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” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live.
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