"I won't stand for it," Dick Turpin complained aloud as Black Bess trotted steadfastly through the gathering fog across Dark Fell. "I'm telling you, Swiftnick, I won't! I’ll have Deville's guts for this!"

"But it's Dark Fell, Dick," his accomplice protested miserably. The youth was all eyes, frantically straining to see in all directions at once to be prepared for whatever was about to leap out of the fog and eat them. "It's haunted. Horrible things happen to people up here. Can't we forget it and go after another coach? In daylight, huh?"

Turpin hardly heard him. "Three weeks! Three bloody weeks I've been planning to do that bloody coach. And then that low life dog's breath toe rag comes along and pinches the bloody lot from right under me bloody nose! I'm not having it! This is my bloody patch! I’ll have his bloody guts for garters!"

"You don't wear garters," Swiftnick muttered under his breath, hitching his cloak up further around his ears and shooting a nervous glance around him. Was that footsteps he heard? Something hideously awful prowling alongside them through the fog? Or was it his imagination? He hoped it was his imagination…

They had watched incredulously as an armed and masked man in a red greatcoat had robbed the Stanswick coach and ridden off cross-country. Outraged by the sheer effrontery of it, Turpin had insisted on giving chase to rob the robber to take back what should have been theirs. It had been the fifth time someone had plucked a ripe fruit before they could and Dick had had enough. It took a lot to set off his temper, but when it went it was scary. Swiftnick would rather have been stood next to a keg of gunpowder with a lighted candle than be the source of Turpin's rage.

"What?" Dick shot an angry look at his accomplice, finally noticing he was there.

"Nothing," Swiftnick said hastily. "Only I'm cold and wet and its getting dark and…"

"Did you hear something?" Dick cut him off, peering suspiciously into the swirling fog and drawing his pistol from his saddle holster. The fog up here on the fell had a different quality to it than that of his more familiar hunting grounds. That was a friendly, useful fog that could hide a highwayman from his prey; an almost civilised kind of fog. Up here, it was thicker and colder, full of damp breaths of air and windy sighs as if it was made up of ghosts. It was altogether a more primitive fog that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and reminded him of all the stories he had been told about the area.

Peering into the fog now, Dick could understand why Dark Fell attracted such stories. He could also understand why Swiftnick was so obviously jumpy. The lad had a vivid and uncontrollable imagination at the best of times, in a haunted place like this he was likely to believe anything.

"No," Swiftnick squeaked, clutching at his own pistol. "Can we go back now?"

"Not without catching the bastard….Yike!"

The explosion of a pistol shot exploding though the muffling fog made him jump and Black Bess half reared in fright, neighing in alarm at the sudden noise. Toby bucked, frog-leaped sideways and went down with a crash as he caught a hoof and tripped. Swiftnick was flung off, landing in a tangle of bushes. Dick fought his mare back to the ground, glad that she responded instinctively to his hands on the reins rather than panic and bolt.

Toby floundered, struggling to get his hooves under him.

"Swiftnick! Are you hurt?!" Dick couldn't see a damn thing for the fog, only make out the black flapping shape on the round that was his accomplice through the swirling swathes of vapour. He could hear some horrible squelching noises too and his breath caught in alarm.

"No…. yipe! Yes! And I'm sinking!" Swiftnick's voice scratched with the sharp edge of fright and pain.

With a curse, Dick holstered his pistol in his belt and flung himself off Black Bess, ignoring the stab of fright as he realised his young friend had landed in one of Dark Fell's notorious bogs. "Don't struggle, lad. Lie quiet. I'm coming…"

"Easy for you to say!" Swiftnick whimpered, but the wet flailing sounds stopped.

The ground was soft under Dick's feet as he trod lightly around the bushes and he could feel mud squishing up around his boots as he crouched and reached for Swiftnick. He could see the lad now, his blond hair a patch of light in the darkness. "Come on, grab my hand…" Dick urged anxiously, reaching for him. He didn't dare go closer, he could feel the bog squelching under his weight as he flattened across it.

Swiftnick writhed, straining towards him with his right hand. His left arm was stuck under the marshy surface of muck as it rose swiftly around him. "Dick, I can't reach…" he whimpered and Dick could hear the barely suppressed terror underneath.

Turpin gritted his teeth. Swiftnick was fractionally too far away from him to grab. He needed more reach. With a flash of inspiration, he whipped off his cloak and wound it tight as if he was going to wring it out. Then he tossed it out across the bog to the youth. "Grab it and wrap it round your arm," he ordered, keeping his voice calm and steady. Swiftnick didn't need to know how scared he was. "I'll pull you out."

Swiftnick nodded, struggling to keep his head above the surface now as he scrabbled after the makeshift rope and wound it around his arm with several twists.

"Good lad! Hold on now!" Dick shifted position, sitting now with his feet towards the bog as he hauled on the cloak. Swiftnick wasn't a heavy lad, but the bog had him tight and was reluctant to let him go. Dick could feel his hands slipping as it sucked with remorseless hunger at Swiftnick. Maybe if he tied it to one of the horses, used their strength to pull him out…

It'd only take a minute, but a minute would be too long. Swiftnick didn't have that much time…

"Don't struggle! It'll make you sink faster!" Dick yelled as he felt Swiftnick pull on the rope. The bog bubbled around him as if the lad was kicking furiously. Swiftnick obeyed, but it was clearly with an effort from the dimly seen look on his face.

The crackle of dry bracken made Dick tense in alarm, cursing under his breath.

"Edgar! Over here! Someone's in the bog!" a male's voice bellowed and thickset, broad shouldered man appeared out of the fog. "Let me give you a hand there, mate." His brawny hands closed over the cloak between Dick's own. "On three, pull. One, two, three…heave!"

Not questioning the man's sudden appearance, Turpin laid to with a will, heaving with all his strength. To his relief the bog gave with a gurgle, letting them pull Swiftnick free inch by reluctant inch.

A scrabble of footsteps behind him told Dick that someone else had arrived, but he was too intent on Swiftnick to look round.

"Brace him now, lad!" the stranger ordered and Turpin felt arms wrap around his waist. "Good lad. Right now, heave! Again, heave!""

This time the ooze gave up its grip with a squelch and a plop and Swiftnick came slithering free to where Turpin could scoot forward and grab his upper arm, towing him the rest of the way to safety with the two strangers hanging on to the highwayman grimly. The bigger of the two gave Dick a hand in half carrying Swiftnick away from the bog to dry ground where the horses waited. "Easy now, lad, easy. I've got you," Dick soothed gruffly as Swiftnick's knees buckled under him and he sank to the wet grass. Turpin knelt with him, wiping the mud off his face with one hand. "Where are you hurt?"

"I landed on my shoulder," Swiftnick whimpered through gritted teeth. "I think it's broken."

Turpin flinched, but turned his attention to examining the joint; a broken shoulder could cripple him. Swiftnick hissed, cringing away from his probing fingers. The big man leaned over them, his voice deep and concerned. "Can you move your fingers, lad?"

"It hurts," Swiftnick protested.

"Aye, no doubt, but can you?" Dick prompted.

Swiftnick shot a tearful glare at both of them but obeyed, his grimace of pain being followed by a flash of surprise as his fingers obeyed his command. He looked up at Dick hopefully.

"I think you've twisted your shoulder, Sw-….Nick," Dick told him, ruffling his muddy hair. "There's nothing broken. A bandage and a bath and you'll be fine."

"Where's Toby?" Swiftnick wanted to know, snuffling and scrubbing at his face with his good hand as his immediate fright faded.

"If that's the bay, my son's catching him for you. I'm right sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you," the big man said gloomily.

"You caused?" Dick eyed him suspiciously, surreptitiously gliding one hand down to his pistol.

"Aye. It was my son loosed off the pistol shot that must have spooked your horses from what we heard. I know it's no excuse, but the lad was afeared of the Beast. Like I said, I'm right sorry and I should take a strap to him for it. But I didn't expect there to be strangers up here."

"Neither did we," Dick responded dryly. "No need to beat the lad though. It was an accident. As soon as I check the horses have come to no harm, we’ll be on our way."

Swiftnick grimaced at that, cradling his left arm close to his chest in pain. But he didn't protest aloud. He didn't feel like thinking for himself and he had learnt that Turpin usually knew best; even though the feel of the mud sliding into uncomfortable and extremely personal places was making him shiver and long for a hot bath.

"At night? You'll end up in a bog again," the man warned.

"Sit still and rest a minute, Nick," Dick urged Swiftnick softly as he rose to his feet and spoke to the man again, "Even so, we should be on our way."

As Edgar led Toby slowly back to them, it was clear that the horse was limping. The gelding snuffled at the hand Dick held out to him, managing to look apologetic and sorry for himself. Edgar looked equally worried, he was a stocky lad of about Swiftnick's age with a mop of black hair. He shot a quick look at his father and responded hastily to his gesture. "I'm sorry, mister," he stammered. "I saw your black horse and I thought it was the Beast."

"Next time you'll know better than to take pot shots at shadows," Dick told him sternly as he ran a hand down Toby's leg, urging the horse to pick up his foot. "What if it had been the Beast? You’d have missed and disarmed yourself."

Edgar's eyes rounded and there was a disgruntled snort from his father. "You've heard of the Beast of Dark Fell then, mister…?" the big man said.

"Turner," Dick answered easily. "Oh, aye, I've heard of it."

"Might a man ask what you were doing up here? Travelling alone at night's a mite risky these days. You never who or what you might meet."

"We were taking a short cut to Beck's End and got a little lost," Dick answered.

"Ah, planning on going a-hunting then? You've heard of the reward?"

"Reward?" Turpin gave him a sharp look as he let Toby lower his hoof. The gelding had thrown a shoe and bruised his fetlock. He needed to rest it with a cold compress on it; much like Swiftnick really.

"Aye, for killing the Beast."

"Oh, that reward," Dick managed not to sigh with relief. For a horrible moment he thought the man might have meant the one on his and Swiftnick's head. "Would that be what you were doing out here at night? Doing a little hunting of your own maybe?"

A wry grin crossed the big man's face. "Aye and maybe finding a rabbit or two for the pot. How's the horse?"

"Coming up lame. He's thrown a shoe," Dick sighed.

"It wasn't my fault," Swiftnick protested.

