"Damn it, where is he?" Turpin growled as he stood outside their room and glared up at and down the corridor. "Swiftnick! You little wretch! Where are you?! You answer me or so help this time I really will take the strap to you!" It was an empty threat, but right then Dick felt angry enough to do it. He had told Swiftnick not to go wandering off! He wasn't strong enough and the castle was dangerous.

He fingered the pistol he had picked up on discovering the boy missing, half of him convinced that it was more than defiance making the lad go a roaming.

With a growl of frustration, Dick stomped back inside and grabbed the lantern up. Lighting it with flint and tinder, he set off down the corridor, following the footprints Swiftnick had left on the dusty floor and silently berating himself for letting the lad out of his sight.

Deep down, he couldn't really blame his accomplice for going exploring. Maybe he should have let him come down the stables with him. After all, it wasn't far and it was warm. He could at least have kept an eye on him that way and bundled him off back to bed if he had to.

Swiftnick being ill had been an unexpected test for both of them. According to Mary, Swiftnick had been a sturdy toddler who had managed to survive into vigorous and robust youth and had avoided any number of things that could have killed or crippled him. Swiftnick simply wasn't used to being really ill. That had been obvious in the way he refused to admit it even to himself, let alone to Dick at first; although Dick had to acknowledge that part of his refusal had been fear of what Turpin would do. Swiftnick obviously still felt insecure about Turpin letting him stay with him and feared that any kind of weakness would get him abandoned. Dick didn't know quite how to make him feel wanted. He was hoping time would take care of it.

When he thought about it, Dick he could understand the lad's frustration. Used to being a bundle of youthful energy, Swiftnick couldn't really accept that he had been laid low. He was used to be being up and doing - frequently exhausting the older highwayman in the process - and he couldn't acknowledge that he wasn't back to usual yet.

"So what does he do? He goes off ghost hunting!" Dick grumbled as he stomped along, lifting the lantern to check the footprints and making a mental note to teach the lad about hiding his tracks as he did so. Half of him hoped a ghost had kidnapped him. It might be better than the other possibilities such as the dragoons somehow grabbing him, or he had fallen through a bloody floor and broken his fool neck, or he had simply collapsed in the bitterly cold weather and was even now lying freezing somewhere…

"Oh, right bright spark, aren't you? Cheer yourself up, moron," Dick growled as he lengthened his stride. "Swiftnick! Where are you?! Answer me, lad!"

* * *

Swiftnick whimpered, lifting his spinning head cautiously and spitting out a mouthful of dust. His candle had gone out but he could see a glimmer of light bobbing towards him. Hear heavy footsteps stomping towards him. With a squeak of panic, he struggled to get his feet under him and run, but his legs wouldn't co-operate and he pitched back to the tiles.

Wild eyed and terrified, Swiftnick lashed out wildly as the light bobbed over him and his fist was caught in a firm, warm and above all human grip.

"None of that now," Turpin's gruff voice floated out of the darkness as he lifted the lantern he held; its flickering flame casting eerie shadows over his face. "What'd you do? Trip? Are you hurt?"

"Dick!" Swiftnick wailed in relief at seeing the older man and flung his arms around Turpin's knees, hugging him so fiercely he almost knocked Dick over.

"Here, lay off!" Dick protested indignantly. "What's got into you?!"

"The ghost attacked me!" Swiftnick yelped, clinging to Turpin despite his efforts to pry him off. He started coughing harshly, wild rasps for breath that alarmed Dick into setting down his lamp and pulling Swiftnick to his feet.

"No such things as ghosts," he pointed out gruffly as he held him, keeping an arm around Swiftnick's midriff and anxiously aware of the heaving of his ribs.

"Is…" Swiftnick gasped, his eyes watering. "It wanted to kill me…"

Dick stared at him, struck dumb for once as Swiftnick wheezed and coughed miserably. He guided him over to the seat and sat him down, waiting for the coughing to subside and the lad to catch his breath.

"It…wanted…to…suffocate…me…" Swiftnick snuffled at last, babbling out the story of what he had seen and heard.

With a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, Dick edged over to the balustrade and looked over into the deserted main hall below. "Nothing there now," he observed, noting that there was a horribly cold draught swirling up from somewhere below that smelled of mildew and stagnant water.

"You….don't believe me…"

Dick pursed his lips and turned to look at him. Silver pale in the lamplight with his froth of gold curls like an aurora around his face, Swiftnick looked a bit like an ethereal young ghost himself. "Now, I didn't say that," he said carefully. "You got yourself lost…"

"Didn't."

"You know your way back?" Dick said dryly. Swiftnick hung his head in chagrin and mumbled something defiant. Turpin smiled faintly. "Thought not. Look lad, you were lost and upset and you’d already got ghosts on your mind, maybe you…" He was going to say passed out but the lad looked scared enough already without adding to his fears, "…fell asleep and dreamed it."

"Didn't," Swiftnick denied it hotly, glaring up at Turpin as the highwayman stood over him and slapped a brisk hand across his forehead to check his temperature.

"You feel a bit warm."

"Am not," Swiftnick grumbled, supporting his denial with an elaborate but genuine shiver. "I'm cold."

With a disapproving snort, Dick ruffled his curls with rough affection and took off his frogged coat. "Come on, let's get you back to bed," he urged as he wrapped it around the youth.

"I did too see it. And the ghost did attack me!"

"We'll talk about it somewhere warm."

"But…"

"I think we've got some hot chocolate…." Dick added absently

"Chocolate?" Swiftnick gave him a hopeful look as he buttoned Dick's coat around him. Turpin retrieved his lamp and gave the lad a gentle shove to move him on his way ahead of him. "And hot buttered toast?" the youth added. "I'm hungry…"

"We'll see," Dick said solemnly, noting that Swiftnick had stopped arguing the second chocolate was mentioned. Maybe this was something he should remember in future. He always had preferred the carrot to the stick.

* * *

"It had eyes," Swiftnick was still doing his best to convince Turpin as he struggled out of his clothes in the warmth of their room.

"Eyes," Dick repeated solemnly. He was poking the fire briskly, stirring it up a bit in the vague hope of making make the kettle boil faster.

"Brown ones," Swiftnick insisted. "They were floating…."

"Floating?" Dick glanced over his shoulder at him as Swiftnick dragged his voluminous nightshirt over his head and vanished into its folds.

"In the air," Swiftnick answered, his voice muffled by the folds. His frantic flailing to find the way out was starting to make him wheeze alarmingly as Dick ambled over and rescued him, yanking it down over his head.

"On their own were they?" Dick asked dryly as a panting Swiftnick emerged, looking ruffled and flushed.

The lad nodded. "Uh huh…"

"And these eyes attacked you?"

"Yes," Swiftnick nodded. "I mean no…I mean…." He started coughing and Turpin took him by the shoulders and plonked him down firmly on the bed. "It wasn't the eyes," Swiftnick gasped. "They were...sort of.... there watching…Something grabbed me when I started coughing and I couldn't…." He shook his head, his fear showing as he coughed violently.

Dick sat down and put an arm around him, alarmed by the strained harshness off his retching. He could well imagine how frightened Swiftnick would have been if he started coughing like this when he was all alone and lost. It obviously scared him enough when Dick was with him; goodness knew it scared Turpin enough. Alone in the dark, it would be all too easy for the impressionable youngster to imagine he was being attacked by a ghost that wanted to suffocate him. "Look, lad, I'm not going to argue with you whether there was a ghost or not," he said steadily. "The fact is you shouldn't have gone wandering off on your own. I told you weren't strong enough. Now, do you believe me?"

Swiftnick gave him a mutinous look, but he didn't argue. "Was too a ghost," he mumbled defiantly however.

