Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. Ennison kicked it away with his foot. Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within.
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