Blood on the Strand (44 page)

Scot gazed at him reproachfully. ‘Why would we make up stories about such a thing?’

‘Because almost immediately, I suspect Bristol regretted what he had asked Dillon to do, and sent someone to stop him: you.
The landlord of the Dolphin recalled a second messenger asking for Dillon after the first note had been delivered. He said
the man had a foreign accent, which put me in mind of Behn. However, you are skilled at disguises, and would never have gone
on such a mission without donning one.’

Scot regarded him pityingly. ‘Go home, Chaloner, before you say something you will regret. You are tired, and do not know
what you are talking about.’

‘And
that
is why you left the dinner early: to deliver Bristol’s second note. But Dillon had already gone, so you went to Webb’s home
instead. Perhaps you were too late to stop the murder, or perhaps you decided it was in your better interests to let Webb
die. Either way, you saw Dillon and Fanning kill him. Then you wrote that letter to Bristol.’

Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Why would I do that? My name was on the list, too.’

‘That is what May said when I accused him of sending it, and my answer to you is the same as the one I gave him: because it
would have looked odd for it to be missing. And it was not your name, anyway. It was Peter Terrell’s,
a man who can disappear today, if necessary, and be replaced by someone else. You risked nothing by including him.’

‘This is rubbish,’ said Scot warningly.

‘You used blue ink,’ Chaloner went on. ‘The same kind you used to send letters to Behn – Maude saw them. You were doubtless
working for him in another of your guises, making sure his money-making ventures came to fruition. After all, there is no
point in defrauding a poor man, is there?’

‘None of this is true. The messenger who went to the Dolphin was said to be a yellow-headed fellow. You can look among my
collection of wigs – you will not find one like it.’

Chaloner was sorry. ‘I told no one the landlord’s description of the courier – and he swears I am the only one who has asked
– so there is only one way for you to know about the fair hairpiece.’

Scot regarded him coldly. ‘Why would I write that letter to Bristol? What would be in it for me?’

‘Revenge for Williamson’s failure to release your brother. You encouraged Thomas to turn traitor and give evidence against
his co-conspirators, expecting him to be freed at once. Yet Williamson declines to keep his side of the bargain, and Thomas
is still in the Tower.’

Scot scrubbed at his cheeks, making the pastes on them blur and mingle. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘I did send Bristol the
letter to avenge myself on Williamson.’

‘Why Bristol?’

‘Because he was the one who set a murder in motion, and it appealed to my sense of justice that he should be the instrument
of its resolution. I made sure he received the note when he was with the King, so he would have
no choice but to share its contents. But so what? Dillon and Fanning
did
kill Webb, and they have received their just deserts.’

‘What about Sarsfeild?’

Scot shrugged. ‘A casualty of war. Why did you meddle? You made life very difficult for me.’

‘And you reciprocated at every turn. You encouraged me to think Webb’s murder was something to do with the Castle Plot, when
it was nothing of the kind. You told me several times that I should not trust Wiseman, in an attempt to make me waste time
by investigating
him
as the killer. And then there was Fitz-Simons. I thought from the start that he had been killed to prevent him from talking
to Williamson, and I was right.
You
shot him.’

Scot shrugged again. ‘Another casualty of war.’

‘When Fitz-Simons murmured that Terrell “is not what he says”, he meant more than I realised. Somehow, he had learned that
you wrote Bristol’s letter. Perhaps he saw you deliver it, or perhaps he recognised the ink. Regardless, you could not have
Williamson knowing what you had done.’

‘Blue ink,’ murmured Scot ruefully. ‘Using it was a stupid and unforgivable mistake on my part. I was obliged to send Fitz-Simons
a few notes in his capacity as government informer. He attended Dillon’s trial – dismally disguised as a milkmaid – and I
knew that as soon as the law-court started to make an issue of the ink’s unusual colour, he would associate it with me. I
hunted him for days, and then he appeared at Westminster Abbey. I shot him.’

‘Everyone – including Eaffrey – seems to think you included me in your list of names. Why?’

‘Because I thought it would allay suspicion against me if I included an old friend. I care nothing for May, Willys and the
others, though. All I wanted was to deliver a stunning blow to Williamson’s little empire. Do not look disgusted, Chaloner.
You were never in danger from my “accusation”. You were in Ireland when Webb was murdered, and could have proved it to any
law-court’s satisfaction.’

