Langley House, Hertfordshire, and Tower Street Ward, London

There was water already steeping in a ewer by the hearth, for which Thornton was glad. He poured out a measure of the warm water into a bowl, took one of the towels that Leila Thanet had provided for Noah’s and his use, and, steeling himself, set to washing the wounds on Noah’s back, sickened by the memory of what had caused them.

What evil was trapped within Noah?

Noah moaned whenever he touched her back, but there was little Thornton could do save continue to wash. The wounds needed to be cleaned, their bleeding needed to be staunched, and when he had finally done, and had taken a fresh shirt to use as a bandage across them, Noah managed a faint smile as she looked over her shoulder and thanked him.

“Noah…” Thornton said, not knowing how to ask.

She sighed, turning her head back to look at the windows. Night had fallen now, but the rain still beat against the thick panes of glass.

“In the morning,” she said, “I shall have to leave here and go to London.”

“What is causing these injuries? Noah, what—”

“John…” She sighed again, and Thornton could see a tear run down a cheek.

Thornton looked from her to Catling. “Catling?”

“Catling,” said Noah before her daughter could answer Thornton, “will you go to Mistress Thanet and beg from her some warm buttered beer? And if she has some powdered bark of elm, then perhaps she could put a goodly measure of that into the beer. Tell her that the beer and the elm bark shall ease my aches somewhat. You can do this for me, at the least.”

Thornton looked sharply at Noah, but said nothing as Catling nodded and left the room.

When she had gone, Thornton shifted to the other side of the bed so he could see Noah full in the face. “Noah,” he said, “tell me.”

Despite the storm which had engulfed the ship as she entered the mouth of the Thames, the Fair Polly had made good time, pulling into the wharf just below the Customs House in London by early evening. Louis de Silva, wrapped in a heavy coat, a broad-brimmed felt hat pulled down to his eyebrows, and a small leather bag at his feet, stood waiting impatiently as the gangplank was lowered and the customs officials leaned into both the incline and the blowing wind to board the vessel.

“My good sirs,” Louis said as the two men finally attained the deck. “I need to enter London as soon as may be possible. I have here passes and documents of entry from Charles II, as well as letters of introduction from Admiral Montagu and Sir Edward Hyde. May I suggest—”

“May I suggest,” said one of the customs officials, “that we view the documents from the comparative dryness of the captain’s office? A letter signed by God Himself shall do you no good if this rain washes away His signature the instant you reveal it.”

Louis ducked his head in agreement, and the three men slipped and slid their way into the captain’s cabin.

None of them saw the tall, shadowy figure standing in an overhang of the Customs House, staring at the Fair Polly.

“Have you the Devil in you?” Thornton asked.

Noah’s mouth quirked. “One of his imps,” she said, “set there as repayment for a great foolishness on my part. No, do not look so horrified, John. This burden is bearable, and shall become more so as time passes.”

“I do not understand.”

Noah reached out a hand, resting it on John’s arm where it lay against the coverlet. “Believe me, you do not wish to,” she said. “Now, I beg you, strip away those bloodied clothes you wear, and pull the sheets about me, for I do not wish to explain to Mistress Thanet such a wash of blood from what she thinks to be a headache.”

Finally freed from the questions of the customs officials, his passport and letters of introduction perused and then carefully held to the single candle in the captain’s cabin to see if there was any secret writing contained within the paper, Louis slipped and slid his way down the gangplank to the almost equally slippery wooden decking of the wharf.

Home once more! Louis had not realised how glad he would feel. For a moment, ignoring the rain as best he could, Louis lifted his head and stared about him. The city was hid in an almost impenetrable gloom, but even so Louis could make out the spires of London’s churches rising around the warehouses lining Thames Street. He turned westwards, his eyes straining through the gloom for St Paul’s Cathedral. There was nothing to be seen, not in this rain-pelted dark, so Louis shrugged a little deeper into his coat and pulled the now sodden felt hat a little closer about his brow.

Louis started up Water Lane—a most appropriate name for current conditions, he thought—on the west side of the Customs House. He needed a place for the night, and there should be inns aplenty close to the wharves.

He did not see the shadowy figure break away from its hiding place and follow him at some twenty paces distance.

Catling returned with Mistress Thanet, who carried a tray with three beakers of sweet, warm buttered beer and a concerned expression on her face.

“My dear,” she said, setting the tray down on a table before advancing to the bedside, “how does your aching head?”

Noah managed a small smile, but Leila Thanet could see the effort it caused her. The woman was clearly ill, she thought, for her face was unnaturally pale and her eyes not only ringed with black smudges of exhaustion, but clouded with pain.

“The ache is bearable,” Noah said. “I do apologise for the fuss I caused earlier.”

“Do not think on that for now,” said Leila Thanet. “I have brought your buttered beer. This beaker,” one of her fingertips touched the beaker nearest to Noah, “contains a goodly portion of the elm powder. I hope it eases your head.”

“Then I thank you, Mistress Thanet,” said Noah as Thornton moved to aid her to sit up a little, and lift the beaker to her lips. “This beer shall do me more good than anything might.”

“Drink all of it,” Leila Thanet said, “and sleep away your aches through the night.”

