Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this unexpected means of escape. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. ‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. "It is an ordinary wedding," he added; "some shopkeeper's daughter.
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