Turpin rode in moody silence, a scowl every now and then exploding across his face. Black Bess reflected her rider's mood and her tension shoved in her stride and irritable snapping at Glenrae's chestnut. They were headed up the Bath road, looking for the gibbet at the crossroads. Word had finally reached them that an unidentified teenager of around Swiftnick's age was to hang for robbery. Despite Glenrae's concerns that it might be a trap, Dick insisted that he had to go and identify the boy whether the Scott came with him or not.

Dick's mood had deteriorated even further when they heard in the last village they passed that the boy had been hanged the day before. Apparently, old Ned The Dead had gone out to cut him down.

Glenrae had been riding behind the highwayman for some way, keeping out of range of Turpin's vile mood. Now he dared to ride up alongside as they approached the slope up towards the crossroads, steering his gelding away from Black Bess' quick snap at his shoulder.

"I'd be obliged if you’d rein her in there, Dick," Glenrae urged hopefully. "My prancer won't look so pretty with damned holes in his hide."

"Stop that, Bess," Dick ordered grimly, tugging at her reins and pulling her head away. Black Bess glared at the chestnut but settled now that her rider's attention was on her again.

Glenrae sighed. "Now, Dick, don't be taking this the wrong way," he began. Turpin turned his head and scowled at him, making it obvious that whatever the Scott said he was going to be in the wrong. Glenrae pushed on manfully. "But like as not this isn't your lad and if it is, well, I hope you don't plan to go tearing up the countryside like a madman because I'm telling ye now, I’ll nay ride with ye. Ye'll be on your own if ye’re looking to get yourself hanged with him."

Turpin blinked as if focusing on him from a long way away. "Do you really take me for that much of a fool?"

"Nay, laddie, I take ye for a man with a hide of leather, but with a heart of butter. If this is your lad, it'll break your heart."

"You do talk twaddle," Dick snorted. "I'll be glad of an answer to the mystery is all."

"Aye, Dick," Glenrae snorted. "And ye'll blame yourself for it. Like you would have let Glutton hang him if Mary hadn't persuaded you to go rescue him."

"You know it."

"And ye had to be forced into letting him ride with ye."

"I did my best to get rid of him."

"But somehow ye never did. And now ye're going out of your way to find yon laddie."

"Ah, shut up!" Turpin growled and clapped his heels to Bess' side, urging her up the last yards of the hill with an irritable grunt. Glenrae let his gelding lope after the mare and topped the rise to find Turpin reined in and staring at the gibbet.

Standing in a cart beneath the gibbet was a scruffy man in a black greatcoat that had seen better days who was wearing a tricorn clamped down tight over his grey hair. He was staring at them in alarm, clutching at the side of the cart as if ready to fling himself to the ground and run off.

Glancing sideways at Turpin's wooden expression, Glenrae nudged his horse forward. "Good day to ye, my good man," he greeted the villager. "Would ye be Ned the Dead?"

"I might be and I might not be, depends whose asking," the man replied, spitting over the side of the cart. "I ain't got nothing except me life and this poor lad's ain't even got that. No money here for you. So be off with you!"

"It's the boy we’re interested in," Turpin interrupted, nudging Black Bess around Glenrae's so he could look down into the cart.

"Here, none of that funny stuff now," Ned complained, plucking primly at the rough cloth he had covered the body in the cart with. "I've heard they have your sorts up in London. You leave the boy in peace now."

Dick took a deep breath, ready to scream abuse at the man. Glenrae tapped his arm lightly in warning with a large hand.

"Och, ye mistake us, mon," he said gloomily. "We're afeared that we might know yon lad is all. Do ye ken his name?"

"What?" Ned gaped at him.

"What's the boy's name?" Dick snapped impatiently.

"Oh," Ned took off his hat and scratched his greasy head. "Now, I can't say as I rightly know…"

Turpin snarled and reached for his pistol, levelling it at the man who suddenly went as grey as his hair. "You'll answer the question or you can ask him yourself in person!"

"Dick!" Glenrae snapped, not quite daring to grab his arm and push the pistol down. "Its nay the poor mon's fault if he doesn't know!"

"But he does know…" Dick snapped.

Cowering and twisting his hat between his hands, the man grovelled nervously before them. "I didn't mean no harm, sirs," he whined.

"You wanted money for a simple answer," Dick snarled in fury.

"A man's got to eat an all. I don't get nothing more than a penny or two for cutting him down. I ain't even paid for putting him back in the earth. I only does it because it’s the decent thing to do for the poor lad."

"His name!" Turpin roared, his thumb quivering over the trigger.

Ned huddled in on himself, quivering in terror. "Ben, sir, his name was Ben. That's all he said. Wouldn't tell us his last name. Afeared to shame his family I suppose."

Turpin sagged, the pistol sinking groundwards.

"How old was he?" Glenrae asked quietly, eyeing Dick in concern.

"Not quite sixteen, sirs," Ned mumbled. "Took a horse he did. Charrington himself did for him."

Dick stirred and leaned over the side of the cart, pulling back the rough cloth. Ned started to stop him, then stopped, studying the look on the highwayman's face as he studied the red haired boy's face.

"Did you know him then, sir?" he asked cautiously.

"Let's say we were companions of the road," Dick said sadly as he dropped the cloth back into place. "What happens now?"

"I give him his burial," Ned answered gloomily, gesturing down slope into the bracken by the side of the road. "Dig him in deep so nothing can get at him and pick a few flowers for him. All I can do."

Turpin winced and reached into his waistcoat for a couple of coins. He tossed them to Ned. "You can do better than that for him. Give him a decent burial. Mark his name for him and have someone say something."

Ned blinked at the coins, frowning in bewilderment.

"I’ll be back this way," Dick warned sharply. "Don't think I won't know if you take the money for yourself."

"Oh, I won’t, sir," Ned assured him, looking quite horrified at the thought. "You’re a good man and all. Not many as would care."

"Someone should," Turpin said bitterly, then shrugged and took out a couple more coins. "Here, for yourself. You didn't have to bother to come and get him."

Ned snapped the coins out of the air as they were tossed to him and looked quite shocked by the sudden largess. "I'll do right by him," he said quietly, tugging his forelock to the highwayman. "It's a shame they hung him. He was only a slip of a boy."

Gritting his teeth, Turpin wheeled Black Bess about and rode off as if Charrington himself had hoved into view. Glenrae gazed after him with a heavy sigh.

"You sure he didn't know the lad?" Ned asked him cautiously.

"He reminds him of someone," Glenrae sighed.

"Ah," Ned considered the coins gleaming in his filthy hand. "Who are you?"

Glenrae smiled faintly. "Two men you'd do well to forget," he said dryly.

Ned considered this, watching as Glenrae turned his horse to follow Dick. "He'd be Dick Turpin then," he guessed.

"I never told ye that," Glenrae retorted.

"Never said you did," Ned agreed, showing him a gap-toothed grin. "I've heard Turpin's looking for his young partner."

"That he is," Glenrae admitted. "Have ye heard word of the lad?"

Ned shook his head hard enough to disturb the lice. "Nay," he admitted. "But I have heard word there's fancy brown nag like the one the boy rides up at The Croft pub that someone's looking to sell. If I was Dick Turpin, I might take a notion to go up there and see the nag for myself."

Glenrae bowed to the old man. "My thanks."

Ned nodded to him. "Aye, well, I've heard good things about Turpin's lad. A chip off the old block so they say. I’d not like to see him make another gallow's apple. One's enough." He glanced sadly down at the body in the cart. "Good fortune on the road to you, Mr Stranger."

"And to you," Glenrae answered and pushed his horse into a gallop, charging up the hill and over the crest in a hurry to catch up with Turpin.

The Scott found Turpin in a wooded hollow some distance further on. He had dismounted and stood staring down into the stream below as if searching for something he had lost among the silvery glitters reflecting off its ever-moving surface. "Do ye always ride off like that and leave a mon behind?" Glenrae complained breathlessly as he reined in his horse. "If ye do I'm not surprised…." He stopped; suddenly realising what he was saying as Turpin turned a chilling look on him. "Och, Dick, I nay meant that to come out the way it did…"

Turpin ignored his apology. "Do you ever think about how it feels being that young?" he asked bluntly.

Glenrae hesitated; realising the highwayman hadn’t heard a word he said and taking a guess as to what he meant. "Ye mean the boy back there? I dinna ken that I can remember that far back…"

Dick ignored his humour, turning to lob a stone viciously into the stream. "It's such a waste," he complained bitterly. "To be that young with nothing to look forward to except starvation or a hanging."

"I dinna ken as that's right," Glenrae said cautiously as he dismounted to stand beside him. "It can be a hard life, aye, but not for all."

"It's unfair! That's what it is!"

"Aye," Glenrae agreed. "But for every mon who loses his farm, there's another who keeps it and raises his family and keeps them fed and clothed. For every boy like this one, there's one with a girl and a future to look forward too."

"You’re a damn philosopher at times, you great Scotch nit," Dick grumbled.