Chaloner stared at the ceiling. Scot was wrong: a judge would have treated his alibi with the same contempt with which he
had treated Sarsfeild’s. ‘You must have been surprised when Garsfield’s name was changed to Sarsfeild. Do you know who did
that? Eaffrey.’

Scot closed his eyes. ‘I know. She does not share my confidence in English justice, and altered it before I had it delivered.
She confessed to what she had done a few days ago – defiantly and unrepentantly, of course. She has always looked out for
you. How did you guess it was her?’

‘Because she demonstrated to Thurloe how the changes had been made – changes so minuscule they were all but invisible. But
she identified them with suspicious ease.’

Scot grimaced. ‘Another foolish mistake on our part.’

Solutions were coming so fast to Chaloner that it was difficult to analyse
them all. Meanwhile, the enormity of Scot’s betrayal threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to force himself to speak. ‘It
was you who disguised himself as a priest and killed Sarsfeild in Ludgate. You knew Thurloe and I had been investigating his
alibi, and you wanted us to stop making efforts on his behalf, because we would have learned that he was innocent of everything
except an unfortunate name and an unlucky address.’

Scot sighed. ‘You are right – I knew that once you believed someone had changed the letter to protect you, the game would
be up. You do not have many friends in London, and it was obvious that you would have looked to us. Eaffrey had no idea the
trouble her tiny alterations would cause.’

‘She virtually told me,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Today, at Dillon’s execution. She said someone had done it to benefit me.
I should have made the connection then.’

‘So, what happens now? Will you tell Williamson? I doubt if he will believe you. Or will you forget about our misunderstandings
and come to Surinam?’

‘I doubt I would survive the voyage – you have tried to be rid of me several times already.’

‘That is not true,’ objected Scot indignantly.

‘The first time was at Bristol’s house. You were ready to hand me over – a perfect opportunity to be shot of the nuisance
I was becoming – but Alice arrived, and you did not want your beloved sister to see you betraying an old friend, even one
she does not like. Then, after we left the garden, you wanted to turn right when it was obvious that if we did, we would run
directly into Bristol’s men.’

Scot’s expression was harsh. ‘You have a fertile imagination.’

‘The last time was here, in the Anatomical Theatre. You said you came to investigate Lisle, but you knew he was no real threat
to an experienced spy like me. You were here to kill me and leave me for the dissectors, but Johnson got the better of you.’

‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

‘But true. Johnson has already told me that the barber-surgeons accept corpses with no questions asked. That is
how you disposed of the man with the scarred throat – the man
you
killed in Behn’s office. You brought him here and they obligingly chopped him up for you.’

‘You cannot prove that.’

‘I probably can – by asking Williamson whether any of his spies had a damaged neck. He is almost certain to say yes. What
did the poor man do, Scot? Stumble across your plan to trick Behn into marrying Eaffrey for the alimony you are determined
to wring from him?’

‘Eaffrey,’ said Scot, turning when he heard footsteps. ‘Chaloner is making up all manner of tales.’

‘I have been listening,’ said Eaffrey. Chaloner was shocked by the dead, flat expression on her face. ‘It is a pity, because
we were almost through this hellish time: your brother’s release is imminent, Webb’s murderers are dead, and we had plucked
up the courage to tell Williamson that we no longer wish to work for him. And he did not even
ask
us about his missing spy, so we are clear of that nasty business, too.’

Chaloner looked hard at her. ‘And Willys is dead. You arranged the diversion with the horse, while Scot stabbed him in the
back. Why was that necessary?’

Neither denied the accusation. ‘He was threatening to fabricate evidence that would see my brother executed,’ said Scot. ‘And
do you know why? Because of you.’

‘Me?’ Chaloner did not see how he could be held responsible for anything Willys had done.

‘You suggested I investigate the Trulocke brothers, but it transpired that the man who oversaw the supply of weapons to the
Irish rebels was none other than Willys.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘But he said he
prevented
a shipment of arms from reaching the conspirators.’

