Now he was the last of them. He lived alone, apart from his manservant, John, the elderly maid, Hannah, and a young stable lad who managed the remaining six horses and riding tackle in the yard behind the hall. Stephen rarely spoke to the others, and was more horse than man, according to Hannah. Beyond that, the only other family retainer was the steward of the estate who now lived in Bishops Stortford and oversaw the tenants on Thomas’s land, collected their rents and banked the income for his master, sending him a statement of the accounts twice a year.
The hall in Hertfordshire had been in the family for eight generations. Thomas was the last in the line of the Barrett family. He had not married and had no heirs. On his death, the estate would pass to a distant cousin, a man Thomas had never met, and cared nothing about.
From time to time attempts had been made by friends of his father to arrange a union for Thomas. He had politely but insistently declined the opportunities that were steered his way. Some of the women had been well connected, attractive enough, and even intelligent. But not one had borne a moment’s comparison to Maria and they only served to remind Thomas of what he had lost and could never regain in this life. And such was the nature of their parting that there was little prospect of any divine power permitting their reunion in the afterlife. It was in this spirit of perpetual loss that Thomas lived out his life. After Maria there was nothing, only the gnawing ache of recollection of touch, gesture, smile, expression and fragments of moments shared in each other’s arms.
For an instant the memories were overwhelming and Thomas shook his head angrily, clenching his fists and glaring sightlessly through the window at the quiet serenity beyond. Then the moment passed and he sighed, the tight exhalation of one who has just come out from under the surgeon’s knife.
There was a quiet knock at the door of the study and Thomas turned away from the window.
‘Yes?’
The latch lifted and the dark oak door gently swung into the room as John entered. He nodded to his master and gestured back towards the darkened corridor outside the study.
‘A messenger has arrived, sir.’
‘Messenger?’ Thomas frowned. ‘Who is he?’
‘A foreigner, sir,’ John said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He called himself Philippe de Nanterre.’
Thomas was silent for a moment. ‘I do not know the name. Did he say who sent him, or what the message concerns?’
‘He said the message was for your ears alone, sir.’
Thomas felt a faint pang of anxiety. What was a Frenchman doing here in England, in his house, if not to stir up some aspect of a past life long buried?
‘Where is he now?’ Thomas raised his eyebrows.
‘In the lobby, sir.’ John shrugged. ‘I thought it best.’
‘Bid him enter and let him warm himself at the fire in the hall. It is only Christian to offer him some token of hospitality, especially at this time of year.’
Thomas did not welcome the intrusion. In recent years few had come to see him for social reasons, still less send him an invitation to a masque or banquet. He usually treated unexpected visitors as an irritant, something he could deal with swiftly and then ignore. He felt a terrible weariness in his bones and did not wish to be disturbed now that he had settled by his fire for the evening. If this man, Philippe de Nanterre, had come with an offer of military service then he would leave disappointed. Thomas had made his peace with the world, and with his enemies, and wanted to be left alone. He stroked his neatly cut beard and stared at his servant.
‘Did you divine anything of his business with me?’
‘I did.’ John smiled. ‘He has a letter for you, master. I saw it in his saddlebag while I led his horse to the stable yard. It has now been safely returned to him.’
Thomas could not help a small smile of his own. ‘His bag just happened to be open, no doubt.’
‘It is no fault of mine if the buckle was not adequately fastened, sir. I merely sought to bring you more information.’
‘Then you have done well. And what of his letter that you just happened to see?’
‘It is a folded parchment, sealed. The sender left no name on the outside.’
‘So, did you recognise the seal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then describe it.’
‘It is a cross, sir. A cross with an indent at each end.’
Thomas felt a ripple of lightness in his head and he closed his eyes briefly and fought down the tide of memories and images that swelled up unbidden and unwanted. Yet there was also a spark of hope in his chest, fanned by his curiosity. He drew a deep breath before he opened his eyes and regarded his servant. ‘Take him to the kitchen and feed him.’
‘Sir?’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘But he’s a foreigner, sir. Not to be trusted. I’d send him on his way, if I were you, sir.’
‘Then it is as well that you are not. It will be dark soon and the track to Bishops Stortford is icy. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be safe. If he chooses, he can stay here for the night. Feed him and offer him a bed. And tell him I will speak with him shortly.’
John grunted but knew better than to provoke his master. Thomas smiled faintly. ‘He must have come a long way to find me. The least we can do is offer him the hospitality of the house. Now go and see to his needs.’
John bowed his head and left the study, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps echoed down the oak-panelled hall, Thomas stroked his beard thoughtfully. He recognised John’s description of the seal only too well. It was the emblem of the Knights Hospitaller. After all the long years of waiting, the Order had at last broken its silence.
As soon as Thomas opened the door and entered the kitchen he knew that all the routine and isolation of recent years was over. Sitting with his back to the cooking fire, the messenger was stooped over a steaming bowl. His eyes flickered up as the master of the hall entered, and he quickly rose, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He had a swarthy complexion, with a livid white scar across his brow. His face was weathered and his expression firm but polite and yet Thomas saw that he could not have been much more than twenty. A soldier old before his time, as were all novices who survived their first few years in the Order. The messenger still wore a thick dark riding cloak. At the shoulder was a stained and bespattered white cross whose arms broadened out and then divided into two points, one for each of the languages of the Order.
‘Sir Thomas Barrett? I have a message for you. From the Grand Master.’ The English was good but the accent was thick — from the southern region of France, he guessed. Thomas nodded and gestured for the man to sit down.
He spoke in French. ‘We’ll use the language of the Order, if you don’t mind.’
‘It would please me,’ the messenger replied in the same tongue.
Thomas nodded towards the two servants. ‘They know little of my previous life. I would not have them spread any gossip down in the local vallage. Things .are hard enough for those who keep faith with the Church of Rome