Dick sighed heavily. "Get into bed," he ordered, releasing him to go and deal with the hot chocolate. Mumbling under his breath, Swiftnick crawled across the red and gold brocaded counterpane and slid under the sheets and blankets, snuggling his aching body into the pillows. "Take your syrup," Turpin added over his shoulder without bothering to look round.

"Don't need it."

"Until you stop coughing like that, you do," Dick retorted curtly. "And you'll take it or I’ll hold your nose for you until you do."

Swiftnick stuck his tongue out at his back, but he was too weary to argue for long and reached for the clay bottle, pouring himself the two spoonfuls of the honeysuckle mixture he was supposed to take and swallowing it reluctantly. He was settling down again, glad to feel his feet starting to get warm again when Dick brought him a large mug full of hot chocolate.

"What am I going do to with you, hmmh?" Dick sighed as he stood over him with folded arms and watched Swiftnick smugly sampling his chocolate. "I can't you let out of my sight for five minutes without you falling into a bog, or down a well or something."

"It isn't my fault," Swiftnick complained indignantly.

"I’d like to know whose it is then," Dick snorted. "Maybe he's the one I should threaten to shoot instead of you!"

Swiftnick shot a quick look at him and managed a small smile for the older man. "I did see a ghost, Dick, and something did attack me."

"All right," Turpin sighed and gave up. Swiftnick obviously wasn't going to see reason. "Let's have a look at your hand."

"It's only a scrape."

"All the same." Dick wasn't taking any chances. Following the instructions Glenrae had drilled into him had never done him any harm and he had seen for himself how easily a minor wound could go bad when they weren't cared for sensibly, while clean wounds healed well. So, as usual, he ignored Swiftnick's macho young complaints and washed and dressed his hand for him. Hopefully, the horror stories he told the lad about hands turning green and dropping off would sink in and he would pay attention to the lessons Dick struggled to din into him to take care of himself. As he bandaged Swiftnick's hand, he listened with half an ear as the lad insistently told his tale again.

"Wait a minute," Dick's head came up sharply as he pulled the last knot tight. "You saw men in black robes? Robes with hoods?"

Swiftnick nodded eagerly. "Now do you believe me?"

Dick hesitated. The last time he and Glenrae had been at the keep the Scotsman had seen black robed men in the woods a couple of times while he was out foraging. Glenrae had also been insistent that he saw them in the main hall once, although when he fetched Dick to see them they appeared to have vanished. The sightings had made the Scotsman uneasy, convinced the men were spectres. They had left that night; the rich pickings of a coach luring them away and then up to London to spend their spoils. Since then Dick had only been back once to lay up stores for his next visit and he had seen nothing.

"Dick?" Swiftnick was watching him, his expression torn between hope of being believed and fear that he would be.

"Maybe you saw something, maybe you didn't. But ghosts can't harm you. Glenrae and I have been here before, remember? We came to no harm."

Swiftnick pouted. "It still attacked me. It covered me nose."

"Swiftnick, you said yourself you were coughing, can you be sure it wasn't only the coughing that made you feel like someone was smothering you?"

"I saw the eyes…"

"Did you see eyes ? Or something you thought were eyes in the dark?"

Swiftnick hesitated, his blue eyes suddenly wide with doubt. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I thought it was…"

"You thought I was a ghost too," Dick chuckled, patting the lad's knee through the covers. "Finish your chocolate and get some rest."

"I don't want to rest."

"You’re starting to wear out my patience," Turpin warned. "Do as you’re told. I'll wake you for dinner."

"I won't sleep."

"Then close your eyes and pretend," Dick told him grimly and went to get his book. Swiftnick would keep himself awake with talking if he let him. True, it was barely late morning and he had been wide awake earlier, but the lad had had a bad scare and Dick was worried about how flushed he was. He didn't want Swiftnick to have a set back now and the only thing he could think of do was keep him in bed and hope rest would be enough.

* * *

Despite his protests, Swiftnick slept through most of the day, picking at his dinner when Dick woke him to eat and then pushing his plate away to burrow back under his blankets. He complained about a headache and Dick gave him a cool herb scented cloth to put on his forehead and a willow infusion to drink. After a while, Swiftnick slid back into sleep and Dick brewed herbs in hot water, letting the sweet smelling steam scent the room. He wasn't sure if it did anything much for Swiftnick, but it certainly eased the tense headache that he was starting to get.

Swiftnick woke up at suppertime, feeling thirsty and hungry again. He was quiet and pale and prone to coughing, but he ate the lamb soup Dick gave him and sipped his tea peacefully. "I'm going to have to go and get some supplies tomorrow," Dick told him, leaving out his doubts about leaving Swiftnick alone. The lad didn't need to know he was worried. "The horses need more fodder and so do we. You think you'll be all right here alone for a bit?"

"Of course I will. But you will come back, won't you?" Swiftnick asked anxiously, fretting despite his bravado.

"If I'd decided to dump you lad, I'd tell you," Dick told him flatly. "And I wasn't planning on doing that. You want some more tea?"

"This is fine," Swiftnick sighed, wheezing unconsciously. He rested his head and shoulders back against his pillows, slumping into their softness. There were dark shadows under his eyes that stood out against the paleness of his skin. "Am I ever going to get better?" he asked plaintively.

"If you don't rush it, aye. You did too much too soon today. I did warn you."

Swiftnick inclined his head in agreement and rubbed his eyes. His gaze wandered to the book Dick was holding and then flicked shyly up at the highwayman's face. "I'm glad you’re here, Dick," he murmured awkwardly. "I’d be scared on me own."

Turpin felt a surge of pride and what felt suspiciously like love and was startled to realise he was blushing. He turned away to top up his own teacup and control himself. "Nothing to be scared of," he said briskly. "You'll be up and robbing coaches before you know it. But you’d better get back to sleep if you want that to be any time soon."

"Tell me a story first."

"What?" Dick gave him a startled look.

Swiftnick gave him a shadow of a teasing grin that held hints of pleading. "Please?" he urged. "It'd make me feel better. And you tell good stories."

Dick had the feeling he was being manipulated, but he suspected that Swiftnick was telling more of the truth than he realised. Mary had probably told him a story at bedtime when he was little. It was the kind of soft thing she would have enjoyed doing for her toddler; soft and loving. Sighing loudly in exasperation, Dick brought his tea over to the bed and sprawled out beside his protégé. He thought for a moment, sorting through the stories he knew and very firmly deciding against any ghost stories.

"All right, there was once a lad named Paris…"

"Paris? He was named after that place in France?"

"The city was probably named after him," Dick corrected.

"So he was French?"

"No, he was a Trojan," Turpin told him heavily. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

"I want to hear the story." Swiftnick set his empty cup down on the dresser and snuggled down, giving him an expectant look.

Turpin waited until he was comfortable and then started again. "As I was saying, there was once a lad named Paris…."

* * *

Dick was running through a fog wrapped corridor, feeling something chasing close and soundless behind him in the darkness. When he looked back he could see a figure garbed in black, hooded cloak billowing and flapping around its skeletal frame like hideous bat wings. Terrified, Dick ran even faster, hurling himself along the long narrow corridor that seemed to have no end. And all the time he could feel the thing behind him getting closer and closer, reaching for him with long bony fingers…

Then he tripped over something lying in his path; something warm and firm that moaned as he tumbled over it and crashed breathlessly to the floor.

Panic stricken, he scrabbled at the cold stone and managed to turn over, crushed to the floor by the merciless weight of fear as he looked to see what was behind him.

Swiftnick lay in an unconscious bundle on the floor, his nightshirt lying in a pool around him. A glistening puddle spread out around his body; the glimmer of torchlight striking crimson glints from its wet surface. The black hooded figure was leaning over him, reaching for the lad. A long and wickedly sharp knife flashed in its bony fingers…

"Noooo!!!" Dick bolted upright with a strangled scream, dripping with cold sweat as he looked wildly around the darkened room. Beside him Swiftnick made a small murmuring sound of complaint in his sleep and burrowed deeper, reluctant to be disturbed.

