The land was thick with forests that stretched in all directions into the chalky South Downs, only occasionally broken up by patches of open farmland that sustained the smattering of timber-framed hovels clustered like toadstools about the hamlet's core. And that core was the Manor House, the huge edifice of red brick and grey stone that had been built in Tudor times as a hunting lodge and grown into the most imposing structure for miles. It was evening as Samson Lyle and Eustace Grumm stepped over the threshold. The surrounding trees darkened an already grey dusk, but the great house glowed bright, basking in the tremulous light of a thousand candles. No stinking tallow, Lyle noted, for Sir John Hippisley had done well out of the revolution, seen his star rise with the other hard men of the new order, and the old Roundhead's home was sweet with the scent of beeswax, a touch of wood smoke and a great deal of perfume. A footman in a fine suit of shimmering red and blue strutted confidently out to greet Lyle like some over-sized kingfisher.