"No, lad, I know." Dick trusted Swiftnick to take care of any horse of his. The lad had a deft touch with horses and loved Toby. "You couldn't help it."

"I’d be the man to help you with that then," the big man chuckled. "I'm the blacksmith at Beck's End." He stuck out a muddy hand to the highwayman. "Edwin Pike. You and your son would be welcome to stay with me and mine until the lad and his horse are up to moving on. It's no more than a mile or two over the ridge."

"We couldn’t put you to that much trouble," Dick protested automatically, avoiding correcting him over Swiftnick. The assumption wouldn't do any harm and would help conceal their identity. The alternative was pretending Swiftnick was his servant and it would raise eyebrows if Dick fussed over a mere servant.

"Now, it's no trouble. Dark Fell isn't safe to ride at night at the best of times and with the Beast about…" Pike shook his head. "The Beast killed again not two hours ago. It's best not to travel alone if you can help it."

"And you and Edgar?" Dick asked warily.

Edwin glanced at his boy and smiled. "We were on our way back from the market at Hawkmere when we met up with a hunting party out looking for the Werewolf."

"Werewolf?" Swiftnick echoed as he looked up wide-eyed, then shot a nervous look around him at the fog.

"Aye, they say it's a werewolf. They heard the howls. Any road, Edgar had a yen to go a-hunting himself. Changed his mind now, haven’t you lad?"

Edgar nodded furiously, hair flying. "Can we go home now?" he asked hopefully.

"Aye," Edwin soothed. "How about it, Mr Turner? Will you and your son be joining us? We have a couple of spare rooms for guests. The inn don't have much space."

Dick hesitated. Toby needed that poultice and a glance at Swiftnick was enough to tell him that his young accomplice was in a lot of pain and fighting back tears of shock. He was getting paler by the second.

"My wagon's only a few yards over that way," Edwin urged. "And you won't be tumbling into any more bogs if you ride with us."

Turpin gave in with a chuckle. "Then we’d appreciate your hospitality. If your lady wife won't object to the smell of mud, that is."

Edwin snorted. "We live next door to a stable, it isn't mud Aldyth will mind!"

* * *

"You missed a bit, Swiftnick," Dick chuckled as he watched Swiftnick rinsing the last of the mud from his hair. The youth was sitting in the big wooden tub before a blazing fire in the Pike's scullery, finding it hard to wash thoroughly with only one arm. Dick had had to do his back for him and rinse him off with a bucket of warm water.

Turpin had his feet up and was supping a pint of Edwin's ale while he finished off a cheese sandwich. Aldyth made the best pickle he had tasted in a long time. They had ridden in to the village a couple of hours before with Swiftnick perched miserably in the wagon bed with Edgar while Dick rode Black Bess and led Toby. Mrs Pike had met them at the door of the smithy, obviously worried over Edwin and her son being late.

Dick rather liked Edwin's plump, blond wife, Aldyth. She hadn't turned a hair when two strangers landed on her doorstep in practically the middle of the night. She had had Edwin and Edgar filling the tub with hot water for first Dick, then Swiftnick rather than have them sleep dirty in the beds she made up for them. She'd cut a huge pile of sandwiches for them while Dick bathed, poured a herbal tisane down Swiftnick to ease his pain and then bustled off to bed to leave the menfolk to their own devices.

"Don't care," Swiftnick grumbled, hissing between his teeth as he moved awkwardly and sent a spasm of pain through his shoulder. The soap promptly slithered out of his hand and skittered out of reach across the flagstones.

Dick dropped his feet to the floor and got up to retrieve it. "You’re clean enough. Out you come. That water must be getting cold and you don't want to get a chill," he urged, eyeing the dark spongy bruises swelling Swiftnick's shoulder. The lad wasn't going to be able to move his arm come morning. He helped him climb out of the warm water and briskly helped him dry off, then wrapped a towel around his middle and made him sit down while he examined his shoulder again. Swiftnick ignored him, more interested in getting some of the cheese and pickle sandwiches inside him. "Whaffmmbnl?" he asked questioningly when Turpin finally stopped prodding him.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick scolded as he grabbed a dry towel and started to rub Swiftnick's hair dry for him. The youth couldn't dry it one handed and he'd get a chill if he slept with it wet.

Swiftnick swallowed his bite of sandwich. "I said, what's the matter? You said it wasn't that bad…"

"Oh, you'll be all right, lad. Stiff and sore, but nothing broken. I was thinking about the Beast," Dick told him as he absently towelled away. "There have been stories about the Beast since before you were born. Why, I can remember them from when I was a lad."

"That long ago huh?" Swiftnick grinned mischievously.

Dick swatted him with the towel end but chuckled. "Less of your cheek, my lad," he scolded. "No, tales of the Beast have been around for a long time. From before I was born come to that. A story to keep youngsters from a-wandering the fell. Put a cramp in spooning when you think the Beast's watching you. It's been seen more than once. A big black cat like creature it was supposed to be, black as night. But I never heard tell of it attacking people before. Sheep, cows, pigs, goats, aye, it had a love for chickens too, but never a man. Closest it ever came was it starting for a lone rider, but even then it was probably after the horse. Soon as it saw the man it took off. Started quite a hunt that did, though they never caught it. But I never heard tell of it being a werewolf before."

"Nothing to do with us though, is it?" Swiftnick asked anxiously, peering up at Dick from under a froth of damp curls and towel. He pulled the towel down around his neck as Dick released him.

"There's a reward," Dick mused as he sat down and helped himself to another sandwich. "And we'll need to do something to keep ourselves occupied while we’re here."

"But I don't want to get eaten by a werewolf!" Swiftnick protested. "I'm still a virgin!"

"And you'll be staying a virgin if I have anything to do with it," Dick growled, then paused and did a double take. "What the hell does that have to do with it anyway?!"

"Werewolves like them. You'd use me as bait!"

"That's unicorns, you moron!" Dick exclaimed. "And I certainly wouldn't use you as bait. You’re too likely to get eaten!"

"I'd still feel safer if I…"

"No, don't you go using wild stories as an excuse for debauchery," Dick scolded firmly. "I've told you before, stay away from cheap booze and cheap women. One will kill you and the other will make you wish it had."

"Which way round would that be?" Swiftnick muttered sarcastically.

Dick eyed him, not sure whether Swiftnick was really that naïve or not. "Both of them," he decided. "Now, if you're decent, I’ll go and get Edwin to show us to our room. He was poulticing Toby for me. In the morning I’ll strap that shoulder of yours up. Finish those sandwiches up. I don't want you keeping me awake saying you’re hungry."

* * *

Dick stirred awake, feeling a prickle of unease even in the depth of sleep.. Turning over, he slid one hand under the pillow for his pistol and looked around the darkened room from under lowered eyelashes for the source of the disturbance.

The room was as empty as it had been when Dick had searched it earlier.

Swiftnick, who had tumbled into bed the moment they walked through the door and fallen sound asleep, was currently curled up and sleeping with the sweet innocence of youth, his arm tucked up under his chin as he lay on his good side.

Dick sighed ruefully. He envied Swiftnick that ease. He rarely slept well in a new place for he was too aware of how precarious a life he lived and with people close by that he didn't know well enough to trust, he was doubly uneasy

Oddly enough, even when they first started riding together, the lad had never affected his sleep. Subconsciously, Dick supposed he had known even then that he could trust the youngster. Those first few weeks it had been nerve-wracking to see the hero worship in his eyes though, even harder to realise how much he would do to keep Swiftnick's view of his hero untarnished. The days had turned into weeks and while he knew the lad didn't worship him any more, he occasionally caught the hero light still in the lad's eyes and felt a surge of pride that Swiftnick still thought well of him. Reluctant though he was to admit it, he valued and needed Swiftnick's friendship.

There was still nothing to tell him what had disturbed him and he released the pistol, rolling over onto his back again and straightening the covers across his chest, telling himself he was being silly. It was a chilly night and the fog was making it damp. Much to his annoyance, the tale of the Beast was playing on his imagination. He usually managed to keep the fanciful part of his mind under firm control; at least he had until Swiftnick came along to remind him of what being young was all about.

And according to Glenrae that was a good thing. The Scot considered Dick to have been getting….staid.

"I’ll give him staid," Dick muttered under his breath, turning over onto his side and hitching the covers up around his ears for warmth. "I'm a highwayman for crying out loud!"

Across the room Swiftnick made a drowsy questioning sound at his voice, obviously still asleep but aware of Turpin on some level. Dick lifted his head and his voice, "Go back to sleep, Swiftnick," he urged kindly, keeping his voice soothing. If Dick had called him properly, he would have woken. He wasn't totally oblivious to living a dangerous life, but he trusted Dick to take care of his safety. He was old enough to start thinking of looking out for himself, but still young enough to yield his independence to the man who had gained his respect; especially when he was hurt.

Swiftnick snuffled and burrowed deeper, a small squeezed out whimper indicating he was in pain. Dick held his breath, but sleep won and Swiftnick settled again without waking. Letting his breath out with a silent sigh, Turpin concentrated on relaxing his body so he too could get back to sleep. It still felt odd to be considerate of another person. He supposed he had ridden too long with men who didn't give a damn about anyone except themselves and it had started to rub off on him.

Not staid, no, but he had been starting to form calluses on his soul…

And Swiftnick had somehow burrowed under his armour and stayed there as if he belonged…

The howl echoed through the night, thin and sharp as a broken glass; eerie in the midnight stillness.

Feeling that primitive prickling sensation run down his back again, Turpin sat up, straining to listen and hoping in the corner of his mind that Swiftnick wouldn't wake and hear that desolate cry in the night. It had been a long time since there had been a wolf in these parts, but Dick had travelled North with Glenrae and heard their unmistakable music many a time. The sound of a howling wolf pack was both beautiful and frightening, touching something primitive within his soul that sometimes made him want to join in.

Dick grinned and chuckled softly, his initial alarm fading as common sense took over. Wolves didn't attack men. They stayed out of their way.

Expectantly, he waited for the other wolves to answer the first and felt his unease return, as they stayed silent. The first wolf howled again, the cry spiralling up through the darkness to fade away on a knife blade.

