Sitting in a quiet corner of the Wayside Inn, Swiftnick was enjoying a dinner big enough to suit his youthful appetite of beef, carrots, beans and potatoes with a dish of peach pie and cream to follow. Turpin had given his apprentice a couple of days off which Swiftnick had taken advantage of by going home to deliver a lace shawl he had brought for his mother. Mary had been delighted to see him and, once she had stopped crying, had fed him until he was close to bursting point. Swiftnick had had a lazy time of it as he renewed his acquaintances at the pub, picked up a few useful titbits of information and had then, reluctantly, left again. Turpin had drummed it into him that it wasn't safe for the youth to stay at the Black Swan for long. He was too well known and the longer he stayed the likelier it was that Spiker would hear of his presence and come looking for him. So, Swiftnick had torn himself away from Mary and ridden off on his way to meet up with Turpin at the pub.

He had decided to stop at the inn for dinner as he had made good time and knew Turpin wouldn't be at the Bird In The Hand pub to meet him yet. Besides, he wanted a chance to compose himself before seeing Dick again. Swiftnick was young enough to miss his mother furiously at times and having to leave her had made him a mite unhappy. As usual, good food had cheered him up and he was sampling the local brew and comparing it to that of the Swan’s when a shadow fell across his table.

Swiftnick looked up warily. Well taught by Turpin, he had chosen a table where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the pub, but there had been nothing suspicious enough to distract him from his meal.

"Hello, young Nick," the big, swarthy skinned man peered down at him as he commented in a friendly tone, "Haven’t seen you around in a while."

"Hello, Mr Peterson," Swiftnick responded politely as the blacksmith seated himself uninvited across the table from him. The settle creaked under his muscular weight as he set down his tankard carefully on the rough wood of the table and cradled it between his calloused hands. "I've been away."

"Oh, aye? Where you been keeping yourself then?" A waft of ale scented breath told the young highwayman that Peterson had been drinking for a while even if he wasn't yet inebriated.

"Over Cobham way. Got myself an apprenticeship." Swiftnick still wasn’t keen on lying, but he had talked himself into believing it was only a story; like acting in a play.

"Oh?" Peterson’s thick eyebrows rose into his shock of silvery hair. His eyes were a clear startling blue in his dark face and he had a piercing way of looking at Swiftnick that made the young man uncomfortable. "Doing what?"

Swiftnick had his story down pat. "Hauler. I get to travel a fair bit and the money’s good."

"Ah, it’s always the money with the young," Peterson said sourly, taking a slow pull at his pint. "Didn’t think your mother would let you take up an apprenticeship though. Never thought you were the kind to leave home and leave her in the lurch. Thought you at least would stay and take over the pub."

Swiftnick frowned. He couldn’t see what it had to do with Peterson and he resented the implication that he had abandoned Mary. It wasn’t like he had had a choice in the matter. Mary had practically handed him over to Dick gift wrapped and Swiftnick had greatly preferred the idea of becoming a highwayman to hanging. "She was all for it," he said primly.

"Didn’t give her much choice, hmmh?" Peterson chuckled sarcastically. "Still, it stopped you running away to sea, I suppose. Didn’t you want to be a sailor?"

Swiftnick flushed faintly. "When I was little I did," he admitted.

Peterson smiled and made a patting motion with one hand. "Don’t take on so, lad. I meant no harm, no harm. Look, let me buy you a drink..." He signalled to one of the serving maids to bring them a pitcher.

"I shouldn’t really," Swiftnick protested. Turpin always cautioned him to be careful who he drank with and how much he drank.

"Nonsense, there’s always time for a pint. Then you can go off home and see your mother."

"I already did," Swiftnick told the blacksmith in exasperation.

"Ah, then your on your way back to Cobham, are you? You can ride with me a ways and keep me company. There are footpads on the road, lad. Young lad like you shouldn’t travel alone."

Thinking of the loaded pistols he carried, Swiftnick considered he was actually more of a danger than the footpads but he had learned to keep his mouth shut about such things. The serving maid brought the pitcher and gave Swiftnick a bold smile as she leaned over the table far more than was necessary so that he could inspect the contents of her amply filled bodice. Swiftnick grinned even as he blushed furiously.

"Saucy wench! Be off with you!" Peterson growled, spotting what the girl was up to and shooing her off in genuine anger. "Whores; the lot of them. Whores! Lead a man into temptation and sin they do...."

I wish.... Swiftnick thought wistfully as he gazed longingly after her swaying hips. "She’s only being friendly..."

"Too friendly if you ask me," Peterson grumbled sourly. "Likes of her got my lad in trouble."

"Oh?" Swiftnick murmured politely.

Peterson glowered at him. "No concern of yours," he retorted. "More of a warning to you. Shouldn’t be on your own in a pub at your age. Should be minding your Psalter."

"I grew up in a pub," Swiftnick reminded him acidly. "There isn’t much that goes on in one that I haven’t seen."

"Should be at home reading your Psalter," Peterson repeated, scowling into his tankard and taking another long pull. "That’d keep you out of trouble. Stop your wandering...."

Eyeing him uncertainly, Swiftnick held his tongue. He had never had much to do with the blacksmith before, preferring to take Toby to the smithy local to the Swan and then following Turpin’s guide as to who could be trusted.

Peterson had been a rare visitor to the Swan and then on high days and market days. The man had always been amiable enough company; until he was in his cups, then he could have a vicious tongue and a worse temper. Swiftnick had been friends with the apprentice he brought with him and from Nathaniel had heard how Peterson had beaten his wife for her wanton wicked ways so often that she upped and ran off with a tanner. The gossip had driven him away from his home village to set up a new smithy where he wasn't known. Peterson’s apprentice had finally left with a troupe of travelling actors for a life on the stage, unable to take the blacksmith’s grim, strict ways and harsh punishments when he was sober. Swiftnick had been envious of his friend at the time, imagining a life of excitement and travelling far different from that of a pot boy at a pub.

Peterson grunted something and took another swig of his ale. "What’s your master like then, Nick?"

Swiftnick gave him a startled look, floundering for a second. "Mr Turner’s a fair man," he said carefully.

Peterson nodded. "Keeps you in line, does he?" He cast a sour glance at the remains of Swiftnick’s meal. "I can see he pays you too well. And lets you wander...Wouldn’t let an apprentice of mine have such easy ways...."

"I had a delivery to make," Swiftnick retorted, vaguely bewildered as to why he felt he had to stand up for a nonexistent master. He felt like Peterson was casting aspersions on Turpin somehow. "He gave me money for lodgings and food..."

"A likely tale. I reckon you took it...."

Swiftnick’s temper flared at that. "I did not!" he said indignantly.

"Where’s your wagon then, Mr Hauler? I didn’t see no wagon when I come in...."

You’re too bloody drunk to see anything straight if you ask me, Swiftnick thought sourly. "I only had a parcel of goods. I came on horseback."

"And sneaked off for a visit home no doubt. Does your master know where you are?"

Swiftnick had had enough. "Aye as it happens. He does. But it’s no concern of yours if he doesn’t!" He pushed to his feet and was startled when Peterson shot out one hand as fast as a viper and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back into his seat by strength alone. .

"Now then, lad, no need to take on so! I know what apprentices are like. Always taking advantage of the good man who feeds and clothes and lodges them. But I can see you’re not like that. You’re a good boy, Nick, a good boy...." Peterson was rapidly getting maudlin. "You wouldn’t run off and leave your master over a rumour or two..."

Swiftnick really wished the man would let go of his arm. He didn't want to attract any more attention than he already had by struggling to get free, especially when he suspected he wouldn’t break loose. Peterson was a huge man with wide powerful arms used to swinging heavy hammers and wrestling carthorses over shoeing. Unless he let go, Swiftnick wasn’t going anywhere. "Don’t you think it’s time you went home, Mr Peterson? It’ll be getting dark soon and the road’s not safe..."

Peterson peered at him blurrily. "Aye, aye, you’re right," he agreed. "Not safe. Not safe at all. You’ll ride with me, won't you lad? I wouldn't want you to come to any harm...."

Swiftnick hesitated. Irritated though he was by Peterson, he couldn’t in good conscience leave the man to ride home in his current condition. He was tempted to up and leave him to sleep it off at the pub, but Peterson was still hanging on to his arm and preventing him from slipping away as the blacksmith bellowed for the maid again.

"Only as far as the crossroads then," the young highwayman bargained ruefully. Once they were out of the pub he could easily give the blacksmith the slip.

"Aye, aye, fair enough. As far as the crossroads. My smithy’s not far from there. You’ll stop by and have a drop of ale with me...."

* * *

"Well, as I live and breathe," exclaimed the vendor. "If it isn’t my old friend Dick himself."

Dick turned and scowled at the black bearded man grinning at him. "In all the pubs, why did you have to pick this one?" he muttered. "Whatever it is you want, Frank Dibblethwaite, the answer’s no," he added firmly.

"No? You don’t know what I’m selling yet."

Turpin cast a sceptical glance at the large basket over Dibblethwaite’s arm. "Having experienced your wares, I can safely say, the answer’s going to be no before you even tell me."

Dibblethwaite gave him a hurt look and then turned his astute gaze on Turpin’s dark haired drinking companion. "Either your young lad’s changed or you’ve lost him on the road," he observed.

