One sharp tug on a rope that hung from the ceiling, and a trapdoor fell to block the opening to the cupola. Unable to escape to the shelter of the skies, the birds could only flutter in panic while their nests were ravaged and their number culled. Why they chose to stay on in the dovecote afterward I would never know. Why didn't they fly away, when the trap was opened again? Why did they linger on and wait for death, like rabbits raised in a warren beside the kitchen door? Did they lack the sense to foresee their fate, I wondered, or was it simply that the horror of living had deadened their brains; that having grown accustomed to the security of their prison, they no longer knew where else to go?

I could become like that, I thought suddenly. If I did not guard against it, I too could become like the doomed birds in the dovecote. Like lovely, dead-eyed Caroline, with her hair turning white from worry at twenty-five. For if the dovecote was a trap, then so was Greywethers, and my uncle's hand held the rope that could pull shut the door and bar my flight.

I could feel his eyes upon me now, watching me from the house, and I squared my shoulders defiantly before pushing open the low wooden door and taking a determined step inside the little building. At first, I could hear nothing, only the sharp creak of the door behind me as I leaned upon it to close it. Then subtly, pervasively, the sound began to permeate my senses—the gentle cooing of a hundred softly vibrating throats, a hundred pigeons nestled plump and warm within their niches.

The place had the look of a tomb, dim and neglected. The shadows lay thick in the corners, and from where I stood I could make out only the suggestion of walls. What little light there was fell in a circular, spreading shaft from the open cupola overhead, caught the dust in the air, and set it idly dancing against the darkness.

I searched low on the wall for an occupied nesting hole, and found a likely squab perched upon a ledge. The bird came easily into my hands, without fear, and lay there looking up at me with a round and vaguely interested eye. I could feel the insubstantial weight of the creature, the small heart racing against its fragile breast.

'Jesus, help me,' I pleaded in a whisper, closing my eyes. 'I cannot.'

The deep voice that spoke in reply from the darkness behind me was so unexpected it sent me spinning round in sudden fear, clutching the startled pigeon to my bodice.

'There is a penalty to be paid for the theft of one of my birds,' the voice said.

Before the words had died away I recognized the speaker, and my own heartbeat slowly resumed its normal pace. Richard de Mornay took a step forward, nearer the light, but his smiling face remained half in shadow.

'How came you here?' I asked him rudely, my voice little more than a whisper.

'By the back door,' he replied, pointing out the little-used entrance on the west wall. 'Your uncle did not see me, if that is what worries you.'

'And how can you be sure of that?'

'Because I saw him. He was well occupied within the stables at the time, I can assure you. I was a soldier, Mariana,' he chided me gently. 'I know the art of ambush.'

'And is this then an ambush?'

'In truth, 'twas merely hunger brought me here.' He stretched one hand forward into the light to show me the two dead birds he held, but I was not entirely convinced.

'You have servants, surely,' I said, 'who could fetch the pigeons for you.'

'Ay.' A faint gleam from the darkness. 'But then I should have missed the pleasure of your company.'

I looked quickly away from the drooping dead pigeons, cradling my live one more closely. 'You flatter me, my lord.'

'Ay. 'Tis time someone did.' For a moment he was silent, and I felt his scrutiny. 'Are you enjoying your latest book?' he asked me finally.

'Very much.' I nodded. 'I shall need another, soon, I have almost finished with it.'

He smiled. 'You will have to wait a few days, I'm afraid. I must go away for a short time.'

'For how long?' I looked up sharply, surprised at how much the thought of his leaving disturbed me.

'A week, perhaps. No longer. I go to Portsmouth to ride with the king back to Salisbury.'

My eyes rounded childishly. 'The king would remove to Salisbury?'

'He fears to remain in London. The weekly bill there lists more than one thousand who died from the plague this past week alone. The king's counselors have persuaded him that it would be more prudent to seek the country air.'

'But why must you ride with him?'

He shrugged. 'It is my duty, and the duty of my family, to protect the king. These are still unsettled times, Mariana. The Roundhead legacy yet taints the countryside, and there are many who would see this Charles lose his head like his father before him.'

'And you hold it your responsibility to stop them?'

'My sword is as sharp as any man's.'

'Ay, and your flesh as thin.' There was bitterness in my voice, and he came forward, stooping down to look into my face.

'You fear for me?' He touched my cheek with a gentle finger. 'There is no need.'

I was embarrassed at my transparency. 'I fear nothing, my lord,' I told him, 'but my boredom in your absence.'

'A diplomat's reply,' he praised me. 'Well, then, I leave you the run of my library, while I am away. So that you will not be bored.' Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he produced a key, which he held out to show me. 'This will open the door to the courtyard, on the west side of the house. From there you may access the library when you wish.'