The steward had taken the prayer book.

Yet it was not the loss of the book that kept John Hargreaves awake.

It was what might come next.

The cottage lay silent beneath the darkness. The embers in the hearth had long since faded and the wind rattled softly against the shutter. Beside him, his wife lay staring into the gloom.

Neither had slept.

At length she turned towards him.

"Art thou asleep?"

"Nay."

For a while neither spoke again.

John folded his arms beneath his head and stared at the rafters. He could still see the steward standing in the cottage, turning the pages of the prayer book as though he had uncovered some great treasure.

A book.

His father's book.

Nothing more.

Yet the steward had looked upon it as though it were a noose.

Mrs Hargreaves broke the silence.

"Mayhap it ends there."

John gave a dry laugh.

"With the steward?"

"Aye."

"Nay, wife. Men like him do not trouble themselves unless they think there be something to gain."

The words hung heavily between them.

Outside, an owl called from somewhere beyond the fields.

Mrs Hargreaves pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders.

"It were only a book."

"Aye."

"The lass cannot read it. It is in Latin."

"Aye."

"Then why take it?"

John did not answer immediately.

He already knew.

The steward had not taken the prayer book because he cared what was written inside it.

He had taken it because it gave him power.

Not over the book.

Over those who owned it.

At last he sighed.

"Because now he has summat belonging to us."

The cottage fell silent once more.

Mrs Hargreaves stared towards the darkness beyond the hearth.

"I fear for the girl."

John turned his head.

"So do I."

"Folk talk."

"They always have."

"They talk more when a steward gives them reason."

John clenched his jaw.

That much was true.

By morning the village would likely know of the search.

By week's end they would know of the prayer book.

And before long the tale would have grown into something far larger than the truth.

Mrs Hargreaves hesitated.

"What if this follows her?"

John remained silent.

"What if folk remember?"

Still he said nothing.

"What if no decent family wishes to be tied to ours?"

The question struck harder than she intended.

For all his worries, John had not thought beyond tomorrow.

His wife had already reached years into the future.

He shifted uneasily.

"She is a good girl."

"I know."

"Any man would be fortunate to have her."

"I know."

Yet neither found comfort in the words.

Mrs Hargreaves drew a breath.

"There is Thomas Rushworth."

John frowned.

"Thomas?"

"Aye."

"He is but a lad."

"He is becoming a man."

John considered it.

Thomas was hardworking enough. Honest enough.

Better than many.

Yet even as the thought formed, another quickly followed.

What honest father would willingly tie another family to such trouble?

What father would invite them beneath the same shadow?

He closed his eyes.

"So wife, am I to lose my faith and now my daughter?"

The words escaped before he could stop them.

The cottage became still.

Neither spoke.

Neither knew the answer.

Then she heard her name.

After that she could not help herself.

Most of the words were lost in whispers.

But not all.

She heard enough.

Enough to know her parents were afraid.

Enough to know the steward's visit had changed something.

Enough to hear Thomas Rushworth's name spoken in the darkness.

Agnes stared into the blackness above her.

Sleep would not come.

Not now.

For the first time since the search, Agnes realised the prayer book was never the true danger.

The danger lay with those who believed it mattered.

Before dawn broke over the valley, Agnes Hargreaves feared that others had already begun to choose her future for her.

History continues...

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                                                                - XV -