Against a background of political intrigue and Tudor violence, love was not easy to find or sustain. The Queen Dowager of Scotland repudiates it and for Matho and Meg the struggle is made more difficult by an outbreak of war between England and Scotland. Disaster looms for them all.....
Sir Thomas Wharton, spare and lean still in his early fifties, sat behind a heavy oak table with a three-armed candle holder at his elbow. The pool of light illuminated the litter of papers and parchment that stood witness to King Henry Tudor’s constant demands, but left the rest of the room in shadow.
“Glad to see you looking well, Spirston.” The candle flames sent Wharton’s shadow streaking up the limewashed walls as he reached for a jug of ale at the table’s edge. “Harry said you had a wound rapidly going rotten when he found you at Aydon.”
“Mon Dieu!” The voice, thick with outrage, came from the shadowy corner where the tiny lattice window overlooked the town.
Matho squinted into the gloom. The voice had a familiar and unwelcome ring to it. Candlelight caught blue velvet and pale hair as the third person in the chamber strode forward. Every muscle in Matho’s body tightened, for he recognised the man who had been the cause of his recent misfortune in Scotland. Jarred by the unexpectedness of the meeting, he said flatly, “Lord Lennox.”
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