Rivers of Treason

Book 0: Daniel Pursglove

by K.J. Maitland

Genres: Renaissance; Historical Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

DANIEL PURSGLOVE BOOK THREE: On the run from the King, Daniel returns to his childhood home - with his own score to settle.

From the stark Yorkshire landscape to the dark underbelly of Jacobean London, Daniel Pursglove's new mission sees him fall prey to a ruthless copycat killer...

London, 1607. As dawn breaks, Daniel Pursglove rides north, away from the watchful eye of the King and his spies.

He returns, disguised, to his childhood home in Yorkshire - with his own score to settle. The locals have little reason to trust a prying stranger, and those who remember Daniel do so with contempt.

When a body is found with rope burns about the neck, Daniel falls under suspicion. On the run, across the country, he is pursued by a ruthless killer whose victims all share the same gallows mark. Are these the crimes of someone with a cruel personal vendetta - or has Daniel become embroiled in a bigger, and far more sinister, conspiracy?

A new river of treason is rising, flowing from the fields of Yorkshire right to the heart of the King's court . . .

PRAISE FOR THE DANIEL PURSGLOVE SERIES

'Dark and enthralling' ANDREW TAYLOR

'This gripping thriller shows what a wonderful storyteller Maitland is' THE TIMES

'Colourful and compelling' SUNDAY TIMES

'Full of tension and danger... powerfully atmospheric' JENNIFER SAINT

'Goes right to the heart of the Jacobean court' TRACY BORMAN

'Spies, thieves, murderers and King James I? Brilliant' CONN IGGULDEN

'There are few authors who can bring the past to life so compellingly... Brilliant writing and more importantly, riveting reading' SIMON SCARROW

'A beautifully crafted thriller... Breathtaking and bone-chilling' MANDA SCOTT

'Maitland is a superlative historical novelist' REBECCA MASCULL

'Devilishly good' DAILY MAIL

'The intrigues of Jacobean court politics simmer beneath the surface in this gripping and masterful crime novel' KATHERINE CLEMENTS

'Beautifully written with a dark heart, Maitland knows how to pull you deep into the early Jacobean period' RHIANNON WARD

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: April 13, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 432

Sample

A YOUNG COUPLE lay side by side on the short wooden jetty that overhung the river, the girl on her back, the lad leaning over her. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and they could see nothing more of each other’s faces in the darkness than the glitter of their eyes. A sharp breeze dragged the cold and damp air from the surging water across their skins, and the girl shivered, half regretting her refusal to take shelter in the fowlers’ hut close by, as they had on other nights. In there, they were shielded from prying eyes, but she always emerged with clothes and hair that stank of stale blood, rotting guts and fish. The stench clung to her all the way home, proclaiming her guilt like a scarlet brand.

Josiane closed her eyes as the young man laid his hand on her cheek, turning her face towards him. His hot breath smelled of roasted meat and wine. He kissed her greedily, but tonight she barely responded, conscious only of the wind whining through the trees above her head and the roar of the river vibrating through the wooden piles beneath her. She should not have come. She was tired. She had missed too many nights’ sleep, and in summer, the working hours in the fields were long and hard. Besides she was beginning to suspect that her brothers were right: nothing could come of it, not that she would ever admit as much to them. It was a game, but she was the prize not the player. The boy ran his fingers over her leg, stroking her thigh. She batted him away, her irritation growing.

High above her, the moon made a bid for freedom, escaping from behind the mass of clouds and bathing the trees and grass in silver. Even through her closed lids, Josiane saw the sudden burst of light. She opened her eyes, turning her head to stare in wonder at the river, now transformed to mercury. The lad leaned over her, his weight crushing her ribs, trying once more to plant his mouth on hers, but she pushed him off and sat up.

‘Look at the water!’ she urged.

‘Why?’ he muttered, without interest. He was tugging on her arm to coax her to lie down again, but she resisted, shrugging off his grip.