‘He was lying. Subsequent probing has shown he was
a close ally of Dillon’s; they were drinking together on the night of Webb’s murder. Dillon was a rebel, and he encouraged
his friends – Willys, Fanning, Fitz-Simons and others to join him in Ireland. When I tackled him, Willys said that if I did
not overlook the matter, he would tell Williamson that
Thomas
sold them the weapons. Unfortunately for Willys, he chose the wrong man to threaten.’

‘And England is now minus a traitor,’ added Eaffrey, a little defiantly.

‘You made the mistake of stabbing him with your left hand,’ said Chaloner. ‘You did it, because you knew May would make an
issue of the fact that I can fight with both, but you forgot about the splint. It was a clever idea, but you did not think
it through properly.’

Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, I killed Willys and yes, we wanted you accused, so you would stop your investigation and leave
us alone. But nothing would have happened to you – your master is Lord Chancellor of England, and he would have stepped in
to save you.’

‘And if not, we would have arranged your escape,’ added Eaffrey. ‘You were never in any danger. Damn it, Thomas! Why could
you not leave this alone? Now what are we going to do? You have landed us all in a terrible mess.’

‘I should say,’ came a voice from the stairs. All three jumped in surprise, and turned to see Holles standing there, a cocked
pistol in each hand. ‘A terrible mess is a good description of what you have made of our lives, Heyden. Search him for daggers,
Scot.’

‘He is unarmed,’ said Scot. ‘I hid all his weapons before we came down here.’

Chaloner looked from one to the other in confusion,
then shook his head in disgust as Holles trained both dags on him. ‘Wiseman said you could not be trusted, and he was right.’

Eaffrey spoke in a low voice. ‘You have always been loyal to a single master, Tom – first Thurloe, and now Clarendon. The
rest of us are rather more practical. Bristol is generous, and Holles, William and I have all accepted commissions from him
– to see him victorious over the man whose bigotry against Catholics has deprived him of the right to hold public office.’

Chaloner was numb. ‘Now what? Do we all go to Surinam together?’

Slowly, Scot took a gun from his belt, and aimed it at Chaloner’s chest. ‘I think it is too late for that.’

‘Would you like me to turn around?’ asked Chaloner softly. ‘So you can shoot me in the back?’

Eaffrey stepped forward and snatched the weapon from Scot’s hand. ‘Let me.’

She took aim, and Chaloner saw the fierce gleam in her eye. Then, at the last moment, she swung around and fired at Holles.
But the colonel was already bringing his own gun to bear on her, and he shot first. The two almost-simultaneous reports were
deafening in the confined space, and Chaloner dived for the floor. Eaffrey stumbled against Scot, and both crashed to the
ground, but it was not Eaffrey who lay still. Holles’s aim had gone wide, and Chaloner saw a spreading stain of red under
Scot. Eaffrey gazed at him and began a low, keening wail of distress.

Meanwhile, Eaffrey’s ball had hit Holles, who lay on his side, gasping. He fumbled for his second dag. Chaloner scrambled
towards him, but was too far away to prevent him from using it. A third shot rang out, and Eaffrey’s
cries stopped abruptly. Chaloner reached Holles and searched him, but there were no more weapons. The soldier was dying,
and blood bubbled between his lips.

‘I was testing them, to see if they really would kill you,’ he whispered, trying to grab Chaloner’s hand. ‘I was going to
shoot them before they could do it, and all that posturing was to make
them
show their true colours.’

Chaloner glanced to where Eaffrey and Scot lay in a motionless embrace. ‘I do not understand. Eaffrey just said—’

‘Of course I am not working for Bristol! He is a rake and nothing would induce me to spy for him, not even the fifty pounds
he offered me. I have only ever served Lord Clarendon, but now you must take my place.’

‘You have killed my friends,’ said Chaloner, unable to keep the catch from his voice.

‘They were no friends of yours.’

There came the sound of footsteps and people started to converge on the basement, alerted by the sound of the gunfire. Wiseman
knelt next to Eaffrey and Scot, and shook his head at the clamour of questions. They were already dead, and there was nothing
he could do to help them.