"Those are fighting words, laddie," Glenrae snorted, punching him in the arm. "But ye know I'm right. Revenge isn't the way. All anyone can do is their best to make a difference. "

Dick rubbed his face wearily with both hands and nodded. "Maybe it's time I faced it," he said gloomily. "Swiftnick's gone and I don't know where else to look."

"Do ye mean that?" Glenrae asked.

Turpin considered, staring at the stream. "Nah…" he decided. "I’ll find him if I have to turn over every damn stone from here to Scotland."

Glenrae inclined his head. "Like I said, soft as butter…"

Turpin grunted and stomped back to his mare. "Don't push it, Glenrae."

The Scotsman grinned. "Och, would I? What ye need is a drink and a bad woman."

"Is that all you ever think about?"

"Nay. Tell me, have you heard of a pub called The Croft?"

"Glenrae, I don't have time…"

"Then best make it, laddie. Old Ned back there suggested there might be a familiar looking nag up there for sale."

"I'm not interested in…." Turpin paused and gave Glenrae a sharp look. "Toby?"

"Mayhap."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get on your prancer! We ride!"

* * *

Humming under his breath, Rodney stepped back a little from his easel and studied his painting happily. The wings were almost perfect now, their glossy blackness reflecting back shards of candlelight as if they shimmered with immortal light. The youth himself was perfect, golden and seductive and yet innocent…the scrap of silk across his hips concealing and yet hinting….

With this painting he would capture his Gabriel forever. He would never change, never be corrupted, never tempt him beyond all thought…

A light tap at the study door made him stiffen, a surge of annoyance swamping his pleasant little reverie. Swiftly covering his masterpiece lest it was Percy nosing around again, Havering strode over and unlocked the door, flinging it open with a crash.

His steward flinched, barely managing not to drop the silver tray he was holding.

"Yes, Luke, what is it?" Rodney demanded testily.

"My apologies for disturbing you, my lord, but you requested brunch at this time so that you could ride out with Sir Percy."

"Oh, if you must…" Exasperated, Rodney stepped back, waving Luke to bring the tray in and put it on his desk. "Is Percy actually up yet?"

"I believe so, my lord," Luke said politely, pouring the tea for him and rearranging the contents of the tray a little. "He called for breakfast a short while ago."

"And young Gabriel?"

"Still sleeping, my lord," Luke admitted.

"Still?" Rodney sniffed disparagingly. "Where is the stamina of the young, hmmh?"

"It was very late before you had…finished with him, my lord," Luke pointed out politely. "And he was very tired. "

"Are you criticising me, Luke?" Rodney snapped, pausing with a bite of toast halfway to his mouth.

"Oh no, Sir Rodney, I wouldn't dream of such a thing," Luke apologised hastily. "Only, if I may make so bold, my lord, perhaps a little less of his sleeping tincture before bed would be good for him now. I do not believe he is quite recovered from his fall."

"Pishtosh. It's been weeks."

"Not quite three weeks, my lord," the steward murmured. "He still has the amnesia and is…forgetful at times."

Rodney frowned, scrunching irritably on his toast. He supposed the youth was a little vague at times. It was useful when he was posing and seemed to be drifting in a little world of his own since the abstract, otherworldly air it gave him was enticing. But it could be annoying when he had to give him an order a couple of times before he understood. "He can be a little vague I suppose," Rodney muttered. "But my goodness, Luke, perhaps the boy wasn't all there to begin with. Perhaps he isn't meant to remember anything. Perhaps to remember his former….existence would upset him."

Luke stared at Havering in silence, quite stunned by the comment. It sounded for a moment almost as if Rodney believed the youth really was an angel. A falling angel, Luke corrected himself grimly. He had sneaked a peek at some of Havering's more recent artistic endeavours and could see the same darkening trend in them as he had with Jacques and Ned. Dazzled by their looks, Rodney had gradually become disenchanted with the youths as he discovered that day to day contact with them revealed their lack of perfection in their human frailties. Luke could see those same signs starting to show with young Gabriel.

Rodney blinked and abruptly focused. "Fanciful nonsense, what?" he chortled. "More likely the boy's a runway apprentice from a cruel master and doesn't want to remember. Or pretends he can't. My goodness, young Gabriel might even be lying to us about his memory. If I didn't know him for a sweet lad, I might even think he was here to rob me, what?!"

"I don't think the lad's lying, my lord. I've seen his confusion when I wake him up."

"Is he still having those dreams?" Rodney said sharply.

"I believe so, my lord. They’re harmless enough fancies."

"Has he told you about them?"

"No, my lord. He has mentioned the horse a time or two."

"Hmmh," Rodney picked up his tea cup and sipped thoughtfully. "Did we ever find the horse he fell off?"

"No, my lord."

"Hmmh, well, pick him one from the stables and tell him it’s the one he's thinking of. In the meantime, let him sleep. I may need him to model later and I don't want him looking all washed out."

Luke bowed. "As you wish, my lord. You are very generous."

"Yes, yes, quite, now get out. I want to finish my meal in peace…"

* * *

"As fine a piece of horseflesh as you can find this side of the border, sir, and a very reasonable price too," the innkeeper purred, wiping his hands down his incredibly greasy apron. Simply looking at him made Glenrae glad he and Turpin had eaten breakfast before they arrived at the inn.

"Och, no doubt," Glenrae agreed. "How'd ye come by him?"

"Oh, had him for years, sir, years…"

Glenrae raised an eyebrow at him and turned his attention to Turpin. The innkeeper had taken them out to the stables to examine the horse when he overheard they were wondering where to buy one. Both Dick and Glenrae were far too smart to openly admit they wanted to buy and risk raising the price.

Dick lifted his head and met Glenrae's blue eyes, giving him a minuscule nod before he turned back to the innkeeper. "Have you now," he said in a hard voice. "So you’d know all about this black mark on his fetlock here?"

"Oh, yes of course, fine animal," the innkeeper crooned. "Uh, black mark?"

"I thought you said you knew the beast like the back of your hands," Glenrae observed sarcastically, reflecting that he doubted if the innkeeper had seen the back of his hand in a long time considering how much dirt was on them. Didn't these Englishmen ever take a bath?

"Well, now I don't go poking around his legs all the time."

"Kicks, does he?"

"No, no, nothing like that," the innkeeper babbled.

"A horse's worth is in his feet," Dick commented, patting the curved brown neck as the horse ducked his head and snuffled hopefully at him. "Sorry, Toby, me old lad, I'm not Swiftnick with a pocket full of carrots for you," he whispered sadly into a flickering ear.

"This one can run like the wind, carry you to the border and back in no time at all. Why, I’d say he's even faster than Turpin's mare!"

Turpin looked down his nose at him. "Care to make a wager on that?" he asked sardonically. "I have her right outside."

The innkeeper stared at him blankly, then laughed weakly. "Oh, yes, very funny, sir, of course you do. Even if you did, I'm not much of a rider," he replied, turning back to Glenrae. "Now, about the horse, how much are willing to offer for him? I warn you, I drive a hard bargain and I expect a fair price."

"How about we don't shoot you?" Glenrae suggested with a broad smile.

The innkeeper paled then managed an even more feeble laugh. "Oh, such a sense of humour you have, sirs."

"What makes you think I'm joking?" Glenrae asked blandly.

Turpin stalked over and glared intimidatingly at the innkeeper.

The innkeeper swallowed nervously, twisting his apron in grubby fingers. "You're going to rob me?!" he quavered.

"No, I'm retrieving my property," Dick told him coldly.

"Oh, but…"

"There is no black mark on his fetlock," Dick said flatly.

"Ah, well, I admit I'm no expert on horseflesh…."

"I am," Dick told him grimly. "Particularly on a horse I know as well as this one. Where'd you get him from?"

The innkeeper looked round wildly, seeking escape, but with the two highwaymen blocking him in there was nowhere to run to. "My pot boy found him," he mumbled at last.

"Where? At the bottom of a barrel? " Dick snapped sarcastically.

"Up on Dark Fell," the innkeeper said hastily.

Turpin frowned. Dark Fell was an unwelcoming spot with a grim reputation for bogs and bogeys. It was usually avoided by the rich, which meant it was a good shortcut for a highwayman on his way home. It was a far distance from the meeting point, but Toby might have taken it into his head to make his way back to his stable - assuming he was riderless.

"What was the boy doing up there?"

"I’d sent him to market," the innkeeper answered. "He was late coming back and he took a shortcut. He knows the Fell well enough to be safe."

"What about the horse's rider?"

"He never mentioned no rider," the innkeeper blurted. "I’d have sent someone up to look if he had…"

"Aye, of course ye would," Glenrae snorted sarcastically, seeing the disappointment on Dick's face shading towards fear. "Where is yon pot boy?"

"Inside," the innkeeper gestured towards the main building.

"Show us," Glenrae ordered, starting to give him a push and then decided against it; certain he saw something crawling on the back of the man's neck. Mumbling and muttering, the innkeeper led the way out of the stables and back towards the innhouse. Turpin and Glenrae followed him a little more slowly, keeping their voices low. "What do ye think?"

