He was stout and greying, like an old badger, and beginning to spread around the middle, but he was a steady man. “Your pardon,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands, “but a man is at the gate and begs leave to enter. My lady” – he looked direct at Mary – “he claims to be your husband. I believe he speaks the truth.” Mary would have hurried outside, but Dame Anne gestured at her to remain seated. “You and Piers bring him in,” her mother ordered Hodson, “but search him for weapons, and watch him closely. Is he alone?” “He is, lady,” Hodson replied, and went out to do Dame Anne’s bidding. Mary waited, chewing her lip and staring into the fire. She suddenly felt cold and nauseous, and barely felt the touch of her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Hodson and Piers came into the hall, ushering a ragged scarecrow ahead of them. Henry was a great deal thinner than Mary remembered him, and the proud harness that he had ridden off to Lichfield in was replaced by soiled and stinking rags.
