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war-soiled clothes, scrubbed the blood from his breeches and scoured the battlefield mud from his boots. I have endured the lecherous stares of his army friends. I have played sister to his children and tended his wife when she was sick. I have been privy to his private rages and his tormented prayers. I know better than most what it means to be loyal to Oliver Cromwell.
    But what does it matter? That part of my life is over and I cannot trust this deserter with the truth of it. I am not ready to answer the questions that will follow. I understand that much at least.
    Despite my companion’s stories, we make good time that day, free from the threat of vagabonds and highway robbers. I wonder if Joseph has been telling tales to frighten me, to bind me to him. The contents of my purse have already proved valuable. Only God knows what other uses he might have in mind for me. It seems that every man I meet wants to take something from me. Still, there is something in Joseph Oakes, something in his manner, that seems more like truth than deceit.
    By nightfall we reach Puckeridge and stop at an inn there to rest the horse and find a bed for the night. The Old Bell is a place made for travellers, worn out and filthy, populated by transients. The innkeeper saves his best rooms for those with the coin to pay and the rest are forced to make do with a draughty chamber, tightly packed with pallets and barely warmed by a sputtering central hearth.
    I claim my place, between Joseph and Siddal, and pull my skirts and shawl tight around me. I lie still for some time and listen as it begins to rain. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Filled with the human stench of unwashed bodies, the snores and grunts of the sleeping, the room makes me uneasy. But despite my wakefulness, Nature gets the better of me and, before long, I sleep.
    It is still dark when I wake. The fire in the room has faded to embers and the air is chill and damp. The rain is still pouring, in that way saved for summer storms. Water drips from the eaves and pools under the window where the paper covering has come loose. At that moment a great crack of lightning brightens the room, a roll of thunder answering it. The storm is close.
    The others stir and shift in their beds, burrowing under blankets and huddling together where they can. And then I notice – the pallet next to me is empty: Joseph is gone.

Chapter 5
    Downstairs the fire still blazes in the hearth and a couple of men doze, stagnant tankards of ale and the remains of a meal on a table next to them. I find and light a lantern and duck into the yard, hiding in doorways and under eaves until I reach the stable block where I can see the glow of a brazier.
    Someone has made a fire and a few lads rest nearby on bales of straw, but Joseph is nowhere to be seen. Staying under cover, I skirt the boxes, some of them housing stamping, steaming horses, disturbed by the storm. I curse the mud that seeps into my shoes, knowing the roads will be bad tomorrow.
    I reach the far-most point of the inn, just where the open road begins and the blacksmith plies his trade to passers-by. After that, there seems to be nothing but a few shacks and open fields, dark and blurred through the rain.
    I do not know why I feel compelled to search Joseph out. My satchel is still stowed safely under my bed and my purse is still hidden in the folds of my petticoat. Siddal still snores on his pallet. Free from the binds of our arrangement, I should be glad, but thinking he may be gone, I feel more alone than ever.
    With my courage faltering, I turn back, and then I see him, perched on an upturned trough, just inside the open door of the forge. He is staring out across the fields, shoulders hunched, one hand cupping his injured side. Despite the light I carry, he does not seem to notice me: he is lost in his own world.
    Suddenly I feel as though I should not be there. I’m guilty, like an eavesdropper caught bending to a keyhole.
    I turn to go but the