That's no normal wolf, Dick reflected. There was a note in its cry that wasn't…natural somehow. Maybe it was how a wolf driven mad by hunger or loneliness sounded. Maybe it was how a werewolf sounded…

Turpin found himself burrowing back under the covers, fighting the urge to pull them over his head in primitive dread. It was nonsense! There was no such thing as a werewolf…

But how about a robber driven mad by fear and loneliness and anger? The man he and Swiftnick had pursued that night had fired on the coachman and wounded him, forcing the coach to a halt. He had threatened the occupants at gun and knifepoint and lashed out at men and women alike. When Turpin and Swiftnick had arrived, he had fired on them too and ridden off in a fury.

Turpin smiled mirthlessly. No, he wouldn't, though he had to admit he had been tempted a time or two by some. Sebastian Deville. Now there was a name he hadn't heard in a while. He'd hoped the bastard was long mouldering at the end of a rope. And now he'd had time to calm down, he was almost tempted to let sweet reason have its way and give up on finding him. Deville wasn't a man he wanted to introduce Swiftnick to if he could help it. It had been a kind of madness of his own that had spurred him to pursue the robber across Dark Fell.

Spicing up the story of a Beast was something Dick might have come up with as a cover for his activities and he could see the werewolf idea being the same kind of thing. But if Deville was behind it, then he had as always taken it one step too far and killed. If so, then like it or not, Turpin was going to have to help the villagers stop him. But he was going to need a lot of good luck to do it.

And he needed to get some sleep as well. Firmly putting thoughts of werewolves and robbers alike out of his mind, Dick closed his eyes and mentally started to count the number of robberies he had pulled off…

He was asleep before he got past number five…

* * *

As usual Turpin was awake before his youthful accomplice, but for once Dick let the lad sleep. He had had a rough day the day before and he needed the rest. Dressing quietly, he slipped out of the room and went down to check on the horses. A half-asleep stableboy was mucking out when he arrived and was too busy yawning to take much notice of the highwayman as he looked the horses over. Black Bess was happily munching hay, while Toby gave Dick his best 'oh woe is me' type look as he held his hoof off the straw covered floor. Knowing the bay better, Dick examined the horse's leg and was pleased to find that the swelling was greatly reduced. He wrapped the fetlock in a cold poultice slathered with the herbs he kept in his saddlebag for such eventualities, gave the stableboy a couple of pennies for feeding the horses and strolled back into the house.

Mrs Pike was in the kitchen preparing the breakfast and gave him an amiable nod as he came in. "That lad of yours is still sound asleep," she observed. "Looked like an angel he did…"

Dick didn't quite manage to restrain a snort. "Some angel," he muttered under his breath.

"I hope you don't mind that I looked in on him." Aldyth said primly, misreading his expression. "I didn't disturb him."

"Very little could disturb him when he's asleep," Dick chuckled, grinning at her. "But it's about time he was up anyway. He wouldn't want to miss breakfast."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that to the lad. Why my Edgar isn't up yet and I've called him twice!" She smiled back at the highwayman, her dark eyes twinkling. "But the porridge is almost ready and there's eggs and bacon waiting."

"You don't have to go to so much trouble," Dick protested even as his mouth watered at the prospect of a meal he and Swiftnick hadn't had to cook for themselves.

"Nonsense. I like having guests but since the Beast started to prowl, well…" She shrugged her ample shoulders.

"I noticed you had quite a few rooms," Dick observed carefully. There were certainly more than a normal blacksmith had anyway and his paranoia had twitched over it.

"We get the coach trade going over the Fell," Aldyth explained. "Edwin shoes the horses and holds the replacements animals and we keep a few rooms up for late travellers and so on. There's rooms at the pub of course if you want to change, but ours are better."

"Ah, I see. We're not in your way then?"

"Oh no, dearie. Last night's coach didn't turn up. It's be those highwaymen rogues again I expect."

Dick smiled weakly. Although he hadn't known there was a coach stop at Beck's End, he knew exactly why the coach was late. Deville… "I'd best go and get Nick up. He won't want to miss out on porridge."

* * *

Half an hour later, Swiftnick somewhat dubiously eyed the grey gluey substance in his bowl and then gave Dick a doubtful look. He had already sprinkled it with as much sugar as he thought he could get away with and was still having second thoughts.

"Go on, eat it before it gets cold," Dick urged briskly, sampling his own milky porridge. "It's good."

Swiftnick looked round to check Aldyth was out of earshot so he wouldn't hurt her feelings and leaned towards the highwayman. "It looks like the hot mash you give horses," he whispered.

"But it tastes better," Dick assured him. "Eat up. Be grateful I let you have sugar. Glenrae would insist on salt."

"Salt?" Swiftnick squeaked.

"Yes," Dick nodded firmly.

Swiftnick sighed and spooned up a mouthful of porridge. He was finding it a little awkward to eat one handed, since his twisted shoulder had been firmly bandaged and bound up in a sling by Turpin. To his surprise, the porridge was better than he had expected. Not what he would choose, but it was edible and his stomach was grateful for its filling warmth. He ate more slowly than usual and was still finishing off his bowl while Dick sat back and watched him, giving him a teasing wink of encouragement every now and then.

Aldyth brought over plates of bacon and eggs and a pot of tea for them, then bustled off to tend to Edgar as the boy wandered in, yawning widely. Dick took the lid off the teapot and sniffed the contents dubiously, then poured himself a cup and took a cautious taste. Pronouncing it drinkable, he poured Swiftnick a cup, adding milk and sugar the way the lad liked it.

The rattle of the scullery door as it opened nearly made him drop the pot. The cosy scene of domestic harmony had taken him off his guard for once and he cursed, remembering that he had left both his pistol and sword up in the room.

"Yoohoo, Aldyth," a bright feminine voice called however as the door was pushed open by a sweetly curved hip in a blue skirt. "It's me. I've brought the eggs…" The young woman stopped as she turned in the doorway, both hands full of the heavy basket she was holding. She was lovely, fresh skinned and blue eyed with long dark hair tumbling in curls over her red shawled shoulders. "Oh, my. Guests…" she whispered, blushing prettily.

Dick blinked as he estimated her age. She was too young for him, more like Swiftnick's age. As the thought hit him, he shot a quick look at his apprentice. Sure enough, Swiftnick had a gobsmacked expression on his face as he stared at her, but he was starting to smile that shyly impish grin that Dick knew damn well was going to cause him one huge heap of trouble when Swiftnick realised what kind of ammunition it could be. That smile usually had a reason behind it though and Dick turned hastily back to the girl. She was wearing a cream-licking grin as she gazed back at Swiftnick.

Sod it, Dick thought irritably. Sod it, sod it, sod it. Don't I have enough to cope with without Swiftnick getting a crush on a bloody dairymaid?!

"Oh, hello Cherry," Aldyth exclaimed as she hurried back in, wiping her hands on her apron. "That basket looks heavy."

"Let me help!" Swiftnick scrambled eagerly to his feet, then blushed furiously as he remembered his sling.

"Oh, that's all right, I can manage," Cherry said sweetly, dimpling at him in gratitude for his offer. Aldyth helped her put the basket on the side and she started to look through the eggs. "There should be plenty of double yolks for Edgar," Cherry went on. "I know how much he likes them."

"You’re a sweet girl," Aldyth replied absently. "Here, let me get your money." As she bustled out again, Cherry turned to look at Dick and Swiftnick again.

"I didn't realise there were guests or I’d have knocked," she murmured.

"Oh, I, we don't mind," Swiftnick blurted, correcting himself as Turpin glared at him.

Look at the idiot, he's practically drooling. And she's no better than she should be… Dick grumbled in irritable silence, folding his arms and giving the young hussy a glare.

"My name's Nick uh Turner," Swiftnick mumbled, blushing furiously.

At least he remembered who we're pretending to be this time, Dick thought grumpily.

"I'm Cherry," she replied.

"Oh…."

Oh, great conversation, Swiftnick, impress her why don't you…Dick thought sourly, totally ignoring the fact that Swiftnick was too young to have much experience with girls that he wasn't pulling the pigtails on.

"From the dairy," she elucidated helpfully.

"Oh…" Swiftnick said again and shot a pleading look at Turpin for help.

Dick wanted to growl sullenly, but the appeal in the lad's blue eyes was as usual too much for him. "Richard Turner," he introduced himself. "I'm a merchant." There, that should put her off if for a while if she was dangling after a lad with prospects.

Cherry's blue eyes widened ingenuously. "From London, are you?"

"Bristol," Dick said flatly. "In the sugar trade."

"Ooh," her eyes got even bigger and Dick started to wonder if they were going to fall off her face. "You mean like them that's got the plantations in the foreign places?"

"Yes!" Swiftnick yipped before Dick could get a word in edgewise. "In the West Indies…"

"Ooh," she gasped again.

Sod it, thought Turpin gloomily. Sod it, sod it, sod it…So much for that bloody bright idea.

"Have you ever been there?" Cherry asked, fascinated.

"Yes…." Swiftnick began.

"No," Dick cut him off desperately, giving the lad a quelling look. "But I'm thinking of sending you any day now."

Swiftnick opened his mouth to argue, read the expression in Turpin's brown eyes and wisely shut up. Cherry seemed to sense the tension between them, for she started to murmur excuses about having to go and greeted Aldyth gratefully when she returned to pay her for the eggs and order some cream.

As the two women walked outside, probably to share some gossip, Dick turned a glare on his accomplice. "I want to talk to you," Dick growled darkly.

"It was an accident," Swiftnick blurted hastily, doing his best to look waif like and contrite.

Turpin paused, taken aback. "What was?" he asked warily. When Swiftnick made a comment like that it always paid to find out what he was up to before Dick returned to his thought track.

"Whatever you wanted to talk to me about."

Dick snorted. "I wanted to talk about cherry picking," he said dryly.

"Huh? I thought it was the wrong season for cherries."

"It's never the wrong season for this kind of cherry," Turpin observed wryly.

"Huh?" Swiftnick repeated even more blankly.

"Yours."

Swiftnick stared at him and started to blush as furiously red as any cherry as he caught on. "Oh…." He mumbled.

"Uh huh," Dick said dryly, leaning towards him. "And if I find out you've been letting that girl do the picking, I'll come after you with a bloody horse whip."

"But, she seems nice…"

"Don't they bloody well all? You mind my words, lad, she's after your fortune."

"I haven't got one," Swiftnick pointed out.

"She don't know that and it won't stop her if you tell her. And if you get her in trouble, you'll be on your own on the way to the altar."