Dick flopped shakily back against his pillows, shoving his long hair out of his face as he fought to calm his breathing before he woke the lad. He was trembling as he dragged the covers up around him, shivering in panic and feeling his pulse pounding.

It had been a while since he had last had a nightmare and this wasn't like the doozies he normally had of whips and guns and worse things. There had been a time a while after he took Swiftnick on when he had beset by them for nights on end; sometimes two or three a time. He had frequently roused the lad with his cries and though he refused to tell his accomplice about the dreams, he knew he had had Swiftnick worried about what kind of a madman he had joined up with. Then one morning he had woken early from his first nightmare free sleep in days and found the reason in Swiftnick curled up sound asleep on the bed beside him. It had taken most of the morning to get the truth from the lad.

The night before when Swiftnick had woken him from his nightmare, he had fallen asleep on the bed beside him and Dick had slept the rest of the night peacefully. So, with youthful logic, Swiftnick had waited the next night for Dick to fall asleep and simply changed beds. He had meant to be awake before the older man so Dick wouldn't know and be embarrassed, but an unbroken nights sleep had been too much for him and he had slept straight through.

Dick hadn't known what to say and so had done his usual be gruff and pretend it hadn’t happened. The next night he had practically ordered Swiftnick to stay in his own bed - there were enough rumours about Turpin without adding that kind of grist to the mill. But it hadn't made any difference. Somehow Swiftnick had broken the pattern and there had been no more recurring nightmares. Glenrae had told him it was psychological; he blamed himself for King being shot and now that he had a new partner to take care of, it had somehow healed the wound.

That of course didn't explain this new nightmare.

Sliding back down into the warmth of the bed, Dick turned onto his side and studied Swiftnick carefully, reassuring himself by listening to the sound of his steady if slightly raspy breathing. "A bad dream, Dick," he whispered to himself. "Only a bad dream…"

Closing his eyes, Dick eased himself back into sleep with a fervent hope that there would be no more nightmares. One had been quite enough thank you very much and he certainly didn't want to disturb Swiftnick when he needed his sleep.

* * *

"Right now, you know where the tea is if you’re thirsty. I brought you up fresh water from the well so you don't need to go down for that. There's some of the stew left if you're hungry. But mind you heat it up well. You know what happened last time." Turpin paused, frowning as he ran over the list of instructions he had given his young accomplice. There was bound to be something he had forgotten and Swiftnick was sure to take advantage of it. "You take your syrup on time too. And you know where the rest of the herbs are if you need them."

"Dick…" Swiftnick attempted to interrupt in amused exasperation. He didn't think he had ever seen Dick fuss so and it both pleased and annoyed him. The youth was curled up in the big armchair by the fire with a blanket tucked around him for warmth, a cup of tea perched beside him and the book on pirates that Dick had given him to read to hand.

"Don't interrupt. And you’re not to go wandering around the castle. Goodness knows what'd happen to you. Fall through a floor you would if I know you…."

"Dick!"

"What?!"

"You’re only going to be gone a few hours," Swiftnick pointed out. "What could happen?"

Turpin stared at him meaningfully, knowing perfectly well the kind of trouble the lad could get into if left alone for five minutes let alone five hours.

"If you give me any more dos or don't I'm going to start forgetting the first lot," Swiftnick continued irritably. "I'll stay here. It's cold and I don't feel like going out anyway."

Dick's brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You give me your word?"

"I promise," Swiftnick replied earnestly.

"Yes, well." Still Turpin hesitated. He couldn't quite shake off his nightmare and he was reluctant to leave Swiftnick alone. But the lad was old enough to take care of himself and Dick wasn't going to be gone that long. "I'm going to take Toby with me as well as Black Bess, mind," he added. "I can carry more that way."

"Yes, Dick," Swiftnick agreed with a flicker of trepidation in his eyes.

Turpin snorted and leaned on the back of the chair, grinning at him when Swiftnick shot a look up at the highwayman. "I will be back," he assured his accomplice. "My word on it, lad."

"Never doubted it," Swiftnick muttered, flushing.

"Maybe I’ll bring you something nice back," Dick told him lightly, straightening up and picking up his brace of pistols. "You stay warm, now."

"Yes, Mr Turpin," Swiftnick retorted all wide-eyed innocent obedience. .

Dick shot an exasperated look at him. "Stay put," he ordered grimly, gave the youth's blond curls a quick ruffle and stalked out, making sure to close the door behind him to keep the warmth in. Tempted though he was to lock the door and make sure Swiftnick stayed put, he resisted the urge. He had to show the lad he trusted him. The sooner he got to the village, the sooner he could come back and make sure Swiftnick was safe. Telling himself that he was being silly and worrying over nothing, Dick lengthened his stride and headed quickly for the stables.

* * *

Although Swiftnick had gotten used to being left to his own devices, he soon grew bored on his own. Being alone wasn't really something he had experienced before he met up with Turpin. There had always been someone around at the inn where he grew up; someone to play with when he was small, to fish him out of the horse trough when he fell in or to clip him round the ear when he got out of hand. In his new life, he had learned to be his own company while the highwayman was away. Dick had introduced him to reading and being a bright lad Swiftnick had taken to the printed word with enthusiasm; although handwriting still gave him some trouble. Usually when he was on his own, Swiftnick could find any number of tasks to occupy himself with, but the castle was a strange place and there was no need to patch the roof or repair a window shutter as he would have done at some of their hideouts. That left exploring to occupy him.

Even if he hadn't given Dick his word though, he would have been reluctant to stir from the room. The idea of exploring had lost its shine after his experience in the main hall and without the urge to challenge Turpin's authority to spur his curiosity, he had no interest in roaming at all. Besides, he liked being warm, comfortable, fed and dry. He was all too aware that he wasn't back to normal yet and he didn't really have the energy to move if he didn't have to. So boredom or not, he wasn't going to disappoint Dick by breaking his word.

Setting aside the book, Swiftnick wriggled his toes in his stockings and then tucked his feet up under the blanket on the chair. Part of him wished he could have gone with Dick. He liked snow and snowball fights and he would have enjoyed a ride in the fresh air after being stuck inside for days. Another part of him viewed the idea of getting on a horse and going out in the cold air with trepidation, fearing the coughing it would bring on.

Resisting the urge to sigh, Swiftnick unfolded himself from the chair and hitched the blanket around his shoulders while he prodded the fire back to blazing life. Turpin had brought up a load of wood the day before while his accomplice slept. There was enough to keep a fire going for days, let alone a few hours. Dick had muttered something about making sure they had enough should they get snowed in when Swiftnick had teased him about it.

Watching the flames as he huddled into his blanket, Swiftnick resisted the urge to sigh as he felt his ribs twinge expectantly. His bones ached enough from all the coughing he had been doing as it was.

Suppose the firewood and kindling was a sop to Dick's conscience? Suppose he meant to abandon Swiftnick after all?

"Idiot," Swiftnick grumbled aloud. "He wouldn't go to all that trouble if that's what he meant to do. More likely he…." He paused and swallowed uneasily. It was far more likely that Turpin was worried about what would happen to Swiftnick alone at the castle if something should happen to him. Spiker's dragoons had been out in force the night they had come here. They could still be in the area….

Swiftnick started instinctively for the door and then stopped himself. What could he do alone and on foot in the shape he was in? Turpin had taken both the horses with him. He would have known the risks and be far better prepared to deal with them than Swiftnick would be. He would expect his young partner to keep his word and stay put until he came back for him. The chances were if Swiftnick went out to give his mentor an unnecessary warning, he would be the one who'd end up in Spiker's hands.