"I don't know. Swiftnick's terrified of Dark Fell because he thinks its haunted. He wouldn't go up there on his own unless he had to."

"Maybe he had to then," Glenrae said soberly. "You said Charrington was after ye. Maybe Spiker was on the laddie's tail. If he took a fall into yon bog with no one to pull him out…"

"Don't think it hadn't occurred to me," Dick said gloomily as he pushed through the open door into the inn.

It was dim and dusty after the bright sunshine outside, smelling of old beer and other less savoury things. Dick wrinkled his nose and turned his attention to the innkeeper as he dragged a boy somewhat younger than Swiftnick out from behind the counter where he seemed to have been asleep.

"You tell these gentlemen what you told me about the horse," the innkeeper urged.

The boy rubbed his grubby face and yawned at them. "What about it?" he asked sleepily. "I found it didn't I? What else is there to tell?" He turned a truculent look on the innkeeper. "You promised me half if you sold it!"

"Ah, you mind your manners, you little guttersnipe," the innkeeper snarled, lifting a hand to swipe at him.

Turpin caught his wrist, stopping him as the boy flinched away. "Touch him and I’ll take a horsewhip to you," he snarled.

The innkeeper whimpered and pulled free, scuttling towards the scullery at the back of the inn. Glenrae ambled after him to make sure he didn't get any ideas about running off to find the dragoons.

Dick turned his attention to the boy. He looked thin and hungry and bruised. "What's your name, boy?" he asked easily.

"Jack, sir."

"All right then, Jack, where'd you find the horse?"

"Up on Dark Fell. I'd been over to the village and I was late coming back." He jerked his head towards the scullery. "I’d rather face the ghosts than another beating by him, so I came over the fell. That's where I found the horse by the Headsman Rock. You know it?"

"I know it." Folktales said the old rock was where a giant had chopped off the heads of the unwary travellers he caught after challenging them to guess the riddles he told or lose their heads. "Did you see his rider?"

"Weren't no rider," the boy said firmly. "Horse came up to me, friendly as anything. I looked around a fair bit, thought there might be a bit of a reward maybe. But I didn't find nothing and no one. So's I brought him back here and got myself out a beating. He's been looking to sell the nag, but I'm the one who's been looking after him."

Dick noted that with gratitude. "So you didn't see a blond youth? A bit older than you?"

"Nah…" the boy bit his lip. "Lots of bogs up there, sir. He could have fallen in one of them. They say as some of them's bottomless."

Dick winced. He had been doing his best not to think about that possibility.

"Horse looked like he'd been running for a while," the boy offered. "Rider could have got thrown somewhere else as like."

"Maybe you're right." Turpin considered, digging into his purse for a coin or two that he pressed into the urchin's hand. The boy gave him a startled, awe inspired look.

"You didn't have to do that, sir!" he exclaimed.

"You looked after the horse well."

"Aw, I like horses, sir. And he's a good natured animal."

"His name's Toby," Turpin told him, glancing towards Glenrae. The Scot was leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

"Well, Dick me boy, go on with ye. I can see ye want to," Glenrae urged dryly.

Turpin glared at him and sighed. "You want to stay here, Jack?" he asked.

"Ain't got nowhere else to go," the boy answered honestly, eyeing the coins with obvious speculation and then stuffing them into his pocket.

Dick strongly suspected that the innkeeper would have them off him the second they were gone. Unless…. Damn it, Glenrae knew him too damn well. "I know where you can go," he sighed. "You know the smithy at Ford End?"

"Aye…"

"I know the blacksmith there and he needs a good apprentice. I'll put in a good word for you."

Jack's eyes slit up. "A real blacksmith?" he exclaimed. "Honest? You’d do that?" His expression fell almost as soon as it lifted. Obviously he was used to promises being broken. "And come back and tell me?"

"No," Dick admitted. Jack's face set in a scowl. "Because you’re coming with us now."

"You mean it?"

"Aye, boy. I've said it. Go get your things and then saddle the horse."

"I haven't got anything to take and he sold the tack," Jack said ruefully. "But I can ride bareback."

"Then bring Toby round to the front," Dick told him and headed for the scullery as the boy scampered off. Glenrae was blocking the doorway, stopping the innkeeper emerging to grab the boy.

"You can't do that!" he wailed. "He's the only pot boy I've got!"

"Then you’d best find another one because I'm taking him," Turpin told him.

"He cost me…"

"You have a choice. The boy for the tack you sold. You got the money you owe me?"

The innkeeper hesitated, then scowled as Glenrae rather too casually fingered the pistol in his belt. "Keep the boy. He's worthless anyway." He grunted and stomped back into the scullery.

Glenrae sighed as he followed Turpin's impatient stride back to the door.

"What?" Dick growled at him.

Glenrae snorted. "Butter man. The tack was probably worth more than the sprat."

Turpin gave him a wicked grin. "Not the way I get it," he pointed out. Besides he may know more than he's told us."

Lengthening his stride, the highwayman headed for the stables while Glenrae ambled after him. Although he hoped he was wrong, the Scot had a feeling that Dick was going to be disappointed again.

* * *

"That's not Toby," Gabriel said as soon as he set eyes on the brown horse. The steward had waited until Lord Havering and Sir Percy had ridden out and then woken the youth to take him out to the stables for some fresh air.

"Yes, it is," Luke insisted.

"No, it isn't," Gabriel turned and gave him a belligerent look. "Toby is bigger than that."

"Things always look different in dreams."

"I remember Toby," Gabriel insisted. "And, and…Black Bess too!" he finished triumphantly.

Luke snorted with laugher even as he felt a cold qualm rush through him. He really had hoped the youth would forget all about the black horse. His slowly returning memory was starting to disturb Luke. It was too dangerous for the boy. If he was to remember there was no telling what Sir Rodney might do to him. "You've been listening to too many tales, lad! Now I know you’re dreaming. Dick Turpin's mare is called Black Bess!"

Gabriel blinked at him, his blue eyes wide and thoughtful. "Dick Turpin?" he said slowly.

"Aye, the highwayman. An evil cove if ever there was one. Kill you as soon as look at you he would."

Gabriel opened his mouth as if to protest then seemed to think better of it. "Sir Rodney wants to do some paintings of me as a highwayman," he said instead.

"The master doesn't discuss such things with me," Luke said swiftly. "Now, why don't we go back inside? You’re looking a might peaked still."

"Oh." Obedient as ever Gabriel let Luke shoo him from the stables and back towards the house. "It doesn’t look any more familiar from the outside," he noted softly.

"You weren't here that long before your accident," Luke had the lie ready. "Now, why don't you go and lie down in your room and I’ll bring you up a nice light lunch. You need to rest."

"Yes, Luke."

Gabriel agreed politely as always, but his vague air and distant expression worried the steward. His memory was starting to stir and Luke could only hope he could conceal it from Sir Rodney for a while longer. Maybe Havering would grow bored with his new model. It had happened before, although not recently. If not, well, Luke didn't want to think about if not. He liked the boy too much to want to see him hurt. But he didn't know what he could do about it.

* * *

It was dark before Havering and Sir Percy returned. An unsuccessful day's hunting had ended up at an inn where they had both drunk far too much to be good for them. The noise they made clattering up the main stairs would have woken anyone and it disturbed Gabriel in the depths of heavy sleep. By the time he was awake enough to remember that he had fallen asleep without locking his door, the door was being slammed open and Sir Percy was staggering into his room.

Sitting up in the huge four poster bed, he grabbed for the sheets, dragging them around his hips. He had been sleeping nude in the sultry heat and although he almost gotten used to posing in the nude for Havering, Blakemore was another matter all together.

"Ah hah! There you are…" Percy chortled as he lurched over to the bed and grabbed for one of the carved posts for support. "Waiting for me, me little darling, ain't you!"

"Go away," Gabriel growled, shoving his mop of hair out of his eyes and wishing he could focus properly on the man. His mind always seemed more cloudy and unfocused at night, as if sleep dulled his wits.

"Oh no, I can't do that. Not without a kiss first…" Percy wobbled a step closer then swung back to cling to the post with a muffled curse. "Come here, boy…"

"No," Gabriel retorted, clutching even tighter to the sheets as Blakemore took a grip on the edge and started to pull at it.

Frustration made Sir Percy suddenly strong and with a wrench he tore off the sheet and stepped forward, grabbing Gabriel by the wrist as he made to dive off the other side of the bed. "Hang it, boy, behave!" he snarled in fury, belting him across the face when Gabriel attempted to sink his teeth into his wrist. He dragged the dazed youth off the bed and flung him against the bedpost, binding his wrists together around it with the curtain cord. "Now that's better," he cackled as he fumbled at his breeches. "I won a turn at you at dice, fair and square…"

"With shaved dice," Havering's voice cut through the air like a whipcrack as he lounged in the doorway, glaring at Sir Percy. "And you won the painting, not the boy."