Swiftnick swallowed nervously. "I ain't ready for the altar," he said uneasily.

"You ain't ready for the other either," Dick snorted. "Look, lad, there ain't no hurry and there's no set time for it. It ain't a race. And whatever your friends tell you I'll bet most of them have still got their cherries too."

"When'd you lose yours?" Swiftnick blurted curiously.

Dick floundered. How the hell did Swiftnick always manage to find a question that could throw him for a loop? "I don't remember," he mumbled awkwardly.

"That long ago, huh?"

"Long?…Why you little….!" Turpin lunged round the table, grabbing Swiftnick by one ear as the lad made a dart for the door. Swiftnick yelped and squirmed, unable to suppress a giggle. "I'll give you long ago, my lad!" Dick barked, getting a headlock on him. "I ought to throw you in the trough!"

"I'm sorry," Swiftnick giggled breathlessly, struggling. "But the look on your face…Yow! Ow!!!" This time the yelp was of genuine pain and Dick let go in a flash, supporting the youth as Swiftnick clutched at his shoulder.

"What's going on in here?!" Edwin slammed through the door, his face dark with fury. The look he gave Turpin would have made a lesser man reel in his tracks.

Dick ignored him, his concern to make sure he hadn't inadvertently hurt his partner. "You all right?" he pressed.

Swiftnick nodded shakily as he leaned on him, cradling his elbow with his good hand for support. "Yes, yes, I twisted wrong…." He assured Dick, glancing up at him and the following his gaze to the blacksmith. "I'm fine, really." Turpin gave him a gentle push back to his chair and turned to face Edwin, defying him to make something of it.

"I don't think kindly of men laying into youngsters," the blacksmith said grimly, as Dick met him glare for glare.

"Neither do I," Turpin retorted, his eyes narrowing. "Nor do I take kindly to men making assumptions about me. I've never laid a hand on Nick and never will."

Edwin considered this, giving Swiftnick a thoughtful look. "Aye," he said slowly. Swiftnick's rueful grin convinced him that Dick was telling him the truth and he nodded slowly. "Aye, well, then, I'll be off to the smithy. Like as not there'll be men up for a hunting party later. They’ll be wanting to go roust out the werewolf if they can in daylight. Would you be interested in joining them? I'm a busy man and I’ll not have time myself."

Turpin hesitated, aware of the trepidation in Swiftnick's eyes. "I'll think about it," he said calmly. "But I think I’ll finish breakfast first. Your wife is a very good cook."

"Aye, that she is," Edwin's face softened with a smile.

"She's outside with Cherry," Swiftnick offered helpfully.

"Oh, aye," Edwin chuckled. "The dairymaid…" Catching the exasperated look Dick gave the youth, he gave the highwayman a friendly nod. "Every lad old enough to notice her skirts is dangling after her," he observed. "A fine catch she’ll be what with the dairy and all. She's a sweet lass, but a bit of a one for the airs and graces. My Edgar not the only one to fancy her."

"And what do you say?" Dick asked, noting the way Swiftnick's expression had drooped a little at the edges. It'd do the lad good to realise he had competition for the fair Cherry's…hand.

"The lad's too young for her," Edwin said meaningfully, glancing at Swiftnick. "There's no smoke without fire so they say and that one loves to light the kindling." He broke off as his wife briskly trotted back in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek in passing. "Aye, well, me for the smithy then. I'll let you know about the hunting, Mr Turner."

"You do that," Dick agreed as he pulled up his chair and reached for the teapot again.

"Are we really going after the werewolf?" Swiftnick wondered nervously.

"I might be but you’re not. Not with that shoulder of yours. Best if you stay safely out of the way for once," Dick retorted, guessing that from the relief on Swiftnick's face he would for once stay put. Werewolf hunting was not Swiftnick's idea of fun.

* * *

"Come, sir," Ralph Fortesque urged an hour or so later. The sun was up, struggling to warm up a chilly day and burn off the last of the lingering fog. "Every lad should have a taste for hunting and shooting and fishing. Bring the youngster along, what?"

"No," Turpin said firmly. Edwin had brought the main representatives of the hunting party up to the house. Ralph was their leader; a portly, rich merchant type who clearly had ideas of grandeur and had the biggest house in town. George Medwick was the most prosperous of the local farmers, but was more down to earth than the somewhat foppish Ralph. "Nick's staying here."

"Come now, sir, the lad will come to no harm with us to protect him."

"No," Dick repeated, wondering what part of the word Ralph couldn't understand. The man was clearly used to getting his own way.

"A cowardly decision," Fortesque sniffed, waving a lace handkerchief under his nose. "For you to hide away in the corner while the rest of us are out risking life and limb…."

"One, I'm no coward," Turpin growled, interrupting him. "Secondly, I will come with you. And thirdly, I repeat, Nick is staying here. The lad's hurt and in no shape to ride, even if his horse wasn't lame. I also fail to see why you are so determined to make him join us."

"Fie, sir, every lad needs a bit of excitement!"

"He had quite enough of that falling in the bog!" Dick said grumpily.

"Let it be, Ralph," Medwick urged, his slow soft voice filling the room and hushing the flightier tones of the other man. "Turner's got a right to say what the lad does."

"The man's frightened for him," Ralph sniffed. "Is the lad a lap dog to be coddled so?"

Turpin clenched his fists behind his back and resisted the urge to reach for his sword. "I take it you have no boy of your own or you’d understand," he responded grimly. To his astonishment, Ralph flinched and his expression turned grim.

"My son is no concern of yours, sir," he snapped back at Turpin. "If you care to join us, bring your nag to the pub. We shall ride out after lunch." As the portly merchant stalked out, Dick found himself left alone with George.

"His son's turned into a rake trawling the fleshpots of London," the older man sighed heavily. "Ralph thought he'd make a man of him with all this hunting and fishing lark, instead he turned him into a selfish little fop. Can't say as I'm surprised; what with Ralph and that shrew of a wife of his he didn't stand much of a chance to be anything else. You stand by your lad, Mr Turner, and you'll make a better man of him than Ralph's done with his son."

Dick smiled, half embarrassed at Medwick believing in his lie, half-pleased at the compliment. He hoped Swiftnick would turn out well too. The lad was a bright spark and learned quickly. At least he knew what a teacup and saucer was for now. "I thank you for the compliment, sir, and I will meet you at the pub."

"Good, good. See you there," George said in relief and briskly strode out, presumably to go and soothe Ralph's temper. Dick relaxed and sank into a comfortable chair, glad to see the back of them.

The door creaked as it was pushed open and Swiftnick put his head round the edge. "Um…?" He hadn't decided what he should call Turpin with the current roles they were playing.

"Come on in," Dick beckoned the lad inside, putting on his best gentlemanly tones, "It seems I shall be joining the hunting party, my boy."

Swiftnick pushed the door shut and leaned on it. "Do you want me to come?"

"After spending half an hour arguing against you coming? No. I doubt if we’ll catch anything anyway." Dick didn't miss the reluctance in his apprentice's voice.

Swiftnick smiled ruefully. "But you will be careful, won't you?"

Turpin blinked and looked at him in surprise. "Caution's my middle name," he snorted. "And it'd had better be yours too. You stay away from that dairymaid or I'll feed you to the werewolf myself."

* * *

Munching on an apple, Swiftnick leaned against the smithy's doorframe and watched Turpin ride out an hour later with the other men of the village. Seen in daylight without the fog, Beck's End was quite a pretty place with a lot more houses than Swiftnick had expected. There was a prosperous looking inn further up on the main street that was run by another of the hunters and was where the hunting party had met. Several farmers from near by farms had also turned up to join in. Dick had borrowed one of Medwick's horses; obliging the man by agreeing to exercise the showy filly. Swiftnick would have preferred his mentor to be riding a horse he trusted, but Dick was delighted by the prospect and quietly pointed out to the youth that the less he was seen on Black Bess the better.

"Nick?" Edgar had trotted out of the smithy behind the young highwayman and peered after the hunters. "Your old man out of the way then?"

"My old man?" Swiftnick gave him a startled look.

"Sorry," Edgar looked sheepish. "I meant your father…."

"Oh, yeah, he's gone hunting with the others."

Edgar nodded. "I'm not needed in the smithy today. You want me to show you around?" he suggested hopefully.

"Why not?" Swiftnick tossed his apple core in the direction of the midden heap and straightened up. "Where we going?"

Edgar grinned and set up off the road. "There's not much to see, but it's better than pumping the bellows. You like fishing?" he asked him as Swiftnick fell into step with him.

"Aye," Swiftnick admitted. There was nothing better than sitting with his feet in the water in the sunshine while he did some fishing. It wasn't so much fun when there was a chill in the air like today though. "But it's a bit cold for that."

"I suppose," Edgar looked disappointed for a second then shrugged. "I heard your father has got a plantation in the West Indies. You been out there?"

Swiftnick hesitated. "No," he admitted reluctantly. Turpin was always telling him to keep lies simple. If he said yes, then Edgar would probably want details and Swiftnick would have to make up more lies. Then he'd have to remember those lies and it'd all get out of hand and he'd get caught out. "But I want to go."

"Bet you've travelled through," Edgar said eagerly, looking at him with avid interest.

"Some but not much," Swiftnick said slowly. He hadn't even been to London yet, despite his best efforts to persuade Dick to take him. "We stay at home a lot. My….father travels more than I do. He's told me about foreign places." Well, that was true enough. Turpin enjoyed telling of his own travels.

"Furthest I've ever been is Ford's End," Edgar confided wistfully, then brightened up. "My friend Jack is apprentice to the smithy there. He's met Dick Turpin."

Swiftnick blinked then it dawned on him that Edgar was waiting for him to be impressed. "Wow," he obliged him. "The real Dick Turpin? My father says he got hung at York."

"Nah," Edgar shook his head. "Not Turpin. They’ll never catch him."

"How'd your friend meet him then?"

"You know Turpin's got a sidekick riding with him now? Seems like something had happened to the lad and Turpin was all of a dither looking for him. Jack found the lad's horse. It were Turpin what took Jack over to Ford's End personal like and apprenticed him to the blacksmith."

"Wow," Swiftnick said again. Dick had been in a dither? He knew Turpin and Glenrae had searched for him when he lost his memory, but he hadn't known Dick had been that upset. Course, Edgar could be exaggerating.