"Och, the name’s Glenrae," the Scotsman observed mildly, waving a hand to invite Dibblethwaite to join them at their table. "Dinna mind Dick’s temper. He’s nay had enough to drink yet."

Turpin snorted at that. "I haven’t noticed you digging into your sporran for any money," he observed sourly. "I’ve brought the last two pitchers."

"Och, I did nay say yer nay a generous man." Glenrae said cheerfully, signalling to a serving girl to bring them another tankard and second pitcher. "I’ll pay for this one."

"About time too," Dick responded, grabbing his tankard before the vendor could get his hands on it. Dibblethwaite merely grinned at him and pinched the serving maid when she brought the ale and an extra tankard.

"What are ye selling?" Glenrae asked, lifting the brightly coloured cloth over the basket to peer in at the contents.

"Why t’is candied sea holly root, good sir. The very finest plant of all. Famed throughout...."

"It looks like a dried up parsnip to me," Glenrae observed, picking up a chunk between thumb and finger and studying it critically. "Eh, Dick?"

Dibblethwaite turned a hurt look on Turpin. Turpin shrugged. "Never said a word."

"The awesome properties of this root have to be sampled to be believed," the vendor went on.

"Och aye, do they now?" Glenrae took a cautious sniff of the pale root and gave Dibblethwaite a sceptical look. "Smells like parsnip too."

"The merest sliver of this fabulous root will increase your masculine vigour, sir, to a point where the ladies will be enthralled!"

Glenrae smirked at him, his dark blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I canna say they complain now, do ye ken? So what properties does yon parsnip have?"

Dibblethwaite scowled at him and snatched the root back, hurling it into his basket and tossing the cloth over the top. "I can see I’m wasting my time offering such luxury goods to such unworthy men," he said loftily.

Glenrae raised an eyebrow. "Speaking as an unworthy man who has sampled the true sea holly root, I can dinna deny the root’s powers in the right...och, hands. But if that’s sea holly root then I'm a Sassenach and ye’ve been diddled, mon. Do ye nay agree, Dick laddie?."

Turpin grinned and saluted Dibblethwaite with his tankard as the vendor gave him a startled look. "Glenrae has a point, Frank."

"You sampled proper....I mean sampled candied sea holly before?" Dibblethwaite blurted.

"Aye. T’is nay much to taste, ye ken, and t’is more the promise of yon root than the fact that entertains yon lassies. I canna say I noticed an improvement in my performance at the time."

Turpin smirked. "No, but I can’t say I had any complaints." He paused, reconsidering that remark at the startled look on Dibblethwaite’s face. "From the ladies," he growled warningly. "And don’t you go thinking otherwise, Frank Dibblethwaite. I'm armed, you know."

Glenrae snorted as Dibblethwaite merely smirked. "Ye were so drunk ye couldn’t have said nay to anyone. Yon molly..."

Turpin shot him a warning glare. "He was wearing a bloody dress and flirting with me! How was I to know?" he demanded and then scowled at Dibblethwaite. "And I can always shoot you if you repeat a word of that...."

"Wouldn't dare," Dibblethwaite grinned, taking a pull at his ale. "So where is that young lad of yours? Swiftnick, wasn’t it?"

Glenrae shot a quick wary look at his friend, but Dick made an amiable gesture. Dibblethwaite could be trusted. "He’s meeting us here," he answered amiably.

"Ah. You haven’t let him go off on his own, have you?"

"Why not? The lad can look after himself," Dick said complacently. True, he tended to think Swiftnick was an accident looking for somewhere to happen at times and he was a bit late, but wasn’t going to disparage him to Dibblethwaite.

"You want to make sure you’ve got him under your wing before dark, Dick. If not sooner...."

"I'm not that much of a hen to fret over him..."

Dibblethwaite frowned however. "That wasn’t what I meant. Haven’t you heard about the Butcher?"

"Butcher?" Dick echoed sharply, feeling the cold prickle run down the back of his neck that had been bothering him since they arrived at the Bird In The Hand. Until now, that feeling of dread had had no focus except unease over where his apprentice had got to, but now he started to wonder. Swiftnick was getting to be very late....

Dibblethwaite nodded, looking worried. "Aye, that’s what they’ve taken to calling him. Some bastard’s been going round doing for the apprentice lads. Glutton’s even put out a reward for information leading to his capture."

Turpin stared at the sea holly vendor blankly as Glenrae leaned forward. "Doing for how?" the Scotsman demanded.

Dibblethwaite bobbed his head and leaned closer to the Scotsman, making a gesture across his throat with the flat of one hand. "Knifes ‘em and slices off their fingers and thumbs. Then guts them they say."

"Guts them?" Glenrae repeated. "How?"

"How should I know?"

"Neat like a surgeon, I mean? Or-?"

"Don’t know any surgeon that’d do it. More like a butcher carving up a cow. Slices them open, then stitches ‘em up with thread...."

Glenrae cast a worried look at Turpin, noting the way his hands had locked into fists on the scarred dark wood of the table top. "Does anyone know why?" he pressed.

"Why?" Frank looked blank.

"Aye, why he’s killing them? Had the laddies' been up to mischief? Someone have a grudge against them?"

Dibblethwaite shook his head. "No, good quiet apprentice lads from what I hear. No more trouble than any lad."

"How many’s he killed then?"

"Three that I know of. Looked like there was another, but the potter’s lad turned up this morning. He’d been sent over to the fair with some pots, but ate something that disagreed with him and couldn’t travel for a day or two. It was probably more likely something he drank, but his master was too pleased to see him to take him to task."

Glenrae kept a wary eye on Turpin, unsettled by the dark look in his eyes. Turpin couldn’t abide cruelty and the murder of innocent youngsters was sure to make him furious. "I'm sure Swiftnick’s been distracted along the way...." he said quietly.

Turpin nodded curtly. "Any suspects?" he asked flatly.

"Plenty of suspects, but no proof. Everyone’s looking at everyone else askance. Strangers have to be careful what they say. You might want to watch your own backs, gentlemen."

"Spiker’s blaming Dick, is he?" Glenrae said sharply.

Dibblethwaite shook his head grimly. "Spiker wants the Butcher more than he wants him," he said quietly. "He’s a worried man. He even rode over to talk to Captain Darcy about it from what I hear."

"Now there’s a first," Glenrae murmured.

Turpin gave him a glittering look. "Spiker’s a lot of things and none of them pleasant, but he’s not one to stand still and let a murderer run wild," he observed. "And neither am I."

Dibblethwaite frowned at the two men uneasily. "Here now, you don’t want to go messing around with this," he warned. "Spiker might think you were involved."

"Spiker knows me better," Turpin retorted sourly.

"It’s one of the things that annoys him, knowing Dick’s a highwayman and still a better man than he is," Glenrae observed mildly.

"Yes, but..."

"Don’t worry about it, Frank," Turpin told the vendor calmly. "Now, is there anything that linked the lads that were killed? Any enemies they might have?"

Dibblethwaite shook his head. "Not that I know of. Didn't even know each other apparently. Look, Spiker’s asked all these questions and so has everyone else. You start sticking your nose in and you’ll put everyone’s back up. Chances are they’ll start tying nooses for the pair of you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," Glenrae said wryly. "What about the way this Butcher does his killing? Any idea why?"

"I don’t even want to think about the how let alone the why! He’s a madman. Must be. And the mad don’t need reasons."

"Actually they do," Glenrae told him soberly. "They may nay be reasons ye and I can understand, but they have their reasons. Dick?" He had caught Turpin fishing out his pocket watch and giving it a hard stare.

"Swiftnick’s late," Dick said quietly.

"Would ye worry if ye had nay heard Frank’s story?" Glenrae pressed.

Turpin gazed at him from unreadable peat dark eyes. "Yes," he said grimly.

"Och, have one of yer feelings do ye?"

Turpin didn’t answer but pushed to his feet. "I’ll get the horses," he said and headed for the door, stepping over the legs of a drunk and swerving to avoid an amorous serving maid.

Glenrae pushed to his own feet and smiled grimly at Dibblethwaite as the man looked up at him worriedly. "Best not argue with him in this mood," he said as he counted a few coins on to the table to pay for the drinks.

"You think his young lad’s got into trouble?" Frank fretted.

"I hope not the kind yer thinking, but he’s way too late for peace of mind."

Dibblethwaite nodded. "I’d offer to come with you, but my horse isn’t much good at a gallop. If I hear anything though..."

Glenrae nodded as he scooped up the jacket he had discarded in the warmth of the inn. "Ye do that and we’d be obliged," he said, slapping Dibblethwaite on the shoulder as he strode briskly past him and after Turpin into the soft late afternoon light.

* * *

"Mr Peterson, I really should be going now," Swiftnick protested as he watched the big blacksmith swing down from his sway backed old mare. He had had meant to leave him and ride on to the crossroads, but he didn't think Peterson would have made it home on his own without landing himself in a ditch.

Peterson waved one hand, beckoning to the youth to dismount. "Come along in and have bite to eat and a drink with me," he urged.

"I had dinner," Swiftnick argued.

The blacksmith gave him a morose look. "You’d not deny me a bit of company, would you?" he asked sadly. "You and young Nathaniel were right good friends, weren’t you? I haven’t heard from him since he ran off with the players."