A robin sang in Lincoln’s Inn, perched high in the ancient elm that threw cool shadows across the path. Thurloe looked up
at it, and gave a rare smile of genuine pleasure

‘We have won the war. There were casualties, but we won eventually, which just goes to show that God’s justice does prevail
on occasion.’

Leybourn breathed deeply of the rain-scented garden, strolling contentedly on Thurloe’s left, while Chaloner walked on the
right. ‘The spat between Clarendon and Bristol
does
seem to have abated.’

‘I am talking about my trees,’ said Thurloe. ‘I lost some to Prynne’s axes, but a timely lightning strike – plus an oddly
croaking voice that warned him of thousands of Roundheads – caused him to revise his plans. They will form part of the display
now, instead of being removed to make way for grass. When all matures, Lincoln’s Inn garden may even be better than it was
before.’

‘Did anyone else hear this “oddly croaking voice”?’ asked Leybourn, bemused.

‘Of course not,’ said Thurloe. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the
truth.

‘What will happen to Bristol and Clarendon now?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Will they call a truce?’

‘Never,’ said Thurloe. ‘Bristol is insane with frustrated ambition, and Clarendon will not enjoy a long political career,
more is the pity. England needs men with scruples, and that will not be found among the likes of Bristol, Buckingham and Temple.’

‘You had better secure yourself another master, then,’ said Leybourn to Chaloner. ‘What about Williamson? Surely he must see
you are the kind of man his intelligence service needs, especially as he is now deprived of May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

‘He will never hire me,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘He thinks I killed May. Worse yet, he found some documents when he cleared
May’s room.’

‘What sort of documents?’ asked Leybourn.

‘Ones that imply
I
stole Dillon’s body, and was planning to sell it to the barber-surgeons. May paid Lisle and Johnson to write letters offering
to buy the thing from me – they were discussing it in the Anatomical Theatre, although I did not understand what they were
talking about at the time.’

‘Surely Williamson cannot believe such a monstrous tale?’ demanded Leybourn, indignant on his behalf.

Chaloner explained further. ‘Someone – Johnson, probably – brought Dillon’s corpse to Lincoln’s Inn after the hanging, which
explains its disappearance. He hid it near that wall we blew up, along with the clothes similar to the ones I wore when I
was disguised as an upholsterer.’

Thurloe took up the tale. ‘May had a written statement
from a “witness” who said he saw the suspicious interring of a body here. His crude little plan was for him and Williamson
to unearth Dillon together, and for May to point out the significance of the clothes – to prove Thomas’s guilt. In the event,
however, Williamson was obliged to excavate Dillon alone, and the upholsterer connection was overlooked – fortunately for
Thomas.’

‘So Williamson is not sure what to believe,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He would like me to be guilty, but without solid evidence,
he is erring on the side of caution, and has declared the matter closed.’

Leybourn paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord!
I
helped May! When we went to that tavern together, he asked which Inn you had attended. Like a fool I told him, because I
wanted him to fall foul of Prynne. I thought I was being clever! I should have known there was something more to his questions.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘You should. The man was a spy, after all.’

Leybourn looked suitably chastened. ‘I owe you an apology for declining to visit gaols when you asked, too, Tom. Thurloe tells
me you have a better reason than most for wanting to avoid them.’

‘Why did you refuse?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Rats,’ replied Leybourn in a low voice. He shuddered. ‘I cannot abide them, and the ones in Newgate are notoriously bold.’

Chaloner went back to his analysis. ‘I did not kill May, though, no matter what Williamson thinks. I hoped to resolve our
differences without bloodshed.’

‘That would have been impossible,’ said Thurloe. ‘May’s hatred of you was fanatical, as attested by this ridiculous business
with stolen corpses.’

‘Why did Scot kill him?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I still do not understand. Was it to save you?’

‘No – I had already disarmed him when Scot fired his dag. May had to die because he had just threatened to expose Scot and
Eaffrey’s plans to defraud Behn.’

‘How did he know what they intended to do?’ asked Leybourn doubtfully. ‘He was a dismal spy, and could never have learned
such a closely guarded secret.’

‘I cannot prove it, but I believe the man with the scarred neck – who
was
one of Williamson’s officers – found out by chance,’ said Chaloner. ‘Like Eaffrey, he had also been charged to monitor Behn’s
activities by worming his way into his confidences, and he must have overheard a conversation between Scot and Eaffrey in
Behn’s house. He told May about it, so Scot killed them both.’

