Excerpt from Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

When he rolled over again onto his stomach, the riverbank was suddenly a long way off. As he struck towards the land, he could feel the pull of the current trying to carry him out towards Massachusetts Bay. Will was standing up to his waist in the river, arms akimbo, watching him. Ned trod water for a moment and waved to him, and in that instant saw a figure in the shadow of the trees behind him. It was hard to make the stranger out. He was dressed in black, with dark hair and a short dark beard, and he was standing perfectly still. No sooner had Ned registered him than he realised he was drifting again. The force felt strong enough to drag him all the way back to England if only he would let it. He had to put his head down and swim – swim hard, on the edge of panic, pulling with his arms and kicking with his legs – to save himself. When his feet at last touched the muddy riverbed and he was able to stand, the man had disappeared.

He staggered through the water and threw himself down on the grass, breathless, heart pounding. Will splashed his way out and stood over him, laughing, blocking the sun. 'I swear I never saw a man swim so fast in my life! You looked as if Leviathan was after you!'

Now here was a sound Ned hadn't heard in a long while: Will's laughter. He propped himself up on his elbows, coughed, and brought up a mouthful of river. He glanced at the trees, rustling in the slight breeze. Perhaps the figure had existed only in his mind. He decided to say nothing that might spoil his son-in-law's mood. 'That river's like the man it's named for. The surface may look friendly enough, but beneath it means to kill you.'

Will laughed again, put out his hand and pulled him to his feet. They dried themselves in the sun, donned their clean shirts, and made their way back up the empty road towards the house, the two English regicides, arm in arm.

Mrs Gookin was in her apron in the kitchen preparing supper when Ned ducked his head beneath the lintel and asked if she had such things as a pair of scissors and a broom – and if so, might he borrow them?

Naturally she had scissors, their blades as sharp as penknives, and of course a broom as well. She fetched them from the cupboard.

'And a mirror, by any chance?'

She handed it over and watched as he climbed the stairs. On the threshold where he had been standing, he had left a damp patch.

Elizabeth, laying the table, asked, 'How long will they be staying, Mama?'

'As long as they desire. Your father is quite firm on the matter.'

'But why have they come from England to Massachusetts? Are they on official business?'

'Enough questions. Go fetch some water.'

In the attic, Ned placed the chair next to the window, invited Will to sit, and began to cut his hair. They had been on the run since April – a month and a half in England, sleeping in strangers' houses and in barns and hedgerows, wanted by Parliament for trying to rouse the army to oppose the deal with the exiled Charles II, then ten weeks cooped up on that stinking ship. Will's dark locks came away in handfuls.

After a while he protested, 'Enough, Ned, surely? I shall be bald as an egg.'

'Not enough yet if you are to look respectable, which is how we must appear. If we look like escaped prisoners, we shall be treated as such. Front face, soldier. That beard must come off now.'

He squatted in front of Will and set about the tangle of hair that reached down almost to his son-in-law's chest. He wielded the scissors deftly. Long ago, in the twenties, before the war, he had been apprenticed to the Merchant Taylors' Company to learn the cloth trade from top to bottom, and the skill of cutting had not deserted his fingers. The face that emerged once most of the beard was gone was strong and delicate, full of spiritual force – a face straight out of Foxe's Book of Martyrs, thought Ned, which was exactly what the younger man would have become if he hadn't persuaded him to run.

Excerpted from Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris. Copyright © 2022 by Robert Harris. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.