"I've changed me mind…"

"I haven't," Havering growled. "He's mine, Percy. Now, let him be."

Blakemore hesitated, but the expression on Rodney's face got through even his drunken haze. He knew perfectly well that Havering was not a man to cross and he was lethal in a duel. Wining one too many duels was the reason he was practically exiled out here in the backwaters. That and his somewhat strange tastes in bed…

Reluctantly, Percy stepped away from the boy and swayed over to the artist. "Come now, Rodders, you wouldn't begrudge me a little fun, would you? Share and share alike and all that?"

"Not with this one," Havering said flatly. For a moment they locked gazes, then Sir Percy shook his head.

"You’re drunk," he muttered. "I'm off to me bed…." Edging around Sir Rodney as he stepped aside, Blackmore stumbled off down the corridor towards his room in the other wing. Havering gazed after him in contempt and then turned back to Gabriel as he attempted to hide among the curtains of the bedpost. He moved towards him deliberately, memorising the scene for a painting, absorbing the youth's scared expression and bruised face for his highwayman series.

"I have a good mind to leave you here tied up for the night," he snapped at him. "Tempting poor Sir Percy like that. The man is drunk!"

"I didn't do anything," Gabriel protested miserably.

"You were told to keep your door locked when I have guests!" Havering roared, making Gabriel flinch away from him.

"I forgot…" Gabriel whimpered, ducking from the hand Rodney raised to him.

Havering's fists clenched then he changed his mind and touched Gabriel's shoulder gently, drawing his fingers down his skin and back….

Gabriel twisted away from him defiantly. "Don't…"

"Don’t?" Rodney mocked. "Don't what? Don't touch you? You’re mine body and soul to do with as I wish!"

"You don't own me," Gabriel spat back at him then cried out as Rodney hit him hard across the face, bringing blood to his mouth.

"Now look what you've made me do!" Rodney raged in fury. "How am I supposed to paint you like that!" He stared at the sullenly glaring youth, his hunger rising at the sight of the blood his violence had caused. He lunged at him, his senses swamped by the stimulation. Grabbing the youth by the hair, he forced his head back, clamping his mouth down over the bloody lips. Gabriel bit him and jabbed a knee up at him more by instinct than skill.

With a gasp, Rodney let him go and stumbled back, lashing out at him again and again with fists and feet and the youth could do nothing to escape the blows….

"Sir Rodney!"

Luke's voice brought him to a standstill, staring at the bruised and bloodied youth in shock. Blinking like a man rousing from a deep sleep, Havering turned to look at the steward. "Yes, Luke? What is it?" he asked calmly.

The steward hesitated in the doorway, keeping his gaze averted from Gabriel as he hung whimpering in his bonds. "I have turned down your bed for you, my lord, and your hot possett is awaiting you."

"Ah, excellent," Rodney wandered to the door, his eyes hooded and sleepy with satiation. "Gabriel seems to be…" He gestured vaguely. "Attend him. I shan't be needing you again tonight."

"Yes, my lord." Luke bowed deeply as Havering wandered past him and shuffled off along the corridor in the direction of his own rooms. Then he closed the door quietly and locked it before rushing to untie Gabriel. "I'm sorry, lad," he said sadly as he lifted the whimpering youth onto the bed. Gabriel curled up into a ball of pain, ignoring the steward as he fetched a wet cloth to wipe his bloody face. "I should have remembered to lock your door for you after I gave you your tincture." Luke muttered bitterly, blaming himself. He had hoped the drugged potion would give the youth sleep without memories, hoping to suppress them again.

"He hit me!" Gabriel complained miserably, starting to surface under the effects of the cool water on his bruised face. "I didn't do anything."

"You didn't have to. Lord Havering has a nasty temper, more so when he's been drinking. Be glad he didn't have something else in mind."

Glittering blue eyes cracked open and Gabriel gazed up at him in a silence that was both angry and scared.

"There now," Luke said softly, pulling a cover over him. "It's only bruises. You didn't break anything. Sir Rodney will have forgotten all this in the morning. We'll tell him you fell…"

"Why?" Gabriel demanded belligerently. "He beat me!"

"Now, lad. Be reasonable. You want to stay here, don't you?"

"No…" Gabriel retorted bitterly.

"Where else could you go? Where else would you be treated so well?"

"You call this being treated well?" Gabriel let out a pained hiss of laughter.

Luke hesitated. Havering's actions had done more damage than merely to the youth's body. Any trust Gabriel might have had in his patron was crumbling rapidly to ashes. And if Havering realised his protégé didn't love him the way he wanted him too…

"You were in the wrong and deserved to be punished," he told him sternly as he fetched the tincture and measured out half a small cup for him. "Sir Rodney has been very kind to you. Now, drink this. It'll help you to sleep."

"No…" Gabriel growled sulkily. "I can sleep without it."

"You'll do as I say!" Luke barked, raising his voice sharply. "I'll have none of your airs and graces, lad! You'll drink it or I’ll make you. Sir Rodney won't notice a few more bruises."

For a second Luke thought the youth might still defy him, then Gabriel crumpled and he took the small wooden cup, tossing it back in a couple of gulps and curling up in bed again. He looked small and young and defeated and Luke felt like a complete heel for treating him so.

"That's better," he told him stiffly. "Now, get some sleep. And remember to lock the door after me."

Gabriel nodded and watched the steward go, then padded over and locked the door behind him. Crawling back into bed, he dragged a pillow into his arms and curled up miserably around it, feeling very, very sorry for himself as the drug pulled him back down into sleep.

He didn't care about the rich clothes or good food. He wanted nothing more than to escape…

* * *

"Now, be quiet and sit there. I'll have no more trouble out of you or you'll be sorry," Havering ordered Gabriel sharply early the following afternoon. They were in the studio where Havering had spent the morning arranging things for his new series of paintings. The heavy drapes had been drawn and the room was lit by candlelight on the table.

During the hours while Gabriel slept Rodney had done several sketches in feverish haste, sketching the boy tied to the bedpost from imagination and drawing from his winged portrait for a new image of the youth tied face down on the four-poster bed. When morning arrived he had sent a hungover Sir Percy groggily on his way home to London, refusing to risk his lingering presence in the house tempting to boy into sinning.

Gabriel gave him a mutinous look but moved swiftly to obey and sat down gingerly on the chair at the table. He had been allowed to sleep in owing to a minor bit of fever and hadn't been up very long. A breakfast tray had been put on the table for him but he made no move to touch it despite a rumbling stomach. He was unsure of what Havering had in mind and was reluctant to do anything that might goad him into another unprovoked attack. He was still hurting badly after the beating the enraged painter had given him the night before.

Muttering under his breath, Rodney fussed around his model as he arranged quill and parchment in front of him. "Can you write?" he demanded brusquely.

Gabriel dragged his eyes away from the food and gave him a wary look. "Don't know," he admitted sullenly. "Don’t remember."

"Don't be impertinent," Rodney snapped, shoving a quill into his hand. "You can always pretend."

Gabriel looked dubiously at the parchment in front of him. "What am I supposed to pretend to write then?" he asked sarcastically.

For a moment it looked as if Havering might actually hit him again, then he controlled himself. "You have been captured by a notorious highwayman who is holding you to ransom. Since Turpin can’t write himself, you are writing your own ransom note," he told him stiffly.

Gabriel considered this. "Then why am I naked?" he wanted to know suspiciously. He could believe he might have been in the nude for some of the other pictures Havering had done, but they were things from the olden days and for all Gabriel knew they might really have wandered around naked the way Havering said. But this was modern day. Turpin wouldn't expect any captive of his to sit around in the all together and he could write his own notes….

Gabriel blinked in surprise as the sudden knowledge seeped like fresh spring water into his fuzzy thoughts. How did he know Turpin could write? It was hardly the kind of thing they put in the ballad sheets….

"Use some common sense, Gabriel. It's so you can't get away," Havering said flatly as he stalked over to his easel and selected his first colour with care.

Gabriel stared at the parchment, wondering how true an excuse that was. He himself seemed to have spent a lot of time in the nude since he woke up with amnesia. And then there was the way Havering refused to let him out of the house….

"Don't sit there like a pumpkin," Havering roared at him. "At least pretend to scribble something, boy!"

"Can't I eat something first? I'm hungry…"

"Paint first, then eat," Rodney told him crisply but insistently.

Gabriel gave in, having learned what tone of voice not to argue with. Nibbling on the end of the quill, he focused on the parchment, wondering what sort of words he was supposed to write. How did you compose a ransom note? How much money did you ask for? Who was he writing to anyway? What would Dick write?

