Muriel’s gaze fell for the first time. “Then why does Thomas come here?” she muttered. “Month after month, never to Chastleton, always to Knightstone, which is her favorite house? And the garden—her treasure garden he calls it—speaking of it holding the greatest treasure of all?” She looked spiteful and mulish.

“Because it does!” I shouted. “How can you know your husband so well and yet not know him at all? When we were children, Thomas’s grandfather brought the Knights’ Hospitallers treasure here for safekeeping. Very likely it is concealed somewhere in the garden, beneath Thomas’s conceited design! He comes here to ensure it is safe against the time the Order rises again—whenever that may be. It is his sacred trust.”

“He told you this?” Her eyes were wide, her jaw slack with shock.

“Of course not,” I said. At last I remembered to moderate my voice. “I overheard our parents speak of the treasure when we were children,” I said. “And the rest—the garden—well, have you seen the emblem on the grass of the labyrinth? Thomas is not subtle. He thumbs his nose at the queen’s spies.”

Muriel swallowed hard. Her pretty, faded-pink complexion was blotchy with tears and anger. “It still does not explain Robbie’s eye color,” she said stubbornly.

I sighed tiredly. “Oh, Muriel,” I said. “I am sure that what William says is true and it is not such a rare thing. And even if it were, the Tresham and the Catesby families have intermarried for generations. It is far more likely that it is some long-forgotten inheritance from an alliance in the past than that Catherine should have played Robert false! That idea is patently absurd and you should apologize to them both.”

Muriel hesitated as though she were about to say more but then she caught sight of William hurrying along the terrace toward us, thought better of it and, muttering something under her breath, spun away in the other direction.

“Thomas is looking for her,” William said, when he reached me. “He will prevent her from doing any more harm.”

“Thank God,” I said. “And Catherine?”

“She is in a storm of weeping.” William was frowning. “We must pray she does not take ill. Robert is with her, trying to calm her.”

“He does not blame her?” Fear clutched at me for I knew how unpredictable and difficult men could be if something touched their honor. “He does not think there is any substance in Muriel’s accusations?”

“Not the least in the world,” William reassured me.

“Thank God.” I released my breath.

“Can Muriel be mad?” William asked, troubled. “Indeed what could have prompted her to make such a claim about the child?”

“Nothing but jealousy and a twisted imagination,” I said. “She resents the time Thomas spends here and thought that Catherine was the reason.” Once again I felt a pang, for had I not resented Thomas’s closeness with Robert too? I was little better than her. I had wanted to break their bond, but unlike Muriel I was not prepared to break everything else in the process.