‘Look,’ she repeated.

He propped himself up on his elbow, and glanced behind him at the twisting current. But the moment had already passed. The clouds had recaptured the moon and the river was black and menacing as it had been before.

‘What am I supposed to be seeing?’ he grumbled.

Josiane sighed. ‘Too late. It’s gone now. Moon turned it silver. It was beautiful.’

The lad snorted. ‘It’s a stream of cow shit like always.’ Then, feeling her stiffen, he added, ‘Compared to you, because you’re the one who’s beautiful, Josy.’

And she was. At fourteen, her cheeks still had the plumpness of a child’s, but beneath them the high cheekbones suggested that her face, though pretty enough now, would one day be strikingly handsome. Those dark eyes had already mastered the art of flashing in a way that few could resist. And when she untied her mane of blue-black hair and let it tumble down her back on a bright summer’s day, it was as iridescent as a starling’s breast.

The lad rubbed a strand of that soft hair now between his fingers, then tickled her nose with it.

She jerked her head away from him. ‘My brothers do that to me and I hate it!’

‘What’s the matter with you tonight, Josy? Would you rather be kissing him? Is that it?’

‘You know it isn’t!’ But she felt herself blushing and was glad it was too dark for him to see. She got to her feet, brushing dirt from her skirts. ‘It’s late and I have to be up afore dawn. Besides, Father’ll kill me if he finds me missing from my bed again.’

‘Stay, Josy! Your father will never know. You said nothing wakes him after he’s been to the tavern.’

‘Nothing wakes him, but my brothers have got sharper ears than any watchdog and they’ve twice the temper on them that Father has. They’d be as mad as a nest of hornets if they found out I’d been with you again.’

The young man scrambled up and took her hand. ‘Stay a few more minutes, Josy. It’s not easy for me to get away either, but you know I’d risk everything for you. Surely, I’m worth just a little trouble?’

Josiane shook her head impatiently. ‘It’s not a little trouble that worries me, it’s the great stinking midden of it that’ll likely get stirred up.’ She pulled her hand from his. ‘Now you get off home afore we’re both mired to our necks in it.’

She turned away so sharply that she slipped on the boards of the jetty and almost tumbled into the river. He flung an arm about her waist to steady her. Furious with herself that she’d given him cause to save her, she lifted her head and stalked away without looking back. Behind her, she heard his grunt of frustration and the sound of his boot hitting wood, and guessed he had landed a hard kick on one of the jetty posts. For a moment, she expected him to come marching after her, but she heard his footfalls stomping rapidly down the path away from her.

Her own steps were equally swift, but almost as soon as she had stepped off the small wooden landing stage on to the bank, she was forced to slow down. The night seemed darker than usual and the path along the bank of the surging black river was narrow. Tree roots rubbed smooth and slippery by the passage of feet lay ready to trip her, and bushes and brambles snagged her skirts. Several times she stumbled, fearing that she would plunge into the swift, cold current. She breathed more easily once she reached the place where the path branched off, leading away from the riverbank through a coppice, though it was even darker under the canopy of leaves. A branch whipped back in her face, and she cursed at the sting of it, hoping it hadn’t marked her. Her hand pressing against the trunk, she rested for a moment, catching her breath. The wind whistled through the treetops above her and she could still hear the low rumble of the river, though muffled now by distance and the thick vegetation. She was so tired she was tempted to lie down where she was to sleep.

‘Jo . . . si . . . ane.’

The cry was faint. She wouldn’t have heard it had she been walking. It came again, but it didn’t sound human. It was nothing more than the breeze among the leaves. At home when she was lying in bed and heard the wind singing over the roof of their cottage, she often fancied she could hear words in it, though she could never make sense of them.

She pushed herself upright and plodded on down the track, holding one arm out in front of her to protect her face from branches.

‘Jo . . . si . . . ane!’

