Pagan - The Trials of the Haliorunnae

By Vanda Denton

This Pagan novel is a sequel to The Rise of the Haliorunnae. It has themes of witchcraft, Christian knights, rioting and mob justice with violent consequences.

Jean-Louis Rusch has financial control of the world. Humans, ignorant of the existence of the haliorunnae, are trying to understand how their standard of living has nose-dived.

On being challenged for his power the King of the Haliorunnae approaches a secret order of knights whose ultimate purpose is to aid in a future, much bigger fight. However, Louis rightly judges that their courageous Marshal must aid in his cause in order for the knights to continue in any meaningful quest of their own.

In the midst of attempting to court the woman he was betrothed to as a child, and who he has managed to avoid for some years, the Marshal finds himself up against an enemy unlike any he could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326484941

Book preview

Pagan - The Trials of the Haliorunnae

Pagan - The Trials of the Haliorunnae

Vanda M Denton

© 2015 Vanda M Denton

All rights reserved by the author. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers and/or authors.

This book is published by and available from:

VinctalinBooks

www.vinctalin.com

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-326-42503-6

ISBN eBook: 978-1-326-48494-1

Prologue

Stripped of all apparel, arms held high to the full moon illuminating the forest clearing, Sibyl called into her presence her new disciples. There were only three this time. They also stood naked, awaiting her words of wisdom whilst admiring her stunning beauty. They were not concerned to know there were men in the dark shadows of the trees because those men were owned, heart and soul, by Sibyl.

Sibyl would have been affronted had a stranger been present, accusing her of opening a spectacular show. Rather, she would describe it as the art of the ancients. And so, with no pockets or sleeves to account for conjuring tricks, Sibyl’s long black hair flowed as she danced and tossed handfuls of tiny stars into the cold, misty air around her. When she swirled, ribbons of light flowed from her heels and when she made supplication to the moon goddess her skeleton glowed through her white flesh.

There was a rectangular candlelit pool of water to the side of the clearing, cut into the ground. Though partly shaded by the trees, the newcomers could see it was shallow. About forty centimetres deep. It had roughly the surface area of a domestic bath; a little less than two metres by one.

The rustic wood altar, further forward and closer to the centre, brooded eerily in the light of the moon until Sibyl lit the candles there. As she sang a song of praise to the god of fire, the onlookers could see that the surface was strewn with a variety of leaves, feathers and stones.

Sibyl stepped into the ‘bath’ and stooped to pull up handfuls of water for washing her face and arms as she howled a plaintive plea to the god of that element. Then, legs astride, she cast hands down to the pool begging to be cleansed. As she stepped from the water she performed a slow and sensual song and dance that promised blood, skin and bones to the soil beneath her feet.

Now the men, clothed in long, dark, hooded coats, came into view. One held a fine cockerel, pinning its wings under his arm. At Sibyl’s signal he pressed the screeching bird down on the altar, squashing it on its side, big hands stilling the wings and avoiding the beak that tried to bite. Then with its neck stretched out the men took up places that left the naked females with a clear view of the action at the altar. Sibyl variously prowled and pranced in the arena, bringing her leering face within an inch of each of the women, sniffing their necks, licking their cheeks, pushing hands roughly into their hair.

Somehow, suddenly, she was holding a huge knife with its blade shining in the moonlight. Finally, screaming, she rushed at the animal and slammed the blade down on the altar, severing the cockerel’s head. Only one of the women staggered and gasped in shock. The body of the bird floundered for long seconds with blood squirting from its severed throat. Sibyl took the head and rubbed the raw edge over her body, smearing blood down her arms, over her stomach and into her breasts.

All three new followers fell to their knees in worship and covered their eyes in awe. With the display done and seen as effective, Sibyl donned an ornate robe. Protection against the cold night air. The others dared not dress without her permission, for surely this was a witch still in possession of the ancient talents who yet had work to do on them.