"I haven’t heard from him either, I'm afraid, sir." Swiftnick wasn't surprised by that. The blacksmith seemed like a hard, cold man, not the kind that it was easy to get close to. He knew Nathaniel hadn’t been happy with him but still, Swiftnick couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. Having his wife and his apprentice leave him must have been a cruel blow for a man as proud as the blacksmith.

"Would you come and tell me if you do then?"

"I can do that," Swiftnick agreed, although he thought it was unlikely. Nathaniel could be anywhere by now and Swiftnick himself wasn't the easiest of people to find.

Peterson had moved towards his house, unlatching the heavy door. It was a rambling building, sprawling untidily where various owners had added rooms at random to what had been a farmhouse. The blacksmith probably rattled around inside it like a pea in a pod. "You’re a good lad. You come along in and have a drop of ale before you go," he urged.

Swiftnick hesitated and then nodded. Peterson was obviously lonely and one drink wouldn't hurt. "All right, but I can’t be long. Mr Turner will be expecting me," he warned as he kicked his feet out of the stirrups and slithered to the ground with practised skill. Toby snorted, his ears flicking restlessly.

"Pop him in the stable round the side, lad," Peterson urged. "I’ll go pour the ale..."

Swiftnick sighed but obeyed as the older man disappeared inside. The blacksmith was the sort of man it was hard to argue with. Walking Toby round the side of the house, he found the open doors of the smithy with a couple of stalls at the back. Toby balked on the threshold, flattering his ears and rolling his eyes as he snorted.

"Come on, Toby," Swiftnick urged impatiently. "I want to be away too. Come on, boy. I know it’s a strange place and it smells a bit funny, but you’ve been in lots of smithies before. Look, there’s plenty of hay....."

Toby snorted again and shuffled his hooves, not liking the smell of the place, but he was used to obeying his young master and finally surrendered, allowing himself to be led into a stall by the door and tied up with a rope halter Swiftnick found on a hook. Patting him comfortingly, Swiftnick dug an apple out of his saddlebag to feed him. "I won't be long," he assured the bay as he pulled his ears soothingly.

Leaving the bay crunching on his apple, Swiftnick trotted back round the house to the door. The place was badly in need of a bit of paint and some repairs, he noted, as he looked at the rotten wood of the closed up shutters. And Toby was right about the way the place smelled; the air held a bitter tang, as if something more than wood had rotted here...

"Mr Peterson?" Reaching the half closed door, Swiftnick pushed it open and stepped into the stone flagged kitchen. There was a rough table sadly in need of scrubbing, a couple of wobbly looking chairs and a shelf with a pile of cracked plates and crockery...

A flicker of movement told the highwayman that there was someone behind him, but before he could turn something came crashing heavily down on the back of his head and he was plunged into darkness....

* * *

Glenrae reined in his chestnut and glanced across at Turpin. There was something dark about the other highwayman, an air of barely controlled danger that made the skin tingle between the Scotsman’s shoulders. Woe betide anyone who harmed Swiftnick...he reflected as he waited for Dick to say something. They had ridden fast from the Bird In The Hand, following the route Turpin insisted Swiftnick would take from the Black Swan, but they had found no sign of the youth.

"He could still be at the Swan," Glenrae suggested, prompting his friend as Turpin stared intently down the road ahead of them. "Maybe Toby came up lame."

Dick turned his head slowly to look at him. "I wish I believed that," he said grimly. "I’d willingly look like a worry hen."

Glenrae nodded slowly. "Aye. So now what do we do?"

Turpin scowled, fiddling restlessly with his reins until Black Bess shifted uneasily beneath him. "I don’t know," he admitted in bitter frustration, startling Glenrae with the admission. "I feel so damn helpless. He could be anywhere!"

"We’ll find him," Glenrae assured him, mostly because Dick needed the reassurance. His own doubts were growing. The road Dick had chosen was a beautiful ride, surrounded as it was by thick woodland that cast a dappled green gold shade across the path. The perfect road to lure a young man into taking his time about reaching his destination. But it was also a lonely place; the trees provided good cover for a lurking footpads and highwaymen. "Perhaps yon laddie’s playing a game with ye?"

"A game?" Dick echoed scathingly.

"Och aye, maybe he’s waiting to see if ye come looking for him and he plans to jump out on ye."

"And get himself shot? He’s smarter than that and you know it."

Glenrae sighed. "If we sit here and fret, Dick, we’ll nay find him."

Turpin glowered at him. "Do you think I don’t know that?" he snapped in frustration.

The Scotsman nodded. "Aye, I ken how ye feel. But maybe ‘tis time to stop feeling and start thinking..."

"Listen, you great Scotch nit...."

Glenrae raised a hand to silence him, ignoring his temper in the knowledge that it was provoked by worry. "If Swiftnick came this way, then we’ve nay passed him on the road. ‘Tis quite a ride from the Swan and, knowing the laddie’s appetite, he might have stopped off for a bite to eat. Is there a place around here where he might have done that?"

Dick blinked at him, his temper subsiding a little. "There’s the Wayside," he said slowly. "He could have gone there then taken the road to the crossroads...."

Glenrae hauled his horse’s head up from where the chestnut had been snacking on the verge. "So, we go to this Wayside and ask if yon laddie’s been seen," he decided briskly.

Turpin hesitated dubiously, then nodded and started to turn Black Bess after him. "What if he’s been thrown?" he said suddenly however. "He could be lying in a ditch somewhere, hurt, hoping I’ll look for him..."

Glenrae frowned, disturbed by the rarity of Turpin second guessing himself. Dick hadn’t survived on the road by being unable to make decisions. "We checked yon ditches all the way here," he pointed out.

"But it’s still a long way to the Swan. He could have come off anywhere..."

"And Toby would have gone back to the Swan. Someone would have found him," Glenrae said firmly.

"I don’t know..."

"Dick, ‘tis as likely that he’s at the Wayside. There’s nay point in not checking yon inn first."

"We could separate to search...."

"Aye," Glenrae agreed and said no more, sitting quietly with his hands steady on the reins as he waited for Turpin to pull himself together.

"Sod it," Turpin said roughly at last and kicked Black Bess up beside the Scotsman’s chestnut. "If anyone’s hurt that boy...."

"Ye’ll have their guts for garters," Glenrae finished for him, then winced, reflecting that mentioning guts might not have been the most tactful thing he could have said. Fortunately, Turpin wasn't listening as he urged Black Bess once more into a brisk gallop.

* * *

Swiftnick woke up slowly, his head spinning, his mouth dry and his stomach churning with nausea. In the semi darkness of a dimly room he had great difficulty bringing his eyes to focus and he instinctively rolled over. The effort was a mistake and for a while it was touch and go whether or not he sank back into unconsciousness. Gradually though, the wild gyrations of the room slowed down to a tolerable swirl and he was able to concentrate on something other than how awful he felt. He was lying on his back on a cold, stone flagged floor with something heavy weighing down his wrists and ankles.

Moving somewhat more cautiously this time, he attempted to gingerly lift his aching head then changed his mind at the fierce spike of pain that rammed down his neck. Sternly quelling his rising fear, he lifted his hands instead, feeling the pull of muscles in his shoulders as an ache in his head. The chink of metal confirmed what his blurred vision told him; his wrists were manacled together. From the heaviness of the constriction around his ankles, he guessed his feet were likewise bound. Very carefully, he turned his head, scanning his surroundings.

He was lying in the corner of what he was supposed was an old scullery. The stone floor was bitterly cold under his back and very, very hard. Along one wall were the long stone slabs where the cows and sheep of the farm had once been slaughtered for salting and smoking. A number of rush lights perched on a shelf dimly illuminated the room enough for Swiftnick to tell that there was no sign of the blacksmith. At the far end of the low ceiling room, a heavy wooden door stood ajar. The rotting smell from before was stronger here, mixed in with something that smelled like old blood...

So, what had happened? Struggling to think clearly, Swiftnick ran back over what he could remember of a somewhat blurred afternoon. Dinner at the pub, riding with Peterson, Toby’s unease – he really should learn to listen to his horse – then something hitting him from behind. Obviously that hadn’t been an accident. Someone must have hit him. But who? And why?

Had footpads been waiting for the blacksmith and set upon Swiftnick too? Why then was he chained up? And where was Peterson?

Swiftnick squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to think hard. Footpads out for simple robbery wouldn’t have chained him. Hit him and scarpered was more likely.

Should he call out for help? Swiftnick wasn't sure that was a good idea. Chains suggested he was someone’s captive and he didn’t think whoever it was, was likely to be friendly.

What if Peterson was a thieftaker? The idea sent a surge of fear through the young highwayman. Had Peterson lured him into a trap for the reward on him? Even now, Spiker could be on his way. Or worse, Peterson could be using him as bait for Turpin. There was an even bigger reward on Dick and a thieftaker could make quite a name for himself for the capture of Dick Turpin.

Determinedly ignoring the ebb and flow of nausea caused by moving his head, Swiftnick struggled back onto his side and curled up, fighting off the black shadows fluttering in his vision. With his knees drawn up, he was able to wriggle his fingers into the side of his boot and free the lockpick tucked into the seam. He had to lie quiet for a minute or two then, his head resting on the cold stones while he waited for his dizziness to subside but then he turned his attention to the manacles that held him. It didn’t take him very long to discover that that they hadn’t been made by an expert. The metal was rough enough to abrade his questing fingertips but the lock was on simple one, barely a step up from a locking screw. Swiftnick could have made them more secure with a heavy pin and hammer to bend it. Still, he was grateful to be able too unfasten the lock, then struggle slowly into a sitting position to start on his ankles.