Swallowing, Swiftnick looked around him miserably; angry with himself for his own weakness. If he'd been himself Dick would never have been at risk. They could have left the area for a while. Found somewhere safe to stay….

Not knowing what else to do, Swiftnick fetched his own pistols from the table and settled down to clean and prime them for want of something to occupy his hands and mind with. Dick had given Swiftnick his word to return for him and Turpin was a strong believer in a man's honour. Once he had given his word, he would keep it. If he didn't come back, then he was in trouble and Swiftnick would have to keep his own promise to himself and go after him.

* * *

All right, it had been a spur of the moment thing; unplanned and opportunistic, but Turpin could hardly be expected to ignore a plum when it landed right in his lap. The young couple he had met out riding had been bright, besotted with each other and quite shocked at finding themselves held at gunpoint when Turpin happened across them on the road. Dick had relieved the young lady of her necklace and her beau of his pocket watch and purse and sent them on their way with a lesson not to be foolish learned he hoped.

The sapphire necklace would make a nice few pounds when he sold it, while he planned on keeping the watch for Swiftnick. It was silver with a chased design on the cover of flowers and leaves in an intricate pattern. It also had a good strong chain on it. The lad needed a watch of his own. He still had Dick's gold one at the moment and for sentimental reasons the highwayman wanted it back. He doubted that Swiftnick knew the only other person he had ever trusted it with or would lend it to was Glenrae.

"You’re looking pleased with yourself there, Mr Turner," the innkeeper observed as he planted a tankard of foaming ale on the table in front of Dick. "Been a good day has it?"

"You could say that," Dick told him amiably, tossing a coin on the table to pay for the drink. He had made a good meal of roast beef and vegetables and fancied a pint before he headed back to Swiftnick.

The innkeeper picked it up and then settled himself on the other chair at Dick's table. The cold weather was keeping most people at home in the warm and the inn was more or less empty. The innkeeper was obviously bored. "Need a room, sir?" the plump, red-faced man asked hopefully.

"Not this time," Dick answered as he sampled the ale. It was a bit rough, but good enough. He'd had worse. "My partner's waiting for me over Hawkham way. We have rooms for the night there."

"Ah," the innkeeper nodded wisely. "Been travelling long, have you?"

"On our way up North to see friends," Dick told him to explain the supplies should the man be curious about what he had brought in the village.

"Long ride in this weather."

"Aye," Dick agreed amiably.

The innkeeper nodded wisely. "You not from around here then? I haven't seen you before."

"Passing through," Dick answered.

"Ah. Nice spot to visit when the weather's better. You should come back…"

"Maybe. I hear there's a castle around here." If the innkeeper was going to insist on talking then Dick might as well take advantage of it and stir up a few more ghost tales.

"Oh, you don't want to go up there, sir. It's haunted.

"You don't believe that, do you?" Turpin scoffed. "What was it they say? Roman soldiers tramping around…"

"Cavaliers, sir," the innkeeper corrected. "But that's not all…"

"Not all?" Dick hid his surprise well. The one about the Cavaliers was the ghost story he had put around.

"They say the place is haunted by a minstrel," the innkeeper confided, lowering his voice and leaning closer as if afraid someone might overhear. "See the last Lord Cranleigh was a right old bastard. They say he supported Mary of Scots against her majesty. Course, him being a Lord and all they couldn't do much about it, so her majesty sent her lute player up here to the castle. He went missing once he got here and was never seen again. According to what they say Cranleigh dealt in the black arts and he murdered him; a sacrifice like. Course, Cranleigh didn't last long after that. Mary of Scots got the chop. He got burnt at the stake for being a witch and taking part in the plot."

Dick could feel a cold shiver trickling up and down his back as he listened to the innkeeper. A lute player? No, it had to be only a story…

"They say as Cranleigh's bastards still hold black magic covens up there at the castle around now. Young lads have been known to disappear. You wouldn't get me up there. No, sir. The place is dangerous. No telling what'd happen to you," the innkeeper continued, his eyes tracking to the door as it slammed open and couple of farmhands stomped in, blowing on cold hands and calling for ale. "Excuse me, sir."

Dick let him go as he made haste to finish his ale. Covens? Black magic? Ghosts? All nonsense of course. But he had left Swiftnick alone at the castle for far too long. It was high time he got back to him.

* * *

Swiftnick was curled up on the bed, drowsing over his book when he heard the footsteps in the corridor. He was too sleepy to react for a moment, assuming it would be Turpin returning then some of the wary suspicion Dick was doing his best to install in him kicked in and he rolled off the bed, starting for the pistols he had left on the table.

Before he could get there to door crashed open under the impact of a heavy boot and two black cowled men burst into the room. Swiftnick froze in shock for a second; remembering the ghosts he had seen. But ghosts didn't kick in doors and common sense quickly took over.

With a yelp, Swiftnick dived frantically for the pistols for protection; only to be intercepted by the heavier of the two men. A meaty fist swiped at him, backhanding the lad across the face and sending him crashing into the armchair. The armchair went over, spilling the youth in a dazed heap on the floor where he was promptly seized by the intruders and pinned. The smaller man knelt on him with one bony knee in the small of his back and wrenched his wrists painfully behind him.

"Let me go!" Swiftnick yelled raucously between gasps for breath. He could feel a coughing spasm tearing up his chest even as he fought for his freedom. "Who are you? Let go of me!"

The bigger man leaned down, thrusting his florid face close to Swiftnick's. "You'll be quiet if you know what's good for you. The more you struggle, the more likely you are to get hurt."

Swiftnick responded by attempting to head-butt him and got smacked across the face for his trouble. Subsiding dizzily to the floor, he lay still, coughing miserably as his wrists were bound tightly behind his back. Finally he was jerked roughly back to his feet where he swayed unsteadily and had to lean on the smaller of his captors for support. The big man caught him by a fistful of butter coloured curls and yanked his head back so he could study his face.

"This is what the Warlock wants?" he exclaimed in disgust, listening to Swiftnick's rasp for air. "If he was much smaller we'd have to throw him back.."

"You see anyone else here? Besides, maybe you want to argue with the Warlock, but I don't," his companion retorted irritably, shoving Swiftnick away from him into the bigger man's arms. "Here, you can carry him, George."

"I can walk," Swiftnick gasped as he caught his balance. "Where are you taking me?"

"You'll see soon enough," the big man grunted, shoving him towards the door.

Swiftnick balked. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me…." He broke off as the big man clubbed him viciously to the ground and knocked all the defiance out of him for the moment. With his wrists bound he couldn't even catch himself and he hit the floor hard. Dazed and tasting blood in his mouth, he lay on the floor and watched the ceiling spin slowly past, wondering vaguely what Dick would do in this situation.

"Oh, very clever. Now, you'll have to carry him," the smaller man sneered.

George glared at him and scowled impatiently at Swiftnick as he reached for him. Grabbing his shirt, he hauled the youth to his feet and flung him over one brawny shoulder apparently without effort. Swiftnick squeaked as the shoulder slammed into his midriff and knocked what little air remained out of him. With his head spinning, he was barely aware of being carried out of the room and down the corridor into the darkness.

* * *

The next thing Swiftnick knew was a sudden flurry of movement and he woke up with a yelp, realising he was being dropped again. This time he landed even harder on solid, cold stone flagstones and curled into a ball, coughing painfully. Through his tear blurred vision, he could make out that he was in a large cellar that was dominated by a massive stone sarcophagus that took up the centre of the floor. Beyond it, heavy stone arches supported the ceiling with grinning gargoyles leering down at him from their lintels.

"This is our visitor?" a new, deep male voice observed disdainfully.

"He was the only one there," the smaller man whined in answer. "We did only see the boy before, Master Warlock."