Sibyl sat on the handy tree stump. It looked old. It seemed to be what remained of a tree randomly felled decades earlier rather than one prepared only weeks prior to the calling of these particular females. She allowed them to remain in various positions of kneeling in the damp grass, shivering, and not only from the cold.

Her eyes glittered in the white light. Her voice was eerily quiet and crystal. There was menace in it.

‘If there are humans amongst you, speak now and you will not be harmed. Keep your silence and you will be sent back to our mother earth.’

Eyes shifted sideways but no one moved.

‘Then we are sisters.’ It could have been a statement. Or it might have been a threat.

Though curious about the odd use of language, Maeve, aka Marion Trent, had no doubt she was a ‘sister’. She had been practising witchcraft, faithful to the pagan religion, for over twenty years. Marion knew herself to be a white witch, though she’d never thought of herself as super-, or non-human. Doubt crept up and down her spine. Dwelt sickeningly in her stomach and bowels. Had she been tricked into attending a black sabbat?

‘Each of you will face the trial.’ ‘And,’ Sibyl thought, ‘one of you may help me, finally, to locate the guntaniovihalig.’

She pointed to one of the women at random. ‘Step forward.’

Marion watched the woman on her left, a wafer-thin, mid-forties, archetypal witch. She frowned and the genuine white witch felt a little smug. Marion’s senses had told her right at the very beginning of this gathering that this one was a fraud. The day was coming when those like her who made a mockery of paganism, would be exposed.

She strained to see the action but Sibyl along with the men, now stood between her and the one summoned to the altar, blocking her view. She could make out none of the words being murmured in the incantations but whatever the process was it was brief.

As they moved across to the pool, again Marion tried to glimpse the one on trial but she saw nothing through the men and Sibyl. She could hear the gentle ripple of water in the silence of the forest and guessed the woman performed a cleansing ritual there. Already she felt to know which of her spells she would use when it was her turn. She supposed Sibyl would have the necessary herbs prepared there and that she would be tested on her use of them.

When that one emerged at the back of the clearing she was clothed in the same coat as the men. She walked, with head bowed, into the far shadows, as Sibyl beckoned the next one.

Marion saw no more here than with the first and when she joined the other, clothed, she looked forward to soon being with them.

At last Sibyl called her to the altar. Those who had been exonerated by the trial now watched with fascination from the other side of the altar.

Fixed to the altar, with a pin, wriggling and squirming in the spilt blood of the cockerel, was a large earth worm.

Sibyl said, ‘Eat it.’

Shocked and disgusted, Marion looked up to those who had passed the test. They grinned nastily. No way could she know if they had obeyed or by refusing, proved something.

Sibyl said, ‘If you can tell me the location of the guntaniovihalig, you will prove wisdom beyond this small test. If not, eat the worm and prove at least that you are one of us.’

It was fat, long and coiling with a healthy vitality in its efforts to be free. Marion could see the segments of it, the saddle and the organs beneath its pale skin. It was eight centimetres long with grains of soil stuck to the glistening flesh. She couldn’t imagine getting it down dead and cooked, never mind like this. This seemed so ridiculous that she began to wonder when and where this charade began and ended. She turned to Sibyl whose face was heavy in the chiaroscuro of candlelight and pale moonlight.

There was kindness in her voice. ‘You are our sister. This is small proof of your nature. Eat the little creature that came from the earth that you might live for a century before you take him back to Mother Nature with you.’

Marion gasped. This was bound to be only the first promise: life of one hundred years. She had only to swallow a worm. The others hadn’t wasted all this time.

She felt to have this reasoned out now. Sibyl wanted to know if her personal strength, her belief in her magic, could see her through a small and harmless revulsion. Suddenly, with renewed courage, she knew that she could. Marion pulled out the pin and held the worm flat with one hand before forcing the wriggling beast into her mouth, to the sounds of hissing and satisfaction from all other females. Their faith made her brave. She suppressed the gagging reflex as the worm contorting in her mouth, and slithering on her tongue, threatened to slip into her throat to descend alive into her gullet and on down until the acids of her stomach quelled the desperate, ghastly writhing.