He had barely started when the door swung open and a large shadowy figure filled the doorway, outlined against the reddish glow from beyond like some horrible apparition.

Swiftnick squinted at it, fighting his panic. "Mr Peterson?" he asked tentatively as he realised who it was. This was no ghoul, but merely the blacksmith framed by the fires of his own forge beyond the door.

The man sighed and shifted, lifting a lantern to study Swiftnick carefully before coming further into the scullery. "Aye, lad," he agreed, sounding wearily disapproving as he closed the door. He set the lantern down on the shelf by the rushes and picked up a whetting stone and a long bladed knife that he proceeded to strop rhythmically.

Swiftnick stared at him in confusion, half hypnotised by the flash and glint of the moving blade. "What’s going on?" he asked into the leaden silence. "Why am I chained up?"

"You’ve been a bad boy and you should be punished."

Swiftnick frowned, bewildered by more than his own spinning senses. "Why?" he asked plaintively. The only thing he could think of was to deny everything and play on his youth. He was good at looking innocent and he knew it. People simply didn’t suspect that someone who looked like Swiftnick could be a highwayman. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with his head hurting so much.

"You ran off," Peterson told him, concentrating on sharpening the knife.

"No, I didn’t."

"Liars get punished," said Peterson.

"But I'm not lying," Swiftnick protested indignantly. "I told you....." He hesitated, scrabbling desperately after his scattering thoughts as he realised with a surge of frustration that he didn't know what he had told Peterson. He couldn’t remember....

Peterson gave him a sad look. "How often did I have to take the strap to you for lying?" he sighed wearily. "You were always so wilful, so disobedient....I suppose Emily encouraged you with her wicked ways."

Swiftnick gave him a blank look and flexed his fingers, belatedly remembering the lockpick. Peterson didn't seem to have noticed, so as surreptitiously as he could manage he continued to fiddle with the lock securing his ankles. "I don’t even know anyone called Emily," he argued.

Peterson held up the knife, studying it carefully, before he once more laid it against the whetstone. "She probably let you bed her," he said gloomily. "Wanton whore that she was. Good riddance to her. But you, I had high hopes for you, Nathaniel. I could have saved you from your own wickedness. You shouldn’t have run off. I only ever wanted what was best for you."

"I'm not Nathaniel," Swiftnick protested nervously.

The blacksmith frowned at him, only half listening. "More lies," he scolded irritably, wagging the knife at him. "Did those actors teach you to be so evil? So glib? Spawn of the devil, they are, spawn of the devil! You were lost and now you are found. I am glad I found you, lad. I can help you. We’ll find the evil this time. I know we will. I’ll make it right again. You’ll see."

Swiftnick swallowed, uncertain if it was his imagination that Peterson seemed to be making no sense. Maybe he was dreaming all this. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said warily aloud.

Peterson gave him a considering look, weighing the knife across his long calloused fingers. "I thought about it long and hard, Nathaniel. There was something not right with you. That’s why you ran off. All you apprentices are the same, forever looking for something better and running off and hurting people. You’ve all got something broken inside. Something missing maybe. All I have to do is find it. I'm a blacksmith, I’ll fix it. I can fix anything. I told you that. I told you it’d be all right if you’d stay. But everything will be all right again now. I’ll mend you, then we’ll find Emily and we’ll mend her together." He frowned, looking at his hands. "Emily loved her scarlet thread," he said softly. "I shall have to buy her some more. But I needed it, you see. I had to sew them up to make it right again..."

Swiftnick was feeling more nauseous than ever and it was compounded by his rising sense of fear. Instinct told him that Peterson was more than a lonely, confused man in his cups. His wits were obviously wandering and Swiftnick didn't know how to cope with that.

"You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t think I've practised. I taught you that, didn’t I? Practise makes perfect," Peterson laughed and the rumbling cheerful sound held more menace than Swiftnick would have thought possible. Pushing the knife into his belt, Peterson reached up to take down a box from the shelf and as his back was turned, Swiftnick wrenched open the bands around his ankles and hastily thrust the lockpick back into hiding.

Peterson had a key on a bit of string around his neck that opened the box’s lock and he took out a handkerchief wrapped bundle from inside. "Here, we are," he said cheerfully. "They were good lads, let me keep something as a souvenir of me fixing them."

Swiftnick wrapped his fingers in his chains, restating the urge to shrink away from the blacksmith as he came over to him on light feet and crouched. The handkerchief was heavily stained by something that looked suspiciously like blood even in the dim lighting.

Holding his burden in one hand, Peterson unwrapped it as carefully as if it was a precious gem. Swiftnick’s nausea surged at the increase of the rotting smell and despite himself, he recoiled. Peterson merely smiled, an odd gleam in his eyes as he thrust the bundle in Swiftnick’s face and flipped back the last fold of cloth...

* * *

Glenrae paused in the doorway of the pub, inhaling the smell of beer and cooking and other far less savoury odours. After a careful look round to make sure there were no dragoons to pounce on him, he made his way briskly over to the counter and ordered a pint. He was none too sure he’d get to drink it and utterly convinced that ordering Turpin anything was pointless. Dick wouldn't rest until he’d found Swiftnick.

In the meantime however, Turpin was busy questioning the stable hands, so with tankard in hand, Glenrae cast a steady look on the innkeeper and spoke up. "Haven’t seen a young blond laddie in here, have ye? About so high, on his own, probably ordered a bite to eat..."

The sour look the innkeeper gave him warned Glenrae that his questions weren’t welcome, but he pushed on anyway. "I'm looking for yon laddie. I’ll make it worth your while if ye have seen him...."

The meaty hand that fell on Glenrae’s shoulder made him tense and look up warily into the scowling face glowering down at him. At the same time a large, nail studded cudgel smacked down on the counter top, wielded by the innkeeper.

"Now, why would you be interested in such a lad?" he snarled.

"None of yer concern," Glenrae growled back belligerently, only too aware that he was now blocked in on all sides by the pub’s patrons. Two of the biggest men grabbed his arms and leered viciously at him.

"Now, I think we’ll be deciding that, what with you being a suspicious stranger and all...."

"What’s going on here?" Turpin’s voice sounded sharply from the back of the pack surrounding Glenrae and from the sudden movement of the crowd, making his presence felt by pushing his way through. He appeared beside the counter, glaring at the cudgel and the innkeeper and then turning a fierce scowl on the two men holding Glenrae. They let go of the Scotsman as if he had suddenly turned red hot.

"Why, Mr Turpin," the innkeeper stammered. "We wasn't expecting you."

"Of course you bloody weren’t," Dick snarled at him. "What did you think you were doing?"

"Well, it’s like this, sir, this foreign stranger here...."

"I'm a Scotsman, nay a foreigner!" Glenrae snapped indignantly, straightening his finely cut coat.

"...with a right funny accent and all..."

"I’m nay the one with a funny accent, ye heathen Sassenach!"

"That I had a problem understanding ..."

"I have that problem myself," Dick said, frowning at the spluttering Scotsman. "Do shut it, Glenrae."

"He comes in here asking about some blond lad all sneaky like...."

"There’s was nay anything sneaky about it!" Glenrae bellowed in outrage.

Dick grabbed the Scotsman’s abandoned drink and shoved it into his hand. "Shut up and drink this before you get yourself hanged, you daft nit," he hissed and swung back to the innkeeper.

"And what with the killings and all, why, it was only right that we should protect our own!"

"Aye, only right!" came a mumble from the crowd.

"Killings, there’s been, Mr Turpin. Lads with their throats cut..." the innkeeper went on grimly.

"Garrotted," someone said knowledgably from the back of the pub.

"Knifed I heard..."

"Nah! They was shot!"

"Couldn’t have been shot."

"Why not?"

"Stands to reason. Someone would have heard."

"Sewed ‘em up neat too...."

"I heard they were hung..."

Dick gritted his teeth, mentally blocking them out to concentrate on the innkeeper. "Look, this is Glenrae. He’s with me and he ain’t no murderer. The lad we’re looking for belongs to me. He rides with me. We heard about the killings and were worried when he didn't show up to meet us."

"Ahh," the innkeeper said slowly. "That’d make sense."

"So have ye seen him or not?" Glenrae demanded impatiently.

"Well now...."

"Och! Let me get a gun and shoot him, Dick!"

"Maybe later," Dick replied, giving the innkeeper a sour look. "Come on, man, think! You can’t get many young blond lads in here on their own."

"Not with the Butcher about," someone commented. "Lad should have more sense and so should you, letting him go off on his own...."

Dick shot a venomous look in the direction of the speaker and it was as well for the man that he couldn’t pick him out of the crowd that was all ostentatiously looking the other way suddenly. He turned grimly back to the innkeeper. "Look, he would have sat on his own against the wall, kept himself to himself, brought himself some dinner probably..." Turpin could see he was getting nowhere with the man and had to fight a nigh on irresistible urge to reach across the counter and throttle him.

"We were busy dinner time," the innkeeper said warily, realising Turpin was annoyed.

"All we want to do is find him, do ye nay ken?" Glenrae urged.

The innkeeper shook his head. "I didn't notice no strangers..."

Dick tensed and started to turn away in sheer frustration when a sudden thought hit him. "I didn't say he was a stranger," he said sharply. "We’re looking for young Nick Smith from the Black Swan!"