Gabriel frowned and started to write carefully, shaping the letters with slow precision. There's nothing wrong in being an innkeeper's son as long as you have pride in who you are, he heard the comforting voice in his mind saying as he concentrated. I know you can do your figures, but reading and writing are important too. Your handwriting doesn't have to look like a drunken spider crawled over the page because you’re a…. The voice stopped and Gabriel frowned in frustration. Was what? An innkeeper's son? Well, that rang true, but he sensed there was more to it than that. A bit of practise will do you good and it'll keep you out of mischief, while my back's turned, my lad…

Smiling faintly at the sound of the affectionate sarcasm in the man's voice, Gabriel signed his note and focused on what he had written, then froze in surprise at his own signature dashing across the parchment. Not Gabriel, but Swiftnick…

* * *

"Stand!" Turpin roared at the coach, levelling his pistol on the coachdriver. The man reined in the horses in panic, gaping at the masked highwayman in terror.

With the coach halted, Glenrae urged his horse up alongside to cover the coachman and prevent him doing anything stupid while Turpin rode around to the side to deal with the passengers. Once they had delivered the pot boy to his new home at the smithy, Dick had sunk back into depression for Jack had known nothing else of any use about Swiftnick. They had spent a couple of days exploring Dark Fell to no avail except for a reputation among the local villagers that they were both mad for risking the wrath of the bogels. After that, it had taken Glenrae two days to persuade to Dick to pick a coach to rob since they needed the money. And the highwayman still wasn't enthusiastic about something he had previously enjoyed. There was no doubt about it, Dick was sorely missing his young accomplice.

"What is the meaning of this, sirrah!" the nobleman who was the only occupant of the coach spluttered indignantly as he was rousted out by Turpin at pistol point. "I'll have you hung for this insolence!"

"Been there, done that," Turpin sneered in his best villainous accent. "Hand over your valuables, smarmy."

"Do you have any idea who I am, you filthy rogue!"

"No and nor do I care.," Turpin admitted, leaning down to make sure the man could see down the barrel of his pistol. "And less of the filthy rogue, I've probably bathed more recently than you have. You stink like a slop barrel."

"I am Sir Percy Blakemore!"

"So?"

Sir Percy stared at him speechlessly. "So? So…!" he managed finally.

"I'm Dick Turpin, so hand over the sparklers before I shoot you."

"But you're dead!"

"Do I look dead?" Turpin retorted.

Sir Percy hesitated, even as he fumbled nervously at his rings. He slid a sly glance towards Glenrae, frowning at the size of the big Scot. "You can't be Turpin," he decided. "You’re supposed to have a pretty young boy as an accomplice."

Glenrae gave him a dark look over the top of his mask. "What? Ain't I pretty enough for you?" he drawled in the worst Somerset accent Dick had ever heard.

"Less of the chit chat," Turpin snarled impatiently. "Your money!"

Grimacing with distaste, Blakemore handed over his all but empty purse and his jewellery. "You'll pay for this," he blustered.

"Heard that before too, mate. Where's the rest of your money?"

"I had a few losses at dice," Sir Percy replied in a surly tone.

"Oh? Who have you been gambling with then?" Turpin sneered. "Maybe I should be robbing him."

"Sir Rodney Havering. I was staying with him."

"Ah, him," Dick snorted. "Partner? Watch 'em while I search the coach."

Glenrae waved his pistol in acknowledgement.

"You can't do that!" Sir Percy raged fruitlessly.

"Ah, shut up." Dismounting from Black Bess, Dick shouldered him aside and ducked into the coach, rummaging quickly for any hidden items. He felt a momentary pang over Swiftnick as he did it. Searching the coach was the task he usually gave the youth; at first because he was worried about his ability to stand guard, but then because Swiftnick had proved fast and adept at the task. On this occasion, all Dick found was a second full money pouch Blakemore had hidden between the cushions and small calf leather bound book filled with scrawling writing.

"That's mine!" Blakemore exclaimed when the highwayman emerged with book in hand.

"Was you mean," Dick grinned, giving him a brisk shove that sent the nobleman into a puddle on the seat of his fancy new breeches. "Now, what's so important about his little book!"

Sir Percy scrambled back to his feet. "Leave me the book. I'll pay you anything you want! I'm a rich man!"

"Not any more you ain't," Dick reminded him, shaking the purse at him. "Get back in your coach and be on your way!"

Spluttering and swearing, Blakemore had little choice but to obey and clamber back into the coach and gunpoint. Glenrae saw them on their way on up the road then he and Turpin vanished into the woods, heading for the stream to count their loot.

* * *

"Not bad," Glenrae said cheerfully an hour later as he went through what they had lifted from the coach. "There are some nice pieces here that'll fetch a pretty price."

Turpin grunted without looking up from the book. "Blakemore's as rich as he said he was."

Glenrae considered this as he scooped the jewellery back into Turpin's leather pouch. "So why didn't ye agree to let him buy back his book?"

"Too easy to get caught that way," Dick replied absently. "Ransom is a mug's game. And Blakemore is slime."

Glenrae frowned as he lazed back in the flower-speckled grass. "Who rattled your dice?" he asked dryly.

Dick lowered the book at last and looked at him. "You know how Blakemore makes his money? He procures things."

Glenrae considered this. "Ye mean he smuggles?"

"No," Turpin tossed the book to him to read for himself. "He obtains boys and girls to slake the lusts of his upper class cronies among other things," he spat in disgust. "That's a list of who's brought what and what their sordid tastes are. No doubt he blackmails them too."

"This little book is valuable then," the Scot observed thoughtfully.

Turpin grimaced. "How?" he demanded bitterly. "I'd rather shoot the whole bunch of the slimy bastards than blackmail them! What good's information like that to me?"

Glenrae chewed it over. "Might come in useful sometime," he said slowly. "One of these men might be in a position to save ye from a hanging."

"Or more likely rush to pull the noose tight," Dick growled. He waved the book away as Glenrae offered it back to him. "Nah, you hold on to it and I'll think it over. I'm parched. You want a drink?"

"Och, that sounds like a canny idea. How about a ride over to The Swan and the delightful Mary that I've heard so much about?"

Dick paled. "Ah, no, that's a bit far."

Glenrae shook his head at him sadly. "You haven't told her, have you?"

"What can I tell her? Hi, Mary, two pints of your best, please, and by the way I've managed to lose your one and only offspring?"

"Well, if ye put it that way it does sound a mite careless…."

"Careless?" Turpin squawked. "She'd damn well kill me! You don't know that woman the way I do. She took a broom to me because he fell in a bog once!"

Glenrae grinned. "Ah, romance…"

"Forget it," Turpin retorted. "Once maybe, but that was a long time ago and she chose someone else."

"Ye could pick up where ye left off. Ye have something in common…"

"Yeah, Swiftnick. Fine link that is." Turpin shoved angrily to his feet. "You coming or not?"

Glenrae sighed and pushed to his feet, ambling after him. He had a sneaking suspicious Turpin was planning to get himself drunk again. It was starting to become a habit.

* * *

Havering stared at the signed scrap of parchment in his hand then crumpled it angrily into a ball, glaring at Gabriel in fury. Gabriel ducked his head, staring at his feet. Rodney shoved the crumpled ball under his nose.

"What does this mean?" he hissed at him.

"You told me to write something."

"I didn't tell you to sign someone else's name."

Gabriel lifted his head, his blue eyes defiant from among his tousled mop of blond curls. A bruise was darkening on his cheekbone where Havering had hit him. He started to reply then shrugged instead. "It's only a name. I thought it suited me."

Havering growled, his fists clenching in fury. The youth could tempt him so easily into incoherent and unreasoning rage. It was all designed to make him lose his soul. "Go to your room and stay there until I call for you again," he ordered grimly.

Gabriel shot a quick longing look at the untouched breakfast tray and then turned on his heel, gathering his blue silk robe around him with as much dignity as he could muster and stalked from the room.

As soon as he was out of sight, Rodney let out a roar of rage and lashed out, sweeping the contents from the table top and overturning it with a crash that brought Luke running.

"Is everything all right, sir?" he exclaimed, looking anxiously around the studio. "Are you hurt?"

Breathing hard, Rodney eyed him with suspicion, realising that his steward was looking for the youth. A surge of jealousy blazed though him. Luke was spending far too much time alone with his Gabriel. Who knew what kind of lies he was filling the boy's head with?

"What do you know about this?" he demanded, shoving the note at him. "The boy signs himself as Swiftnick!"

"Ah…" Luke floundered. "Obviously the boy has a vivid imagination, my lord."

Gathering himself for a full blown tirade, Havering paused, distracted. "Imagination?" he repeated.

"Why, yes, Sir Rodney," Luke gave an awed look. "Obviously such is the quality of your paintings and descriptions that the boy has thrown himself into this highwayman fantasy in place of his own memories. I do believe in the ballads that Turpin has a young accomplice called Swiftnick."

"Does he indeed?" Rodney gazed thoughtfully at the note.

"Why, yes, sir. A wicked young rogue almost as disreputable as his master."

"Hmmh…" Havering smiled faintly. So Gabriel had merely been playing along, had he? "He should have told me," he sighed aloud. "Ah well, he deserves to be punished for lying to me. He will have to stay in his room. But you may take him a light supper, Luke. Now, you may go. I have some sketches to finish."

