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intruder was pulling her close to him. He began kissing her neck, his beery breath filling her nostrils.
    “You alone?” he panted.
    “My husband is abed,” she whispered hoarsely and she pushed his chest hard. But he grabbed her hand and unfurling her fingers, he kissed her palm softly. The thrill of his lips on her wrist made her close her eyes for a second, but still she resisted.
    “Be gone with you,” she told him, louder this time.
    Sensing that perhaps she meant what she said, the knife-grinder backed off, feigning hurt. “Why so cruel?” he asked, his lips drooping.
    “I mean it,” she growled.
    So, pouting like a wounded child, he touched his red scarf with two of his fingers by way of a farewell, and took his leave. All the same, the look in her eye told him that he should return. And he wove his unsteady way back to his mule, mounted it, and silently stole away like the thief he surely was.

Chapter 8
    T homas and Lydia arrived at the Black Bear tired and sore after a journey that had taken them more than seven hours. Chalk dust from the Downs had found its way into the carriage and now a thin film of it covered the seats and the passengers. Because of the heat, Lovelock had stopped more frequently for the horses to take water, so they had endured the lurching and jouncing of the carriage longer than expected. Their relief at their arrival and the thought of a wash and a good meal was, however, enough to put them in better spirits.
    They had agreed to take separate rooms to avoid any possible scandal, and after a change of clothes they were shown into a low-beamed dining room. They sat at a quiet table and Thomas ordered a pitcher of wine and a dish of roast lamb and capers. Now and again they could hear raucous shouts from the bar as recently arrived carriers deposited more weary travelers for the night. There was the constant hubbub of toing and froing, of doors banging and orders being barked to the kitchen.
    Lydia remained subdued and Thomas felt it his duty to try and distract her from her anxiety over what the morrow might hold. He spoke of Amos Kidd’s beautiful roses and of yesterday’s garden party at West Wycombe. Soon she was smiling again, so that by the time their food arrived, her appetite was whetted.
    “I am so grateful to you for being here,” she told him as they ate.
    “And I am grateful you chose me to accompany you,” he replied. He grasped his goblet, half full of wine. “Let us drink to our quest.”
    Lydia nodded and lifted her glass, clinking it against Thomas’s. “To Richard,” she said. “God grant we find him soon.”
    An hour or so later, when they had finished their meal, Lydia told Thomas she wished to retire to her room. He settled her down in the small but pleasantly furnished chamber and decided to return to the bar for a nightcap. As he was coming down the stairs, he noticed two men bluster in from the street. One was tall and well-dressed, a merchant perhaps. He was talking animatedly with the other.
    “I tell you, after what I’ve been through, this place is most welcome,” the young doctor heard him say as he headed for the bar.
    Thomas approached, intrigued. He sat down at a nearby table so that he could eavesdrop, cradling his brandy and feigning to read a discarded newssheet.
    “It was like the deepest, darkest winter, my friend,” continued the merchant. “The snow was gray as ash, and there was a fog that blackened the leaves and poisoned the water.”
    The other man called out to the serving girl, snapping his fingers.
    “Two brandies and make it quick. My friend here has endured a journey from hell,” he cried.
    Thomas needed to know more. He rose and walked casually over to the bar. “So, sir,” he said. “You have had a bad journey?”
    The merchant eyed him. “Aye, sir. I’ve ridden through a sudden choking fog that blocked out the sun and made it hard for a man to breathe.”
    Thomas looked grave. “A disturbing experience, I’ll