"Oh, him! Why didn't you say? He was in here all right," the innkeeper relaxed in relief. "But he wasn’t on his own."

"He wasn’t?!" Turpin stiffened like a drawn bow.

"No, he was with Peterson the blacksmith. Man was a mite drunk and young Nick rode off with him. Taking him home I suppose..."

"Ye suppose?!" Glenrae blurted while Turpin fumed like a boiling kettle, too angry to speak. "Ye nigh on lynch me for asking a few questions about a friend and ye let yon laddie ride off with yon man?!"

"But Peterson’s the blacksmith," the innkeeper protested. "We all know him. Nick knows him. He was a friend of Peterson’s apprentice."

"Tell me," Dick asked in a soft lethal tone between grating teeth. "Did it not occur to you that the victims would only let someone they knew near them? Did any of them have horses?"

The innkeeper blanched. "Well, now you mention it..."

Turpin’s hands shot out in a blur of speed to grab the innkeeper by his grubby shirt. "Which way did they go?" he grated.

"I don’t know! I didn't see them ride off!" yelled the innkeeper in panic.

"Where’s the smithy?" Glenrae demanded resting a restraining hand on Dick’s arm. He could feel Turpin’s muscles taut as sword steel with the effort he was making to stop himself strangling the man.

"Turn off before you get to the crossroads. There’s a sign up...."

Turpin dropped the innkeeper so fast that the terrified man fell to his knees in shock. "The crossroads," he rumbled at Glenrae. "Swiftnick would see no harm in keeping company with someone going his own way. Come on!"

Glenrae followed as Turpin raced for the door, noting the way the crowd parted nervously on either side of them, Anger and danger crackled around Turpin in a seething cloud and it would have taken a braver man then any of them to cross him or get in his way when he was in this mood.

* * *

Laying his once more wrapped bundle on the shelf, Peterson turned back to Swiftnick with a faint frown. The young highwayman’s expression of nauseous disgust both puzzled and annoyed him. "Why so quiet, lad?" he asked gently. "I’ll make everything alright, I’ll fix things..."

Swiftnick shook his head, his blue eyes huge with fright and shock. "You, you....cut their fingers off?" he stammered. "How could they be apprentices with no fingers?"

Peterson’s frown deepened. "They were good lads at heart," he said kindly. "All of them, good at heart. All I had to do was show them that, remind them. I said prayers, good prayers over them to help them mend. Made them understand...."

"Yes, but you cut their fingers off. You...." Swiftnick shivered as he watched Peterson pick up his knife and whetstone again. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to go on sensing that the only way to survive was to keep the man talking. "You sewed them up?"

Peterson nodded with deep concentration. "Aye...."

"Where are they now then?"

"What?"

"Where are they now?" Swiftnick cast a nervous glance around him, wondering if what he might find if he ever got out of this room. Bodies strung from the rafters perhaps? Carved and butchered like cattle hung up for smoking? Somehow he didn’t think any of the lads Peterson was talking about were alive anymore. Unless it was all some twisted fantasy of the blacksmith’s deranged mind...

"Where?" A twist of pain crossed Peterson’s face, his pale blue eyes reflecting back a silvery glitter in the dim light.

"Aye..." Swiftnick said slowly. He wasn't sure whether it was a good idea or not to suggest to Peterson he was a murderer. After all, Swiftnick didn’t know he was for sure. The man might simply mean to scare him. Or he might have no idea of what he done. And if that was so, making him face it could be the worse thing Swiftnick could do...

It was all so confusing and Swiftnick’s head hurt so much he didn't know what to think. His thoughts kept running round in circles.

"They left me," Peterson said abruptly, his frown turning into an angry scowl. "Ungrateful little bastards, they left me after I fixed them...."

Swiftnick swallowed hard, tightening his fingers in his chains as the blacksmith slammed down the whetstone with a crack on the shelf. "I haven’t," he suggested. "I'm here, Mr Peterson."

Peterson turned a glittering eyed look on him. "Nathaniel?" he said uncertainly. "You left me..."

"I came back, sir," Swiftnick said in desperate inspiration. "I was wrong to leave you. I should never have left." Peterson started towards him, a slow prowling stride like some huge predatory beast. He held the knife cradled against him, his broad calloused fingers lovingly caressing the blade. "If you let me go, we can go back to how it used to be. I can be your apprentice again."

"You ran off..." Peterson reminded him grimly.

"Yes, but I've come back...." Swiftnick protested desperately as the blacksmith loomed over him.

"More of your lies," Peterson sighed heavily. "You know you have to punished, Nathaniel. I can’t trust you not to lie to me."

"You can!" Swiftnick yelped

"Don’t worry, I’ll fix you properly. Like the others...." He reached for Swiftnick, bending low over the youth and settling a heavy hand on his shoulder as he pulled him up and drove the knife at his chest.

Swiftnick came up with a squall of frightened anger, all confusion stripped away by the threat to his life. He swung his clenched fists furiously at Peterson, smashing his knife hand aside and punching his doubled hands into his stomach. Peterson grunted and staggered, slightly winded by the attack. As his head came down, Swiftnick swung again, this time smashing the manacles into his face. Bone crunched under the solid metal and Swiftnick felt his stomach churn in horror, but the blacksmith stumbled backwards, his face a mash mess of blood.

Swiftnick staggered past him, his head spinning and his balance shot to pieces, but driven by a fierce survival instinct. Peterson bellowed and lashed out, the knife ripping through the back of Swiftnick’s shirt and slicing his skin. Swiftnick yelped in pain and skittered away, but the blacksmith was after him in a second, flinging himself on the youth.

Swiftnick went down under his greater weight, fighting like a desperate cornered animal for his life, but his already abused head smacked solidly into the hard floor and his senses filled with a star shot darkness. Dimly through the roaring in his head, he was aware of Peterson shouting and screaming incoherently at him then huge hard hands closed tight around his throat, shutting off his air....

* * *

"This it?" Glenrae panted as he reined in his sweating chestnut beside Black Bess. Even the mare was breathing hard, but to keep up with her the Scotsman had had to drive his own horse far harder than he liked.

Turpin cast a look around the shadowy outlines of the yard, taking in the sprawling shape of the farmhouse. No lights burned in the windows despite the fact it was nearly dark. He didn’t answer, but rode Black Bess around the side of the building, taking in the cluster of outbuildings, the open doorway of the smithy ...

The mare lifted her head, nickering softly and drawing a response from inside the smithy. Dick swung off her back and led her inside, peering around the area. The forge was smouldering gently, casting a hellish light against the walls so that they looked as if they had been painted with blood.

Toby was in one of the stalls. The big bay was restless, fighting the rope halter that bound him.

"Smell that?" Glenrae said grimly, sniffing the air as he followed Turpin into the smithy. His face twisted in pained disgust.

"Smells like something rotting...." Dick said grimly.

"No, it smells like...." Glenrae paused, not wanting to say what he thought. "A charnel house...."

Turpin looked at him bleakly and turned away, scanning the smithy for other signs of his apprentice.

"They could be in the house. I’ll go look...." Glenrae offered.

Dick nodded once, prowling towards the back of the smithy, his face fire lit and shadow questing ahead of him like some supernatural panther.

The sudden scream that split the air made both men freeze, the hair on the back of their necks standing up on end at the maddened edge to the sound.

Turpin sprang towards the back of the smithy, his sharp eyes picking out the heavy wooden door concealed in the shadows. He kicked it, his boot heel smacking into the lock and smashing it open. Beyond was candlelit darkness and the sounds of a low voice, swearing incoherently in a confused babble of sound....

It took Dick’s eyes a second to pick out details from the gloom; the hunched figure of a big man crouched over something on the floor, his mumbling voice like the growls of some beast crouched over its kill, his muscular arms bulging as he struggled to pin something beneath him. The flash of blond hair....

Turpin saw red, his temper flashed from barely controlled anger to white hot berserk rage in a split second and attacked, hurtling across the room with a blood chilling scream as he hurled himself on the blacksmith and tore him from his prey. Peterson screamed back, babbling and howling as he tore at a kicking, biting, punching Turpin....

Glenrae hesitated in the doorway, staring grimly at the fight as the two men rolled across the floor. Dick seemed to be intent on gouging Peterson’s eyes out and the blacksmith equally determined to get his hands around the highwayman’s throat. The Scotsman took a step forward, his hand falling to the pistol in his belt; he would not allow the murdering bastard to harm another of his friends however repugnant it was to him to kill....

Then a flicker of movement as Swiftnick stirred and rolled over feebly wiped all thoughts of revenge from his mind and he swung instantly to the youth, dropping to his knees beside him.

Swiftnick flinched as Glenrae touched his shoulder. "Och, laddie, tis me..." the Scotsman soothed, turning him over. The youth’s eyes wandered past him, struggling to focus then finding him in the shadows.

"Glenrae?" he croaked and his eyes widened in astonishment at the rough sound of his own voice. He put a hand to his throat and winced. Bruises were darkening his skin like a necklace of garnets.

"Och...." With a sudden surge of affection, Glenrae scooped him up and hugged him fiercely to his chest, ignoring Swiftnick’s startled breathy squawk at being cuddled by the big man. Swiftnick’s instinctive squirm to escape however faded rapidly and he leaned into Glenrae’s broad chest, accepting the haven he offered with an exhausted sigh. "Hush laddie," Glenrae soothed, patting the youth’s tangled curls even as he looked round for Turpin. His eyes narrowed uneasily...