"Turpin must have found the lad," Edgar went on. "They robbed the Bristol coach a few days back."

And got barely a handful of coins for the effort, Swiftnick grumbled mentally. "Hmmh," he said absently. "They say they’re a bloody menace."

Edgar frowned. "I suppose," he said slowly.

Swiftnick slid a look sideways at him. Not too long ago, he would have thrilled to hear of a highwayman's exploits. "I think it's…. exciting," he offered.

Edgar's eyes lit up. "Yeah. Better than being a smith's lad," he agreed. "All them riches and pretty women….I heard Turpin danced a gavotte with one lady."

"That was Duval," Swiftnick said firmly. Dick always complained about that one. "I heard he knocked down the Bristol Butcher though."

"Wooo," Edgar was impressed. "Bet he kisses all the women …"

"The pretty ones anyway," Swiftnick sighed, wishing he got the chance occasionally.

"And Swiftnick gets the girls…"

"What?" Swiftnick jumped in alarm at the sound of his own name.

"That's his partner's name; Swiftnick," Edgar confided, carolling aloud, "Oh bold Swiftnick once did ride, though Turpin he did chide…."

"'Ere hold it down you young ruffian," a drink slurred male voice bellowed from an upstairs window of the pub as the youths passed below.

Edgar grabbed Swiftnick by his good arm and dragged him into an alleyway before a pitcher of water splattered the street. He grinned cheekily, catcalling back up at the disturbed and hungover sleeper. While the man was yelling imprecations and threatening to come after them with his belt, the two youngsters raced giggling up the alleyway.

Panting for breath, they found refuge under the orchard wall where frost still shimmered in the shadows. "You ever kissed a girl?" Edgar asked curiously.

"Yeah…" Swiftnick could feel himself blushing. There had been a girl or two who had found him pleasing enough to kiss - not that Dick knew. "You?"

Edgar sighed. "I kissed Milly once; she slapped me."

"Oh…" Swiftnick thought about this, remembering what Edwin had said. "What about Cherry?"

Edgar sighed even more lugubriously. "Don't I wish. She wouldn't kiss the likes of me though."

"No?" Swiftnick felt a surge of disappointment.

"Nah, she used to be all right. But she's got all these airs and graces these days. Milly reckons she's up the spout by the highwayman."

"Turpin?!" Swiftnick squeaked in shock.

"Nah, he's supposed to a be a gentlemen. I mean Deville. Devil by name, devil by nature that's how introduces himself they say." Edgar took a surreptitious look around and eased closer to the blond youth. "They say he's made a pact with the devil. That's why he's never been caught. He can turn into fog and disappear and he's got a temper like the devil himself."

Swiftnick's eyes widened. And that was the kind of man Turpin had chased across the haunted lands of Dark Fell? No wonder he had ended up in a bog! It was probably witchcraft!

"I reckon he put a spell on Cherry to get her in his bed," Edgar went on.

"More like a coin or two in her pocket," a prim woman's voice sniffed. "What are you up to lurking about my orchard, Edgar Pike? Be off with you before I take a broom to you…"

Edgar stuck out his tongue at the skinny woman glaring at them from the orchard gate and ran off. Swiftnick scraped an apologetic bow and raced after him, missing the woman's amused smile as she closed her gate again. Boys will be boys after all and they looked like a harmless enough pair….

* * *

Turpin was bored. Dark Fell wasn't good hunting land; there wasn't enough cover for man or beast and any deer they sighted were off and away long before they could get close. After a long afternoon of riding the most the hunting dogs they had brought along had put up had been a brace of pheasants that had managed to escape with the loss of only a few feathers.

Truth to tell, Dick wasn't much of a hunting man anymore. He had enjoyed it when he was little more than Swiftnick's age and surrounded by his cronies; back then the thrill of the chase added zest to coming back to a warm pub and an even warmer tavern wench. But as he had matured he had lost interest in the so-called sport, seeking more intelligent pursuits. Nowadays, he only hunted to fill the pot and found a greater attraction in robbery. After all where was the danger in chasing an animal that couldn't fight back?

"You seem distracted, Mr Turner," George Medwick commented as he rode up beside the highwayman.

"Truthfully, sir, I am little inclined to hunting," Dick replied smoothly.

"Takes a man to take to the hunt," Fortesque sniffed as he rode past.

Turpin glared at his back, considering him a pompous prig of the worst kind. Under all that posturing was undoubtedly a coward. He had seen men like him squirming at his sword point when he robbed them.

Medwick sighed heavily. "How goes the filly for you?" he asked.

"She has a tender mouth and a smooth gait," Dick answered absently. "But she’ll not make a hunter."

"No," Medwick agreed. "What think you, sir, is she too much for a lady?"

Turpin thought that over. "If she's good rider, they'd do well enough together. But I fancy the filly to be a little flighty," he paused and smiled wryly. "Like the dairy maid my lad's crooning over."

George chuckled at that. "Aye, you’d have the right of that," he agreed in amusement. "A sweet lass, but flighty as you say. Best you keep the youngster away from her."

"I'm told all the village lads are sweet on her," Dick said carefully, fishing for more information.

Medwick nodded. "Like bees to honey. But like all bees, she has a sting. Rumour has it she's been making honey with a highwayman and now he's upped and left her in the lurch."

"Ah…" Dick said easily, but was thinking Damn it …No doubt the girl was looking for a way out of her plight and the young and inexperienced son of a presumably rich merchant would suit her perfectly. Me and my big mouth…. "Which highwayman was this then?" he asked casually, wondering if he was going to have to defend his reputation.

"Sebastian Deville they call him. He's stayed in Beck's End more than once until we realised who he was. We almost had him but he took to his heels too fast for us. He had his dogs to protect him; damn savage beasts. Constant trouble they were. I reckon someone warned him…"

"You mean Cherry?" Dick guessed.

"Nay, we’re not fools. She'd have tattled to him. We had her watched and kept it among ourselves; me, Ralph, young Meakins, Edwin Pike, Harris…" There was a sudden commotion from up ahead and George perked up. "Looks like the dogs have picked up a scent at last. Shall we go?"

Dick nodded and smiled politely, urging the filly to lengthen her stride to keep up with Medwick's big gelding. Last time the dogs had found something it'd been a hedgehog; not exactly the most thrilling of prey to hunt; unlike Deville. So Cherry knew him did she? Maybe she was worth cultivating after all.

The rest of the hunting party where gathered in a loose knot around a man called Harris who owned the dogs. "Tracks," he announced as Medwick and Turpin joined them. "And like none I've seen before."

Turpin dismounted to join him on the ground and crouched to examine the strange tracks Harris had found. Dick was no expert in tracking since there wasn't that much call for it in his trade, but he could track his dinner and follow a horse and he could tell that Harris was right, these tracks were indeed strange. Longer than a man's foot and broader, they left oddly flat depressions in the soft ground that were marked at the toe tips with deep pits. Following them by sight, Dick could see that they led across the path they had been following, disappearing among the bushes in the direction of the smooth green surface of a bog.

"The werewolf," someone moaned from behind him.

"Finding it was the general idea, Meakins," Ralph Fortesque sniffed.

Dick straightened up, giving Harris a thoughtful look. "They look like fakes to me," he commented.

Harris gave him a surprised look and nodded slowly. "Aye, my thoughts exactly…"

"What are you talking about, man?" Fortesque demanded irritably.

Dick strolled back to his filly and took up her reins. "The tracks don't look real," he told him coolly. "Too flat and too perfect. It seems to me they were made deliberately, maybe by something carved from wood…"

"Stuff and nonsense," Ralph snorted, hitching up the reins and nudging his gelding forwards. "We shall follow them and see where they lead."

Turpin scowled after him as the others followed him. Medwick grimaced but followed with an exasperated glance at Dick. Meakins hung back, looking nervous. "Do you really think there's a werewolf?" he quavered.

Dick gave him a dirty look, then softened as he realised that Meakins was the youngest of their party. He was a lanky young man, with a permanently panic stricken expression; a farmer's son who probably wasn't much older than Swiftnick and had probably seen the hunt as a bit of a lark to get out of mucking out the pigs. So, he told him what he would have told his accomplice. "No," he said easily. "There's no such thing. If you ask me, it's someone playing games. Maybe this highwayman that George was telling me about."

"Deville?" Meakin's eyes widened in his thin face.

"You've heard of him then." Dick mounted up, gathering up the filly and asking her to trot on. With a bit of curvetting and side-stepping she reluctantly obeyed. Meakins rode along beside him.

"Oh aye, everyone's heard of him. He stayed in the village for a while; quite a one with the ladies he was." Meakins looked faintly embarrassed. "We were all glad to see the back of him."

"I'm not surprised."

"Bad temper though. Right nasty. Least thing would set him off. You should have heard him when they found out who he was; swearing and a yelling at everyone. They did their best to hang him, you know. But he got away. Swore vengeance he did."

"That sounds about right," Dick muttered.

"Sorry, sir?"

"About right, for a highwayman that is. Threats. How'd he get away?"

"Rumour has it Cherry from the dairy was his lover and she helped him."

"So I heard," Dick mused, frowning at the others ahead of them. The fog was starting to come up again, rising thick and fast in concealing grey white veils. "We'd better catch up with the others. I don't know my way here and I’d rather not get lost."

Half an hour later and the fog was impenetrable, lying like skeins of twisting wool in the air around them. Odd shapes loomed up out of it, making them all nervous. Somehow Turpin and Fortesque had gotten separated from the rest of the hunting party, although every now and then odd echoes drifted out of the fog.

"Spooky isn't it?" Dick commented with a certain amount of malice, having observed how jumpy Fortesque was. "You can almost hear the howling of ghosts lost in the fog."

"That isn't funny," Ralph snapped. "I am not a mere stripling to be frightened by ghost stories."

Dick chuckled, enjoying his baiting of the older man. The fog muffled the hoofbeats of the horses, making it seem as if the two men and their mounts were the only creatures left alive.

"I do believe we're near Headman's Rock," Ralph went on as if he needed to hear the sound of his own voice filling up the silence. "We should be able to find our way back to the village from here quite easily."

"Quite," Dick said dryly. He was pretty sure he knew where he was too now. They had come this way earlier he was sure. "Did you hear something?"

"No…" Ralph snapped stiffly. "I do not find your puerile jokes amusing, Mr Turner."