"True," the new voice mused. Cloth rustled as Swiftnick fought back his coughing, biting his lip to control himself as he watched a black skirt swish towards him. He peered upwards through the torch lit gloom into the face of a stranger. The Master Warlock had a face as thin as a knife blade; all angles and hard cruel lines. He was dark haired and his eyes were a piercing cold grey that made Swiftnick shrink away in instinctive fear. This was a man who respected no limits, showed no mercy and knew no compassion. What he wanted he would take. If someone got in his way, he would kill them without remorse.…

Innocence can always recognise evil…Dick had told him that once; amused by something his young apprentice had done or said. Swiftnick couldn't remember what it had been. At the time he hadn't understood, but like so many things Dick said, he had remembered it. Now he understood and wished he didn't. The Warlock was evil and probably mad as well.

The Warlock gripped Swiftnick's chin, turning his face from side to side and examining him in the poor light. "He's a comely enough lad," he said calculatingly. "And young. Are you strong, boy?"

Swiftnick wanted to sink his teeth into his hand to punish the man's temerity in touching him, but he had a feeling he'd probably poison himself. He settled for silent defiance and said nothing.

"He has spirit," the Warlock commented, reading it in Swiftnick's blue eyes. "Are you afraid of me?"

Swiftnick shook his head, too proud to admit he was terrified.

"Of course you are," the Warlock had a nasty small snicker of a laugh that made Swiftnick feel like spiders were crawling inside his skin. "You'd be a fool if you weren't. Do you know who I am?"

Swiftnick heard the two men draw breath and back away uneasily, but unlike them he wasn't going anywhere. "No," he admitted. "And I don't care. You're going to be sorry if you don't let me go!"

"I'm sorry," said the Warlock, but he didn't sound sorry. "But I'm afraid I can't let you go. As to who I am, it's really of little important to you at all. You may call me Master."

"I'll call you nothing," Swiftnick spat at him.

The Warlock ignored him, stepping back and gesturing to his two companions to pick him up. "We have little time to select another," he said thoughtfully. "Since this one is hiding here, it's unlikely that he will be missed. He's comely and of a likely age to be acceptable to our Master. We must make do with what we have. You may place him on the sacrificial block," he said calmly.

"He's acceptable then?" the smaller man asked curiously, more confident now that their captive seemed to have met their Master's approval.

The Warlock levelled an icy glare on him as Swiftnick looked round frantically and attempted to squirm towards the steps at the far end of the cellar. "We must accept what is given to us," he replied grimly. "If your hunting had been successful over the last few days, we would have had several to choose from. Since we do not, we will have to make do with this boy."

George casually moved over and blocked Swiftnick's escape attempt, staring down at him with a malicious grin. "And where do you think you’re going, lad?" he sneered, then switched his attention to the Warlock and the smaller man.

"I apologise, Master," the smaller man whined. "But there was nothing we could do. After our previous efforts, the villagers watch their young men closely. It wasn't possible to snatch one…"

"I do not care for your excuses, Simon. Put him on the sacrificial block and let us began. We waste time."

George grunted and reached for Swiftnick, casually batting aside his efforts to bite and kick. "Get his feet," he ordered the smaller man and Simon obeyed with a glare of loathing. Together they lifted Swiftnick and despite his furious wriggling, he was dumped face down on top of the stone sarcophagus. The lid had been carved with strange fanged faces that writhed across the stone as if eager to escape; swollen tongues protruded from gaping mouths and eyes bulged obscenely. Swiftnick wriggled backwards, doing his best to slide off the lid but a hard cold hand gripped his neck and shoved him down until his face kissed the stone. As he was held down, a loop of rope was wound around his feet and his ankles were bound tightly together.

"What are you doing?" Swiftnick yelled at them, scared and furious all in one. "You let me go or, or…." He didn't dare tell them Turpin would get them. He didn't actually know what Turpin would do and he knew perfectly well that he wasn't a good enough liar to make them believe that Turpin would kill them. Any warnings he gave would sound like hollow threats and he didn't think the Warlock would be impressed. Nor did he think he would be interested in handing Swiftnick over to Spiker for the reward money. It wasn't as if he would fetch as much as Dick would.

"Or what?" George asked, roughly squeezing the back of his neck. "You’re a runaway apprentice, ain't you? Nothing more than a dirty little footpad that no one's going to miss." He leaned closer, pressing his thick lips to Swiftnick's ear. "Why, if there's anything left of you when the Master's finished with you, I'll make a few coins selling your body. Is there a price on you, lad? Or will I get more from the anatomists?"

Swiftnick shuddered and turned his head away, but the other view was no better. The Warlock had rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong pale forearms. He stood before a golden bowl placed on a low stone shelf in the wall and was examining a long bladed butcher's knife.

"What do you want with me?" Swiftnick repeated his demand, hoping to keep the quaver from his voice. He didn't really expect an answer, but to his astonishment the Warlock turned and looked at him.

"You really don't know who I am, do you?" he sighed heavily.

"No…" Swiftnick admitted.

"I am the last of the Cranleighs. This castle and all its lands should have been mine by right. Instead it was taken from us by treachery and deceit. Our name has been blackened by lies, our reputation sullied and destroyed." His pale eyes glittered with a fanatical light as he stalked back to the youth, fingering the edge of the knife he held until it drew a fine thread of blood from his thumb. "The last man to hold the title of Lord Cranleigh was dragged from this castle like an animal and burned alive. And for what? Because he supported someone who had a better claim to the throne than Henry's bastard bitch, Elizabeth. And what good did Elizabeth do us in the end? Now a bloody foreigner rules us! I, I have a better claim to the throne than he does! If Henry's bastards were allowed to rule, why not I? I'm descended from a royalty too! Good King Richard gave his bastard son these lands and that bitch took them away from us!"

Swiftnick held very still, listening to the man rave and doing his best to melt into the stone to get away from him. Simon and George stayed quiet too, watching their master with expression torn between fear and admiring awe.

The Warlock wound down into sudden silence, panting as his rage faded slowly away from his contorted face leaving him pale and once more calm. He tucked the knife carefully into the rope belt of his robe and folded his hands peacefully in front of him. "King Richard gave us these lands and I intend to retrieve them," he said quietly. "But to do so I need gold. Lord Cranleigh hid his treasure somewhere in the castle and I must needs find it."

"What's that got to do with me?" Swiftnick asked nervously. He couldn't see how trussing him up like a chicken for the spit would help.

The Warlock smiled, but no warmth reached his eyes. "The only person who knows where the treasure is hidden is the last Lord Cranleigh."

"But he's dead!" Swiftnick blurted.

The Warlock inclined his head gracefully. "So he is. He's been dead a long time. Killed on this very day as it happens. But he was a Warlock and a man of great power and when his descendants have called to him in their need, he has come to walk among us as a ghost. But it has been a long time since he last appeared. But this time, this time he will come, I know it."

"I don't understand," Swiftnick whispered in terror.

The Warlock stretched out a slender hand, caressing Swiftnick's blond hair gently. "It is said he had a liking for young blond boys," he said quietly. "It was another reason for burning him. They called him witch and worse for that liking…."

"Aye," Simon snickered. "It's said he was always one for despoiling the innocent."