Leila Thanet stopped, hesitated, smiled once more at Noah, and left.

“She is a good woman,” Noah said as the door closed. “I do not know of many who would do so much and ask so few questions. Ah, Catling, thank you for carrying my words to Mistress Thanet, and, oh, how soothing is this beer!”

Catling nodded, apparently somewhat pleased at her mother’s thanks.

“Drink further,” said Thornton, tipping the beaker so Noah could swallow the final dregs. “Then sleep.”

She finished the buttered beer, and lay back, her eyes closing, slipping into sleep almost immediately. Mistress Thanet must indeed have been generous with the powdered elm bark, thought Thornton, grateful that Noah at least had some respite from the pain.

He sent Catling to bed with her beer, then relaxed in the chair by the bed, his own eyes drooping.

Louis walked up Water Lane, grateful for the protection the overhanging buildings gave him against the rain, but loathing the sodden muck—the curse of every city—lying in stinking piles on the street. At Tower Street he turned left, walking down to Hart Lane where he came on a small tavern called The King Charles Rampant. As he entered Louis noted the freshly painted king’s arms on the wall by the front door, and smiled at the thought that this name must only very recently have been changed from something else.

Behind him, the figure which had been following Louis stopped, stared a while at the tavern, then turned away, moving through the soaking streets of London until he reached the Guildhall. There he slipped inside via a small side door.

Thornton woke very gradually, slowly becoming aware of the room and of Noah’s gentle breathing. He yawned, rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand, and then froze.

There was someone else in the room.

Thornton sat up sharply, his sleepiness gone.

“I mean you no harm,” said a voice, and Thornton’s gaze jerked to the window.

A man stood there. An ordinary man, of pleasant enough aspect, and dressed in good quality clothes.

He smiled at Thornton. “I am a physician,” he said.

“Mistress Thanet sent for you?”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “She said she had a guest who had…suffered.”

Thornton stood up and offered the stranger his hand. “I am the Reverend John Thornton. I am…Noah’s husband.”

The man took Thornton’s hand, raising his eyebrows a little. “Her husband? I did not know she had a husband. She’d told me only that she’d…Well, well. A husband…” He stopped, let go Thornton’s hand, and walked over to the bed.

“I am afraid I did not catch your name,” said Thornton. “And I do not think that you should—”

The man whipped about, seizing Thornton by the arm. “My name is not important,” he said. “I am a friend.”

Thornton opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Yes. The stranger was right, his name was not important, and, yes, he was a friend.

Slowly the stranger’s grip loosened on Thornton’s arm. He nodded to himself, as if satisfied, then turned back to Noah. “You shall tell her that Mistress Thanet sent for a physician.”

“Yes,” said Thornton.

The stranger stood a moment, looking down on Noah. “She is very beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Thornton, and something in his tone made the stranger turn and look at him with pity.

“You love her,” he said.

Thornton sighed. “It will murder me, this love.”

“Oh,” said the stranger, “not you.” He bent down to Noah, and slowly uncovered her shoulders and back.

“She does not wake,” murmured the stranger.

“She has drunk of buttered beer,” said Thornton. “Infused with elm bark.”

Again the stranger turned to smile at Thornton. “Buttered beer? It is my favourite.”

Once more he bent to Noah, and now he carefully lifted away from her back the linen shirt that Thornton had laid there.

His face went very still at the sight of the terrible wounds. They had clotted, but still gaped, and the flesh surrounding them was swollen and hard.

“They are very terrible,” said the stranger.

“You said you were a physician. You said you could aid her.”

“And so I shall.” The stranger sat on the bed by Noah and, very gently, laid his hands against her back.

Noah murmured softly in her sleep, but did not otherwise move.

“I am sorry,” the man whispered, so softly that Thornton only barely caught the words, and then the stranger’s hands began to rub, very gently, up and down Noah’s back.

Thornton watched them, only mildly curious at this strange action. The stranger’s hands were very beautiful. They were large, yet elegant, with square palms and long, sensitive fingers. Thornton relaxed still further. They were the hands of a physician. There could be no doubt.

The stranger kept moving his hands, slowly, gently. As they moved, so the wounds closed over. The flesh was still red and swollen, but the angriness had subsided, and Thornton could see that even the swelling would subside within a few days.

“You have a remarkable skill,” Thornton said.

The stranger’s mouth twisted. “So I have been told.” He paused, then lifted his hands away from Noah. For a long moment he sat there, staring at her, then as gently as he had pulled them down, he lifted the bed covers over Noah’s back and shoulders, then stood up.

“Tell no one I have been here, and tell Noah only what I have told you.”

“That you are a physician, sent by Mistress Thanet.”

The man’s eyes gleamed with humour. “Aye. A physician with uncommon skill.”

“A physician with uncommon skill,” Thornton repeated obediently.

The stranger stepped very close. “Tell me, Reverend Thornton, does she bring you bliss in your bedding? Is she…delectable?”

Thornton’s eyes filled with tears. “She makes the land to rise up and greet me,” he said, and at that the stranger’s face hardened, his eyes went flat and emotionless, and then, abruptly, he was gone, and Thornton was left standing alone by the bed.