She froze. The cry was louder, more distinct, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

‘Leave me be,’ she called out. ‘I told you, I’m away home.’

From somewhere out there among the dark trunks came a crack of twigs snapping and a rustling in the dried leaves. A rat, she told herself, and so as long as it wasn’t a human-rat, the furry little creatures were nothing to fret about. She’d listened to them every night of her life, scrabbling about in the thatch. She knew they were nothing to fear. But those rats did not call out her name. She hurried on, stumbling and tripping in her anxiety to escape from among the trees.

‘Where are you, Josiane?’ The voice seemed to be coming from in front of her.

She could see nothing moving in the darkness, but she turned, running now, back towards the river.

‘I’ll find you!’ The cry was in front of her again.

Josiane crouched down, pressing herself against the trunk of a tree, though it was too slender to offer a hiding place. She turned her head, this way and that, trying to detect any movement. But the darkness was closing in around her like a cage, trapping her, blinding her. She forced herself to keep still and listen, but the wind was roaring in her ears and the only sound she heard was the hammering of own heartbeat. She rose cautiously, edging back along the path in the direction of her home and safety.

Twigs smashed behind her and she whipped around. She glimpsed the dark figure, saw the brief flash of pale skin, as the rope dropped over her head. The noose tightened about her little neck. She tore at the rough fibres until her nails broke and her fingertips bled. Choking, her lungs burning, blood pounding in her head, her eyes bulged till she thought they would explode. The strength ebbed out of her limbs. Her arms flopped helplessly at her side. Her legs buckled and she crumpled to the ground. But the rope only tightened. Darkness crept out from among the trees and oozed into her head like a black fog. She did not move again.

The killer waited until he was certain that her heart would never make another beat, nor her lungs ever draw another breath. When he was satisfied, he unknotted the rope, turned the corpse face up, and straightened her limbs. He brushed the long curls away from the livid burn that encircled her neck, and tossed the rope into the swiftly flowing current of the river, to become one of the thousands of pieces of flotsam and jetsam that choked its waters. Then he walked into the darkness.

AS THE HORSE clattered into the darkened courtyard, a yawning stableboy stumbled out to seize the reins. The rider swiftly dismounted. No words were exchanged; they didn’t need to be. The boy led the horse into one of the many stables as the guard, who had been freezing his cods off in the draughty yard for more than an hour, stepped forward.

‘Surrender your sword, if you please, sir,’ he said curtly.

Whether the visitor was pleased to comply with his order or not made no difference to him. No one would be admitted bearing arms, not even the new favourite, if this is who the gentleman was. The guard had not been told the identity of the visitor who was expected in the middle of the night, only where he was to take them.

Holding up the lantern, ostensibly to give the man light enough to unbuckle his sword, he studied the new arrival. The man’s riding boots, hose and black breeches were splattered with mud, but that could not be held against him. The roads and fields were quagmires now that the great frost which had gripped England for ten numbingly icy weeks had finally thawed. King James had returned from the day’s hunting looking like one of the urchins who scavenged in the silt of the Thames at low tide. Those who rode with him were even more besmirched. James had, as always, led the field at a demonic pace, cackling with laughter when his horse kicked mud in the faces of those who rode too close behind him.

But in spite of the dirt from the road, this gentleman was well groomed. A long silver earring, set with sapphires, bounced against the dark curl of a lovelock, hanging down from beneath a plumed feather hat. His boots were crafted from finest leather, his hose were silk, and the scarlet doublet and short black riding cloak were trimmed with panels of silver stitchwork – striking, but not gaudy, the guard noted with a grudging approval. Not that expensive clothes were any indication of wealth or breeding: the King bought as many outfits for his favourite, Robert Carr, as he did for himself, and that popinjay was little more than an upstart groom.

This man, though, was not the kind who normally caught James’s eye. His legs were unquestionably shapely; that would certainly attract the King. But he was of a slight build and neither muscular nor blond, though handsome enough to turn heads. James had better keep him well away from Queen Anne, or he might end up warming both royal beds.