Turpin had Peterson on his back, his knee driven into the big man’s chest and hard up under the ribs. The blacksmith was frothing at his mouth as he swore and raved, his eyes rolling as he clawed at Turpin’s powerful wrists. Turpin had his hands locked tight around his throat, throttling him even as he slammed Peterson’s head repeatedly against the flagstones.

"See how...you like ...it...you filthy...." Dick shifted his hands, holding him so he could punch the blacksmith in the face.

"Dick!" Glenrae called sharply.

"...bastard....Stinking low..."

"Richard Turpin!"

Turpin froze, his hand still locked tight around Peterson’s throat. The blacksmith’s head was lolling now, his big hands falling limply away from Dick’s.

"Ye want to kill him?" Glenrae asked meaningfully as Swiftnick raised his head dizzily from the comfort of the Scotsman’s shoulder.

Turpin blinked, seeming almost as dazed at his apprentice as he focused on first Glenrae and then Swiftnick. Focusing on his accomplice, he dropped Peterson like a dirty rag and scrambled across to them on his hands and knees, grabbing Swiftnick from Glenrae like a puppet. Swiftnick’s faint protest was muffled by being clasped to the highwayman’s chest and hugged tight.

"You bloody little idiot!" Turpin snarled at him. "Don’t you know better than to go off with a stranger? Especially ones that are acting funny?!"

"But he isn’t a stranger," Swiftnick argued vaguely. "He’s Mr Peterson and he wasn’t acting funny, at least not until.....we got...here....I thought he was drunk!"

"That’s no excuse! You should know better! You’re old enough!"

"Lay off yon laddie, Dick!" Glenrae protested. "Swiftnick, he does nay mean it...."

"I know what he means," Swiftnick said however, peeping shyly up at his friend and mentor. Turpin scowled at him. "I know exactly what he means...."

"Ah, sod it!" Dick snarled but his eyes were filled with a blaze of relief and affection for his apprentice. "You’re still an idiot."

"Yes, Dick," Swiftnick agreed peacefully and his eyes widened as his voice croaked in mid word.

Glenrae snorted in disgust and got to his feet, brushing at his dusty breeches with a grimace of disgust before he stomped over to Peterson. He crouched and pressed his hand to the man’s chest, then his throat. Peterson’s was breathing nosily, making bubbles through his smashed nose. Glenrae rolled him onto his side. "He’s still alive no thanks to ye," he said sourly.

"I did my best to rectify that," Turpin retorted.

"I noticed," Glenrae sniffed.

"Do you blame me?"

Glenrae looked over at him as he knelt with Swiftnick leaning drunkenly against him and shook his head. "No," he said curtly. "But what do we do with him now?"

"Like I bloody care?" Turpin sniffed, gently swiping a tangled streamer of blond hair from Swiftnick’s face.

"Yon man’s...." Glenrae paused unsure of how much to say in front of Swiftnick. "We can nay leave him like this."

"If your morals insist on you patching him up, go ahead. But don’t expect my help."

"I was nay thinking that. If yon man’s what we think he is..."

Turpin gave him a dark eyed glower.

"He’s got fingers..." Swiftnick commented groggily.

"What?" Turpin looked at him alarm as the comment made no sense to him. "Glenrae?!"

Glenrae hurried back to Swiftnick and for him he knelt, careless of the dirty floor. "Now, Swiftnick...." He held up one finger, wanting to check the lad’s focus. Swiftnick caught at his wrist.

"He cut them off," he said solemnly. "And kept them. As souvenirs....He’s a bad man, very bad man....Feel sick...."

"He does?" Glenrae frowned.

"Does he?" Swiftnick gave him a puzzled look. "I feel sick too." He gave them a plaintive look. "He hit me...." he added miserably. "Can we go now? It smells in here..."

Turpin exchanged a sharp look with Glenrae. The Scotsman nodded. "Let’s take him outside." They lifted Swiftnick to his feet between them and the youth leaned into Turpin’s side, resting his head on his shoulder as Dick held him around the waist and steered him past Peterson and into the forge. Together they walked him to the doorway and let him sit on an upturned barrel and put his head in his hands.

"Stay with him," Dick ordered and started to go back to the scullery.

Glenrae caught his arm. "There’s only so far ye can go," he said softly.

"I won’t lay a finger on him...If you’ll excuse the expression. Watch Swiftnick...."

Glenrae sighed, but he knew that look on Dick’s eyes of old. There was no point in arguing with him. As Turpin trotted back into the forge the Scotsman sat down beside Swiftnick and put his arm around his shoulders. "As soon as Dick comes back, we’ll be away from here, laddie," he promised as Swiftnick leaned gratefully against his support.

"I think he’s mad...." Swiftnick said in a small voice.

"Who? Not Dick...."

"Peterson. He said things that....." Swiftnick lifted his head gingerly to look up at Glenrae and let the words spill out, his panic rising. Glenrae let him talk, gently holding his head still while he examined his eyes and felt the bloody bump on the back of his head. When Swiftnick wound down into silence, he continued to hold him, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over his temples as Swiftnick closed his eyes.

A soft sound from behind him made the Scotsman look round warily to find Turpin standing behind him with his arms folded and a fierce scowl on his face. From the look in his eyes he had heard every word Swiftnick had said and was fighting the urge to go back and kick Peterson’s ribs in.

"Fine guard you make," he snapped. "Peterson could have sneaked up on you easy..."

Swiftnick’s sharp indrawn gasp of breath made Glenrae give Dick an impatient look of annoyance. "There, now see what ye’ve done. I’d barely got the laddie calmed down..."

Turpin snorted, but he gripped Swiftnick’s shoulder and squeezed. "He can’t, sunshine. I chained him up. He’s still not stirring."

"Och, ye no hit him while he was down, did ye?"

"Don’t tempt me," Dick snapped, but his eyes and touch were gentle as he helped Swiftnick to his feet. "Was it you who mashed his face in?"

Swiftnick started to nod gingerly then froze at the sharp spike of pain it earned him. He was glad of Dick’s supporting arm around his waist. "I thought he was going to kill me. He’d had me chained up so...."

"You used your chains as a weapon?" Dick sounded proud and won himself a small smile from his apprentice.

"I didn’t want him to kill me and sew me up with scarlet thread...."

Dick flinched and looked over the top of Swiftnick’s bowed head at Glenrae with shocked eyes. "Well, he isn’t going to now," Turpin said lamely. "Look, do you think you can ride Toby your own?"

"I can ride," Swiftnick said firmly, stubbornly though his knees were trembling under him. He’d do anything if it meant getting away from the forge. Dick nodded and led him over to be greeted by the ecstatic Toby, who whiffled at his young rider and nudged him happily. Swiftnick gave the bay a weary cuddle.

"Aye, I know. I should have listened to you," he sighed as he let Dick detach him from Toby’s neck and boost him into the saddle. Turpin led the bay over to the doorway while Glenrae fetched Black Bess and his own chestnut.

"Where to?" the Scotsman asked as he and Dick mounted up. "Back to the pub?"

"No, our hideout," Dick said firmly. "Swiftnick needs to rest and I want him somewhere safe."

Glenrae frowned at him. Dick sounded as if he had something more in mind than what he said aloud. But he didn’t argue. He too wanted to be as far away from the forge as possible...

* * *

In the darkness, the river was a sinuous ribbon of black and silver, rippling over the stones of the ford with a sensuous gurgle of sound. Swiftnick was half asleep in the saddle and Glenrae was leading Toby by the reins. He was about to nudge his chestnut into the water, when he realised Turpin wasn't following them.

The highwayman was sitting on his mare a little way back from the stream, his head lifted slightly as if he was listening to the call of the night.

"Dick?" Glenrae questioned uneasily.

"Take Swiftnick to the hideout. I have something to do."

"Ye canna can’t want to rob someone now!"

A mirthless grin curved Turpin’s mouth. "Only of his freedom," he said grimly. "Freedom he shouldn’t have."

Glenrae shot a quick look at Swiftnick. "Ye canna go back there," he warned.

"I wasn't going to. I had something else in mind."

"Och, Swiftnick will be fine, laddie. Ye’ve had yer satisfaction of him with yer fists. There’s nay need..."

"Isn’t there? Swiftnick was lucky. But those other poor lads weren’t. What about them?"

"Ye canna help them now."

"But maybe I can help their families. Maybe I can stop other families going through that pain. Maybe the bastard killed more than the ones we know about.....Did you think of that?"

"I was hoping not to," Glenrae admitted quietly. "So what are ye going to do?"

"Better if you don’t know," Dick said firmly, gathering up the reins and pulling up the mare’s head from where she was munching on a flower.

"Dick...." Glenrae called.

"I promise I won’t harm Peterson. You take care of Swiftnick for me."

"Aye. And ye take care of yerself!"

Turpin flashed him a darkness filled smile and raised a hand in salute before he rode away into the night.

"Where’s he going?" Swiftnick asked, his normal curiosity sadly subdued by thumping pain.

"Och, nowhere ye need to worry yon fluffy head about. Now stay glued to yer saddle, laddie, I dinna want ye falling in and getting yerself sopping wet...."