With a massive force of will she told her tongue to push it into her teeth and bit down hard. Bitter, putrid water flowed from the foul little animal, mingling with the taste of earth. And still it moved. And still she kept her teeth and lips clamped, though she couldn’t prevent gorge rising up to add to the volume under her pallet.

Three bits of the worm moved weakly amid the filth. Marion pressed both hands hard on her mouth to keep it all in there, willing her mind to get perspective. She had only to swallow to have a life a century long.

Her mind said, in a lifetime that long you could learn the secrets that give you eternity. That brought to her the memory of her husband’s ridicule when he discovered her interest in witchcraft. And that in turn brought to her the clear realisation she had survived far worse than this. She calmed enough to swallow some of the sour mess. Then with less volume to manage, and in triumph, she swallowed the rest.

As she dragged a fist across the stinking slime on her lips and chin, she turned to Sibyl, expecting praise.

The horribly attractive dark eyes met hers as she said, ‘And now the test of water.’

Marion felt capable of anything now. Shivering violently from the cold, shuddering from that awful experience, she led the way to the pool, knowing that soon she would stand clothed and warming, with the other two.

Marion stepped into the icy water and made her feet stay there though every sense told her to leap out of it. The others had managed this without turmoil but Marion’s shivering was uncontrollably violent. Unlike those that went before her, Marion wrapped her arms around her and gazed at the warmly clothed people waiting for her to complete the trial.

She became aware of Sibyl’s changing expression. She was taking too long and Marion feared this would be misinterpreted. Suddenly she realised, they had managed better than she was doing because they got on with it all very quickly. In practical terms, they hadn’t hung around to experience the cold. To allow it to seep into their bones. On legs totally numb to the knees, Marion whispered a mantra and lowered herself steadily. She rocked back to sitting, gasped as the air stuck in her lungs and hoped that Sibyl would be swift to bless her with its purity.

She wasn’t there yet, though. Sibyl ordered her to lie down in the water. To submerge herself. She did as she was bid, reluctant to put all of her face below the surface until it was clear the trial was not complete until she did. So she eased down bending her knees to fit in and pulled, her arms into her sides.

She almost panicked when her process differed from the others as the men stepped forward, until she realised they were there to help. She was grateful. She’d be out of this in no time. A new wave of iciness soaked into her.

She choked a little, letting the water into her mouth, as five men took up their posts: one placing hands on her submerged head and two either side with hands on shoulders, arms, thighs and ankles. When she could no longer hold her breath, she twisted in their grip, giving the message she needed to rise. She assumed the others had signalled their limit and Sibyl had been satisfied with their cleansing.

The men pressed harder. Marion opened her eyes, looking up to the expressionless moon-shadowed face of the man at her head. She knew he understood her situation. Freezing and desperate now, she willed him not to push this on any longer, but the others also increased the pressure on her limbs and shoulders.

At last she panicked, certain they would hold her until she drowned. The air she held in her lungs gushed from her mouth, exploding on the surface. With it she tasted bile, vomit and the filth of the worm. The men gave her a little latitude to thrash her limbs and try to raise her head and back. It was small, futile hope.

No scream could emerge. There was no voice in the water being drawn into her lungs, while the turbulence in the pool brought raised eyebrows from the other females present.

When, finally they released her, the men stood back. Sibyl’s spine straightened as she looked down to the water-logged corpse.

She spoke in a matter of fact tone, ‘This one is not haliorunnae. Bury her.’

Chapter 1

It was a rough though subdued crowd, waiting for the prison gates to be unlocked. Hugh Mortimer stood at a dignified distance. A noble, good-looking man of impressive build, he was attracting the attention of those from the less sophisticated corners of society. His shrewd blue eyes shifted from one pathetic scene to another. An old woman, probably the mother, or more likely a grandmother, of an inmate, fiddled with her coat buttons, smoothed her hair, kicked at the ground and bit at her fingertips. He guessed she’d kill for a cigarette. A metre distant there was the sorry tableau of a man far too young for the three children snivelling, swearing and calling him ‘Dad’. Other variously cross and sorry relatives were likely to be sisters on the game, one-time drug-pushing partners now without an income and children with social workers.