"Yes, my lord." Luke bowed his way out obsequiously but Havering's mind was already elsewhere and he ignored the steward. His rage had acquired a focus and he seized a new canvas, setting too to draw the gibbet that would finish the highwayman series.

As his fingers guided the brush, Rodney's mind wandered, playing with the challenge. If Gabriel was happy to immerse himself in the fantasy, why shouldn't he do likewise? He would make a gallant highwayman that his young ward couldn't fail to be impressed by…

No, this fantasy was too dangerous, too full of sin and temptation. The sooner he found a new subject the better..

Rodney shuddered in delight, licking his lips as he remembered the parties back in London where they had played at Roman orgies for real. It had been a long time since he held a party…

* * *

Confused but determined, he sat on his bed in the dark, listening to the sounds of the house settling around him for the night. If he was going to run away and seek his own fortune, then he wasn't to risk taking anything that belonged to Havering that might give them reason to track him down. So he was wearing his own cleaned and mended clothes rather than the fancy velvets and fine cloth that Sir Rodney had provided for his ward Gabriel.

It was still hard to remember that it was his name after hearing and responding to Gabriel for so long. But the name of Gabriel brought associations that he was starting to find unpleasant, while Swiftnick or Nick felt true to his soul and inspired a kind of comfort that had been sorely missing since his arrival at the manorhouse. He missed having someone to talk to, someone who understood him and could be trusted, someone who was willing to explain the things that baffled him. He didn't trust Sir Rodney and the man point blank terrified him at times. Sir Percy made his skin crawl with revulsion. Luke was all right in his own way, but he was Havering's puppet. Swiftnick wouldn't trust any of them any further than he could throw them.

Maybe he was wrong in thinking that Turpin was a man he considered a friend. Maybe it was all a fancy born of loneliness and imagination the way Luke suggested, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe the steward was right. Anyway, he wanted to find out for himself one way or another. It would mean he could never return to Havering Hall, but if he was honest, he wouldn't miss being Sir Rodney's model.

"Toy more like…" Swiftnick snorted aloud, then slapped one hand over his mouth in alarm, hoping no one had heard him. He was supposed to be lying in a drugged sleep, but a bit of sleight of hand that he hadn't fully convinced himself he was capable of had distracted Luke from his bedtime tincture and the steward had left believing Gabriel would be fast asleep before he reached the kitchen.

Nervous as a mouse knowing there was a cat in the house, Swiftnick waited another half an hour before he slid out of bed and lit a candle before he tiptoed over to the door. He would have slipped out the window, but the walls were smooth and he didn't want to risk a fall from the second floor. He held his breath as he unlocked the door, certain the lock would squeak. But the key turned smoothly and he slipped out onto the darkened landing, locking the door behind him as a precaution against discovery.

Pressing himself into the shadows, he waited, shading the light of his candle with one hand as he listened carefully, straining to hear anything that would send him bolting back to his bed.

The house remained silent, apart from a far off reverberating rumble that Swiftnick finally realised was someone snoring and nearly made him giggle in relief. Finally sure he had not been observed, he crept along the narrow landing and down the twisting passage to the back stairs. He waited again at the top, listening for the sounds of anyone below. By now he hoped even the tardiest of servants would be in bed in anticipation of having to rise early.

On tiptoe, Swiftnick sneaked downstairs, holding his breath as he waited for a board to creak. He made it to the ground floor safely and hesitated, wondering which way to go now. He knew the main door would be locked and bolted and undoing that would make a racket that would wake everyone. The other way out was through the kitchen so he flitted silently along the stone flags to the scullery door and pushed down on the handle. The door wouldn't budge.

Frustrated he pushed harder and the door rattled enough to make him jump in panic and look round wildly, but there was no explosive cries of discovery and he relaxed with an effort, silently scolding himself for being silly.

So, the scullery door was locked too. Probably on Sir Rodney's orders. He wouldn't want his servants pilfering the larder at midnight, let alone the wine cellar.

Swiftnick chewed his lower lip, wondering what Turpin would do. He certainly wasn't going to give up and crawl back to bed with his tail between his legs. He wasn't meek mouthed Gabriel who did what he was told and couldn't think for himself. Not any more. Swiftnick wanted out.

The studio! It had huge windows and it would be easy to slip out through one of those. Delighted, Swiftnick put out his candle and, relying on the light of the cressets, hurried light-footed back along the passage and through the hall, ignoring the dining room as he passed it. The studio was ahead of him when something made him stop and thoughtfully eye the door to Sir Rodney's studio. Havering had spent quite a bit of time locked away in there and Swiftnick's curiosity had been tickled by the secrets contained within.

Taking a quick look round to check he was still undiscovered Swiftnick padded over and gently tested the handle. It was locked of course. Pouting, he turned away, paused and then delved into the pocket of his waistcoat to fish out the ring of slender pieces of metal he had discovered hidden in his boot. He wasn't sure how, but he had a feeling he knew how to use them.

Shrugging, he turned back to the door and crouched, setting the candle on the floor and he held up the lockpicks to the lock. He was startled to find his fingers seemed to know what they were better than he did and in a matter of moments he had the door open and was slipping inside. Softly, closing the door, Swiftnick peered around the shadowy room, taking in the elegantly expensive leather topped desk and the dark heavy wooden furniture. Pinned on the wood panelling ion a row along the wall, were Havering's drawings and Swiftnick edged closer, lifting his candle for a better look. Sir Rodney had never shown him his paintings, insisting that it would make Gabriel vain to look upon himself. It was a sin to be proud of one's beauty…

Swiftnick gaped at the pictures and felt nothing like pride. A surge of embarrassment and chagrin swept through him, an explosion of utter humiliation as he realised the kind of dark fantasies Havering was creating from his poses. Fright snapped sharply on the heels of his shock, the realisation that he was in far deeper trouble than he had realised. Without thinking, he snatched at the first picture, tearing from its pins, then ripping down another and another…

He wasn't even aware of what he was doing, that he was crying and swearing as he ground the pages under his bootheel.…

"Gabriel! What are you doing?!" Havering was suddenly in the room, filling it with his dark presence as he angrily grabbed for the youth's arm.

Swiftnick looked at him in shock. He hadn't even heard him coming. Taking Havering by surprise as his instincts kicked in, he kicked him in the ankle, twisted out of the noble's grip and dived for the door, shoving him out of his way as he fled down the corridor.

"Stop him!" Havering roared as he pursued him. "A guinea to the man who catches him!"

Swiftnick put his head down and ran for all he was worth, unsure where he was going or how he was going to escape. Bursting out into the main hall, he nearly tripped over one of Havering's footmen. A ugly, burly man kept for muscle menace rather house service. Swiftnick dodged at the last moment, swerving around him as the man grabbed for him with an angry cry. Lunging past him, Swiftnick took a detour, darting for the stairs. Another footman was coming down and lunged at the youth. Swiftnick braked, ducked back and ran slap bang into the first footman. This time the thug was ready for him and wrapped his arms around him in a rib crushing grip, lifting Swiftnick off his feet. Before the youth could lash out in a kick, the second footman drove a fist into his midriff, brutally punching the air out of him as he squeaked in pain. A fist across the temple subdued him even further and he slumped. The footman dropped the semi-conscious youth to the floor and grinned wickedly at Sir Rodney as he marched grimly across the hall.

"He's all yours, my lord," he smirked.

Havering ignored him and kicked Swiftnick hard in the ribs, making him gasp and double up in pain. The he crouched, caught hold of a handful of blond hair and jerked his head u[p off the stone flags. "Why?" he demanded angrily. "Why did you betray me?"

"Didn't," Swiftnick gasped. "You betrayed me you…lecher!"

Havering snarled and slapped him across the face, then dropped him. "You'll have to be punished and you have only yourself to blame, Gabriel."

"My name is Swiftnick!" The youth retorted, struggling to push himself up and get his feet under him.

Havering rose to his own feet and turned to the footmen. "Take him down to the cellar and chain him up," he ordered grimly.

"Do you want us to punish him for you, my lord?" the footman asked, shooting a malicious look and a leer at Swiftnick.

"That won't be necessary," Havering replied primly. "The boy merely needs disciplining. I am quite capable of handling my ward myself. You may chastise him if he struggles, but no more than that. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the footman bowed awkwardly, his grin fading quickly under Havering's glittering eyed look.

Sir Rodney nodded once and stalked off upstairs, leaving his two footmen to grab Swiftnick and drag him to his feet.

"Let me go!" Swiftnick struggled, wriggling and squirming in an effort to break their grip. The first footman simply grabbed his wrist and forced his arm behind his back, twisting it until Swiftnick thought the bone would snap.

"Now then," the footman hissed in his ear. "You heard what his lordship said. We can chastise you if we have to, so you behave yourself or we'll have to get right nasty with you. You be a good little catamite."

Swiftnick subsided miserably as he was hustled by the two big men across the hall and down the corridor towards the scullery. "You’re going to be sorry," he protested as one of the footman produced the scullery key and unlocked the noisy door.

