolen stable-straw and watch the stars wheeling slowly across, and make my own bet with heaven, which was, if the moon should show over the shaft while I was there, the next day would bring me my heart’s desire.

The moon was there that night. Full and shining, she stood clear in the centre of the shaft, her light pouring down on my upturned face so white and pure that it seemed I drank it in like water. I did not move till she had gone, and the little star that dogs her.

On the way back I passed under a room that had been empty before, but which now held voices.

Camlach’s room, of course. He and another man whose name I did not know, but who, from his accent, was one of those who had ridden in that day; I had found that they came from Cornwall. He had one of those thick, rumbling voices of which I caught only a word here and there as I crawled quickly through, worming my way between the pillars, concerned only not to be heard.

I was right at the end wall, and feeling along it for the arched gap to the next chamber, when my shoulder struck a broken section of flue pipe, and a loose piece of fireclay fell with a rattle.

The Cornishman’s voice stopped abruptly. “What’s that?”

Then my uncle’s voice, so clear down the broken flue that you would have thought he spoke in my ear.

“Nothing. A rat. It came from under the floor. I tell you, the place is falling to pieces.” There was the sound of a chair scraping back, and footsteps going across the room, away from me. His voice receded. I thought I heard the chink and gurgle of a drink being poured. I began slowly, slowly, to edge along the wall towards the trap.

He was coming back.

. . . “And even if she does refuse him, it will hardly matter. She won’t stay here—at any rate, no longer than my father can fight the bishop off and keep her by him. I tell you, with her mind set on what she calls a higher court, I’ve nothing to fear, even if he came himself.”

“As long as you believe her.”

“Oh, I believe her. I’ve been asking here and there, and everyone says the same.” He laughed. “Who knows, we may be thankful yet to have a voice at that heavenly court of hers before this game’s played out. And she’s devout enough to save the lot of us, they tell me, if she’ll only put her mind to it.”