"Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. ” Ann Veronica gave him a pallid profile. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. His brain reeled. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel.
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