"Whose going to make us?" sneered the first footman. "A little nothing like you? Or do you think Mr Stuck Up Steward will? He ain't here. He's gone off into the village to get drunk."

Swiftnick bit his lip in misery as he was dragged into the scullery, where the footman lit a lantern, then he was taken through a second heavy wooden door and down the stone steps that led down to the cellar. His captors hustled him along the passage to the very far end and another heavy oak door. One of the footmen then held him tight while the other shoved the door open then he was hauled inside.

The room was small and dark apart from the flickering light of the lantern. The floor was covered with musty smelling straw but otherwise the room was empty. It seemed even darker when the door was closed. The second footman busied himself lighting a cresset from the lantern with a wisp of straw from the floor while the first man hauled the struggling Swiftnick bodily across the room and flung him against the wall. Pinning him there with one huge hand on the back of his neck, he twisted his arm out straight, holding him so that his companion could lock a manacle around his wrist while dodging Swiftnick's efforts to bite him. Then his arms were pulled over his head and his other hand was secured with a length of chain between them fastened to a hook in the stone wall above his head.

Both men moved out of reach of his savage efforts to kick them. The uglier one chuckled nastily nudging his companion in the ribs. "Like old times, ain't it?" he cackled. "Remember young Ned?"

"Aye," the second footman smirked.

"Want to wager how long this one'll last?"

"Nah. I ain't that stupid. This one'll break like glass."

The first one considered and then grunted. "Aye, you’re probably right. Come on, we’d better get out of the way before his lordship comes down." The footmen retreated to the door, leaving Swiftnick bound to the wall.

"Wait!" Swiftnick yelped. "You can't leave me here!"

"And why not?" the first man sneered.

"Because, because…" Swiftnick spluttered helplessly.

"Oh aye, because we’ll be sorry, right? Or do you think you can make it worth our while?" Digging his mate in the ribs with one elbow, the footman cackled dirtily, then fell silent as Havering loomed up through the doorway. He had changed from his nightshirt into black breeches and a shirt and carried his riding whip in one hand. He was slapping it idly against his thigh, his eyes glittering with a strange light as he stared at Swiftnick.

"Ah, my lord," the footmen bowed and scraped nervously out of his way. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, you may go," Havering said absently, then seemed to click back into focus and glanced down at his hand. "Here, for your trouble…" He handed them a guinea each. Grinning and mumbling their thanks, the footmen retreated, closing the door behind them on the way out.

Havering waited, standing silently watching an increasingly frightened Swiftnick until he was quite sure his servants were out of earshot, then he stirred and walked closer to the bound youth. "I am very disappointed in you, Gabriel," he said sadly. "I had expected better of you."

Swiftnick eyed him warily. He could see no point in struggling any more but stood quietly, conserving his strength against what was to come. "Why'd you paint those pictures of me?" he demanded belligerently.

"Why, for your own good, Gabriel. To protect you from evil. To draw the darkness away from you and keep you pure and innocent, my angel."

"You’re mad…" Swiftnick shook his head to get his curls out of his eyes then froze as Havering drew in a breath with a sharp hiss and reached for him, his fingertips gliding down the youth's bruised cheek.

"You’re so beautiful," Havering sighed. "So almost perfect…You understand why I have to punish you, don't you?"

"No! You’re supposed to be my guardian. But you're scaring me!" Swiftnick protested, jerking his head away.

"I'm sorry, angel. The last thing I ever wanted to do is scare you."

"Then let me go!"

"I can't do that," Rodney told him sorrowfully. "You've been corrupted, tainted by the evil of his world. But I can still save you. I can drive the evil away from you and back into the paintings. My poor precious one, you didn't know what you were doing when you ripped up my sketches. The darkness made you do it, I know."

"Forgive me?" Swiftnick said hopefully, seeking to distract him from whatever punishment the noble had in mind.

"Oh, but of course I do," Rodney smiled, caressing his jaw with gentle fingers. "That's why I'm going to punish you. So I can save you and return you to innocence. Pain drives out evil. It drives out the impure thoughts that force you into tempting me away from the light." He slipped his fingers into Swiftnick's hair, winding the butter coloured curls around his long fingers. "Ah, Gabriel, don't you see? Protecting you from your evil destroys me. I force the evil into my paintings, I trap it there and send it away. But you've ruined all that and now there is only one way to cleanse you again." Taking the collar of Swiftnick's tunic, he ripped it right down the back and peeled it open over his shoulders. "Your wings are torn, my angel, but soon you will fly again. Let me teach you…"

"No!" Swiftnick squeaked in panic as Havering stepped back and dreamily lifted the whip. "I won't do it again. Don't beat me…"

"I'm sorry, Gabriel, truly this hurts me so much more than it does you, but it is the only way. You must be punished, you must atone for the evil that corrupts you…."

* * *

Dick woke with a yelp of fright and clutched at his head in pain, peering blearily around him and astonished to find himself lying on a heap of straw in a stable. For some reason he appeared to be soaking wet.

"Good morning," Glenrae said dryly from where he was shaving himself over a bucket of water.

"Where am I?" Turpin asked suspiciously as he forced himself to ignore the spinning in his head and sat up, bracing himself with one hand on the dirt floor as the world wobbled dangerously around him.

"The Dog and Duck," Glenrae answered easily. "It was the nearest inn."

"Oh…" Dick rested his head in his hands, considering this. "How much did I drink?"

"I lost track after the fifth pint I think it was."

Turpin swore softly out of consideration for his pounding head. "Been a long time since I got so drunk I can't remember what I did."

"Well, the striptease on the table was a bit much. Put me right off me ale it did."

Dick lifted his head and squinted a glare at him. "I did not," he said forcefully.

"I thought you said you couldn't remember," Glenrae pointed out and offered him the razor.

"No thanks. My hand's shaking so much I'd cut my throat," Dick observed grimly. "How'd I get out here?"

"Well, after the fight the innkeeper insisted I dragged you out here." Glenrae told him, wiping the razor carefully before he folded it into a cloth and tucked it back into his saddlebag. "Ye owe me for the damages do ye ken."

Turpin groaned. "I'll make it up to you. Did someone mention a fat coach last night?"

"Goods wagon," Glenrae corrected. "It's on its way to London with the good Sir Percy Blakemore's purchases; which from the comments in that book of his must be worth a fair penny or two."

"Oh, him." The highwayman grinned wolfishly. He had taken an instant loathing to the nobleman. Something about him made his skin crawl. And as for that book of his… "Best be on our way then." He pushed slowly to his feet, catching at a stall partition as he caught his balance. Black Bess gave him a dirty look and went back to munching her hay. "Glenrae?"

"Aye?"

"Why am I wet?" Turpin asked darkly, frowning as he remembered he was wet through.

"Ah, that'd be the bucket of water I chucked over ye to wake ye up," Glenrae said with far too much good cheer for Dick's pleasure. "Not that it did much good do ye ken. Slept right on ye did."

Dick growled under his breath. "I'll remember this," he muttered darkly as he ran one hand through his hair, realising it had come loose and tangled around his shoulders. Digging a leather tie from his pocket, he scrabbled one hand through it to loosen the tangles and then bound it back.

"Och, very pretty," Glenrae teased him.

Dick glared at him, feeling at a distinct disadvantage. The Scot was impeccably dressed while Turpin looked and felt like he had spent the night in a wet hedge. "I want to frighten the coachmen not make them laugh."

Glenrae pursed his lips. "Och, well, if that's your aim, you're doing fine, laddie. Ye look very disreputable."

"Ah, shaddap," Turpin growled and stomped over to get his saddle. He couldn't cope with Glenrae's sharp wits when his head was splitting. It didn't help when Black Bess swung her hindquarters around and breathed out so he couldn't fasten the girth when he swung the saddle over her back.

"Dick?" Glenrae had followed him.

"What?"

"When you woke up….you cried out…"

Turpin flinched. "Bad dream," he muttered, leaning his shoulder into Black Bess' side until she gave in and breathed in. He fumbled at the girth with thick fingers. As he fastened it, he could feel the Scotsman's blue eyes boring into him. "If you must know I dreamed about Swiftnick," he said bitterly. "Someone was hurting him and it was dark…"

"Someone?" Glenrae pressed. "Or you?"

Turpin felt his shoulders tense and he busied himself with the mare's bridle, refusing to answer.

"It isn't your fault," Glenrae reminded him kindly.

"It was only a bad dream," Dick insisted. "Get your prancer. I don't want to miss that wagon." Glenrae sighed and rested his hand on the highwayman's shoulder for a moment before he went to saddle his own horse. Closing his eyes, Dick leaned against Black Bess' side, breathing in the warm horsy smell of her. Inside his head he could still see Swiftnick, bound and struggling in unknown hands. Swearing aloud, Dick straightened up and shook off the images. He had to believe Glenrae that it wasn't his fault. He'd never raised a hand to Swiftnick, let alone a damn whip.

And if anyone else had….

