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came into Lathom village, and there they were, Henry Denton and his companions, half turned in the road and glowering as though the newcomers had interrupted some secret ritual.
    ‘Easy, Achilles,’ Tom soothed, for they had pulled up abruptly and now their stallions were whinnying and stamping, indignant at being made to cut short the race. Hector was pulling his head down but Mun held tight on the reins, refusing to be hauled forward.
    ‘Steady, boys,’ Sir Francis said, patting his mount’s sweat-glossed neck, trying to assuage the beast. ‘Remember, no dancing in the boat. You will follow my lead,’ he added breathlessly, yanking on his bridle to bring his restless horse back round. ‘Thomas, did you hear me, boy?’
    But Tom was walking his horse forward, his eyes riveted to Henry Denton.
    Henry smiled, a flash of white teeth in the moonlit gloom. ‘Have you come to see justice done, Sir Francis?’ he called, ignoring Tom, who had stopped a horse’s length away. The breath of men and beasts billowed like fog in the freezing air. ‘We have pulled this rat from its hole by the tail but I don’t mind sharing him with you.’ Next to Denton, George Green sat on a piebald mare, his hands bound together across the saddle’s pommel.
    ‘Good evening, Master Denton,’ Sir Francis said affably. ‘What is his crime?’ Taking the lead from their father Mun moved into a protective position on Tom’s left.
    ‘Why, he is a papist, Sir Francis! A crypto-Catholic,’ Henry exclaimed, raising a smattering of curses from his pals. One of them spat a wad of phlegm, which caught in his beard and hung glistening. ‘A priest no less. He has been hiding amongst us but we have smoked him out.’
    ‘I am no priest,’ George Green muttered through bleeding lips. He looked old and tired, beaten in spirit and weak in body.
    ‘You hear that, Henry?’ Sir Francis said. ‘He denies it.’
    ‘Of course the bastard denies it,’ one of the other young men said, shrugging broad shoulders. ‘That’s a crypto-Catholic to the quick.’
    ‘That’s how they survive to spread their filth,’ another man added, talking to Sir Francis but watching Tom. Mun had never seen this man before. He was clean-shaven, hook-nosed and round-shouldered. He sat his horse like a sack of meal for all his fine clothes and the black and silver hilted sword and scabbard strapped to an ornate baldrick across his shoulder.
    Henry gestured at this man as though he was some wise sage to whom Sir Francis ought to listen and take heed.
    ‘What proof do you have?’ Sir Francis asked, half smiling, still not unfriendly.
    ‘He does not have any proof,’ Tom snarled, ‘but neither does he seek it. The Dentons think they are above the law.’
    Now Henry looked at Tom for the first time. ‘On the contrary, it is the law that has commanded all priests to leave the country. Our country,’ he added with emphasis. ‘If anything we are upholding the law. As should you, Thomas.’ He glanced at Miles Walton. ‘Unless, of course,’ he went on, turning back to Tom, ‘you are secret papists yourselves.’
    ‘Hold your tongue, sirrah!’ Sir Francis snapped. One of the horses whinnied and a bird clattered from its roost, flapping into the night sky.
    Henry raised his hands. ‘I apologize, Sir Francis. I have no issue with you. Or your sons,’ he added, dipping his head towards Mun. ‘But we must be on our way. The rot must be cut out, as any good surgeon will tell you.’
    ‘Does Lord Denton know what you are doing?’
    Henry’s lip curled. ‘What is my father to you?’ he asked.
    Sir Francis scratched his beard. ‘Take my word for it, lad, a father always likes to know what kind of man his son has become.’ The words were hooked and baited. ‘I am sure he would agree that breaking into a man’s house in the middle of the night and tearing him away from his children is not a noble act.’ Mun saw his father’s right eyebrow hitch. Saw his teeth worry