In the palmy years of the eighteenth century the fifth duke rebuilt the country house in Palladian magnificence and surrounded it with a pleasance-deer park and gardens covering five square miles-very convenient with London only thirty miles to the south. The fortunes of the Russell family waxed and waned with those of the English aristocracy and England herself. Henry VIII hung the last abbot from an oak tree on the monastery grounds when he broke with Rome and declared himself head of the Church, and granted the estate to a favorite of his named John Russell. Woburn Abbey was old it began as a great Cistercian monastery, in the year when the first Plantagenet was crowned King of England. When was that? Before the Change, of course, but when? In summer, I think. The pale limestone of it still glowed in the light of moon and stars. Candles and lantern lights flickered and blinked out behind the windows as the servants and garrison sought their beds. Seven armed men lay grimly silent behind brush and waist-high grass, watching the great country house a quarter mile to the northeast. But there was still little light under the three tall yews and the big oak the night around him was still save for night birds, the whoo-whit of tawny owls and the screech of the barn type. The moon was up, and it glittered on the ruffled surface of the water to his left, where swans and ducks slept or swam lazily. I’ve been here before, John Hordle suddenly realized, his thumb moving over the leather that covered the grip of his bow.

Woburn Abbey/Aspley Wood/Rasta Bob’s Farm

The Protector's War by S.M. Stirling