The Warlock ignored him, his eyes boring into Swiftnick's terrified young face. His hand dropped, running along the cold stone of the lid beneath the youth's outstretched body. "He lies here beneath you. They brought his blackened body back here to lie because it wouldn't burn to ash. I think you will tempt him to return. Yes, I think you will be greatly to his taste…"

* * *

If Dick had ridden as fast from London to York as they said he had in the ballads as he did from the inn to the castle, then he could have been there and back with time for dinner on the way. Leaving the horses in the stables, Dick paused only to unsaddle both animals and then raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time in his hurry. He could well imagine the look on Swiftnick's face when he burst in as if the dragoons were on his tail and there was no way he was going to tell him the truth; that the innkeeper's tale of ghosts and witches had made his hair stand on end. He hadn't been able to get the memory of his nightmare out of his head from the moment the man had mentioned the youths disappearing. Maybe he was putting two and two together and getting five, but he could not take the risk. Swiftnick was alone and not at his best and if he had been, he was only a youngster still. He couldn't be expected to handle the violence and cruelty of older and bigger men. He was still too innocent in some ways. If the lad thought Dick had lost his mind when he arrived in a flurry, then so be it.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs and raced down the corridor to the room, Dick was well out of breath. The door was open and he had a horrible feeling his fears were going to come true as he swung through the open door and came to a panting halt. His dark brown eyes raked the room and took in the overturned chair, the rumpled bed, the fire barely smouldering in its grate…

Drawing the pistol from his belt, Dick eased breathlessly into the room, prowling across the floor as he swept the room for danger. "Swiftnick?" he called softly, hoping the boy would answer. Maybe he had had time to hide. Swiftnick was smart enough to know when to run away and fight another day.

Soft footed, he circled the bed with its tangled, rumpled covers, careful to check the other side before he eased through the door into the smaller room beyond that held the garderobe. Still nothing. Dick was starting to shiver as he backtracked, wondering where to look for his young partner. There had been no tracks outside to suggest the lad had left the castle outside; willingly or not. So he had to be inside still; maybe somewhere close.

Stepping out into the room, Turpin jerked his pistol into aim, his finger coming damn close to pulling the trigger as he stared in shock at the greyish figure standing at the foot of the bed looking at him. For a second, ghost and highwayman stared at each other in silence. Then the ghost of the lute player gave the gun a pointed look. Somewhat sheepishly, Dick lowered the weapon.

"You surprised me," he complained, starting to ease past the apparition. He didn't have time to be haunted. The Lute Player moved to intercept him and Dick froze, feeling an icy finger run down the back of his neck. "Look, not now. I'm busy," he grumbled in exasperation.

The Lute Player nodded and beckoned, drifting a step towards the door, then he looked back at the highwayman expectantly.

Dick hesitated. "Look, maybe later, hmmh? I have to find my partner. You uh, you remember him? Young blond lad? You scared him out of his wits? Not that he's got that many to start with mind."

The Lute Player beckoned again and this time the gesture seemed a trifle impatient.

"Swiftnick comes first, I…." Dick backed up as the Lute Player rushed towards him, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes burning in the pale face. The ghost snatched at him, attempting to grip his arm, his shirt, anything. Turpin slammed into the wall as he retreated, all but tripping over his own feet and panic stricken as he felt the cold fingers brush past his skin. "Stop it before I, I…." Dick wasn't sure what he could do, but the Lute Player halted anyway, his misty hands hovering over Turpin's shoulders, his eyes burning fiercely into Dick's own, his expression pleading with him. "I can't help you," Dick babbled. "I don't know what you want. I have to find Swiftnick. You don't want him to be a ghost like you, do you?"

Or did it? Maybe that's exactly what the ghost wanted; company. Could he have frightened Swiftnick into running? The lad had said the ghost had attacked him before. Maybe he had been right. Maybe the ghost had frightened him from the safety of the room and chased him through the corridors. The lad could have fallen down the stairs, through a floor….

The Lute Player was shaking his head, his expression exasperated. Drifting backwards, it looked around the room and finally floated over to the table. It pointed at the pistols that lay there then looked expectantly at Turpin. "Pistols, yes," Dick said warily. The ghost grimaced, jabbed a misty finger at the pistol Dick still clutched, then pointed at the highwayman. "Yeah, my pistol…." Turpin said cautiously. The Lute Player nodded, pointed at the pistols on the table and gave him a questioning look. "Swiftnick's pistols," Dick said warily, easing away from the wall. The ghost nodded and pointed from Dick to the pistols, beckoning him to them. Turpin eased reluctantly closer and stretched out a hand to take the weapons. The ghost stayed his hand with a gesture and pointed again; Turpin to the weapons.

"I don't understand," Dick growled in frustration.

The Lute Player looked as frustrated as Dick felt as he repeated the little pantomime, this time expanding it. As Dick watched in bewilderment, the ghost disappeared to reappear in the doorway and rush towards the bed. It mimed a struggle, flinging itself over the fallen chair and rolling over into its stomach, putting his hands behind it. Then it sprang to its feet and pointed from Swiftnick's pistols to the door and gave Dick an impatiently expectant look.

"Um, someone took Swiftnick?" Dick guessed.

The way the Lute Player flung up his hands and nodded furiously was an eloquent gesture that quite clearly said, 'At last!'.

"Do you know where he is?" Dick asked hopefully.

The Lute Player applauded him silently and pointed at the door.

"All right. You don't have to be sarcastic," Dick grumbled as he grabbed Swiftnick's guns. "Lead on…"

* * *

The Lute Player was great deal faster than Dick was. The ghost flitted silently down the corridors, sometime vanishing from view when it got too far ahead. The first time Dick skidded to a halt, wondering if he was being led on a wild goose chase. But the ghost returned, looking exasperated and beckoning him to hurry. After that Dick took it on trust and when it vanished, he kept going until it returned. Sometimes it waited up ahead, sometimes it appeared beside or behind him when he had taken a wrong turn and shooed him ahead of it impatiently.

Down to the great hall, the Lute Player led him, down the narrow stone steps into the hall itself and across the rubble strewn stone floor; flitting through piles of stone that Turpin had to circle round and hope he didn't break an ankle in his haste.

The Lute Player waited for him at the far wall, then in front of Dick's dismayed eyes it ran into the wall and vanished in an explosion of mist. Turpin halted, breathing hard. "Sod it," he whispered. He had almost come to trust the ghost in a weird way and now this seemed like some kind of incomprehensible betrayal. Grimly, he looked around him, wondering if there was a reason he had been led here.

The ghost suddenly reappeared, stepping out of the wall as if through a doorway. It gave Dick an impatient glare and beckoned imperiously, tapping a slippered foot.

"It's all very well for you, but I can't walk through walls," Dick snarled at him.

The Lute Player gaped at him in bewilderment, then had the grace to look embarrassed. It drifted alone the wall and pointed to a dusty wall hanging; its once bright silks faded and torn. Turpin stomped over and brushed it aside, staring at the apparently blank wall beneath. The ghost pressed its hand over one of the stones and looked at him.

Dick hesitated and then shrugged. "In for a penny," he mumbled and placed his hand over the top. His fingers sank through the cold mist of the ghost's and the stone moved under his hand, making a faint grating sound as it slid into the wall. A louder grating noise announced and opening in the wall where the Lute Player had passed through. The ghost moved towards it, beckoning the highwayman to follow. Dick followed dubiously and was glad to see there were torches lighting the narrow steps that led downwards. It told himself something else too. As far as he knew ghosts didn't need light, so someone human had come this way recently.

The Lute Player was pressing a finger to its pale lips, indicating silence and Dick nodded in understanding. Whoever was below, he needed to sneak up on them. Turpin was all for the advantage of surprise. Satisfied, the Lute Player floated down the steps and Dick followed, moving silently; one hand on the slimy wall the other curled and ready about his musket…

That was when he heard Swiftnick cry out; his voice filled with pain and fear…

* * *

Swiftnick was shivering violently in the cold air of the cellar; both cold and terrified. Simon and George had stripped him off his shirt and stockings and the Warlock had daubed him with strange smelling oils, anointing his pulse points as he whispered over him. His hair was loose, spilling over his face into his eyes so he had to keep flicking his head back so he could see what they were doing.

