Prologue

Prologue

Norfolk, England, Summer, 1800.

"I'll be glad to get home – there's so much to do. The dinner was pleasant enough, but all those old bores – I've never seen so many clergymen in one place," John, the Baron Greenwood, said, smiling at his wife, Margaret, sitting across from him in their carriage compartment.

"So will I. I always feel out of place at those college dinners. I like Cambridge, but some of the conversations … and all anyone can talk about is the assassination attempt," she replied, shaking her head.

The baron rolled his eyes. The attempt in May on the king's life was all anyone could talk about. Anarchy – that was what the old members at the dinner at Trinity College they had attended the previous evening were talking about. It was as though the French revolution had crossed the channel, and the assurances of Church and state were about to be upended. In truth, it had been a madman who had shot at the king, and the revolutionary army feared by the establishment.

"Oh … yes … I'm tired of hearing about it. Nothing came of it, but hearing how some of them were talking makes it seem like the guillotines are already being set up on Whitehall. I don't think we'll go next year. It's nice to see some of them, but others …" John replied, shaking his head and smiling.

At that moment, their daughter, Phoebe, woke up. She was only three years old but had slept soundly during the journey so far, lying next to her mother, who was cradling her head on her lap.

"There, there, Phoebe, my darling. It's all right – we're here. You're in the carriage. Would you like to look out of the window?" Margaret asked, lifting the child onto her lap.

John smiled. They both doted on their daughter – the first of the many children they hoped for. She was growing up fast, and there was no doubt in the baron's mind she would share her mother's pretty looks. Her hair was already falling in the natural ringlets Margaret was famed for, and her eyes were that same deep blue as her mother's – the same eyes John had fallen so madly in love with. He could not have felt happier at that moment, watching as his wife held their daughter in her arms, helping her to stand and look out of the window.

"She's getting very strong, isn't she?" he said, and Margaret nodded.

"And growing by the moment. Look, she can balance on her own," Margaret said, letting go of her grip on Phoebe's arms as the toddler held the window frame unaided.

She had just turned three, and though she had a nurse to take care of her, John and Margaret had both agreed they wanted as much to do with her growing up as possible. She was always with them, doted on from dawn to dusk. She had made their family complete, and to look at her now, John could not imagine loving anything more than her. He had not expected to feel like this. Friends with children had talked of the inconvenience of it all – the necessity of an heir rather than the joy of a child. But John and Margaret were not like that. They loved Phoebe more than they could ever have thought possible, and to see her growing and developing was the greatest of joys.

"She's so clever, isn't she? What can you see, Phoebe? Isn't the countryside lovely?" John said, smiling at his daughter, who was still peering curiously out of the window.

The journey from Cambridge to Hindringham Hall in north Norfolk would require the family to overnight at an inn. The roads were difficult in places, and the countryside was lonely and remote. They had passed through several villages and small towns, but most of the journey had been made across farmland – through fields and meadows – and through woodland, too. But the day was bright, and the sun was warm. The journey was proving pleasant enough, and they were now passing through an expanse of woodland carpeted with bluebells.

"Horses," Phoebe said, tapping the window.

John looked at her in surprise.

"The horses are at the front of the carriage, Phoebe – two horses, pulling us along. You can't see them from here," he said, but Phoebe shook her head and tapped on the glass.

"No, horses," she said, and now Margaret leaned over to look.

The smile on her face suddenly disappeared, and she glanced at John with an anxious expression.

"Phoebe's right – three horses and riders, too. They're following us," she said.

John pulled the curtain back and turned to look out of the window behind, his eyes growing wide with horror at the sight. Three horses followed the carriage, close on their tail, ridden by men with faces covered by neckerchiefs and tricorn hats pulled low over their eyes.

"Bandits," John exclaimed, fumbling beneath his seat for the pistol he always kept there for such purposes.

Bandits – outlaws and thieves – were not uncommon on the lonely roads criss-crossing the country. But usually, such highwaymen were known for holding up the mail coaches – they left ordinary citizens alone. John and Margaret were carrying little of any worth – a few pieces of jewellery and a small sum of money. It was hardly worth the risk of hanging for these men to do as they were surely about to. With the pistol in hand, John sprang forward, banging on the front of the compartment to attract the coachman's attention.

"Come away from the window, Phoebe," Margaret said, pulling Phoebe into her embrace.

"Bandits, Robin," John called out, and the coachman turned to look through the window, nodding as he urged the horses to a greater speed.

Phoebe's nurse, Lily, was riding at the front, and she screamed as the horses now gained on the carriage, one on either side, and the other at the rear, trying to force it off the road. John pulled down the carriage window, leaning out and pointing his pistol at the nearest rider.

"Stop the carriage," the man shouted, and John discharged his pistol over the man's head, hoping to scare the horses.

Phoebe was now sobbing with fear, clutching her mother, as John pointed his pistol squarely at the horseman.

"The next shot won't miss," he shouted back.

But the rider on the other side had now gained on the horses pulling the carriage, and a shot rang out in front, the carriage lurching to the side. John turned, watching in horror as Robin, the coachman, fell from the front board, shot dead, and now the horses reared up in the spokes, sending the carriage swerving off the road. John was knocked back, and Margaret let out a cry, clutching Phoebe as John tried desperately to grab hold of them. The carriage had come to a halt with the sound of splintering wood – one of the wheels had come off, and the compartment was now lying at an angle, with one of its windows shattered. Lily screamed again, and voices came from outside, the bandits having reined in their horses.

"Let me go," Lily cried, and John scrambled to the carriage door, still with the pistol in hand.

He would have shot at first sight, but as he emerged, he was grabbed and hauled out, knocked to the ground with a blow to his head.

"Stay down there, you," one of the highwaymen said. And he kicked the pistol away from John's side.

Margaret and Phoebe were hauled out of the compartment, and Margaret screamed at the sight of Robin lying dead on the road.

"Please, we've got nothing of any value – take the jewellery and what little money we have with us and be on your way. Can't you see you're scaring our daughter? And let Lily go; she doesn't deserve this," Margaret exclaimed.

She was courageous – facing the masked men defiantly as John lay dazed on the ground.

"Take it – there's a box in the compartment. My wife's jewellery and …" John began, but one of the men now kicked him hard in the stomach, and he groaned.

"Let the girl run – you, be off with you," one of them said, pointing his pistol at Lily, who now fled into the trees, her cries echoing across the carpet of bluebells as she ran.

"What do you want with us? Cowards … that's what you are … cowards," John said, groaning with pain.

His vision was blurred, but now he tried to sit up, knowing he had to protect Margaret and Phoebe, even as he received another kick in the stomach.

"We don't want your jewellery … we want …" one of them began, but the third – who had not yet spoken, silenced him.

"Enough … don't say it. Just do it," he snarled.

For a moment, John felt certain he recognized the voice – but it could not be – and now he tried again to get up, cursing the men, as the first one now stood over him with his pistol cocked, the other standing behind him, his hand on his neckerchief as though ready to reveal himself.

"Goodbye, My Lord," he said, and the shot rang out.

Margaret screamed – there was a second shot. Phoebe was crying. John winced, clutching his chest – a last breath, gasped, as now he looked up into the unmasked face before him.

"Goodbye, John," the second man said, smiling, as the baron breathed his last.