Hugh was not ecstatic to find himself torn from Natalie’s warm embrace to be standing in this cold, damp and dismal place. Thoughts drifted back to the tender, unhurried morning of love-making. His sensual, enchanting girlfriend adored every inch of him and was generous in her appreciation.

Having this appointment, he had left her home long before she had the need to rise for the day. Never the less she’d made breakfast for them both, smoothed hands over thick, brown hair tied in its knot at the base of his skull, kissed him deeply and pushed him out of the door.

Natalie was not a charitable woman but she did love him. She’d realised, though he said little of it, that his conscience was troubling him and he wouldn’t feel content with himself until he’d seen to something he regarded as a duty.

He brushed aside the guilt and pictured her encouraging smile on his departure. When thoughts turned to a yearning for her cosy home, with an effort he moved his mind away from what he was missing and on to the major talk of the day: the recent changes in society that had given birth to all manner of conspiracy theories. No one had adequately accounted for the collapse of the tobacco industry across the world. The reason for more than one of these prison visitors standing outside the gates, dying for a cigarette that could no longer be obtained by any means, honest or otherwise.

Each world-wide change had been accompanied by demonstrations and curious media coverage. Throughout the world the media either didn’t report the developments or they took an angle of positive progress. Even the letter pages of The Times and the Daily Mail had no major negative points to push. That alone was a more than peculiar state of affairs. Everyone had known for decades the dangers of smoking tobacco so the positive slant on the loss of that industry was not the cause of rioting in the streets. On the other hand the cut down in transporting foods around the world, presented by the media as an agreement that should have been reached long ago, was not so easily accepted. Personal observation in every supermarket his people had visited discovered that no fresh food was being transported more than a few kilometres from its point of origin. Basically the fact that Londoners could no longer buy bananas, had sparked mass protests.

Then there was the situation with travellers in Britain. Race relations laws had been amended to facilitate another change that was welcomed by many. Travellers, whether called Romanies, Gypsies or New Age, were required to set up on permanent locations. There was no longer any travelling population in the British Isles. They were required to work in official jobs and their children attend school. The vast majority of the population applauded. Hugh’s internet research told him that unlike in Britain, some areas of the world where nomadic lifestyles had been abolished, had experienced some of the worst riots as a result of this. In those countries the policing, more military-based than anything Hugh had seen so far in England, had been brutal in the extreme.

Jangling keys and murmurs from his waiting companions brought him out of his deep preoccupation. He gave the others space to follow a path they knew too well. Now starkly reminded of his purpose here, Hugh walked into the visiting room with plenty of misgivings and Simon’s words ringing in his ears.

‘You should visit her.’

Hugh was aghast. ‘Visit her!’

‘You would feel less angry if you talked to her.’

‘Or I could get arrested for slapping her!’

‘It was a minor crime.’

‘She violated my home!’

‘You wouldn’t use that term if you considered the proper concept of it, Hugh. She broke in, hardly disturbed anything and stole nothing.’

‘Simon, I respect your ability to keep our vows…’

‘Don’t even say but. Why do you think Christ told us to visit Him in prison?’

Hugh sighed, ‘Because sinners need forgiveness and in any case, we’re not in a position to judge.’

Simon’s curling lip revealed no small measure of judgement. In this case he felt it was warranted since Paul had commanded early church elders to keep one another in check.

‘So, I forgive the little cow, then she does the same thing to someone else. How many times should she be let off the hook? That was her fifth conviction!’

Simon’s answer was not pat. It was a calculated insult, reciting childhood teachings to a man trying to evade his duty. ‘Every moment of every day you make a choice. You try to understand. Try to keep a fair point of view and when the wrong is truly wrong you take note of the part the devil played in that. You forgive the sinner not the sin.’

