Ned broke off again. “It sounds as if it was deep lanes and thick hedges, difficult for an army to advance, and the enemy had manned the hedgerows against us. But listen . . .”

The enemy still gave ground, our horses forced them through the Town of Preston and cleared it.

“Preston?” someone asked again.

“Preston,” Ned confirmed.

“God save us!” said one of the women.

Ned read on. “It’s a victory,” he said. “Against great numbers. We pursued them to Warrington and put them to the sword.” His face was shining. “It says here . . .”

Our word at first was Truth, in the middle of the fight, an addition was made Truth and Faith. It was Truth we acted in and it was Faith we acted by.

He raised his head. “I wish to God that I had been there. But just hearing about it makes me closer to the Lord . . . Truth and Faith the watchwords of the battle, General Cromwell in command!”

“Mr. Ferryman, I’ll thank you to take that dirty paper off my table,” Mrs. Miller interrupted him sharply. “And not to make a fool of yourself and spoil the harvest home with war news. And send that dog of yours out of my yard.”

Nothing could wipe the joy from Ned’s face but he took up the paper as he was ordered and told Red: “Go bye. It’s great news for the parliament and the army,” he muttered.

“It’s more news of war, and some of us have had plenty of that,” she overruled him. “Besides, we have guests. And they might not care for your great news.”

Walter flushed and looked awkward, but James Summer was completely bland. “At least, there will be no fighting here,” he said smoothly. “All good men must want peace. Perhaps, Mr. Ferryman, you would read the newspaper in full to those who want to hear after dinner? I should be glad of news myself.”

“You don’t know already, sir?” Ned demanded sharply. “When you’ve been away for weeks, and just came down the Chichester road yourself? Nobody mentioned it to you, on your way here, from wherever you have been? They didn’t know there? Whoever they were? Wherever it was?”

“No, I hadn’t heard anything,” James lied. He had been told the disastrous news of the Scots’ defeat at a safe house in Southampton. His host had been white with shock: “The Scots have turned back. They won’t save him. God save the king, God save the king, for now I think he is lost.”

James had cursed the bad luck of a king mustering such unreliable allies as the Scots, but failing to launch his own son’s fleet. Led by a competent general, this invasion could have turned the course of the war. But the best royalist generals were dead or dismissed, and the king was not on the field under his standard, but in prison, sending streams of contradictory orders.

“Actually, I came along the coast, not from London,” James said smoothly, hiding his chagrin. “I knew that the army had marched north to meet the Scots; but this victory is news to me.”

“And no reason that a gentleman should explain himself to the ferryman,” Mrs. Miller interrupted. “Mr. Summer, Your Honor, would you be so good as to carve the meat, sir?”

An enormous ham was placed in front of James, as the principal guest, and he took up the knife and carved it while the miller broke into a great game pie, Mrs. Miller spooned out chicken broth into the wooden bowls and passed them around, and Jane, her daughter, went to the dairy to fetch more butter.

“Not too thick,” Mrs. Miller instructed, keeping a jealous eye on the portions.

“It’s a good-sized ham,” he praised the meat.

“My own,” she said. “And I’ll have another four of them in the chimney this winter. I take great pride in my hams.”

James fought to keep his face straight. He did not dare to glance down the table to see if Alinor had heard this boast. “You have a very handsome farm,” he recovered, passing the platter with the slices cut thin.

“There are some that will taste meat this evening at my table that won’t have it again till Christmas,” she said complacently. “I believe in the old ways. Low wages but a well-spread board: that’s how you run a good farm.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he agreed, knowing that the wages would be cut to the bone.

“Some of our neighbors—well, I don’t know how they get by,” she confided. “Scraping a living from the hedgerows, feasting like birds on berries and raw herbs.” Her envious gaze drifted down the table to Alinor and her daughter.

Around them everyone was helping themselves to food, passing bread, meat, the broth, cooked vegetables, and pouring the specially sweetened harvest ale.

“Hard times,” James said generally.

“Take Mrs. Reekie for one . . .”

Despite his sense that he should silence the gossiping woman, James could not help but lean forward.

“On the edge of starving last winter, I swear it. Knocking on the yard door and asking for work, anything. It was charity to buy her herbs. But now, from nowhere she has a boat, her son is in service at the Priory, and her daughter is making eyes at Richard Stoney and him a farmer’s son, the only son, and certain to inherit the farm! How’s that come about? For I know for a fact that her brother has nothing but the ferry and whatever was left of his army pay, and her husband has been gone for months.”

“Robert is my pupil,” he said cautiously. “He’s a good companion to Master Walter and paid for his service. Mrs. Reekie is well liked at the Priory.”

“By who?” she exclaimed as if scoring a point. “Who likes a common cottager so much that her son is suddenly Master Walter’s companion? Two months ago, the lad was bird-scaring for me after school, and glad of the work. Barefoot half the time. So where did she get the money to buy the boat? When she couldn’t afford shoes?”

James, knowing very well that it was a bribe for her silence about him, muttered that perhaps she had savings.

“Savings?” She snorted. “She has none! I say to my husband, please God that she does not fall on the parish, for we’re a poor church, and can’t support everyone, especially women who are neither widows nor wives, with a son and a daughter to keep. We can’t support a woman who may have beauty but not enough wit to keep her husband at home.”

“She has her craft and her boat and her herbs,” he protested. “I am sure she can keep herself.”

“She has no business keeping herself!” Mrs. Miller protested. “She’s neither a widow nor a wife, and when she walks across the yard, the work stops dead as if the Queen of Sheba was dancing on my cobbles. If her husband is gone, she should declare herself a widow and remarry—if anyone will have her, given what they say about her. If he’s alive, she should get him home. Then we’d all know where we are. She’s nothing but a worry as she is. Nothing but a worry to good wives. Who would give her money for a boat? And why? It’d better not be Mr. Miller, that’s all I can say!”

James finally understood the objection to Alinor. “She can’t be a worry to an established housewife like yourself,” he said soothingly. “There can be no comparison. Look at the dinner you put on today! Look at where you are in the world! The respect you are shown! You are blessed indeed. Mr. Miller must know that in you he has a helpmeet appointed by heaven.”