It was not the first time the guard had admitted visitors to Newmarket Palace whose presence was not to be announced, and although most of the household should be snoring on their pallets at this hour, he held the lantern low as he conducted the man to the group of outbuildings, so that no inquisitive servant peering from a casement would glimpse the visitor’s face. The guard paused before a door, but did not open it. He considered it beneath his dignity. The man had not uttered a word since he’d arrived, which meant he was probably another Scottish cattle herder using his looks to make his fortune at Court.

‘You’re to wait in the tennis court.’ The guard jerked his head. ‘There’s meat and wine been set ready.’ He remained by the door until the visitor had stepped inside. Then, cursing all the whoreson Scots under his breath, the guard retreated to the other side of the yard, where he could watch for any summons without being accused of eavesdropping.

The tennis court to which Cimex had been conducted by the guard lay in darkness except for the ruby glow of a small charcoal brazier and the flames of the candles set on a table which had been placed at the hazard end of the long chamber. Much of the room was bare and empty except for the tennis net stretched across the playing court. Beneath the wooden ceiling, the curiously sloping penthouse canopies on the walls made the chamber darker even than the night outside.

Cimex stood still on the silent court, her gaze searching along the row of chairs and benches in the dedans booths built hard against the wall, where spectators sat behind metal grilles to protect them from the hard wooden balls. She was looking and listening for any sign of movement, even for the glitter of eyes in that witch-light. Charles FitzAlan was usually already impatiently waiting in whatever rendezvous he had selected, complaining that she was late even if she arrived early. But this time, he would be justified. Although she was almost as skilful a rider as he was, and her horse a big-boned, powerful gelding, she had not been able to ride it as hard and fast as she would have liked in the glutinous mud, for fear that the beast would slip and break a leg.

She had been expecting the old fox to be crouching in one of chairs, hoping to unnerve her by suddenly speaking out of the darkness. That kind of trick amused him, but, satisfied that the chamber was empty, she stalked the length of the tennis court to the far side of the net into the hazards. The solid floor was sticky from the bulls’ blood with which it had been coated to give the players a better grip. It made the chamber smell like a butcher’s stall. Peeling off her leather gauntlets, she warmed her hands over the steady heat of the brazier. Then, suddenly finding herself ravenous, she took one of the roasted songbirds arranged on the platter, crunching through the flesh and bones until she had devoured the whole carcass, leaving only the twig legs, which she dropped delicately into the voiding basket.

She smelled the wine. It was strong and oversweetened, which FitzAlan knew was not to her taste. But she was thirsty, so she poured a small measure and gulped it down, before consuming one of the venison tarts. He would not offer her food, but he would insist on wine. FitzAlan could hold his drink better than any man and liked to ply those he questioned with copious quantities of it. It was said by the Scots that he was a generous host; others preferred to think that it amused him greatly to watch people get drunk. But Cimex suspected a different motive. Strong wine loosens men’s tongues. It strips away the masks of friend and flatterer.

Two chairs had been placed either side of the table. She pulled the smaller and lower of the chairs further back, as if she wanted to be closer to the brazier, though not because she felt the cold. She sat, her gaze fixed in the direction of the door at the end of the tennis court though it was so dark on the service side of the court she could not distinguish it from the wall. Had he fallen asleep or was he deliberating keeping her waiting?

She felt the rush of cold air as the door opened silently and closed again. FitzAlan was wrapped in a heavy fur dressing gown, a round velvet nightcap on his short-cropped hair. He leaned heavily on a stick as he limped towards the glow of the candlelight. His legs appeared to be paining him more than usual, though she felt no pity for him. Neither spoke, and the silence only served to magnify the echo of his footfalls and the stick.