Their eyes met. Hugh’s burglar was not the only one around here who had gone astray but only one of them had every good reason to know better. Simon stopped short of making the comparison and Hugh remembered his obligations.

As was often the case with Simon, Hugh was obliged to respond to his dry reproach. So here he was visiting the little madam who’d broken into his home.

He spotted the sulky girl the second he stepped into the big, stark room, recognising her from the courtroom. Then, as now, though he knew her to be eighteen, she looked no more than fifteen. Hugh thought back to a conversation he had with Simon’s sister, Martha when she was only fifteen, and he should have been aware of more than he was. She had been besotted with him since she was very young and he was Uncle Hugh. At fifteen she had an almighty crush on him that normally kept her tongue-tied, so the blurting out of criticisms had surprised him. He had had his pocket picked and he was fuming about the addict who he caught with a citizen’s arrest. He’d been telling Simon the lad was a blight on society and that there was a line between charity and encouraging layabouts to dope their lives away. That lad especially, had a good home and loving parents. They were returning from the juvenile court having all been on a ‘keeping in touch with the wider society’ mission when Martha let rip.

‘Did you even listen to his social worker!’

They were all taken aback. Generally Martha hardly managed to say ‘hello’ to Hugh at that stage of her development.

In fact Hugh had listened attentively. ‘He’s having expensive, special education for dyslexia…’

‘Can you imagine what it feels like?’

A sudden flush was brought to the girl’s fair cheeks as Hugh rose to the tone of voice with flashing eyes and solid self-esteem. ‘Being unable to read is no excuse for thieving!’

‘It must be awful to be unable to read.’

‘I expect it’s embarrassing…’

‘It’s humiliating!’

‘He has the support of a good family and a social worker.’

‘They’re not at school with him to prevent the bullying.’

‘I’m sure that would have been even more embarrassing.’

He regretted his glib response. He felt like a bully. She was only fifteen, infatuated with him, and he’d put her down.

‘I’m sorry, Martha.’

She was scarlet.

‘I am. Honestly. I suppose I’ve just made your point for you. I don’t understand how the lad feels because I haven’t tried and I’ve been too tied up in my own indignation.’

The climb-down came too late. She was back in her shy little box.

He took her hand gently, preparing to apologise again, but she ripped it away and sank into the corner of the car. Cecelia, driving, had met his eyes in the mirror, expressing exasperation.

Simon, next to her, said, ‘She’s got a point. Boys can be very sensitive at that age.’

Cecelia tutted at him.

He asked why.

She said, ‘Because it looks like grown men wouldn’t know sensitivity if they fell over it.’

It had taken Martha months to speak to Hugh again, though he maintained the effort to get her talking no matter what response he got. Now, because of her reactions, he understood an emotion that never troubled him, and that memory along with Simon’s recent lecture had him feeling fully prepared to understand this girl’s problems. The words however, were unlikely to trip easily from his tongue. He had plenty of comprehension of righteous indignation too.

Stella slid back in her seat and watched the tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man strolling casually towards her. As his proud gaze flowed around the room, Stella’s eyes flickered downwards. She sensed his confident strides bringing him closer and shifted her eyes upwards for a split second when he coughed. It was long enough to make a big impact. What he did with his hair was rock star cool. It was sleekly combed back and tied tight leaving the wave in it to curl into a knot.

‘Good morning, Estella.’

He had the voice of an actor she loved. She’d once been forced to watch him playing Hamlet which almost got her interest in the boring play, but she only really liked him in his role as an athletic spy.

She sensed him removing the dark, knee-length wool coat, to place over the back of the chair.

The chair was dragged out and he sat heavily. ‘I understand you like to be called Stella.’

She wrapped her arms around her thin chest and stared at a dent in the table.

‘My name is Hugh Mortimer.’

