A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis

shape, a human face. Someone was watching
     them through the window, a blur of a face shadowed by some sort of hood. It was Heffernanwho reached the door first. He was a big man, a little over-weight – or so his doctor kept telling him – but he moved swiftly.
     He flung the door open and ran outside. Wesley, slimmer and theoretically faster, followed him. But when they reached the
     garden gate they could see nobody about.
    Wesley opened the wooden gate and ran into the lane. Then he saw her. A small figure swathed in a hooded black coat was disappearing
     round the corner. Wesley began to follow, cursing his lack of fitness and the fact that he’d used the car too much over the
     winter months. He caught sight of her again, but when she reached the main village street she flitted off down a tiny side
     lane.
    Wesley reached the lane and stopped. The village was deserted: those who worked were out; it was too cold and damp for the
     elderly to venture forth; and the holidaymakers wouldn’t be arriving for another month at least. In the stillness the only
     sign of life was a ginger cat strolling arrogantly across the road. The woman had gone. He walked down the lane slowly, getting
     his breath back, looking into gardens and through gates.
    Gerry Heffernan caught up with him. ‘Any sign?’
    Wesley shook his head. Then he saw her likely escape route, a tiny footpath which appeared to lead back to the main street.
     But as they turned into it and began to jog along, avoiding the small brown deposits left by the local dogs, they heard the
     urgent revving of a car engine and the squeal of tyres coming from the direction of Shellmer’s cottage. She’d got away.
    They ran back down the footpath and stood helpless, staring after a small blue car that was disappearing down the road at
     considerable speed.
    ‘Now I wonder who that was,’ said Gerry Heffernan. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Wesley, scratching his head.

Chapter Four
    My well beloved wife,
    I hear grievous news from the Earl’s messengers that the Earl of Warwick is dead, killed in battle at Barnet with Lord Montague
     and many other knights, esquires and noblemen, and that our rightful sovereign, King Henry VI, is captured and held in the
     Tower of London while the usurper who calls himself Edward IV rules.
    There is word that Queen Margaret and her son have landed, not at Tradmouth as we expected, but at Weymouth along the coast,
     after spending a long time at sea for lack of good winds.
    I travel to join the Earl of Devon at Cerne Abbas, and daily the ranks of the Queen’s army are swelled as there are many in
     the West who favour King Henry’s cause above all others.
    Do not worry overmuch about my son, John, and his influence upon Elizabeth. He is young and headstrong as was I at his age.
     I will have words with him on my return. And, dear wife, do not concern yourself for my safety but pray always that our just
     cause doth prosper. Your most loving husband Richard
    Written at Dorchester this eighteenth day of April 1471
    Lewis Hoxworthy walked to the end of the jetty. There were rows of boats tied up, gyrating wildly on the dark, rough water.
     They looked dangerous, out of control, as if they could slip their moorings at any moment. He shivered and pulled his coat
     closer around him. The journey on the ferry had been bad enough; his stomach had churned with the waves as the fine spray
     froze his face.
    The sky was dark grey and there was fine drizzle in the air. Lewis shivered again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Was
     this wise? Should he have told someone where he was going?
    Audentes fortuna iuvat
. Fortune favours the brave. It was his school motto, embroidered onto the pocket of his blazer. Not that he and his friends
     studied Latin at school but, when Yossa and his mates weren’t about, he had asked his history teacher what it meant and she
     had told him willingly, glad that someone was taking an interest. He