“No,” I said. I felt hurt and angry that he would impute evil motives to me, even as a voice in the back of my mind whispered that it was good I had been spared that precise temptation. “You said it was a sacred trust, Thomas,” I said. “However I feel about the way in which you goad the authorities with your religious provocations, however I worry that you may lead Robert astray or bring trouble upon him, I would never betray a holy vow. I sought only to keep it safe from the fire.”

Thomas nodded, his face breaking into a sweet smile that reminded me irresistibly of how handsome he had been when he was young.

“And where did you seek it?” he asked.

“In the vault beneath the obelisk in the center of the garden,” I said. “I imagined that it was the heart of the whole plan, the labyrinth that leads one by twists and turns to find God—or treasure—at the center.”

“It was clever of you to work that out,” Thomas said.

“Not really,” I said, tartly. “You made it rather obvious, with your symbolism and your numerology. So obvious, now that I think about it, that it was too good to be true.”

Thomas laughed. “Byram found nothing,” he said.

“The vault was empty,” I concurred. “I think it has always been.” I looked at him. “There is no treasure at Knightstone, is there, Thomas?” I said. “Very likely there never has been. The vault is a decoy, built to mislead the queen’s spies, like the double-blind priest’s hole at Coughton, where we grew up.”

“You remember that?” Thomas said. “It was a cunning device.”

“It was built to lay a false trail,” I said. “Just like the rumors of treasure here that you have so carefully perpetrated.” I gave him a rueful smile. “Now, finally, I see that Catherine’s garden was simply that—a beautiful tribute to whatever each of us values. For Catherine it was somewhere wild and magical, a private space to enjoy with Robert and her children. For you it was a symbol of your faith. But it was never a hiding place.”

We had reached the top of the valley where a path wended its way down toward Catherine’s pleasure gardens and in the light of so much stark death and devastation we both fell silent. The ash of the trellises and palisades mingled with the charred remains of the dead trees. The path was strewn with broken branches. Only the stream, bright and pure, ran over the chalk stone with the same clarity as before. The winter of devastation had come to Catherine’s garden. I heard Thomas sigh.

“I am sorry,” I said impulsively to Thomas. “I know the garden was as special to you as it was to Catherine. She made it so beautiful, whatever the season. To see it destroyed must break your heart.”

“Sic transit gloria mundi,” Thomas said with a wry smile. “Thus passes earthly glory.”