Leybourn blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Tell me again what happened in Chyrurgeons’ Hall last week. I should not have tested
so many of Prynne’s strong wines that day, because I still do not understand how the murder of Webb was connected to what
those surgeons were doing.’

‘It was not connected,’ said Chaloner. ‘Or not significantly so. It all started when Silence Webb insulted Bristol at the
Guinea Company dinner. Bristol immediately decided to avenge himself. He baulked at harming a woman, but her unpleasant husband
was fair game, so he ordered Dillon and Fanning to oblige. He wrote a note, spitefully signing it with Clarendon’s name.’

‘Then he had second thoughts, and sent Scot to stop them,’ said Thurloe, who had not been drunk when Chaloner had arrived
to tell them how the case had been resolved. ‘But Scot decided to enact a little vengeance of
his own – on Williamson for keeping his brother in the Tower.’

‘Scot witnessed Webb’s murder,’ continued Chaloner. ‘And then he wrote Bristol a letter, naming not only Dillon and Fanning
as the culprits, but exposing several of Williamson’s best agents.’

‘Why did Scot pick your Garsfield alias for his letter?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Why not Heyden?’

‘He was being clever,’ said Chaloner. ‘Or thought he was. He chose that name – which I have only ever used in Ireland – to
strengthen the apparent links between Webb’s death and the Castle Plot. That was probably why he included Fitz-Simons, too
– like Dillon, he was a rebel. He had stressed the Irish connection in his letter, but it was suppressed – too politically
sensitive, I suppose. Fortunately for me, Eaffrey intervened.’

‘Why did she do that?’ asked Leybourn.

Chaloner looked away, and it was Thurloe who answered. ‘Because she was fond of Thomas, and was determined that nothing bad
should happen to him.’

‘She was complicit in trying to have him accused of murdering Willys,’ Leybourn pointed out. ‘That is not keeping him out
of harm’s way.’

‘That came later, when Thomas’s enquiries were coming too close for comfort. But even then, I do not think she would have
left him to stew for long. She was a true friend and would have organised some kind of rescue or release.’

‘And Scot?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Was he a true friend, too?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I misjudged him badly. I think he might well have shot me, had Eaffrey not grabbed the gun. Killing
came easily to him, after all.’

‘Who did he kill?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Other than May and the scarred spy?’

‘Fitz-Simons, for a start,’ replied Thurloe. ‘Because he recognised Scot’s distinctive blue ink. The ink was a stupid mistake
on Scot’s part, and shows he was losing his touch.’

‘No wonder he was keen to resign from the intelligence services,’ said Leybourn. ‘The release of his brother was probably
a factor, but self-preservation played a role, too.’

‘Sarsfeild was another of his victims,’ continued Thurloe. ‘He dressed as a priest and killed him in Ludgate when he learned
Thomas and I were investigating his alibi. He knew we would discover that Sarsfeild’s arrest was a case of mistaken identity,
which would raise awkward questions about the rest of the letter. He strangled Sarsfeild in the hope that it would bring an
end to our investigation.’

‘And the deaths of Fanning and Sarsfeild in their cells – for reasons unrelated to Webb – made Dillon think his master was
tying loose ends,’ said Chaloner. ‘The reality was quite different, but it served to make Dillon more confident of his master’s
power. He was deceived.’

‘He was deceived by the
name
of his master, too,’ said Leybourn, recalling one fact that was not lost in the drunken haze. ‘He thought it was Lord Clarendon,
but it was actually Bristol.’

‘Then Scot killed Willys,’ said Thurloe. ‘He had discovered that Willys had sold guns to Irish rebels, but Willys tried
to blackmail him by threatening to say Thomas was involved – a mistake of monumental proportion.’

‘Did he kill Holles, too?’ asked Leybourn.

‘That was Eaffrey,’ replied Thurloe. ‘In a ridiculous and pathetic misunderstanding, each was trying to probe the loyalty
of the other. Eaffrey wanted to know whether Holles was going to be a danger to Thomas in the future – to find out whether
he really had defected to Bristol. And Holles wanted to know whether Scot and Eaffrey would try to harm Clarendon by depriving
him of a valued servant.’