What has four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The ancient riddle of the Sphinx floated into Cimex’s head. And that great lion-woman could have added and none when night falls. And it would fall, it must. For every dawn, there is a sunset. However fiercely the sun burns by day, it must surrender to the night.

Cimex had risen as the door opened and she now moved aside from the chairs. Sweeping off the feathered hat, she bowed low.

FitzAlan did not acknowledge the courtesy; he never did, though he’d have been outraged had it not been offered. He sank into the larger of the two chairs, massaging his grimy fingers in the steady heat of the glowing fire.

He stretched out a hand for the goblet, as if he expected it to fill itself and jump into his fist. Cimex poured a measure from the flagon and gave it to him. He indicated impatiently she should pour another for herself. She obliged, taking only a sip before setting it down.

‘So, you finally make your appearance, my wee bedbug.’

‘The roads, sir—’ she began but he flapped a hand, dismissing the explanation, glancing with evident amusement at her splattered boots, hose and breeches.

‘I ken the mud,’ he said shortly. ‘But it has nae troubled our wee sparrow.’

‘Daniel delivered his report to you . . . on Battle Abbey?’

‘Aye, though it seems he was in no hurry to do so, but then you did nae make haste yourself to tell me your wee protégé was back in London.’

‘I had not expected he would make the journey to London in the great freeze – only a reckless or desperate man would risk a horse on that ice – but as soon as I learned he was in the city, I sent word to you in Royston. But I fear my letter was ill-timed, sir, for I later heard that you had just moved on to Newmarket. I trust my message followed you there, sir?’ Her tone was light, innocent.

‘Your many pairs of eyes and ears have grown dim and dull, Cimex. You always know where I am lodging before I’ve even given the orders to go there. So, it would seem I learned that Daniel had returned before you knew yourself . . . Did I?’ He took a long draught of wine, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on her face as he drank.

Her features, though, were now partly in shadow. Cimex knew the moment she walked into the chamber that the placing of the chair and candle prickets had been carefully arranged to illuminate the smallest twitch of her face. But even had she not moved the chair back, FitzAlan would not have been able to detect so much as a flicker of disquiet in those shark-blue eyes of hers.

‘I don’t doubt you knew of it first, sir. As ever, your sources are impeccable. And the report Master Pursglove made to you – you are, I trust, satisfied?’

A trickle of wine escaped from the corner of FitzAlan’s mouth and ran down into his short beard. ‘That it was truthful, aye. He’s too canny to be caught out in a lie. But was it the whole truth? No, I’d wager it was far from that.’

FitzAlan paused, the fingers of one hand picking restlessly at the fur of the dressing gown, like a goodwife plucking a chicken. ‘The wee sparrow told me he’d discovered the fate of the pursuivant, Master Benet, who met his death in Battle, and that unfortunate wasn’t the only corpse buried there, it seems. Daniel is uncommonly good at sniffing out cadavers, better than any scent-hound. Send him after one, and he’ll soon dig you up another. But he’s yet to deliver Spero Pettingar’s head on a spike as you assured me he could, nor even the treacherous heart of that old dowager who rules “Little Rome” at Battle Abbey. Though he seems to think her powers are waning.’

‘That is only to be expected, sir. Lady Magdalen is in her seventieth year. Age and infirmity must be creeping close upon her heels, if they have not already seized her.’

‘Aye, Daniel said she looked to be ill, though the stubborn old besom refused to show it. But the power of that nest of priests and vipers who surround her is not diminishing. Likely, that waxes as she wanes. And according to Daniel, the illegal Masses continue. But the Privy Council have known about that for years and still they refuse to move against her. Your wee sparrow could bring me no fresh proof that I could set before them to have her charged with treason and see her precious Little Rome sacked and destroyed.’

As Rome was once sacked by the Vandals? Cimex’s expression remained impassive.

