Three
Peter knew why he’d taken the long way to Maiden Lane. Maiden Lane was where he’d find the king, but the small patch of green behind St. Paul’s—Old Pauly, as the residents of Covent Garden referred to it—was where he’d find Ursula.
He crossed the piazza tentatively, ignoring the carriages that passed on either side of him.
He made his way past the sanctuary he would never enter again and down the path that ran the length of the church’s north wall.
When he saw her, his throat began to tighten.
He scanned the space, but it was late afternoon, and the only witnesses to his shame would be the wrens, foraging among the tree roots. He dropped to a knee.
“I failed you, my love. ’Tis the worst thing a man can do, and I shall live with the pain always.”
If he wanted absolution, there was none. Only the dim reflection of light on this headstone and the one beyond it.
Peter hung his head and let the tears fall down his cheeks.