The Warlock had left him a few minutes ago, joining Simon and George as they chalked strange symbols on the floor of the cellar. Now the man came back, the knife glinting and shiny as it caught the torchlight. Swiftnick did his best to wriggle away from him, but George merely caught him by the back of the neck and held him down again. The Warlock seized his bound wrists pulling them straight and stiff so that Swiftnick had to lower his head as his shoulders took the strain.

"Hold the bowl, Simon," the Warlock ordered.

"What are you doing?" Swiftnick whimpered. "This is wrong! This is evil! Let me go! I never did anything to you!"

"Be quiet," George ordered.

The Warlock smiled, his eyes full of concentration as he started chanting softly. "I take the blood to draw the circle, to close the circle," he said as he twisted Swiftnick's wrists, exposing his forearms. Swiftnick felt the cold kiss of the blade on his skin, then the sharp bite of the knife as it sliced his arm. He yelled instinctively at the pain of the wound, kicking and struggling. George leaned his full weight on him, holding Swiftnick down as Simon held the golden bowl under his arm, resting the cold metal in the small of Swiftnick's back to catch the freely running blood.

"Stop making so much fuss. It won't kill you," George hissed at him as he rammed Swiftnick's face down to the stone with a fist in his hair. "The Master wants your blood to draw the circle."

"Then he'll let me go?" Swiftnick said hopefully.

"Nah, once the circle's closed I'll cut your throat so he can call up Cranleigh. Don't fret, I'll do it clean and quick. I'm a butcher see. The Master reckons he call Cranleigh's body back to life. Bit better than a ghost, hey? He's going to make us all rich."

Swiftnick froze in sheer terror, feeling his own blood running warm and sticky down his arms and dribbling down his back and sides. No one was going to make him rich, only dead! And Swiftnick didn't want to be dead. He had barely started living!

The weight of the bowl was lifted from his back and the Warlock took it, cradling it lovingly against his chest as he started to walk a circle around the sarcophagus, sprinkling the drops of Swiftnick's blood on the stone flags. As he walked, he chanted and Swiftnick felt a great fearful weight start to press down on him, squashing him against the stone lid until he couldn't move. George eased off him, muttering under his breath as he stood to one side; his large rough skinned hand still clasped on the back of Swiftnick's neck to hold him in place should he struggle.

The circle closed with a silent thump, creating a pressure on the ears as if a door had slammed shut. Swiftnick winced, feeling the weight lift off him, then twisted, flinging himself off the far side of the stone in sheer desperation. Simon was waiting for him, grabbing him as George lunged around the end of the sarcophagus. The big man hit him in the stoamch, doubling him up coughing and gasping for air. Picking him up between them, they manhandled him back onto the stone lid and held him there face down.

"He's ready, Master," Simon panted.

"Excellent. George…" The Warlock held out the knife to the big man and with an ugly grin George reached to take it then there was a scuffle of boot heel on stone and a warning voice ripped through the hushed air of the cellar.

"Touch that knife and I’ll bloody well kill you where you stand," Turpin snarled as he stood in the archway, breathing hard from his run through the castle and his race down the stairs. "Step away from the boy."

"Who are you?" the Warlock snarled in insulted outrage. "How dare you intrude on our sacred ceremony?!"

"Sacred ceremony?" Dick spat. "This is black magic. An abomination!"

The Warlock frowned and touched Swiftnick's hair with a blood stained hand. "No," he said softly. "Merely a re-ordering of how things should be. You do not belong here. Begone!"

Turpin took a stiff-legged step forward, levelling the pistol he held in a duelling grip at the Warlock. "Not without the boy," he said grimly. "Let him up."

"Or what?" the Warlock sneered. "Will you in your outraged innocence kill me? Thou shalt not kill," he mocked.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," Dick retorted, unfazed.

"You call me witch?" the Warlock sounded genuinely shocked.

"I call you evil," Dick spat angrily.

"And yourself innocent? I think not. You handle a pistol as a man trained to kill. Your eyes hold no life. You cannot cross the circle, stranger. It is drawn to shield us from evil. You are helpless here. Powerless to do ought but watch."

Turpin hesitated, his bluff called. He took a step forward, uncertain. He badly wanted to fire; but to kill in cold blood had never been his way. He was not a murderer whatever else he had become. From the corner of his eye he saw the Lute Player materialise, looking from one to the other of them. Then the ghost crouched and placed his hands on the blood drawn circle, his fingertips touching the spots of blood that spattered the grey stone in crimson drops. His lips moved silently as he bowed his head.

"Swiftnick's innocent," Turpin said desperately. "Let him go. Whatever demon you call up won't want him. They spurn the touch of innocence. Take me instead."

The Warlock laughed. "It is the blood that matters for what I do. I call no demon, only an ancestor back to life."

"Then my blood will do…" Dick urged, moving as close to the circle as he dared. He could feel it like a warm wall between him and the witches and Swiftnick. The Lute Player looked up and smiled suddenly, then pointed to the Warlock and shook his head. Next he pointed to Dick and then Swiftnick.

"We waste time, Master," the smaller of the three men urged.

"Indeed. George, kill him. I grow impatient." The Warlock handed the knife to George and without a word, the big man twisted his hand in Swiftnick's hair and pulled his head up and back.

Turpin snarled and stepped forward, the pistol barking in his hand as he fired into the unmissable target of George's broad back. The man jerked and sagged at the knees, the knife spilling from his hand as the musket ball blasted into his shoulder. Simon scrambled backwards with a wail of panic, flinging up his hands to protect himself.

Hurling the pistol aside and drawing a second one from his belt, Dick stalked forwards; his eyes blazing with righteous fury. He levelled the pistol at the Warlock's shocked face. "Get away from him or you’re next," he snarled as he paced across the circle without noticing anything more than a slightly sticky sensation in the air. Swiftnick had scooted backward across the sarcophagus when he was released and now slid to the floor, huddling against the stone in fright.

"How did you…you couldn't…." The Warlock gestured helplessly at the circle. "I closed it." Simon had scuttled to his side as if seeking his protection, while George lay moaning and bleeding on the floor.

Turpin didn't take his eyes off any of them, but gestured with the pistol to make the Warlock back away.

"Dick isn't evil," Swiftnick whispered, his blue eyes round and huge as moons as he looked up at the highwayman. He was wheezing, but managing not to cough. Dick gently rested his hand on the top of his head for a second, then urged him to his feet. He backed up a little, retrieving George's knife so he could cut Swiftnick's wrists free then handed the weapon to him so the lad could cut his ankles free.

The Warlock was still mumbling and gesturing, anger replacing his bewilderment. "It's impossible," he snapped. "The circle holds. You cannot cross."

"Watch us," Turpin retorted, pushing Swiftnick behind him. The youth limped towards the circle, hesitating when he saw the Lute Player. The ghost smiled at him and nodded, beckoning him out of the circle. Gulping, Swiftnick edged towards him and felt nothing but relief as he stepped over the circle of his own blood. A second later Dick was beside him, his expression grim as he motioned Swiftnick towards the archway.

"Fools!" the Warlock roared, abruptly raising his arms with a jerky movement as he clawed at the air. "You think you can defy me?! I shall call the demon you fear to destroy you!" He stalked forward, his powerful voice rising as he chanted until the air seemed to roil and boil around him. Simon smirked, folding his arms across his thin chest as he sneered at them in triumph. Then the Warlock reached the circle and slammed to a halt as if he had walked into a solid stone wall. A look of complete shock crossed his face as he lifted his hands to touch it. Simon darted to one side, scrabbling at the invisible wall in rising panic.

"Dick?" Swiftnick quavered, edging closer to the older man. "Can he really call up a demon?"

"No, of course not." Turpin put his free arm around the lad's shoulders, keeping the pistol ready in his other hand on the off chance this was a trick. He looked questioningly over at the Lute Player. The ghost was looking scared and turned to Dick, making wild shooing gestures. "On the other hand though…."