‘But I can read men’s minds as well as God reads their souls. Daniel was speaking the truth in as far as it went, but he’s holding a deal back. And it’s what a man keeps from me that is always the more valuable. It’s no different from when the King exercises his sovereign right to purveyance – the townsfolk and merchants deliberately conceal their best flour and wine and supply the purveyors with inferior goods, claiming them to be the finest they have.’ His speech was becoming rapid. Spittle sprayed from his mouth. ‘Then they have the gall to complain when they are not paid.’ He slammed the goblet down on the table, sending an echo bouncing around the tennis court.

‘I imagine the people have been using that same deception since kings first exercised that prerogative, sir.’

And little wonder, when James’s men used the ancient right to commandeer food, and wine from any merchant, farmer, city or village, for a fraction of the price the provisions were worth in the market place.

‘It is a game of wits that has been played between commons and Crown for centuries,’ Cimex added soothingly.

‘That it is, and Parliament would think to deprive the King of that sport and of the money too. But he will not be bested. If they want to take the prerogative from him, they will have to pay him for it. Do they think their monarch such a rickling that he’ll simply hand over the right of the king and his heirs for no gain? Surrender purveyance to them and next they’ll be demanding his palaces and even the crown from his head.’

FitzAlan’s voice had risen and in the empty space the words were ricocheting off the walls, floors and ceiling as if it they were balls smashed around in furious game. He suddenly seemed aware of the sound and took another gulp of wine.

‘Is it a lass that’s sealing his tongue?’ He frowned impatiently when Cimex didn’t immediately answer. ‘At Battle! Has another lass bewitched Daniel like that one in Bristol?’

‘I hear Lady Magdalen’s young ward, Katheryne, is a pretty creature,’ Cimex said. ‘But with the old dowager and a circle of priests guarding her virtue, I doubt that Daniel would have managed a moment alone with her. And I do not believe the girl shares her guardian’s zeal for the old faith, so, what reason would Daniel have to shield her?’

The truth, and nothing but the truth, but never the whole truth.

‘Then what?’ FitzAlan demanded. ‘You swore to me that your wee protégé had no love for popery either, despite being raised in the house of that old recusant Lord Fairfax. Did you mistake his loyalties or has Battle Abbey corrupted him and coaxed him into turning his coat?’

‘He was only there for a few weeks, sir, hardly long enough to convert a man.’

‘The playwright Ben Jonson, who writes the entertainments for Queen Anne, claims he was converted in two weeks by a Jesuit priest in Newgate gaol, but since he’d just killed a man, I dare say he was tender meat, ripe for persuasion if he thought he was facing the gallows and hellfires beyond. And Jonson was converted despite being raised a good Protestant, but Daniel was weaned on that papal pap. A few weeks would be ample time to bring him back into the Catholic fold, especially if he’d a whole coven of priests working on him.’

‘Not when he hates and despises those priests, sir. And all I have learned about Daniel convinces me that he does.’

FitzAlan scowled at her. He plucked a roasted songbird from the platter, ripped it apart with black-rimmed nails and popped the shreds of flesh into his mouth.

He studied the carcass. ‘I could have him persuaded to speak the truth . . . the whole truth.’

His gaze flashed up to her face. Had he heard her tiny intake of breath?

‘You could indeed, sir,’ Cimex said, her voice as devoid of emotion as a cook sending a scullion to kill a chicken. ‘Some men can be induced to blurt out all they know at the mere sight of the instruments of persuasion, even hearing the man in the next room scream or glimpsing him being dragged unconscious back to his cell. But Daniel’s metal has been tempered in a fierce heat. He has known battle and a great many hardships. It has forged a man upon whom the infliction of pain would only harden his resolve. If you asked him under torture to tell you the colour of the sun, he would stay silent until his final breath, simply because you were forcing him to answer.’