She knew that! Besides the fact she’d been told who her only visitor since she’d been stuck in this dump, would be, he’d attended her trial, gave clear concise evidence and nodded with satisfaction at the guilty verdict. He’d been dressed in fantastically expensive clothes as he was now: a suit with a waistcoat, crisp white shirt and boring tie. She reckoned he’d spent hundreds on a classy outfit yet dared to scoff at her horrible cheap clothes.

He said, ‘How are you managing?’

It was probably the most stupid question she’d ever heard but Hugh saw no outward response of any kind.

So he tried a different approach. ‘Is the food here any good?’

Everyone complained about it but she reckoned it wasn’t bad at all. Better in fact, than she’d been used to. Hugh knew nothing of that reaction either.

He sighed. ‘This place will do you good if you let it.’

Stella remained stock still.

He sighed more heavily and asked the question that had played on his mind since he caught her in his house. ‘Why did you do it?’

Stella felt the anger rolling around her stomach. Aching in her head.

He knew what she wasn’t after because she was on her way out when he arrived home. ‘You didn’t find any drugs in my house. Can’t get high on an ibuprofen tablet. I was surprised you didn’t take the alcohol. So, what did you want?’

Stella slipped further down the chair and crossed her ankles.

Hugh leaned into the table, one hand wrapped in the other, challenging. ‘Come on. You’re a tough guy. Tell me what gave you the right to break into my home, stroll around it, snouting into drawers and cupboards, rifling through pockets…’

Stella suddenly sat bolt upright and fixed her glare on the sharp blue eyes. She could contain the fury only by keeping her mouth clamped. Tedious research for a poor reader had brought her explanations. She knew why she was the way she was. Generations of hardship, neglect and cruelty had taken her to Mortimer’s fancy, opulent home, and from there to this prison.

In spite of the aggression thundering across the ether, he leaned in closer and dropped the challenge in his face. ‘Alright. I can see you’re not the hard case I imagined, though that is one of the scariest stares I’ve ever been given.’

She blinked once, into the steady eyes.

‘I’m here to give you a second chance. You’ll have to speak to me if you want to take it.’

Her stomach clenched tighter. Her head pounded harder. If she allowed her lips to part her screams would reach hell itself.

Hugh eased back several inches, softening at the sight of the girl, just as Simon had predicted. This was a troubled, damaged youngster who had caused no significant harm to his home.

He lowered his voice, ‘I only want to know what you wanted in my house and possibly…’

With that hesitation she blinked a couple more times and pressed her lips tighter, keeping in the howl of injustice.

Hugh became aware of his towering build, of how frightening he might seem to her and he realised how defensiveness could turn to defiance and anger.

The Mortimers came into the twenty-first century from a long line of long-term thinkers. Hugh wanted his answer and he could be patient in the getting of it. Perhaps he could do a little good in the process.

‘I might be able to help you.’

He wasn’t the first to offer. Any who had, had failed. Some with hidden motives had an odd notion of the meaning of ‘help’ or which of them it was he was helping.

‘My friend does some work with hostels for the homeless. You’ll need somewhere to go when you get out of here. I’m told the state ones leave something to be desired.’

He refrained from commenting on the flicker of recognition in her otherwise dull eyes, sensing she’d clam up even more tightly next time he tried talking to her. It seemed his efforts were wasted in any case. Having shown no sign of gratitude or a desire to take him up on his offer, Estella Whittaker rolled forward and on to her feet, scraping back the chair in one long, jagged move, and stamped out of the room.

Hugh let out a long breath, ‘This is going to develop into a right royal pain in the backside.’

Chapter 2

Here stood two examples of Britain’s finest manhood. Tall, broad, clean-cut and appealing in their manner. Self-confidence was a given. Their choices in life should never be doubted, except this is where they differed.

Simon’s voice took on an all too familiar edge, ‘Of course it didn’t work out with Natalie. You didn’t choose to date her for her virtue and erudite conversation.’

‘She didn’t want to wait for me, that’s all. It doesn’t matter.’

Simon was, once again, exasperated, ‘Of course it matters, Hugh!’