‘It all happened so fast,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Guns were out, and they both jumped to the wrong conclusions without
giving themselves time to think. I keep running through the scene in my mind, trying to see if there was a way I could have
averted the slaughter.’

‘There was nothing you could have done,’ said Thurloe gently. ‘Do not dwell on it.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Leybourn, after a few minutes of silence, ‘all the barber-surgeons are guilty of is making themselves rich
from conducting these Private Anatomies.’

‘Hardly!’ said Thurloe with a shudder of distaste. ‘Not only did they murder people for their corpses, but they were willing
to accept any cadaver in good condition with no questions asked.’

‘Behn and Temple are innocent of everything, though,’ said Leybourn.

‘They promote slavery,’ said Chaloner. ‘Plus there is the fact that Behn is a foreign spy. He sends dispatches to his government
every Tuesday, which he writes in cipher. Furthermore, he gave money to the Irish rebels, to help the Castle Plot succeed.’

Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because, despite what Eaffrey believed, it was obvious
that there was something suspect about the man. Maude saw him with Fanning once, and Fanning – like Dillon – was a committed
insurgent. I intercepted and decoded one batch of messages and passed the information to Williamson.’

‘Behn is arrested for spying?’ asked Leybourn.

‘Unfortunately, he somehow learned the game was up, and escaped. Williamson is furious.’

‘I have a confession to make,’ said Thurloe sheepishly, when the Inn’s cat approached and wound around his legs. Chaloner
was pleased to see it recovered. ‘It involves a certain tonic.’

‘I already know,’ said Chaloner. ‘It was
you
who poisoned me.’

Leybourn gaped, while Thurloe looked reproachful. ‘I would not have put it quite like that. It makes it sound deliberate,
and I assure you it was not. How did you guess?’

‘First, we suspected Prynne, but Will disproved that by drinking his wine. Then it seemed obvious that Yates had done it,
but his remit was to spy, not to kill. You, however, are very interested in cures and strong medicines, and you are always
willing to try new ones. I suspect your manservant stops you from doing yourself too much harm, but Yates had sent him away.
You added a new cure-all called Goddard’s Drops to one experiment, but those contain volatile oil of silk among other powerful
ingredients. Wiseman says they are toxic in any quantity.’

Thurloe nodded unhappily. ‘He was appalled when he knew what I had done. Still, I have learned my lesson and shall mix no
more potions. I hope you bear me no grudge.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner. He sighed and looked up at the
leafy branches swaying over his head. ‘I am not sure I want to work for Lord Clarendon any more. I cannot help him in his
spat with Bristol, and it is only a matter of time before their followers start killing each other.’

‘He is still a powerful man, so do not abandon him just yet,’ advised Thurloe. ‘However, the Queen has noticed you at White
Hall, and she has a spot of bother she wants investigated. Clarendon happened to mention that you know Portuguese, and she
would like you to visit her tomorrow.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘I hope she does not ask me to spy on the King’s mistress. Lady Castlemaine is more dangerous
than Williamson, May, Scot, Behn, Temple and Bristol put together.’

A few miles away, a ship was sailing down the Thames on the Early tide. It was bound for Surinam, and carried a number of
passengers, as well as a cargo of wool for the new colony. Eaffrey Johnson stood at the rail, arm-in-arm with Johan Behn.
Behn was wearing warm clothes against the stiff breeze, and he looked bigger and bulkier than ever. He sighed his contentment.

‘We are finally on our way. These last few weeks have been tiresome, and I dislike being in a position where I do not know
whom to trust. I did not approve of your friend from Holland, either. I think he might still be in love with you.’

‘I think I have successfully destroyed any lingering affection he might have held for me now,’ said Eaffrey, leaning against
him. The wind was sharp, and made her eyes water. ‘When shall we marry?’

‘When we touch land in France. I am sure we will make each other happy.’

Eaffrey nodded, although her eyes still watered furiously. ‘And you will forsake the Silences and the Maudes, and stay faithful
to me? You have not forgotten the agreement you signed, which will see our marriage annulled to my advantage if you stray?’