But there were to be no happier times that year, for no sooner had Robert returned to Oxfordshire than word came of the loss of little William, his and Catherine’s son. When I heard, I fell to my knees and the tears came as they had not for my husband. They were tears for a promise of the future that would be unfulfilled and a hope that was dashed.

I sent Byram to Chastleton again for news, wanting to go to them but not wanting to intrude at such a painful time, but when he returned it was with a face more bleak than the coldest winter.

“It was an illness like the sweating sickness of old, with shivers and giddiness, aching limbs and exhaustion,” he reported, the lines deep on his face and the dust of the journey still on him. “They said the poor mite was screaming in pain. He took ill one morning and by the same night he was dead. So fast, milady. Struck down and gone. They buried him quickly to avoid contagion.”

“Thank God that his suffering was short,” I said, my heart wrenched to think of the child going through such a horrible experience. Worldly suffering was harsh and cruel even if he was with the angels now. Then I saw that there was worse to tell.

“Mistress Catesby is ailing too,” Byram said. “They say she will die of a broken heart.”

I thought of Catherine, so gentle, so ill-equipped to deal with the harshness of fate. Would her love for Robert and little Robbie help her through this terrible time?

“Prepare the carriage,” I said. “I am going to Oxfordshire.” I did not know whether Robert would be prepared to accept my support, given the coldness between us, but I could not simply send a stiff note of condolence at such a terrible time.

Byram hastened away to the stables and I threw some items haphazardly into a box to take with me. It was already late in the morning of a dry, gray September day and I knew darkness would probably fall before we reached Chastleton, but we would press on as quickly as we dared. The journey seemed interminable, mile after mile of ruts and dust, whilst I was gripped by a sense of dread that would not ease. Nothing, not my prayers nor the beauty of the passing landscape, could soothe my soul.

It was past eight in the evening when we rolled beneath the archway into the stable yard; the horses were exhausted and so were we. A frightened-looking boy came running to take the horses, but I caught his arm as he reached for the bridles. Already I had noticed that the house had a shuttered air to it and that only one torch burned in the sconce on the wall.

“Mr. Catesby,” I said, urgently. “Is he here?”

“No, ma’am.” He recognized me and sketched a bow. “There’s no one here but the steward and I.” I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Mr. Catesby is at Knightstone, ma’am. You may not have heard—we sent a messenger but maybe you passed him on the road? Mistress Catesby died today. Fearfully quick it was, and the master is in a terrible way—”