"Hmmh," Dick murmured absently, straining his ears to hear. "Sounds like dogs. Could be the rest of our party."

"Oh, of course." Fortesque flushed, looking both relieved and embarrassed.

Dick's filly suddenly snorted and leapt, catapulting herself sideways in an ungraceful frog like leap that would have had a lesser horseman than Turpin out of the saddle. Even so it took him several yards to control her and stop her bolting. Finally pulling up her head, Dick controlled the snorting animal and hastily dismounted, wondering what had startled her so much. The filly stood trembling, her nostrils flaring wide as she scented the air and looked around him wild-eyed at the little hollow beneath a rocky outcrop that they had ground. The fog here was thinner and Dick could see Ralph clearly as the older man reined in his own gelding a few paces away.

"Here, hold her while she calms down. I’d better see what startled her," Dick ordered as he took his pistol from his saddle holster. Handing the reins to Fortesque to hold and ignoring his indignant expression, Turpin backtracked to the spot where the filly had shied, picking his way through the fog over the rough ground. It was easy enough to see what had startled her. The smell alone was enough to give it away.

After a wary look round, Dick shoved his pistol through his belt and moved closer. There was a body lying half-concealed in the brush, one pale leg sticking out onto the path. Turpin hesitated, steeling himself to pull aside the branches and peer in. He couldn't see much in the poor light but it was enough to make out the back of a man's mangled head and neck, that looked as if he had been chewed on by wild animals.

The sudden howling of a dog made his hair stand up on end as he leaped back from the body and looked around wildly. Fortesque shrieked in the fog and hooves pounded suddenly away. Swearing, Turpin raced back up the path.

"Fortesque! Ralph! Stand you, swine!" he roared, but the horses receded into the distance and he could hear the frantic baying of a dog in pursuit. Bursting out of the fog into the hollow, Turpin skidded to a halt and looked around in alarm. The fog was closing in again, throwing off his sense of direction. He could hear the dogs close by, but he could tell how many there were. At one moment it seemed like only one, at another as if there were hundreds.

"Harris? Medwick?!" Dick called hopefully.

Above him on the rocks there was a scrabbling sound and Dick looked up, reaching instinctively for his gun as he saw the black and tan dog bound out onto a boulder and stare down at him. This was no friendly tail wagging hound from Harris' pack, but an angry drooling monster straight out of a horror story.

Holding his breath, Dick very, very slowly started to back away. The dog crouched, snarled, then flung back its head and bayed before it leaped, charging down the rock and racing towards the highwayman. Turpin brought his gun up but wasn't quite fast enough as the dog slammed into his chest and bowled him over, sending him tumbling down the grassy slope of the hollow. Turpin lost his grip on the gun as he fell. Teeth snapped at his face and throat and he punched the dog wildly in the head, grabbing for one torn ear and twisted savagely. The dog yelped and twisted, back paws scrabbling as it snarled and turned its teeth on his upper arm. Cloth ripped under those vicious teeth as Dick rolled over on top of the animal, jabbing his knees into its ribs and squeezing as he gripped its neck and viciously wrenched and twisted…

Bone snapped and the dog went limp under him…

Panting and shaking, Dick collapsed on top of the animal, feeling blood running down the inside of his sleeve. His good coat was ripped, but that could be mended easily enough and he was grateful to the heavy cloth for saving him from worse.

Somewhere too close by a dog bayed in the fog and another answered…

Dick shoved to his feet and nearly fell over again, then dropped to his knees, questing through the long wet grass to find his pistol before the rest of the pack found him…

* * *

Swiftnick and Edgar were playing a game of conkers in the stables when they heard the clatter of hooves coming down the street and the sudden commotion of voices. Abandoning their game, they rushed outside. Swiftnick was hoping it was Turpin returning; he was getting anxious about his partner.

The majority of the hunting party had returned and there seemed to be an argument going on. "The hounds of Hell, I tell you!" Ralph Fortesque was bellowing. "The very hounds of Hell. I saw them myself and had to take to my heels to escape. "

Swiftnick shoved through the crowd with Edgar on his heels, the pair of them ignored by the excited men.

"Where's...um...my father?" Swiftnick demanded as he searched the crowd for a familiar face.

"I don't know," Medwick admitted. "We were separated by the fog."

"I saw him with Mr Fortesque," Meakins offered.

"Nonsense," Fortesque snorted.

Swiftnick frowned, feeling uneasy and his fears growing as he spotted the filly, sweat soaked and shivering, by Fortesque's gelding. "That's his horse! Where is he?"

"Nick, you can't go yelling at Mr Fortesque," Edgar protested. Swiftnick shook him off, pushing his way right up to Ralph.

"His horse?" Fortesque blustered. "Why how should I know where he is? As George said, the fog…"

"You had the filly with when you came up on us in the fog," Harris observed.

"Nonsense…"

"Had her by the reins you did…."

"I found her, roaming loose…."

"And you didn't look for him?" Swiftnick yelled.

"I…the dogs….I…couldn't…"

"You mean you saved your own stinking skin, you lousy coward!" Swiftnick shouted at him, wanting to kick the man where it hurt for betraying his mentor.

"Now, that's enough!" Medwick barked. "You've got no call…"

"Where?" Swiftnick ignored him. "Where did you last see him?"

"He come up on us by Headman's Rock," Harris offered when Fortesque stubbornly refused to answer.

Swiftnick swung away immediately. He knew where Headman's Rock was. "Edgar, saddle our black mare…." He ordered and raced off, tearing back to his room at the smithy for his pistols. Edgar ran for the stables without a word.

Medwick turned and gave Fortesque a slow look. "Ralph?"

"I told you, I found the filly roaming loose with no sign of Turner. What was I supposed to do? The man's no friend of mine and the dogs were on my scent."

"Why didn't you say something?" Meakins demanded impatiently.

"Say what? We were all in a dither! There was no time. We had to get away from those dogs. I did nothing wrong."

"You left Turner alone and on foot…." Harris muttered, shaking his had.

"Anyone would have done the same if I had done such a thing which I have not!" Fortesque roared. "The dogs were after me! If anything I must have led them away from Turner."

"Leaving him out there alone on foot, maybe hurt…" Meakins wondered, shocked.

"Or dead," Harris commented.

"Aye, dead!" Ralph snarled. "Was I supposed to risk my life for his body? I hallooed for him but there was no answer! I heard nothing except the dogs. All this because one fool of a boy gets hysterical?"

"The boy was angry not hysterical," Medwick observed grimly. "We'd best lay hold of him and stop him being foolish enough to…..By damn….!"

The last exploded out of him as Black Bess exploded out of the stables with Swiftnick astride her, the mare lunging into her effortless ground covering stride as she plunged through the crowd, startling men and horses aside in her flight as her rider urged her on. "Go on, Bess, go on…find him…"

"Nick! Nick, come back here you young fool!" Medwick roared after him. "We'll start a search party for your father, lad! Come back before you get yourself killed…."

* * *

Dick trotted as quickly as he could, his breath panting as he loped over the rough, ground, stumbling now and then as exhaustion nipped at his heels. He was a fit man, he couldn't afford not to be. But a horseman isn't a runner and he had run a long way all ready. It wasn't the exhaustion nipping at his heels that worried him though, it was the dogs that were doing the same. They were close, he could hear them through the fog. Every now and then they would howl and bay in their excitement at the chase. Despite his best efforts to throw them off the track, they had picked up his scent again and again. No detour through bog or stream dislodged them from his tail and he knew they were closing in.

Finally admitting he could run no more for now, Turpin came to a gasping halt, leaning on his knees for a moment before he sagged into the soft green turf to get his breath back. Someone had taught these dogs to hunt a man, he had decided. Someone who knew how human prey would think and react.

He couldn't help remembering the torn body he had found in the bushes. He didn't doubt that it was these same dogs that had done for the stranger as would do for him if he didn't come up with a plan soon.

The village wasn't that far off now; a mile or two maybe. But too far for him to reach before the dogs reached him. Nothing in his surroundings offered a safe shelter or even a place to make a last stand. The fog was lifting a little too now, now that he wished it would linger and conceal him. If the dogs caught sight of him they'd be on him that much sooner.

Dick forced himself back to his feet, feeling his legs trembling with exhaustion under him. He had one shot in his pistol, a knife in his boot and his bare hands. Not much to fight a pack of savage dogs with. He limped a few more feet, picking his way through the thorny bushes until an outcrop of rock looming up from the fog brought him to a halt. He sank against the cold damp stone and swore under his breath, then started to trace a path around its side.

Maybe he wasn't as close to the village as he had thought. There were no outcrops like this near by…

Turpin came to a halt and peered up through the fog above him, making out the bulky familiar outline….

Sod it, he'd gotten turned around in the fog. This was Headman's Rock! He was nowhere near the village…

The dogs bayed close by and Dick whipped around, putting his back to the rocks as the first of the pack hurtled out of the fog straight at him. Gritting his teeth, Turpin levelled his pistol on the slavering animal and shot it before it could reach him. It yipped once and went tumbling as two more mongrels burst out of the fog. One went to sniff at the twitching body the second came straight on for Turpin. Dick pulled the knife from his boot and stepped forward, shouting at the dog in the vague hopes it might obey an order.

"Down, you brute!"

The shaggy grey dog hesitated, cringing from his tone for a second then leapt at him anyway. Dick attempted to dodge and slashed, ripping one brindled flank with his knife. With a whine of pain, the dog recoiled and retreated but the other beast closed in. Turpin dodged again, managed to grab the dog's ears and twist its head back. As it snapped at him, he cut its throat and was covered in the gush of scarlet blood. Out in the fog he heard the other dogs barking furiously and for a second he thought he heard a horse, then another dog was lunging for his throat and he was bowled off his throat by the impact against his chest. Turpin rolled with the animal, hurling it over his head and heard a wet, squishy thump and a howl of panic from the beast as it landed.

Bog, Dick thought groggily, dragging himself back to his feet as three more slavering dogs slunk from the fog, eyes gleaming in the brassy light. He set his feet, taking a firm grip on his bloodied knife and groggily wandering how many more of them there were.

The throbbing of hooves suddenly seemed to explode around him, filling the air and distracting him as the next dog lunged at his legs, hoping to hamstring him and driving him back as he dodged desperately.

