Catherine laughed merrily. “Why, Lady Catesby, that is a moated labyrinth! How clever is that? It was Sir Thomas Tresham’s idea—he also suggested the loggia and some of the other features.” Her tone held the same element of hero worship that I heard from Robert when Thomas was mentioned. “Is Sir Thomas not the most fascinating gentleman? So learned and well traveled! Robert is very fortunate to have him as his uncle and godfather.”

I stared at the eight-pointed star emblazoned in the grass below. I had seen that pattern before. “Did Sir Thomas suggest the design for the labyrinth?” I asked.

Catherine nodded eagerly. “It is an octagram, Lady Catesby. The eight points of the star represent the eight forms of prosperity, which are patience, health, knowledge, wealth and...umm...” She had forgotten the remaining four. Then her face brightened. “They are all qualities to be dearly sought and valued, or so Sir Thomas tells me.”

“And, of course, the number eight also represents hope and new beginnings in the Holy Bible,” I said. “How Sir Thomas adores showing off his cleverness through allegory.” But in truth I was thinking of the Knights Hospitaller, of St. John and the eight-pointed cross that they had adopted to denote their aspirations: to live in truth, have faith, repent their sins, give proof of humility, love justice, be merciful, be sincere and wholehearted, and to endure persecution. Those, Thomas proclaimed to be the guiding principles of his life, just as they had been for his grandfather, the Grand Prior of the Order before him. And now here they were emblazoned on Catherine’s garden design for all to see.

I suspected that despite the ruling of the queen that the Order of the Hospitallers should be suppressed, it was flourishing here at Knightstone and not so secretly either. Perhaps the last of the Knights’ treasures were here also. It would be typical of Thomas’s arrogance to hide it in plain sight amidst his clever designs and allegories, daring someone to read the clues to it.

“You referred to it as a winter garden in your letter,” I said to Catherine. “I have never heard of such a thing. Is that another of Sir Thomas’s fancies?”

She shook her head. “It is my own idea,” she said, “for I love the native plants of winter, the snowdrops with their delicate purity, and the red berry of the holly and the bright yellow aconite. I have it in mind to make the garden as bright and joyful in the winter as I can.”

“That is a delightful idea,” I said.

A shade of sorrow came into her face. “The garden was begun in winter and it felt to me as though even in those bare and barren days it brought hope of fresh new life for the future.” She rested her hand a little self-consciously on her stomach, and I smiled at her.

“Spring is here now,” I said. “The seasons turn and so do our fortunes. I am sure it will not be long before you conceive and then your winter garden may become a summer one.”