Cato stroked his chin, still thoughtful. “It argues a less than wholehearted conversion,” he observed. “However, I can see your point, if it’s any comfort. But by the same token, I assume you’ll not accompany us to church? It’s probably not in your best interests to advertise your presence here just yet.”

Brian had no choice but to agree. His stepfather had always seen through him… had always had the ability to cut the ground from beneath his feet.

Cato nodded briefly. “This afternoon we’ll ride to headquarters, where you may present your case to the high command. This is not a decision I can make alone, and I’m sure they’ll have a great many questions for you.” He gestured that Brian should precede him from the study and then locked the door, dropping the key into his coat pocket.

“I’ll introduce you to Mistress Bisset. She’ll take care of you until I return.”

The bells from the village church had already begun to peal when Cato, Olivia, and Phoebe left the house.

From a window in the front bedchamber allotted to him, Brian watched them go. Cato walked a little behind the girls, his cloak blowing back in the wind revealing the somber richness of his doublet and britches. His high-crowned black felt hat had no adornment, and the fur-edged collar of his cloak was turned up at the back, covering his ears. Brian knew that the serviceable elegance, the casual richness of his stepfather’s dress were merely an extension of the man himself. The marquis of Granville was assured, commanding, powerful, and he looked every inch of it. Every inch as formidable as Brian remembered. He would not be an easy victim.

As Brian watched, Phoebe slipped on an icy patch. Cato seemed to have predicted it and moved almost before it had happened, an arm around her waist, steadying her. She looked up at him with a rueful smile, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Cato shook his head, straightened her bonnet that seemed to have gone askew beneath the capacious hood of her cloak, and tucked her hand into his arm.

Interesting, Brian thought, remembering the almost automatic way Cato had adjusted his wife’s rucked sleeve earlier. It seemed to bode an easy familiarity that was unlike Cato.

Brian frowned, pulling at his chin. It had been easy enough to dispose of Diana. She’d been all too willing to accept the gifts he sent her in secret, and he guessed she had enjoyed the thought of her clandestine correspondence with an admirer.

Poison was such a versatile weapon, Brian reflected. It could be administered at a distance and in any number of ways. The gloves had been the most elegant trick, he thought. They had been of the softest doeskin, lace-edged and studded with tiny seed pearls. Very beautiful, and quite deadly. Every time she wore them, the poison would seep into her skin.

There had been silk stockings too-the kind of intimate loverly gift that would excite a woman as susceptible to flattery and courtly gestures as Diana. And the little boxes of comfits. Little jeweled boxes of lethal sweetmeats.

He had been in no hurry and it had taken about eight months before she died. The poison had mimicked a wasting disease and the bloody flux, symptoms too common to arouse the suspicion of foul play, particularly when there was no obvious reason for it.

Brian smiled to himself. The refinements of Diana’s death had pleased him almost as much as the fact itself. And then, of course, Cato had to marry her sister and undo all his good work.

Well, he might have to be a bit cruder in his methods this time, but that should pose no problems… now that he was firmly established under Cato’s roof.

All but the sick were straggling down the village street, wrapped against the cold, shuffling booted feet through the drifts. No God-fearing soul would neglect Sunday service, even for the snow, and the lord of the manor, if he was in residence, would never neglect the observance for fear of setting a bad example.

The congregation in Woodstock, as in so many other villages across the land, was mostly women, old men, and small children. The able-bodied men for the most part had been pressed into the army regardless of their views on the civil strife. The women bobbed little curtsies, the old men touched forelocks as the manor party walked up the path to the church door. Phoebe greeted them by name and would have stopped to chat if Cato hadn’t been holding her arm so securely, propelling her inexorably to the church door, where he moved his gloved hand to her shoulder, easing her in front of him.

Cato was thinking about Brian Morse. What was the real reason for this visit? A change of allegiance seemed unlikely. He didn’t want the man under his roof, but without good cause he couldn’t refuse to shelter his adopted son and heir. Well, he would play a waiting game. Brian would reveal his hand soon enough.

The vicar’s sonorous boom broke abruptly into Cato’s reverie.

“The arm of the devil has a long reach. His servants are to be found everywhere. And, my people, they are to be found among us now. Here in the very bosom of our village lurks evil, a follower of the devil. Her vile hand has fallen upon the innocent and the weak and we must cast her out.”

Here the vicar paused and raised his eyes to heaven, his arms flailing as if in ecstasies of prayer. “You have taken your children to this woman, in times of trouble; in times of weakness you have sought her help. And she has preyed upon your sorrows with the devil’s art.”

Phoebe felt the first icy shaft of premonition. It was something she had always feared, something that Meg risked with every act of healing. And it had to be Meg. She had been called a witch before, but before it had been almost an affectionate description, never accusation. There was no other member of this community who would fit the vicar’s diatribe. She glanced around. There were nods and whispers and grim faces. She glanced up at Cato, sitting beside her in the Granville pew, and saw that the vicar now had his full attention.

Something must have happened since Phoebe’s visit to Meg’s cottage the previous morning. Ordinarily she would have heard of anything untoward, but the blizzard had kept her and the household, her usual source of rumor and gossip, within doors.

Meg should be in church, Phoebe thought. Meg knew full well how the village was suspicious of and swift to censure anyone who didn’t obey the unwritten rules, but she persisted in flying in the face of convention. And her absence from the altar of God gave credence to these wild accusations.

Cato grew increasingly angry as the vicar’s invective continued. The fire-and-brimstone kind of sermon was becoming ever more popular as the strong Puritan element in Cromwell’s New Model Army took hold over the looser morality of the royalist Cavaliers, encouraging a rabble-rousing fanaticism that did little good and had much potential for harm.

When the service was over, he said rather curtly to Phoebe, “Stay here with Olivia. It’s too cold to wait outside and I wish to talk with the vicar.”

Phoebe buried her gloved hands in the deep pockets of her cloak and slumped down in the pew, huddling for warmth. She needed to go and find Meg, but it would have to wait until after dinner.

“It’s as c-cold inside as outside,” Olivia stated glumly. “What a dreadful sermon.” She was right about the cold. The two small braziers in the nave did nothing to relieve the icy dampness.

“He was talking about Meg,” Phoebe stated.

“Oh, but he c-couldn’t be!” Olivia exclaimed. “She’s never done any harm to anyone.”

“It had to be her, there’s no one else in the village it could be. I’m going to see her this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia often accompanied Phoebe on her visits to the herbalist, although despite her fascination she regarded Meg with a faint degree of alarm.