A black horse burst out of the fog like some wild apparition, screaming in fury as she rode over the dogs, trampling them in her rage. Dick gaped in disbelief as a pistol cracked out and the dog at his feet jerked, snapping at the blood on its side as it convulsed.

"Dick!" Wild eyed and scared, Swiftnick hauled Black Bess to a halt beside the highwayman.

"How the….?!" Turpin blurted, then changed his mind as Black Bess snorted and kicked, smashing a dog away from her hindquarters. Swiftnick kicked his foot free from a stirrup and Dick, tucked his own toes into it, vaulting astride the mare behind his young accomplice. Wrapping one arm around the lad, Dick caught at the reins. "Hyup, Bess!" he yelled and the mare leaped forward, trampling over the mongrels as she bounded forward into a gallop and away from the enraged pack.

The dogs did their best to pursue the galloping mare, but even with a double load Black Bess easily outdistanced them. When he finally decided that they had reached a safe distance, Turpin reined the mare in, letting her walk and catch her breath.

"Are you all right?" Swiftnick blurted as soon as he could speak. "Are you badly hurt?"

"I don't think so…" Dick admitted, slowly taking stock of himself. Apart from his arm, it seemed to be mostly aches and pains.

"But the blood…"

"Mostly dogs blood…."

Swiftnick twisted, anxiously looking over his shoulder at him. "Mostly?"

"Nothing I can't take care of," Dick assured him. "What are you doing out here, Swiftnick? I told you to stay put…"

"Fortesque came back with your horse without you and said about the dogs…"

"So you came out here on your own to look for me? You daft h’apporth…"

"You’d have done the same for me," Swiftnick responded defiantly.

Turpin pursed his lips, ruefully admitting Swiftnick had a point there. "How'd you find me then?"

Swiftnick started to shrug, then winced. He had pulled off his sling so he could ride and was now starting to regret it. "They said when they last saw you, you were near Headman's Rock. I knew where that was so I rode up here and started looking. I told Bess to find you. Then I heard the dogs…"

"And rode straight for them instead of in the opposite direction…" Dick snorted.

"Yes, I knew that's where'd you be. I thought you’d head for the nearest landmark so a search party could find you…"

Dick was glad of the fog and the gathering gloom to hide his expression from Swiftnick. He wasn't about to admit he had gotten lost in the fog.

"Are you sure you’re all right?" Swiftnick pressed anxiously.

Turpin chuckled and gave him a rough hug with one arm. "A hot bath and a good meal will set me up fine, my lad," he told him. "That and punching out Mr Fortesque's lights for him."

"Then he did ride off and leave you! I knew it!" Swiftnick yelped in triumph.

"Aye," Dick said grimly. "And he and I will be chatting about that…"

* * *

"Right," Medwick began, rubbing his hands together. "Let's be having you then. Headman's Rock first and spread out from there. We'll find the pair of them…"

"George," Harris interrupted. "Lookee there…."

Medwick broke off and turned to look, gaping in astonishment at the sight of Turpin and Swiftnick riding down the street. Dick halted the mare outside the stable and slid off, letting Swiftnick slip down beside him.

"Mr Turner, I had given up hopes of seeing you alive!" Meakins exclaimed, gawping at the blood soaked Turpin in shock.

"If it hadn't been for Nick here, I wouldn't be," Dick reported, winking at Swiftnick's delighted look as the youth patted Black Bess.

"But you're hurt, sir," Meakins pressed.

"Looks worse than it is," Dick assured him, too tired to care what anyone thought.

"We were about to come after you," Medwick explained, gesturing at the gathered men.

Turpin nodded wearily, grateful if a little cynical over the delay. Fresh horses and men had taken time to gather, he supposed. He was lucky Swiftnick was more impatient than sensible.

"We wanted to come after you straight away, but Mr Fortesque insisted on regrouping…" Harris observed dryly.

"Ah, did he now," Dick muttered, then looked round at explosive curse from Swiftnick. He was in time to see his young accomplice dart through the crowd and square up to Fortesque himself. Edgar, who had come out of the stables to hold Black Bess' reins, gaped after him.

"You cowardly creep!" Swiftnick yelled at the rich merchant. "You snivelling molly!"

"You watch your mouth," Fortesque spat and lashed out, backhanding the startled youth. Swiftnick ended up on sitting in the dirt and holding his jaw in surprise, but a second later he was up and lunging in fury. Turpin caught him by the collar and yanked him back. "Yes, you hold him, sir!" Fortesque barked, outraged. "Why I've fought duels for less! He needs a strap taking to him! The lad needs a good whipping for such language!"

Turpin let go of his partner, hauled off and punched Fortesque right in the teeth. The merchant went over and down, landing in a heap of horse droppings. "That's not half of what I'd like to call you!" Dick snarled. "You want a duel? Go ahead! Challenge me! I'm the one you left out there, you snivelling wretch! Call yourself a man?! You’re a milk sop!"

Swiftnick gaped at Turpin in astonishment, a slow admiring grin crawling across his face as he listened to Dick's increasingly inventive tirade of invective. Fortesque had gone bright red with rage and embarrassment, but he also looked terrified.

"Where's me gun?! I'll give you a bloody duel if that's what you want…" Dick raged, venting the fear he had felt out there in the fog.

"Here now." Edwin had emerged from the smithy and stepped in before it turned into a brawl, not daring to touch Turpin but speaking gently. "You'll be scaring your lad if you keep on. Best if you leave it now."

Dick caught a breath, stared at Edwin as if he had never seen him before and then looked at Swiftnick, shocked by how easily he had lost his temper. Fortesque raising a hand to his apprentice had been the last straw, he realised. But he could tell he hadn't scared Swiftnick. The lad merely looked impressed and grinned at him shyly. "Aye," Dick said slowly. "Aye, best if I say no more. Would you mind taking care of my horse for me, Edwin? Come on, Nick. I need to get cleaned up."

As the highwayman and his accomplice walked away, Fortesque heaved himself back to his feet. And if he walked back to his lodgings alone, then it wasn't only the powerful whiff of horse droppings that kept people away from him.

* * *

"Ohh-hhh, I'm a highwayman and I'm all right! I sleep all day and I rob all night! I kiss the girls and I sow my oats and I chase the lads with my John O'Groats!" Dick carolled at the top of his voice an hour later or so later as he scrubbed his chest vigorously with the soap. He was sitting in the big wooden tub in front of the scullery fire, rinsing off the last of the mud and dirt he had accumulated on his race across the fell and waving a half-full glass in his free hand. "Ohhhh, I'm a highwayman and…"

"Don't you mean to John O'Groats?" Swiftnick asked in exasperation from where he perched on a chair watching Turpin. He had managed to escape Aldyth's efforts to get his sling back on him and was regretting it. He had also been listening to Dick singing for most of the last hour and was regretting that as well.

Dick paused in mid verse and squinted at him. "Oh to be sweet sixteen and still innocent," he cackled. "Nay, lad, I know what I mean. Now, where was I? Ohh-hhh….."

"You’re drunk!" Swiftnick snorted.

"Happen as I am," Dick agreed amiably. "Does a man good to let loose once in a while."

"But you’re so loose you’re practically falling off the bobbin!" Swiftnick wailed. "What are you drinking?"

Turpin considered this. "Lemme see now. There was that fine drop of ale to start off with, then the bandy and this is…." He peered into his glass. "Um…. something green. Elderberry I think. Bit of a bite to it…."

Swiftnick's eyes widened in astonishment as Dick Turpin, highwayman extraordinaire, giggled. Yes, giggled… "Bandy?"

"Bandy Brandy," Dick assured him gleefully. "S'very good brand, s'from Bangor you know…"

"No, I don't know. And I think you've had enough!"

"Ooh, listen whose talking," Dick hugged his glass to his chest and gave Swiftnick a calculating look. "Want a sip, laddie buck? Do you good…"

Swiftnick hesitated, eyeing the bottle on the table. He had taken an inquisitive but cautious sniff of the contents while Dick's back was turned, but hadn't tasted them. "I don't think so," he decided warily.

"Ah, come on Sweet Nick," Dick teased. "It'll stop you looking so prim and proper…"

"Me?" Swiftnick gaped at him,

"Aye, lips all pursed up like a Dowager Duchess," Turpin demonstrated, puckering his mouth up as if he'd been eating lemons and making his apprentice laugh despite himself. "Better," Dick chuckled, relaxing lazily back into the warm water and studying his upper arm where the dog had bitten him. He had been lucky and he knew it; the bite had torn the skin and bruised his arm, but the animal hadn't managed to get a decent hold on him thanks to the thick cloth of his now ruined coat. Lifting his glass, Dick toasted his tailor and promised himself a new and better one next time he got to London. Come to that, he should probably order one for his apprentice too. The lad was going to need something to keep him warm when the weather really turned nasty. "Ohh-hhh…."

"Please don't start singing again," Swiftnick begged urgently.

"And why not?" Dick asked, miffed. "What's wrong with my singing?"

"Nothing. But I'll be the one you scold for listening to you singing rude songs." Swiftnick pointed out diplomatically. Turpin's voice wasn't exactly nightingale material.

Turpin contemplated this then toasted the lad with his wine and rested his head on the edge of the tub, studying the beams of the ceiling overhead. He couldn’t help his grin as he admitted to himself that his accomplice had a point. "There once was a lady called Sadie, whose habits were decidedly shady…"

"Dick!" Swiftnick yelped.

Turpin cackled wickedly. "All right, my lad," he chuckled, pushing himself reluctantly out of the water and climbing unsteadily out of the tub. Swiftnick scooted to steady him and grab him a towel and managed to relieve him of his glass in the process. Dick dried himself off, then pulled on his breeches and collapsed into a chair. "Glass…." He ordered briskly.

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Nope…glass…."

Swiftnick sighed but reluctantly handed it over. Dick took a small sip and then deliberately set the glass down on the table. "You should be proud, you know," he observed.

"Who? Me? Proud? Why?" Swiftnick blurted, having been doing his best to get a peek at the highwayman's bitten arm. He was none too sure it was the minor wound Dick said it was. What if it had been a werewolf? Even now Dick could be starting to change…. He jumped as he realised Dick had leaned forward and was peering in amusement into his face.

"I don't get drunk without someone I trust to watch me back," Dick told him, following Swiftnick up as the youth sat up hastily. "Do you want to check my teeth too?"