Dick hustled Swiftnick back towards the stone arches as a pallid light exploded in the centre of the circle, a sickly blue white glow that erupted through the floor and expanded outwards. Even from the other side of the cellar Dick and Swiftnick could smell the stench of rotting, burning flesh as the pit opened within the centre of the circle. Then came the wind, furnace hot and yet ice cold at the same time. It blew out past them, sending them both staggering, then it reversed and started to suck. Turpin grabbed Swiftnick in one arm and the stone arch in the other and grimly held on, hauling them both into the shelter of the archway. He shoved Swiftnick against the wall, pinning him there with his own body as the wind clawed at his back. Swiftnick burrowed his bruised face into Dick's shoulder for protection, too scared to do anything but hide. Turpin looked back, drawn by a horrible fascination to see what happened within the circle.

George had already vanished, Simon was a mewling heap of steaming bones and flesh that vanished from view as he was ripped from the edge of the pit and sucked into that noisome light. The warlock floated in mid air, his mouth stretched wide in a soundless scream as his skin was peeled back and his flesh boiled from the bones. He contorted and twisted, his bones torn and broken apart by some inner pressure as the light crushed him then he too was sucked down and the pit slammed shut like a hungry mouth closing with a snap.

The hellish wind dropped instantly and Dick staggered, losing his balance as the air pressure fell away leaving him half deafened. Shakily he stepped away from Swiftnick, then tottered after the Lute Player as it gestured to him urgently to come to the circle. At the ghost's urging, Dick scrubbed at the blood with his boot, breaking the circle and feeling as if some great weight was lifting from the castle as he did so.

"You all right, Swiftnick?" he asked hoarsely as he scrubbed, looking over at his apprentice. Swiftnick had slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest as he hugged them. He nodded wordlessly, his eyes still as big as moons in fright and shock. "Stay there then, lad. I’ll be with you in a minute." Dick followed the Lute Player as the ghost walked over to the stone sarcophagus. The lid had twisted off it, pulled by the unimaginable forces in that hellish pit. It had broken, cracked right across the middle and shattered into pieces.

"Is it a body?" Swiftnick asked in a tremulous voice as Turpin peered nervously into the stone box. "They said it was Cranleigh's body."

Dick didn't answer, gazing at the sad expression on the Lute Player's face as he looked at the forlorn bones in their rags of silk and velvet in the sarcophagus. A Lute lay across the bones of its ribs, the fingers still clasped around it. "No, lad, it's not Cranleigh. It's our ghost, the minstrel. Cranleigh murdered him," he said quietly. "Cranleigh was a sorcerer, Swiftnick. He probably believed that killing the minstrel would give him the power to overthrow the throne."

The ghost was nodding as he ran his fingers over the lute, caressing it longingly.

"That's not fair." Swiftnick had made it to his feet and now made his way somewhat unsteadily to Turpin's side. He tucked himself under Dick's arm and leaned into his side as if he belonged there while Turpin gaped at him in surprise. "We should do something…" Swiftnick added as he watched the Lute Player. "He helped you find me, didn't he?"

"How'd you know that?"

"A feeling. Like he doesn't mean us any harm."

Dick hid a grin. "You've changed your tune, lad," he said dryly.

The Lute Player smiled too, then gestured at the bones and gave Turpin a hopeful look.

"We owe him something," Swiftnick said slowly.

"Aye," Dick agreed. He eyed the ghost wearily for a moment. "Do you want us to take your bones somewhere?" he suggested. "Find you a nice spot to lie in?"

The Lute Player smiled and nodded, his elegant fingers gesturing and spreading wide.

"Flowers?" Dick guessed.

"No, a tree. He wants to lie under a tree." Swiftnick said eagerly. The Lute Player nodded and reached out to Swiftnick, touching his cheek with a smile then he stepped back and swept them both an elegant bow before he vanished like mist. "Where'd he go?" Swiftnick exclaimed in astonishment.

"Back to wherever ghosts go when they’re not being ghosts," Dick said gruffly, stepping sharply away from Swiftnick to go and fetch the pistol he had dropped. Standing in the archway he looked back for the youth, only to find that Swiftnick hadn't moved but was standing looking hurt and lost and scared where he had left him. Realising he had been a bit abrupt with him, Turpin held an arm to him and beckoned him closer. "Come on, Swiftnick, let's get you cleaned up. I think we both need a cup of tea."

Swiftnick gave him a wan smile and limped over to him, his smile widening as Dick put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick, but affectionate hug. "How'd you know I was in trouble?" he asked in a small voice as Dick led him through the archway.

Dick had spotted the blood running down the youth's arm in a slow trickle and hid his stab of alarm behind a dry answer, "Swiftnick, my lad, I leave you alone for more than five minutes and you're bound to be in trouble. Now, what have you done to your arm there? Let's have a look at you…"

* * *

It had been slightly over a week since the Warlock and his fellow coven members had been sucked into the pit. Dick had spent his time tending the horses and taking care of Swiftnick who seemed bent on killing himself in his eagerness to rush his recovery. More than once Turpin had made the empty threat of taking a trap to him to get him to behave. There had been no sign of the ghost, although Turpin had the feeling he was never far away, watching over them.

But finally the weather had cleared and the ground had softened enough for Turpin to dig a hole for the Lute Player's remains. Leaving Swiftnick tucked up in the warm, he had wrapped the bones and lute in the richest hanging he could find and laid them to rest under the spreading branches of a rowan tree. The Lute Player had followed him from the castle, watching from the shelter of the tree as if enjoying being in the open air. He had smiled in pleasure when Dick placed the lute beside his bones and bowed his head in prayer beside him when the highwayman had finished covering him over.

As Dick smoothed the earthy blanket into place over him, a soft footstep behind him made the highwayman nearly jump out of his skin. It was Swiftnick however, bundled up in Dick's coat against the cold wind. He had found a sprig of pine and dried cones and tied it with a ribbon to place on the earth above the Lute Player's head. Dick couldn't find it in him to yell at him for the gesture, but put his arm around the youth and held him as they bowed their heads in awkward prayer. The breeze freshened as they stood there and they both lifted their heads in surprise, smelling fresh summer flowers and hearing the distant sound of a lute playing. They looked at the Lute Player as he turned too, smiling in surprised delight. For a moment he turned back and blew them a kiss from both hands before he turned once more and dissolved into a mist the colour of a summer morning.

"Dick?"

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Yes, but, I wanted to say goodbye. Do you think he's moved on?"

Dick hesitated, remembering that fresh sweet scent of flowers. "Aye, lad, he's moved on. And good luck to him on the road. Now, back to bed with you."

Swiftnick shot him a calculatingly mischievous look, his blue eyes startlingly bright in his still bruised face. Then he carefully fished out a gold pocket watch and popped open the cover. It wasn't Dick's. Turpin had retrieved that and planned to present him with the silver one in its place when they left. "I believe it's time for tea and crumpets," Swiftnick observed in his best attempt at an upper class accent.

Dick eyed him suspiciously, a niggling thought creeping up on him, and then he made a grab for the watch. He had a quick glimpse of the decidedly naughty enamelled painting inside before Swiftnick dodged out of reach. "You little thief!" he yelped. "You got that out of the stash! You put it back right this minute!"

"Takes a thief to know one," Swiftnick laughed, then yelped as Dick's quick hand swatted him on the rear end. He dodged, scampering out of reach as Turpin grabbed at him and took off at a sprint back towards the castle, laughing out loud in pure joy as the highwayman started out in brisk pursuit.

Chuckling in rich pleasure, Dick let him get a lead on him as he chased the lad, glad to see Swiftnick back on his feet and happy. There had been a time or two when he feared he might not see him alive again and right then he felt he could put up with any amount of the lad's teasing in sheer pleasure at having him back with him.

oooOooo