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she was sure that it was her old home in France. All she could remember of her journey to England was horses galloping, riding through the night, and a sense of apprehension. That was all. She would never know more now, for there was no one left to tell her. Now trapped in this terrible house, it was the end of her road. For a moment, tears of self-pity welled up in her eyes but then again she was given strength by this strange sweet sense of hope and happiness which returned to her. The little Virgin seemed to be trying to say that all was not lost. Pray, Marcelle, she seemed to say, and you will be guided. Marcelle fell down on her knees, hope and faith seemed to burst from her young heart.
    Betsy stirred in the bed. ‘Christ!’ she muttered. ‘I can’t bloody move. I’m stiff and sore all over.’
    With a little shudder at Betsy’s swearing, Marcelle rose from her knees and went over to the bed.
    ‘Got anything to drink, love?’ asked Betsy.
    ‘I’ll get some water,’ Marcelle replied gently.
    ‘Gawd!’ groaned Betsy. ‘A lot of good that will do! Sneak down and get a jug of ale or some gin, can’t seem to move. That swine has done for me.’ She sat up holding her head in her hands.
    Marcelle was frightened by the thought of going downstairs alone, and she hesitated. But Betsy’s groans were getting louder as she called out: ‘Go on, love, he will be in the bar this time of the day. Creep into the kitchen, there’s a jug down the bottom of the larder.’
    Glancing nervously from side to side, Marcelle crept slowly down the wooden stairs. It was very quiet in the kitchen but the room looked as if an earthquake had hit it. The pine table was overturned and stools lay on their sides. Broken crockery lay everywhere, and the walls and towels were all splattered with blood. A dreadful fear gripped her, paralyzing her like a rabbit trapped by the light of the torch. The dramatic signs of the violence of the night before made her feel weak with fear.
    Next door in the bar, Sam leaned heavily on the counter. He did not feel too good himself this morning and his eyes were bloodshot. It was with a shaky hand that he served a dark young customer with ale. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘There’s no food ready yet, my wife is a bit poorly this morning.’
    Thomas Mayhew stared at this brutish-looking man, taking in with disgust the red-veined eyes and the purple bristly chin. He noticed that the landlord’s crumpled shirt was filthy and blood-stained and certainly looked as if it had been slept in. Thomas was disgusted by the way Sam leaned over the counter, with the greasy bare flesh of his fat stomach bulging out of the space where his pants and shirt should have met.
    It’s just as well there’s no food, thought Thomas. He never fancied eating in this place anyway. Thomas did not suppose it would be much good to ask after Sam’s step-daughter. Indeed, he scarcely looked sober. Perhaps it was best just to drink his ale and be on his way.
    Engrossed in these thoughts, he did not notice that the landlord had left the bar, until a shrill piercing scream came from another room. Thomas jumped to his feet and his hand shot up to his sword hilt. The scream came again and this time he recognized the voice. It was Marcelle. ‘Betsy! Betsy! Help me!’ she was crying, and suddenly two people rushed to her aid.
    Downstairs tumbled a half-dressed Betsy just as Thomas vaulted the bar and rushed through the door with his sword drawn. As they entered the kitchen at the same time, what met their eyes was the sight of Sam holding Marcelle by the hair, his great hands jerking her head back viciously. Her dress had been torn from her thin shoulders. It seemed that he had crept in while she was busy pouring out a drink for Betsy, and he had pounced on the helpless girl.
    ‘Steal from me, would you?’ he had snarled. ‘The law can have yer when I have finished with yer, skinny bitch.’ He had grabbed her and started to tear off