* * *

In the darkness of the stable yard at Rookham Hall, Captain Nathan Spiker yawned and stretched, then straightened his wig. It had been a busy day; two poachers caught and a string of clues to flow up about the murdering bastard the riff raff were starting to call the Butcher. Now catching him and seeing him swing would be a feather in his hat. And if he could do it himself, he would be the one taking Sir John’s reward.

The cold kiss of a musket under his right ear froze Spiker in mid step and he caught his breath, waiting in horror for the hiss of the powder igniting.

"Evening, Spiker," Dick Turpin’s low voice growled gravely into his ear.

"Turpin!" Spiker spat in outrage. "If I call out...."

"You’d be daisy food. I'm not here for trouble. I'm here to help you...."

"Hep me?! That’ll be the day!" Spiker laughed bitterly. "You can help me by hanging yourself!"

"I was thinking of hanging the Butcher instead," Turpin retorted.

Spiker froze. "The Butcher? What do you know about him?"

"Enough," Dick said grimly. "You want him?"

Spiker hesitated. There were few things he wanted more in life than to see Turpin swing, but nailing the Butcher was one of them. "You’re a bastard, Turpin, but you’re not a bloody animal the way he is. I want him." The pressure of the gun eased a little against his ear as if Turpin was more sure of his mark now.

"Very good, Spiker. The man you want is Peterson the blacksmith."

"Peterson?" Spiker exploded. "Why would....?"

"Because he has a violent temper and his mind’s twisted. How should I bloody know? I know it’s him."

"I need proof!"

"Since when?"

"Damn it, Turpin..."

"He’s got a bundle of severed fingers and thumbs and a whacking great knife you could carve up a cow with, let alone some young lad. And he stitched them up with scarlet thread....."

Spiker swallowed hard. "How d’you know about the scarlet thread? We kept that quiet..." He had threatened to flog the first man who let that information out. He didn’t want anyone copying the Butcher’s pattern.

"I know," Dick said bitterly as he moved the gun to press into the small of the Captain’s back "Look, do you want him or not? He’s chained up at the smithy whether you do or don’t. One way or another you’ll have to send someone up there because I'm not going back. The place stinks like a charnel house."

"I suppose you want the reward...."

"Give it to the people who lost their lads," Turpin told him.

Nathan turned his head very slightly. "Why do you bloody care?" he said bitterly.

"I don’t like to see young lads cut up," Dick replied simply.

Spiker hesitated, frowning. Much as he loathed Turpin.... "Is your lad all right?" he said gruffly and for a long moment he didn’t think Turpin was going to answer him.

"You’re smarter than you used to be, but aye, he’s all right."

"Is he why?" Spiker said sharply, ignoring the insult.

"Aye....You know the smithy I mean?"

"I know it."

"Then get out there before he gets loose." Turpin snapped. "Now stand still. I can always wing you if you call out."

"Believe it or not, I want this sadist more than I ever did you...." Spiker retorted, but there was no answer. It was several seconds before he could steel himself to turn and look behind him. By then Turpin was long gone....

"Here, Captain!" His Sergeant hurried towards him through the gloom. "I thought I saw someone ride off. You want me to get the men and go after him?"

Spiker hesitated, scowling in deep thought. Turpin could wait. There would always be another time for him. And he was strangely loath to reveal who had given him his information. No need to add more gloss to Turpin’s reputation...

"No, we have bigger fish to fry. Get the men. We’re going after the Butcher...."

* * *

Dick let himself into the cottage quietly, easing the door shut and sliding the latch back into place. Before he could turn around, a gun barrel snuggled against the back of his neck.

"Och, see ye, Dick," Glenrae observed dryly.

"This is to get me back for that crack about being on your guard, isn’t it?" Turpin sighed sarcastically as he leaned both hands on the door and waited to be released.

"Aye," the Scotsman agreed cheerfully, easing the gun away from his friend.

"Fine friend you’d be if the damn thing’d gone off."

"S’nay loaded."

"Oh well, that’s fat lot of use!"

"This one is though!" Glenrae responded amiably, waving the gun in his other hand. "Do ye take me for a fool, mon? I’d nay risk putting a bullet in ye when I’d have to be the one listening to yer complaining and a moaning while I took it out ag'in. Yon plans go oft aglay..."

Dick groaned as he stalked past him. "I've had a long day, Robbie. Don’t go all Scottish on me. You know I can’t understand you when you do."

"Och, ye dinna ken me at the best of times. It’d be me funny accent."

Dick gave him a slow look. "Oh, you’re in a right mood and no mistake," he groaned. "It wasn’t me who said you had a funny accent."

"But ye agreed with yon wee Sassenach!"

Turpin sighed wearily and took down the bottle of brandy he kept on the shelf. Splashing a measure into the nearest glass – recently obtained from a passing coach – he took a large mouthful and swallowed with appreciation.

"Och," Glenrae said softly as he set down the pistols. "That bad t’was it?"

"It sticks in my craw," Dick responded as he sank into a chair beside the fire and let the Scotsman take the bottle from my hand.

Glenrae sat down across him. "What did ye do?" he asked.

Dick raised an eyebrow at the faint hint of worry in his voice. "Not what you’re thinking," he said grimly.

"Which was?"

Turpin didn't answer, but looked towards the next room where the beds were. "Swiftnick all right?"

"I got yon laddie to lie down and rest a wee while. But he’s been having nightmares. Addled his wits he has."

"How can you tell?" Dick snorted, taking another pull at his brandy as he gave Glenrae a level look.

"Yon monster hit him a mite harder than needed," Glenrae answered and held up a hand as Dick sat up sharply. "Och, he’ll be fine. I’ll watch him close."

Turpin sat back again slowly. "I didn’t kill Peterson. But it sticks in my craw that I didn’t."

"Do ye think Swiftnick will blame for it? Ye don’t know him as well as ye think, if ye think that...."

Turpin gave him a dark look then his head snapped towards the doorway as Swiftnick called out in his sleep. Glenrae started up, but Dick was there first, slipping quickly through into the candlelit room as Swiftnick bolted upright in bed, looking round him wildly.

"Hush, Nick," Dick perched on the edge of the bed and was only slightly startled when Swiftnick flung himself at him with a moan of relief.

"Where have you been?" he demanded with a quiver in his voice.

"Well, now..."

"Dick?" Swiftnick pulled back, pushing the hair out of his eyes as he looked up at him and then across at Glenrae. The Scotsman leaned against the door jamb with folded arms.

"Aye, Dick me boy, where have ye been?"

Turpin sighed heavily and for a moment he looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I went to Spiker," he said grimly at last, refusing to look at either of his friends. "I know I said I’d never turn anyone in, but there was no other way. I couldn’t kill the bastard in cold blood no matter how much I wanted to. So, I told Spiker where to find him. Then I followed him and his men up to the smithy and watched them drag Peterson out in chains, He was swearing and screaming like a madman...." Dick shook his head, looking sickened. "They searched the place. Spiker had that bundle of....bits and the knife and the spool of thread...." Turpin broke off, looking at Swiftnick in surprise as the youth cautiously eased towards him to put an arm around his waist and lean into him. "You can say what you like about Spiker, but he’s an efficient bastard at times."

"Ye did the only thing ye could," Glenrae said quietly. "I'm right proud of ye."

Dick snorted, but his old friend’s words were as soothing a balm to his soul as Swiftnick’s silently trusting embrace. "Do you understand?" he asked Swiftnick uncertainly however.

Swiftnick nodded. "Someone had to turn him in and make certain he doesn’t kill anyone else." He looked up at Dick anxiously. "He won't, will he?"

"No," Turpin said firmly and put his arm around his apprentice’s shoulders. "Shouldn’t you be asleep?"

"Glenrae said I could wait up for you..."

"Did he now?" Turpin gave the Scotsman a sour look.

Glenrae shrugged. "I said it," he agreed. "But five minutes later the laddie was asleep, ye ken."

"I keep thinking about Nathaniel...." Swiftnick murmured.

Dick ruffled his curls. "Well, don’t," he told him. "You know he’s safe. Didn’t you get a note from him not so long ago? The one I had to pay for?"

Swiftnick smiled ruefully. "Yes," he admitted.

"Then you can stop fretting about him and go back to sleep. It’s late. You shouldn’t be up."

"I'm up much later than this when we’re robbing a coach!" Swiftnick protested indignantly.

"Well, we’re not robbing a coach, are we? Early to bed and early to rise and all that...."

"And ye can have porridge in bed for breakfast. I’ll make it for ye myself," Glenrae put in.

Swiftnick looked horrified and cast an aghast look at Turpin.

"I wasn’t planning on punishing him!" Dick commented wryly.

"Och, insults! For that ye can clean yon pans afterwards!"

"Although now you mention it, he was late..."

Swiftnick gave him a wounded look and pulled away to flop down on the bed and turn his back on them. He hitched at the covers with a low mutter as he felt Dick stand up. To his surprise however, Turpin leaned over him to pull up the blankets for him and tuck them in, then leaned closer to tuck a blond curl behind his ear. "No one’s going to punish you, my sunshine," he promised quietly. "Go to sleep and don’t take up all the bed. Glenrae will sleep in your bed so you’ll have to share with me; nightmares and all."

"Ooh, and do I get a story as well?" Swiftnick retorted sarcastically.

"Don’t push it!" Dick exclaimed, but he winked at him and patted his shoulder before he turned to join to Glenrae.