FitzAlan gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Few men have withstood the iron gauntlets, as Robert Cecil will attest, and those that have, have been the most fanatical of Jesuits. They embrace agony and death, believing they will soar to the highest reaches of heaven as martyrs on the wings of pain. But you have just told me Daniel has no such faith to bear him up. You do not know men and their weaknesses as I do, Cimex, despite your breeches.’ He poked his stick between Cimex’s thighs and gave a spiteful chuckle.

Cimex inclined her head. ‘That is indeed so, sir, but after such persuasion, Daniel would be of no further use to you, even were he to survive. And what would be the advantage? To discover some trifle now and risk losing a great deal more valuable information later. Put too severe a bit in the mouth of an unbroken horse, drag on the reins too hard, and you will ruin the beast’s mouth for life. It will resist all your commands ever more stubbornly.’

‘Do you presume to teach me horsemanship?’

Once more, Cimex inclined her head in apparent meekness. ‘As you have said, sir, you know both horses and men far better than a mere woman ever could . . . But have you considered that Daniel may indeed have told you all he learned at Battle? Do you have reason to doubt him?’

Cimex took another sip of her wine. Her gaze, which had been fastened on the candle flames, flickered towards FitzAlan.

FitzAlan, leaning back in his chair, studied her for some moments. Framed in the hell-red glow of the brazier, she made an enchanting succubus. When he finally spoke, his tone was soft. Cimex tensed.

‘Your wee sparrow has no reason to think I doubt him. He was paid more than generously for his services, and I instructed him to remain in London for now.’

FitzAlan suddenly leaned forward. ‘But he did not remain!’ he snapped. ‘Daniel left the city yesterday morning, riding north and riding fast. He has not returned. Something he has learned has sent him chasing off and nothing he told me would give him a reason to do that, so there must be information he has kept back. Your sparrow has flown, Cimex, but mark this, the King has spies everywhere. Daniel Pursglove will be found.’

TWO MEN BURST OUT OF the small coppice and stood squarely blocking the track. One held an axe in both hands, the blade angled towards my horse’s neck; the other was swinging a billhook.

‘You! Hold fast!’ the axeman ordered.

I obligingly reined my mount in and waited to see what they intended. Beneath my cloak, my dagger was already in my hand. I could have charged my horse between them, but there was no sense risking injury to the beast from that axe. Besides, I had heard this pair chopping wood from half a mile away as I had trotted towards the grove of trees. If they had any ambitions to become footpads, they would not make much of a living from it.

‘Good morrow, brothers.’

The one with the axe scowled. ‘It’ll not be a good one for you unless you tell us where you come from and what business you have on this road.’

His heavy jowls hung down in folds, giving the appearance that his head was growing straight out of his body. He reminded me of a giant toad, with his thick, muscular shoulders and a bulging gore-belly that contrasted oddly with his long skinny legs. And his tone was beginning to annoy me.

‘And what business of yours is it to question mine? I see no sheriff’s badge on your jerkin.’

The toad’s mouth opened, but his companion took a step forward. His ragged sandy hair seemed to have been chopped with his own billhook and it stuck out from under a close-fitting leather cap. He bore a great resemblance to the scruffy terrier yapping at his heels. He raised his makeshift weapon. The blade glinted and winked in the low winter sun. My horse jerked his head and skipped sideways, unnerved by the flickering light.

‘I wouldn’t wave that around if I were you, brother. My horse has been trained for the tilt. He is likely to charge straight at you, if he mistakes that flashing blade for a lance.’

In truth, I had no idea what this horse, Valentine, would do. I’d bought him only the day before I’d set out for the East Riding, reluctantly leaving my faithful beast, Diligence, behind. Charles FitzAlan had furnished me with my old horse when he’d hauled me out of Newgate gaol and dispatched me to Bristol to hunt for the gunpowder plotter Spero Pettingar, who alone of all the conspirators had evaded Robert Cecil’s clutches. FitzAlan had warned me then, and again when he’d sent me to Battle Abbey after the same fugitive, that he had men following me, tracking my every move, r