“Saddle me a horse,” I said. I looked at Byram. “Two horses.”

“Madam—” Byram would never hesitate to tell me if he thought I was doing something foolish. “Surely we should wait until tomorrow?”

“I fear for Robert and for the child,” I said. “We will ride to Knightstone now. The night is clear; we can find our way.”

“If we journey by night, I will need an harquebus,” Byram said grimly. He patted his sword as though to check it was still there. “This is madness, milady. You have been traveling all day and are fit to drop.”

“If you wish me to go alone,” I said, “I’ll take the gun and be on my way.”

Byram’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Very amusing, milady.”

As it transpired, we had no trouble on the road. We crossed the River Thames at Lechlade in company with a party of late-night travelers who were anxious to reach the town of Highworth by midnight. We hired fresh horses at the inn there and then the road was clear ahead of us. Outside the town we dipped down to cross a small stream overhung with willows and when we gained the ridge on the other side we could see clear across the vale to the hills beyond. All was dark, but for the moon, sailing bright and three-quarters full above us on the shreds of cloud. A few miles further on and I saw light pricking the darkness, orange red against the blackness of the night.

“Fire,” Byram called to me, and we spurred our horses forward, forgetting our own tiredness. The flames blossomed as we grew closer to Knightstone and for one terrible, heart-stopping moment I was afraid that the house might be alight. However as we turned into the drive, scattering gravel from the horse’s hooves in our haste, the dark bulk of the house crouched ahead of us, lit from behind with a backdrop of flame. We reined in, for the horses were scared of the smoke and the noise.

“Dear God,” I whispered. “Catherine’s beautiful garden is on fire.”

It seemed that the whole wood was ablaze. From our vantage point up on the terrace, where only a few short years ago Catherine had shown me her plans and planting schemes, we could see it all—the little summerhouse by the lake sagging and crumbling to cinders as the fire took it, the palisades and colonnades of tender plants like streaming torches of flame. Grasses burned, trees burned, arbors and arches caught alight. It was like a scene from hell. And all about us was the gunshot crack of snapping wood and the crackle of burning.

“Holy Mother of God,” Byram said blankly, though whether in prayer or blasphemy I could not tell.

“I am going to find Robert.” I dismounted and handed my reins to him. “Take the horses to the stables if it is safe,” I said. “And then I have a task for you.”

“Madam?” Byram wrenched his gaze from the fire raging below and stared at me.