John shook his head and mutely held out the note.

Johnnie took it, opened it, read it. John saw the energy and joy drain out of his son as if a leech of grief had suddenly fastened on his heart.

‘Defeated,’ he said, as if the word was meaningless. ‘Defeated at Dunbar. Where is Dunbar?’

‘Scotland,’ John said gruffly. ‘South of Edinburgh, I think.’

‘The king?’

‘As you see, he doesn’t say. But it’s over,’ John said gently. ‘That was his last throw of the dice. He’ll go back to France, I suppose.’

His son looked up at him, his young face bewildered. ‘Over? D’you think he’ll never try again?’

‘He can’t keep trying,’ John exclaimed. ‘He can’t keep coming back and coming back and upsetting the country. He has to know that it was over for his father and it is over for him. Their time has gone. The English don’t want a king any more.’

‘You made me stay and wait,’ Johnnie said with sudden sharp bitterness. ‘And I stayed and waited, like hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other men. And while I stayed and waited he didn’t have enough men. So he was defeated, while I stayed at home, waiting for your leave to go.’

John put his hand on Johnnie’s shoulder but the younger man shrugged it off and took a few steps away. ‘I betrayed him!’ he cried out, his voice breaking. ‘I stayed at home obeying my father when I should have ridden out to obey my king.’

John hesitated, choosing his words with care. ‘I don’t think it was a close-run thing. I don’t think hundreds of men would have made a difference. Since Cromwell and Lambert have had command of the army they have rarely lost a battle. I don’t think your being there would have made a difference, Johnnie.’

Johnnie looked back at his father and his dark, beautiful young face was filled with reproach. ‘It would have made a difference to me,’ he said with simple dignity.

He came into dinner in silence. In silence he went to bed. At breakfast the next morning his eyes were sombre and there were dark shadows underneath them. The light had gone out of Johnnie once again.

Hester put her hand on his shoulder as she rose from the table to fetch some more small ale.

‘Why don’t you go to Wimbledon today?’ she asked him gently. ‘Your next crop of melons must be nearly ready to pick.’

‘What should I do with the fruit?’ he asked miserably.