The villagers began to drift away to their hearths and homes, no doubt needing the warmth of a fire and perhaps some ale after their soaking in the churchyard. I turned to see Thomas standing a little apart, by the line of old sarsen stones that marked the edge of the graveyard. He raised a hand and came forward to greet me. He was dressed all in black; it made him look older, drained of color, tired.

“My condolences to you,” he said, bowing over my gloved hand.

“And to you,” I said. “You cared for Catherine too.”

He nodded. “We have lost a bright light and a noble lady,” he said. “I am sorry it took me so long to come to Knightstone. I have been unwell, too sick to travel until now.”

“I am sorry,” I said. That accounted for his pallor, I supposed, a combination of grief and illness.

“I need to speak with you, Anne,” Thomas said abruptly. He looked at Byram. “In private.”

“You may speak freely here,” I said. “I have no secrets from Byram.”

“I doubt that very much.” Some of Thomas’s former sardonic manner had returned. “Shall we walk back to the manor together? Put frankly, I need to speak with you about the treasure.”

I thought I heard Byram make a choking noise, but when I looked at him his face was impassive. “I will wait for you to send for me when you are ready, madam,” he said, and set off down the path to the village, I suspected to join the other mourners in the alehouse.

I sighed but slipped my hand through Thomas’s proffered arm, and we walked the other way, out onto the hollow way path that ran behind the church and down to the track to Knightstone. The trees made an arch over our heads, their leaves turning from green to gold, ready to fall in autumn’s chill breeze.

“The seasons will keep turning,” Thomas said. “There is some comfort in that.”

“We are in a season of loss,” I agreed. “For now, winter is coming.” I huddled deeper within my cloak. “I must believe that spring will also come again.”

As we drew closer to the manor, the scent of smoke still seemed to hang in the air, a mournful echo of autumn and a reminder of Robert’s fierce destruction.

“You said you wished to speak of the treasure,” I reminded him. “I wondered why you had not come to Knightstone sooner to secure it, especially after the fire, but if you have been ill I can see that would have been impossible.”

A faint smile touched Thomas’s lips. “I was not concerned about it,” he said. “I knew it was safe.” He glanced at me. “Did you go looking for it, Nan?”

“I did,” I said. “Or rather, I sent Byram to find it.”

“Why would you do that?” Thomas had stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Did you have an urge to see it for yourself, Nan? So much gold, such precious objects, articles of faith? Did you wish to keep it yourself? Set yourself up as its protector—or even take some of it for your own use?”