"What ye need is a wee drop of tea," the Scotsman’s velvety rumbling voice said as Dick pulled the door too a little.

"Only if you put some of your whiskey in it."

"And what whiskey would that be?"

"The good malt in your hip flask. Don’t think I don’t know what you keep in there..."

Wriggling further down in bed, Swiftnick closed his eyes. He knew he didn't have to be afraid, but he really didn't think he was going to get any sleep ever again.

By the time a slightly sloshed Turpin came to bed in his stockinged feet though, Swiftnick was sound asleep and taking up most of the bed as usual....

* * *

Turpin watched grimly as the cart arrived in the square and the dragoons surrounded it. Peterson’s hanging and drawn a big crowd, larger than Turpin had expected. He had arrived late, disguised in solemn black garb with a huge white wig that hid his face. He had a chosen a shady spot out of the direct heat of the sun where he could watch without drawing attention. Part of him wanted to be far, far away from here, but he had promised himself to see an end to the man and, for Swiftnick’s peace of mind as much as his own, he would keep it.

"He’s mad," a man said quietly next to Turpin. "Quite mad. I could almost feel sorry for him..."

Turpin took his eyes off watching Peterson, taking in the sober air of the man beside him. He was well dressed in sober, neat clothes with iron grey hair carefully tied back. He looked vaguely familiar, but Dick couldn’t remember for the life of him why. He certainly rang no alarm signals.. "Almost?" he asked warily, wondering if he was talking to an abolitionist. He was very much in favour of abolitionists of hanging since it might be his neck they saved from being stretched, but he had no desire to see Peterson rescued from the scaffold. "You don’t think he should swing for what he’s done?"

The man blinked slowly as if surprised to realise he had spoken out loud. "Oh yes, he should hang. But his mind has snapped. I'm not sure if it is the pressure of understanding what he has done or simply an escape from his own horrors."

"You speak as if you know him, sir."

"A little more than I care too, yes. My son was apprenticed to him..."

"Oh...." Dick felt a chill run through him and the man turned brown eyes on him and smiled wearily.

"No, no, you mistake me, sir. My son is safe. He ran off with a troupe of actors and I had to pay Peterson off for his apprenticeship. Oh, I could have taken a strap to Nathaniel for the embarrassment of it, but now....Now I can but be grateful that my sweet Nathaniel wasn't the first victim."

"I know the feeling," Turpin sighed, thinking of Swiftnick. But he knew the man now, Nathan Baltimore.

"You didn’t....?" Baltimore said tentatively.

Dick shook his head. "None of mine," he said softly. "But who knows where a monster like him will stop. Maybe my apprentice will have fewer nightmares with him gone."

"Ah....A father of one of the lads attempted to gut Peterson, you know. I was called to attend Peterson and he...talked to me.....A man should not hear them such things as he said, but Spiker heard them all and it helped tighten the noose...." A spasm crossed Baltimore’s face. "Would that he had gutted the bastard if it made have made the boy’s father feel better."

"What did Captain Spiker do with the man?"

"Do? He did nothing. He let the poor man go. He said he couldn’t blame him for his pain, but there was others who needed to see Peterson swing. He kept the others out of reach after that to make sure he made it here alive."

Dick hesitated, turning his gaze back to the creaking cart as it drew up under the shadow of the scaffold. There was a near riot as the mob surged forward, throwing anything they could get their hands on. Peterson stood like a statue, staring blankly into space and fingering his shirt with bound hands as the refuse spattered him. He didn’t even flinch when a stone caught his cheek. The dragoons surged forward, driving the crowd back so that Peterson could be hauled from the cart and dragged up the scaffold steps like a puppet.

"Does he even know where he is?" Dick murmured.

"I doubt it," the man beside him replied wearily. "I attended him this morning but he was as docile as a sheep. His understanding has gone."

"Some would say no reason to hang him then," a man on Dick’s other side observed. "Punished enough...."

"Though who could say if his understanding would return and what he might do," Dick countered. "This could be a pretence."

"And if his wits were to return, I do not think he would regret what he has done." Baltimore said solemnly and the other man shrugged, moving away to get a better view. Folding his arms, Baltimore sighed. "A hanging is not something I would wish to see," he murmured. "But...."

"But?" Dick prompted.

"I will check to see he is gone and then perhaps I too can sleep without nightmares," Baltimore gave the highwayman a haunted look. "I had to examine the bodies of those poor boys," he said painfully. "He made such a mess of them....."

Dick shuddered and hugged his cloak tighter around him. "That is not a task I would care for," he said quietly.

"At least he killed them quickly," Baltimore replied. "Before he....ah...." He turned his attention grimly to the scaffold as Peterson was finally set on the trapdoor and the noose draped around his neck. Silence settled ominously over the crowd as Peterson stared vacantly over their heads.

Turpin hunched his shoulders and waited....

* * *

In the bright sunshine of the Black Swan’s yard, Swiftnick watched the road from the convenient perch of a table and waited for Turpin to come. Turpin had refused him permission to go to Peterson’s hanging and, truthfully, Swiftnick was glad of it. Instead, he had gone home to see Mary with Glenrae hovering over him watchfully. Mary had been delighted to see him and if she had feared for him to be among Peterson’s victims, she hid it well from him at least.

Spotting Black Bess as she trotted under the archway, Swiftnick let out a sigh of relief and slipped from his perch as Turpin rode up to him. Dick looked weary, he fretted as the older man dismounted and ruffled his accomplice’s hair in greeting. "Is it done?" Swiftnick pressed.

"Aye, it’s done. Nathan Baltimore was there. I went with him to examine the body."

"Under Spiker’s nose?!" Swiftnick exclaimed.

"Aye," Dick grinned at that. "Right under his very nose. Is that ale? The road’s dusty..."

Swiftnick quickly scooped up the pitcher and poured him a tankard full. Then offered him the plate of buns Mary had made for him. Dick took one and munched the spiced buttered bun in pleasure. He had shed his disguise and bathed before he returned, feeling the urge to be clean after watching Peterson swing, but he hadn’t had time or the urge to eat. He dropped one arm around Swiftnick’s shoulders, giving him a hug and turning his attention to the pub as Mary came out with Glenrae. The Scotsman had his arm around her waist, but hastily let go and did his best to look innocent on spotting Turpin. The man was a wretched flirt, Dick thought irritably even as he stepped forward to greet Mary with a kiss on the cheek.

"You shouldn’t be eating that!" Mary protested on spotting the bun. "I made you a proper beef dinner. You won't be wanting it now!"

"Don’t bet on it," Dick grinned. "I’d ride a long way for one of your home cooked meals, love. Come to think of it, I have...."

"Can I have his share if he doesn’t want it?" Swiftnick asked hopefully.

"No, you cannot!" Mary exclaimed. "I don’t know. Three of a kind, that’s what you are."

"Why? Has Glenrae been nibbling on your buns already then?" Dick asked wickedly.

Mary blushed even as she gave him a blazing look and swung on her heel to sweep back into the inn with a rustle of skirts. Glenrae had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"Look after yer horse for ye, shall I?" he suggested. "Swiftnick still being a mite unsteady and all?"

"Aye, good idea," Dick said dourly as Swiftnick looked suspiciously from one to the other of them, suspecting that he was missing something. As the Scotsman’s took the mare’s reins and led her off towards the stables, Swiftnick looked up at Dick with a frown. Turpin hastily forestalled the question he could see coming. "Made a pie as well, has she?"

"Yes, but...."

"I do love her pies. Right tasty with a bit of cream."

"I know, but, Dick...."

Dick went on desperately, "Or custard. Makes a nice drop of custard too...." He steered him hastily into the pub, wondering if he could get a slice of pie into Swiftnick soon enough to distract him.

Oh, to have no persistent young apprentice constantly questioning....

Dick stopped in mid thought. No, actually, not having Swiftnick around was unthinkable when he considered the recent alternative he had been faced with.

"Dick, will you please listen to me?"

Turpin tightened his arm around Swiftnick’s shoulders in a fierce hug that startled the youth considerably. "Sorry, lad. You were saying?"

"I was going to ask....." Swiftnick paused, frowned and then shrugged, having been completely thrown off track by Dick’s sudden display of affection. "Oh, I forget...."

Turpin didn’t quite heave a sigh of relief but it was close. He dreaded Swiftnick starting to ask about how friendly Glenrae and Mary were getting.

"Now I remember!" Swiftnick yipped in delight.

Sod it....thought Dick.

"There’s a fair on over at Meepham. Can we go?"

"Fair?" Dick echoed blankly.

"Yes, can we go? Please? Glenrae said I should be resting but a fair would be all right. There’ll be tumblers and fire eaters and a pie eating contest. Please?"

Dick looked down into his apprentice’s wide eager eyes and smiled in amusement at his innocent enthusiasm. "Aye, we can go," he agreed and chuckled as Swiftnick belted into the inn to tell Mary with a whoop of glee.

Ambling after him, Dick felt a surge of contentment rush over him. A fair would be good. Swiftnick always enjoyed them so much and Glenrae would be good company. Perhaps they could even persuade Mary to come with them. They could take a picnic and make a day or it. Mary would undoubtedly love the extra time with Swiftnick and Glenrae could be relied on to buy them both a gewgaw or two. Smiling to himself in anticipation of pleasures to come, Dick relaxed and wandered into the pub in search of a pint and the beef dinner Mary had promised him

oooOooo

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