‘From her point of view it was a reasonable decision. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’m covering for a surgeon who is taking compassionate leave. He’s from the Order so it’s likely he’ll be back with Medecins Sans Frontieres within days. I need to give him the choice though.’

‘That part at least is honourable.’

Hugh fell into thought. Natalie was a warm, passionate, intensely satisfying woman he had felt to be in love with. In his mind they’d not been together long enough to consider taking the relationship to the next level. He thought he knew her well enough to be aware she was as content as he was. Yet her venom had been spectacular.

‘You’re going away again?’

There were angry red patches on her cheeks and her voice was growing shrill.

‘It’s my work, Natalie.’

‘It is not your work. It’s charity work. I don’t rate as highly in your mind as a charity case!’

‘People will die if I don’t go out there.’

‘No, someone else will do it. You always volunteer the minute someone else has to drop out…’

‘The people who drop out give months of unpaid work at a time. It’s only because I’m willing to fit in that they can offer their services for so long…’

‘Fill in and fit in at the drop of a hat! You don’t even know how long you’ll be gone. I had plans for us for the weekend.’

He knew nothing of that. She was tearful and he was concerned about what kind of plans.

‘I’m sorry. We can reschedule the plans. What are they?’

Now he could see she feared she had overstepped the mark. Even in the midst of this argument Hugh’s physical desire for her was stronger than almost any other thought or feeling.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly.

Natalie tried to judge his commitment and decided she must test it. ‘My parents want to meet you. They…’

She saw the reaction before finishing the sentence. That, no matter the reason for this particular argument, would have been a step too far for him.

‘We should talk about it when I get back.’

Now there were tears, ‘I won’t be waiting for you, Hugh.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve done this to me one time too many. Obviously I don’t mean as much to you as I’d hoped.’

‘Natalie, that’s unfair.’

‘I’ve been fooling myself. My friends tried to warn me.’

‘Your friends don’t know me.’

‘Exactly, Hugh. We sleep together and occasionally we eat together but we hardly ever go out together…’

‘We can go out.’

‘You won’t go to clubs or the theatre. You hardly like to go to restaurants and you have never been to a party given by my friends or my family. We have sex, Hugh, not a relationship.’

He had no answer.

‘So, I won’t be waiting for you this time.’

Hugh had tried offering some comfort regarding future relationships she could enjoy. It was a serious mistake of course. So he repeated the views he’d not tried often enough to get across to her. As always, Natalie was unable to listen to the religious beliefs that ruled his life and how could he blame her? Simon was not the only one to see the hypocrisy of his position here. In fact, his self-condemnation was equally harsh. The problem was, he could see no choice in the matter.

Simon poured the tea and they sat at the breakfast counter. He glanced judgmentally at his friend’s seemingly innocent face. There was a lot he should say to this man he loved as a brother, regarding the fact he’d had girlfriends.

He couldn’t find the heart to repeat the accusations right now, so he reminded Hugh quietly, ‘You shame us.’

Hugh met the caring soft brown eyes steadily, and made no excuses.

Simon changed the subject, ‘Come to dinner. Cecelia will be pleased to see you.’

So would Martha and all the tricky manoeuvring that involved. She fancied herself still to be in love with Hugh. To him she was a child. To her brother she was a precious sister to be protected from the likes of Hugh Mortimer.

Simon read his mind. ‘Martha will be out. She’s cooking a meal for Mrs. Yardley and eating with her in spite of the moaning and carrying on I get every time she has to pass through another test. She’s making a right meal out of the boring side of charity.’

Hugh’s conscience was clear on the charity front at least. He’d forgiven Estella for breaking into his house and placed her in one of Simon’s hostels. When he went to check on her, or if he was honest, tried to get her to tell him what she was looking for, he’d taken time to speak to several of the other young people who’d been swept off the streets by the police. All of them had troubles of one kind or another that no adult was seriously addressing before they came into Simon’s care. Hugh had managed to apply his best skills for two of them by getting them