She looked doubtful, as if God had not been generous with his blessings in her life. “Shall we go now? It’ll take us a while to get across.”

“We’ll go,” he decided. “What shall I call you? I am Father James.”

She recoiled from the priestly title. “I can’t call you that! I might as well go to the justices and get arrested at once! What’s your real name?”

“You can call me James.”

She gave a little shrug as if she was offended by his discretion. “I bear my husband’s name,” she replied. “They call me Goody Reekie.”

“What shall I call you?”

“Call me that,” she said pertly. “Since you don’t tell me your true name why should I tell you mine?”

She turned from his surprised face and led the way out of the church, waiting patiently as he bowed low to the altar, kneeling on one knee and putting his hand to the ground. She heard him whisper a prayer for his safety and hers, and for all those serving the true faith in England tonight, for the king in his cruel captivity, and the prince abroad.

“My husband’s missing,” she remarked, as he joined her at the door. “He’s been gone for more than half a year.”

“God bless him, and keep you,” he said, making the sign of the cross over her head. She had never seen the gesture before, and she did not know to bow her head and cross herself. Nobody had publicly crossed themselves in England for nearly a hundred years. The people had lost the habit, and those who were still Roman Catholic were careful to keep their faith hidden.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly.

“Do you have children?”

She opened the heavy door to the porch, looked out to see that the graveyard was deserted, and then beckoned him to follow her. They walked in single file between graves where the stones were so thick with old moss and lichen that only a few letters could be seen.

“Two still living,” she said over her shoulder. “I thank God for them. My daughter is thirteen and my son is twelve.”

“And does your boy fish in his father’s place?”

“The boat’s missing too,” she said, as if that were the greatest loss. “So we can only fish with a line from the shore.”

“Our Lord called a fisherman before he called anyone else,” he said gently.

“Yes,” she said. “But at least he left the boat.”

A laugh broke from him at her irreverence, and she turned and laughed with him and he saw, again, the bright warmth of her smile. It was so powerful and so illuminating he wanted to catch her hand and keep her smiling at him.

“The boat matters so much, you see.”

“I do see,” he said, taking hold of the shoulder straps of his pack, keeping his hands away from temptation. “How do you manage without boat or husband?”

“Poorly,” she said shortly.