* * *

Halting the wagon proved to be no difficulty at all. Turpin rode out in front of it as it came over the rise and levelled his pistol on the solitary driver. Whether it was because he looked as disreputably wild and out for blood as Glenrae said he did, or simple common sense but the driver hauled his horse to a halt and gaped at him in alarm.

"Take anything you want," he bleated. "Only don't hurt me."

"Sensible man," Dick snarled at him, refusing to lower his pistol. His hangover had worn off sometime around late morning and he was feeling somewhat better, but still bad tempered. As far as he was concerned the afternoon sunlight was far too bright.

Glenrae rode out of the bushes where he had been lurking and came alongside the wagon, swinging from his horse into the wagon bed to rummage among the boxes.

Holding his hands well up in the air, the wagon driver peeked over his shoulder at the Scotsman. "There ain't much worth anything," he said warily. "Sir Blakemore's clothes and stuff mostly. Keeps his valuables with him he does."

"Not any more he doesn't," Dick chuckled. "I've got most of them now."

The wagon driver gave him an uncertain look, but held his tongue.

Glenrae had prised open a trunk and poked about among the clothes within, pleased to find a smaller wooden box within that held a pear shaped tea caddy in a rich dark wood that he tucked into his saddlebag. Another crate held cheeses and wine and he appropriated a couple of the better vintage bottles.

"We were told you were carrying Blakemore's purchases," Turpin commented, drawing the driver's attention back to him with a gesture of the pistol. "Where are they?"

"Food mostly. He likes his luxuries," the driver said quickly. "There are some paintings in that…"

Glenrae pounced eagerly on the indicated leather tube. He fancied himself a bit of a connoisseur when it came to paintings.

"Leave them," Dick said sourly. "They're no good to us."

"That depends on how good they are. Blakemore's got money so they must be valuable," Glenrae retorted in his terrible Somerset accent. He pried the cap off the tube and tugged out a parchment, half unrolling it. Dick couldn't see the drawing, but he saw Glenrae's wicked grin of anticipation change into a shocked scowl.

"Or how bad?" he teased. "Maybe we should do Sir Percy a favour and burn them for him?"

"Maybe so…." Glenrae grunted and shoved the drawing back into the tube. His eyes were cold when he looked at Turpin and tucked the tube under his arm. "Where'd the pictures come from?" he demanded of the driver.

The change in Glenrae's tone from bad accent to icy fury made the driver flinch. "Please, masters, I've no idea. I came down from London to collect the wagon. That's all I know."

"Where from?" Glenrae snapped.

"Sir?"

"The wagon, you fool," Turpin said harshly. He didn't know what was bothering his friend, but any time Glenrae looked as furious as he did now it was something bad.

"Havering Hall, sir, first thing this morning," the driver babbled hastily. "Strangest thing it was. Sir Rodney himself and two footmen were the only ones there when I picked it up. He's sent all his other servants off to the festival in Mudbury."

Turpin looked at Glenrae waiting to see if he had anything else to say. The Scotsman shook his head and made a sharp gesture. "All right, on your way, cully," Dick ordered. "Tell Sir Percy that Dick Turpin sends his greetings."

The wagon driver paled and flailed the reins, urging his horse up to a gallop as he hurtled off down the track, the wagon bouncing and lurching as it bounded over the rough ground. Dick laughed at his panic and turned back to Glenrae, his smile fading at the Scotsman's expression. "What's wrong? Don't tell me, the paintings are fakes?"

"I wish they were."

"Then what-?"

"Not here," Glenrae said grimly as he remounted his horse. "Let's find somewhere private and I'll show you."

* * *

"I think these are the paintings Blakemore listed in his book. The ones he plans to sell on," Glenrae explained an hour later at one of Turpin's numerous hideaways. The Scotsman was emptying the leather tube of its contents, unrolling the largest of them to spread out on the floor. Unknown to the two highwaymen, it was the pirate painting Sir Percy had won from Lord Havering. Seeing it, Turpin hissed in a shocked breath and sank to his knees, peering closely at the painting. "Aye, looks like Sir Percy himself…" Glenrae said grimly. "Man's a pervert…"

Dick ignored him, grabbing for the handful of other drawings and unrolling them feverishly.

"Och, Dick, don't go scaring me into thinking ye like them," Glenrae complained as he was shoved aside.

Turpin sat back on his heels, staring at a drawing of a youth tied to the post of a four-poster bed. His head down so his loose hair covered his face, but his body was smothered in the marks of a beating. With an incoherent howl, Turpin grabbed the parchment and ripped, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces.

"Dick?" Glenrae said uncertainly, unnerved. "What's rattled your dice?"

"It's Swiftnick!" Dick yelled at him, grabbing a drawing and shaking it at him as he crumpled it in his fist.

"What?" Glenrae didn't understand.

"The blond boy!" Dick jabbed an angry finger at the pirate painting. "That's my Swiftnick!"

Glenrae blinked and looked uncertainly at the youth crouched among the menacing pirates. "Och, maybe yon's a coincidence…"

Dick drew in a deep shaky breath, controlling his rage. "No," he said very, very quietly. "No, that's Swiftnick. There's something…" He shook his head helplessly. "No, no mistake. It's him."

Glenrae chewed his lip, staring aghast at the painting in all its vibrant detail. He had seen many a painting in his time. It was something of a hobby with him. He knew the difference between imagination and reality. Dick suddenly shot to his feet and walked away, pacing in the confined space of the room. Keeping a wary eye on him, Glenrae picked up a handful of the parchments and paged through them. Most of the drawings were obviously drawn from life. Several were of the dark haired youth from the painting, but the majority were of Swiftnick and most of the time he looked scared or hurt.

"Glenrae," Dick barked. He turned to glare at the Scotsman, pointing angrily at the drawings. "You know about paintings. Why would anyone draw those?"

"I've come across a few like this before," Glenrae admitted slowly. "Some of the gentry will pay a high price for titillating pieces like these. I've seen worse…scenarios too. But this one of the pirates, the dark haired boy looks too…realistic for it to be faked."

Turpin shuddered and folded his arms. "You mean dead?" he queried. "You think the boy was dead when the painter drew that?"

"Yes…" Glenrae admitted and took a deep breath. "Some painters can only draw from life and reality…" He broke off at the look of suffering Dick gave him.

"Who?" Turpin demanded hoarsely. "Who painted that obscenity?"

Glenrae chewed his lip. "It isn't signed…"

"I didn't ask you that!" Turping moved closer, looming over the Scotsman in fury. "I asked you who?!"

"I'd only be guessing…"

"Then guess… " Dick snarled in a low dangerous voice.

"Lord Rodney Havering," Glenrae blurted, unnerved by the malice in the highwayman's tone. "I know his style and the backgrounds of these have his touch. He does beautiful landscapes, portraits, watercolours…Dick! Wait! Where are you going?"

"Havering Hall," Dick spat, halfway to the door with his pistols.

"You can't be sure it's Havering."

"You say they look like Havering's doing…"

"Yes, but…"

"Sir Percy was staying with him and the wagon came from him."

"It's too dangerous. What if it's a trap?" Glenrae argued.

"What if it is?"

"These drawings could be bait…"

"If that pervert's got Swiftnick, then I'm not leaving him in his hands. And damn anyone who gets in my way!"

Glenrae pushed to his feet. He gestured at the sketches. "These could all be imagination…"

"I hope they are. Because if Havering's laid so much as a finger on that lad I'll blow his head off!"

"Dick, take it easy, mon," Glenrae soothed.

"Easy? Easy?! How can you look at those drawings and tell me to take it easy?!"

"There's no need to go off half cocked…"

Turpin took a half step back towards him. "You say that pirate thing was done from life?"

"Probably a composite of several…."

"And the boy was dead?"

"I'm only guessing…"

"What if you’re right? What if the boy was dead and Havering killed him?"

"An accident…"

"Havering gave his servants the day off. so they could go to Mudbury. That's a fair distance. Why did he want them all out of the way?"

"You’re suggesting the man is a murderer," Glenrae said doubtfully.

Turpin scowled. "Why not? He's landed gentry. Murder means nothing to his kind. Boy's like Swiftnick are ten a penny to him. Havering's practically an exile from London for killing one too many men in duels. And according to rumour half of them were challenges over his taste in bed mates!" Dick took a deep breath, calming himself.

"Och, ye have a point. But what if I'm wrong and he did nay paint them?"

"All I want is Swiftnick. If he's there, as long as he's alive and unhurt Havering won't have anything to worry about. If he's not," Dick shrugged. "I'm going. It's up to you whether you ride with me or not."

Turpin slammed out, leaving the door creaking on its hinges behind him. Shaking his head, Glenrae grabbed for his sword and pistols and followed him. Personally, he didn't give a damn about Havering. If the man had harmed Swiftnick, then he deserved whatever Turpin did to him It was Dick himself he cared about. He didn't want him barging into Havering Hall like a madman and butchering Sir Rodney on sight. He'd never be able to live with his conscience.

On the other hand, Dick probably couldn't live with himself if something had happened to the lad…

* * *