"Your teeth? Why would I want to do that?" Swiftnick wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed with his partner.

"Well, you've been looking to see if I've grown any fur yet," Dick observed.

"Have not," Swiftnick protested, blushing.

"Have!" Dick snorted, wagging a finger at him. "Shame on you, Nick, for being so gullible. This is the age of science and reason…. There's no such thing as werewolves!"

"But something strange is going on here," Swiftnick argued. "Why can't we go home?"

"Toby needs to rest…"

"When then? I don't feel right lying to people I like and the werewolf scares me."

Turpin smiled faintly. Hard as it was to believe, considering that the lad was shaping up to be a fine if inexperienced young highwayman, Swiftnick was an honest lad inside; honest and honourable and innocent and Dick loved him for it. Swiftnick could no more dream of betraying Turpin or anyone else he cared about, than he could fly. "Ain't no werewolf," Dick reminded him firmly, however, sipping his Elderberry wine.

Swiftnick leaned forward, his blue eyes dark with worry. "But there is a dog pack. And the Beast did kill someone. Edwin said so…"

Dick scowled, remembering the torn body he had found up on the fell. How had Edwin known? Turpin pulled himself up short. Maybe he had had too much to drink. Swiftnick meant the man Edwin had mentioned being killed by the Beast when they first met the blacksmith. "It's all a game," he told Swiftnick slowly.

"A game?"

"Sebastian Deville's kind of game."

"The highwayman we were after? The one who robbed the coach? But why would he do such horrible things?"

Dick waved the glass at him. "Because he's a horrible man and mad as they come. Always has been…"

"You know him?" Swiftnick didn't look impressed for once.

"I met him a time or two," Dick admitted. "Back when I rode with Tom King that was. Tom never did get along with him. Neither could I. He had a funny way of looking at you, like he weren't sure you were really there. Thought more of his damn dogs than he did of people. Good looking blighter though." Turpin paused, studying the now visible bottom of his glass and considering the idea of a refill. Finally he decided against it and set the glass down. "He started out as a kennel lad of some Earl or other, always wanted to be Master of Hounds. When the toff took on someone else to be Master over him, he complained a bit too loud. The Earl took a whip to him and nearly killed him. When he recovered Deville's mind had gone and he murdered the toff. After that he took to the road." Dick paused again, sorting his thoughts slowly back into order and wondering if he had told Swiftnick too much. "He's a bad man, Swiftnick. He has to be stopped."

"But why by us?"

"Because I know him and I know what's he's capable of," Dick sighed. "And because the damn toe rag robbed me. I'm not going to forget that in a hurry."

"He probably didn't know it was you or he wouldn't have dared…"

Turpin gave his accomplice a level look. Swiftnick had a touching belief in his mentor's abilities, but Dick doubted that Deville would loose any sleep over crossing him. "Look, lad, what Deville's doing is dangerous for all of us," he told him, lowering his voice. "If the likes of Spiker find out what he's capable of, then we'll all be tarred with the same brush. We have to make sure he's stopped."

"What? And let everyone know it was us what did it?"

Turpin hesitated. Even he had to admit it sounded more like one of Swiftnick's schemes than his own. What was in that wine anyway? "Maybe, maybe not," he hedged carefully, deciding that whatever was in the stuff it was making him far to garrulous. Wine and exhaustion were never a good combination. "I need to sleep on it. And you need to get your sling back on my lad. You’re starting to hunch."

"Am not."

"Don't argue. Go find Aldyth and tell her we’re ready to eat while I finish getting dressed. I need some food to soak up all this alcohol."

"So you are drunk," Swiftnick said smugly.

"Get out of it!" Dick threw a wet towel at him as his apprentice ducked out of the scullery, leaving Dick to eye his last clean shirt with a sigh at the thought of mending his best and now torn cambric one. At least his boots were unscathed if muddy. Smiling ruefully as he realised he could hardly order Swiftnick to clean them, Dick started to get dressed….

* * *

The following morning dawned bright, chilly and far too bloody early for Dick Turpin's liking. The curtains were open, letting the light pour cruelly in on his open eyes and the room was cold since the fire had gone out completely. He had only the vaguest memories of the night before. He did remember telling Edwin about the body he had found and being told by the blacksmith that they would go out to find it the next day. He remembered stuffing his face with Aldyth's bacon dumplings and then the drink had really hit him. He thought Swiftnick had helped him into bed but after that there was nothing…

Reluctantly, Dick crawled out of bed, flinching at the rattle of a cart in the road and the roar of someone responding to Pike's friendly bellow and then starting a loud conversation with him right under the window. Cringing away from the light, Dick dragged on his breeches, resisting the urge to whimper as his arm throbbed painfully at the movement. It didn't hurt anywhere near as much as his head did though and his legs felt almost too stiff and sore to move after all that running. He paused to examine the wound, glad that Swiftnick wasn't there to fret. The wound was clean enough with no signs of redness swelling up his arm. The soreness was only to be expected. As long as he kept an eye on it, it should be fine. That decided, Dick took a slow groggy look around him and reluctantly decided that he might as well make the rest of the effort and get up. There had to be coffee somewhere in the village. Dick clawed his shirt over his head and groped about under the bed until he found his boot. Then he had to limp over to the door to find the other one.

Swiftnick's noisy exit from the room earlier had driven Turpin to bad language and hurling a boot at him. He had missed, but then his aim was never that good when he was hungover. Quiet had not followed Swiftnick's departure, however, as the world started to wake up. Edwin seemed to have taken it into his head to start bellowing at his wife from the far end of the house, while young Edgar seemed to be taking great delight in racing up and down the landing in pursuit of what sounded like a herd of pigs. When they finally settled down and Dick gingerly started to drift back into a doze with his head stuffed under the pillow, until Edwin's stentorian bellow greeted the carter.

Finally tottering from the room, Dick made his way gingerly along the landing and down the stairs, suppressing a moan of pain as every wooden step squeaked noisily under his weight.

Making it downstairs, he wobbled uncertainly in the direction of the scullery, hoping it would be empty so he could have five minutes to pull himself together. It wasn't of course. Life was never that kind to Dick when he was hungover.

Swiftnick was ensconced by the fire where he was happily and noisily chewing toast. Dick peered at him, deciding that his accomplice had no bloody right to look that bright eyed and bushy tailed. And if the little wretch dared to so much as mention how bad he knew he must look he bloody well would shoot him. "Where is everyone?" he demanded gruffly.

"Market day. Aldyth left me to get breakfast."

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Dick groaned at the mention of food. "Why are you up so bloody early?" he then snarled at the youth as he staggered over to the well-scrubbed kitchen table and collapsed into a chair.

"You were snoring," Swiftnick answered cheerfully.

"I do not snore."

"Yes, you were. You were inhaling your pillow," Swiftnick said firmly. "I could hear it vibrating as you sort of sucked it in. I suppose it was struggling to escape its ghastly doom."

Dick gave him a hostile look. "You have a vivid imagination. I do not snore," he repeated firmly.

"Well, someone was and it wasn't me. You always start snoring when you're drunk."

"I wasn't drunk either. A little merry maybe…"

Swiftnick gave him a narrow eyed look and a wicked glint entered his eyes. "Ohh-hh, I'm a highwayman and I'm all right. I sleep all day and a rob all night…."

Dick could feel himself pale. "Where'd you learn such a song?" he exclaimed in horror, already knowing the answer and sincerely hoping he hadn't sung all the verses he knew. Some of them were enough to make his hair go white, let alone Swiftnick's.

"From you, last night," Swiftnick responded, all wide-eyed innocence. "You almost managed to carry a tune too. I still say it should be to John O'Groats, not with my John O'Groats."

"Where's me gun?" Dick moaned his normal threat.

"Upstairs. But you couldn't hit a coach at close range right now. Are you sure you remembered it right?"

"I was drunk."

"You said you weren't…"

"Don't push me, lad," Turpin growled murderously.

"You always said I was to ask questions if I didn't understand…"

"Yes, but not bloody now!"

"But…"

"Ask Glenrae," Dick said desperately. "He's the one who taught me the damn thing! Now shut up before I shoot you."

Swiftnick merely gave him a dazzling grin and munched noisily on his toast, unimpressed.

"Bloody little sadist," Dick growled, knowing that Swiftnick would be quite certain to remember to ask Glenrae.

"Whatever I am, you made me," Swiftnick said sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes at him.

"As soon as I find a plantation, I'm sending you there. Even if I have to pay a pressgang to take you." Dick paused, steadying his reeling head in hands. "Mind you, any pressgang that grabbed you would probably pay me to take you back." He didn't bother to look up, he could almost feel Swiftnick's pout. The lad had the noisiest and most productive pout of anyone he had ever met. "Get me some coffee, you little monster."

"Yes, master. Right away, master. Anything you say, master." Swiftnick mocked even as he hopped to his feet to get a cloth and take the pot down from over the fire. "Will there be anything else, master?"

"How about if you shut up?" Turpin moaned. He lifted his head enough to squint through his fingers and look at the mug Swiftnick set down in front of him. The hot black contents steamed gently as he reached for it.

"You want I should go and pack now then?" Swiftnick asked.

"Huh?" Dick peered at him blearily. "Pack? Why?"

"So we can go home. Like you said last night."

Dick took a cautious mouthful of black coffee and blinked at him slowly, letting this sink in. Swiftnick stood there looking as fluffy and cute as a kitten that had eaten the roast chicken. "I wasn't that drunk, you cunning little begger," Turpin said at last. "I told you Deville has to be dealt with."

Swiftnick plumped down in the chair opposite him. "But why does it have to be by us?" he protested.

Dick took another mouthful of coffee, feeling it start to chase away the fuzzy feeling in his thoughts. At least it was killing the rotten taste in his mouth. "Because I know how to handle him," he said grimly.

"You nearly got eaten by his dogs."

"Aren't apprentices supposed to be seen and not heard?" Dick said hopefully.

"And you said you didn't really know him," Swiftnick continued insistently.

Turpin sighed heavily. "Swiftnick, there are enough bad things in this world of ours, without letting the likes of Deville make it worse. Either you do something to stop his kind, or you’re tarred with the same brush."

Swiftnick frowned, thinking this through. "But what can we do?" he said anxiously. "We don't know where his hideout is and he's got all them dogs besides…"

"Several less now," