Dame Madge led him across to the far corner, almost against the boundary wall. Here a tiny mound of fresh earth, no larger than a mole-hill, was surmounted by a little wooden cross small enough to lie on the palm of his hand. At its foot lay a posy of daisies and buttercups, plucked from the surrounding pasture.
‘There it is, Sir John,’ said the dame gently. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’
She walked away, and John stood staring down at the dimple of reddish earth, his thoughts rolling forward to what might have been.
He heard a footstep behind him and, turning, saw his wife. She still wore a white apron, soiled with salve from his mistress’s throat. Coming near, she stood alongside him, but avoided any contact. He turned back to the tiny grave and stared down at it. Suddenly his throat seemed to tighten and his sight blurred with moisture.
‘There’s part of me under that soil, Matilda,’ he said, with a break in his voice.
‘Yes, John. But come away now. I’ll be home before long.’
She took his arm and steered him back across the grass.