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unwisely been put up as security. That amount would cover the interest as well. Solve Mark Easton’s mystery and Hawkswood would be safe.
    I said: ‘But what if I find the truth and it is the wrong answer? That possibility can’t be just ignored. Or, of course,’ I added, ‘I might try but fail to discover anything. After all this time, that is the likeliest outcome.’
    ‘I have no doubt that the truth would clear my father,’ said Mark, ‘but provided there is no doubt at all that the truth is what it is, I would pay up. I would pay for honest endeavour.’
    There was no choice, no question at all about what my reply must be.
    I said: ‘I will try.’
    At least I wasn’t going to be forced to travel to Westmorland or Northumberland to foil the schemes of dangerous conspirators. That was certainly a relief.

THREE
    Pictures
    ‘ S omeone’s coming across that bridge at a gallop. ’
    Hugh had said that as we watched Mark Easton thunder across the bridge towards Windsor castle. I had known what he was thinking. The last time we saw someone do that, he was a courier and was bringing a letter for Hugh. I had watched him read it, watched his face change, and been frightened. For some time, his health had been making me uneasy, for he seemed often to be short of breath, and there were times when his skin seemed grey-tinged and his eyes shadowed, as though they were sinking into his head. Now these changes appeared all in a matter of moments, and with them came a terrible look of misery and age.
    ‘Hugh?’ I said. ‘What is it?’
    At first he seemed unable to speak and he avoided my eyes, but when I asked the question again and put out a hand to him, he took it and then, at last, his eyes met mine. ‘Oh, Ursula,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    ‘Sorry? For what? Hugh, what’s happened?’
    It came out, not all at once but in bits and pieces, as though he could only bear to put a little of it into words at a time. I will tell it more simply. I had known nothing of it, but more than a year ago, Hugh had joined with some merchants of his acquaintance in a venture which, said Hugh sadly, had promised fine profits. Two of the merchants imported luxury fabrics from a number of sources, and they had recently travelled to Venice where they chanced to meet the agent of a Turkish buyer who was interested in purchasing modern firearms and seasoned oak timber in bulk. They had come home with an idea.
    ‘The Turkish fellow probably wanted guns and timber for warships,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s a stormy part of the world, the eastern Mediterranean. Maybe he was setting up as a pirate! But my associates didn’t worry about that. They were afire with their new scheme, and they infected me.’
    The outcome of all that was one of the merchants hastened back to Venice in a hurry to clinch the deal, and in England, the group set about acquiring the goods required. Two ships were leased and crews hired. The plan was that when the arms and timber had been paid for, the money should be used to purchase silk brocades, damasks and velvets in bulk, along with quantities of rare spices and dyestuffs, to be brought home for sale at a healthy profit.
    ‘So – what happened?’ I asked.
    ‘We had such great hopes,’ Hugh said unhappily. ‘I expected to make money; plenty of it. I had visions of buying you fine jewels; maybe purchasing more land. But it all took much longer than expected. The Turkish agent haggled and delayed before he paid up. He did pay eventually, but by then it was autumn. The return voyage didn’t start until November. Our two ships sailed in convoy with another, belonging to someone else. It’s a long way – through the Adriatic and the Ionian Sea, westward through the Mediterranean, and then northwards towards England and through the Bay of Biscay.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Biscay is notorious. There was a storm. The ships were blown this way and that and in the end . . . our two were blown inshore and piled up on