The young men raised their glasses and shouted her name, banging on the table enthusiastically.
‘Thank you gentlemen. I wish you a safe return to your homes and – ’
‘And now we must all stand,’ Marcus cut across her. ‘I give you the King!’
They all got to their feet, Henrietta among them. She could not stay in her place when such a toast had been called. Suddenly she was suffused with optimism and joy. One day the King would return in peace and she and Matthew and the child she was carrying wou
ld be safe and happy together.
Her voice joined with theirs, clear over their deeper tones. ‘Our sovereign lord the King. Health and long life to King Charles.’
The front door crashed open. Candles guttered in the sudden inrush of cold air and the room filled with a swirl of smoke from the fire. They turned as one, glasses and tankards clenched in their hands, words frozen on their lips.
Matthew Sheridan stood on the threshold of his hall, a dark figure silhouetted against the grey evening light. His black cloak hung sodden to the floor, he was bareheaded, his hair plastered to his head by the rain.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the homely crackle of burning logs and the drip of water from his clothes on to the bare boards.
‘Matthew,’ Henrietta gasped in disbelief. She had wanted him home so much, had dreamt of it sleeping and waking, but not this terrible figure standing like Judgement in the door.
He took six deliberate, echoing steps forward to confront her as though the young men did not exist. His face was deathly white, his eyes glittered strangely, his mouth a thin, grim line.
‘So.’ The word dropped into the silence like a pebble into a winter pond. ‘So this is how you pass your time when I am away, madam.’
‘Matthew, I – ’
‘Be quiet.’ He had never spoken to her like that, with so much contempt and menace in his voice. A muscle jumped convulsively in his cheek. ‘Be quiet, madam, until I give you leave to speak. Who are these people? Why are they carousing in my house with my wine, my food – and my wife?’
‘Now look here, Sheridan,’ Marcus began, blustering. ‘You can't talk to Henrietta like that.’
Matthew turned slowly to face the young man. With deliberation he threw his cloak back over his shoulder to free his sword arm and with equal deliberation drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade whispered, steel against leather, as he drew it, then held it, its glittering point resting lightly on the table.
‘Does anyone else wish to tell me how to address Lady Sheridan in my own home?’ he enquired dangerously.
Thomas Bulstrode, perhaps the drunkest and therefore most foolhardy of them all, cleared his throat. ‘I…’
The blade came up and across with a swish. The tops of the candles in the ornate central candelabra on the table fell, some still smoking, among the debris of the food. An acrid smell rose in the stillness. Matthew raised one eyebrow at Bulstrode, who shook his head mutely, the sweat standing on his brow in great drops.
‘I interrupted you, madam. You were, I think, in the middle of a speech on the subject of Charles Stuart?’
‘These gentlemen…’ Henrietta felt her voice dying in her throat. She cleared it and tried again. ‘Marcus and his friends came to tell me the King is safe in France. We are all very relieved that the fighting is over.’ She could see the whole scene through his eyes. His wife, the sole woman in a group of drunken youths, the King's health being celebrated, her own voice tipsy with wine and relief, speaking what to him was treachery and disloyalty.
‘Gentlemen.’ With an effort she pulled her eyes from Matthew's cold face and turned to the aghast young men. ‘I must bid you goodnight and a safe return home. My husband, as you can see, is wet and tired and I would crave your indulgence.’
‘Henrietta – ’ Marcus began, then broke off as Matthew's sword-point lifted again. He swallowed convulsively but carried on, possibly the bravest thing he had ever done in his life. ‘Lady Sheridan. We thank you for your hospitality, especially as we arrived unannounced and forced our presence on you. My mother will be delighted to hear of Sir Matthew's safe return. We bid you goodnight.’
Henrietta knew what he was trying to do and was grateful for his courage. She smiled gently. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’
Matthew did not even turn as the door closed behind the last subdued youth. He shrugged the heavy cloak from his shoulders, letting it drop in a sodden heap on the boards, lifted a glass of wine and drained it in one draught, the sword still in his hand.
He stood for a long moment, his eyes on the empty glass, then dashed it into the fireplace with a terrible violence.
Henrietta moved swiftly behind one of the heavy oak chairs. It had never occurred to her that Matthew might strike her in any circumstances, but she knew most husbands would think nothing of doing so to a wife who gravely displeased them. And she was frightened for the child she was carrying.
That fear must have shown on her face. Matthew sheathed the sword and stepped away from her. ‘You do well not to underestimate my anger, wife, but I do not strike women, even those who are disloyal, disobedient and flagrant in their flouting of the law.’
Henrietta stared at his face, its lines chiselled in the leaping firelight. The dark shadows under his eyes spoke of little sleep, the tendons of his throat were taut. He seemed thinner and she spoke without thinking, full of love and worry for him. ‘Matthew, you have not been looking after yourself.’
‘Do not try soft words, Henrietta. Should I believe you care how I am? I did once, and told myself I was a fool for it.’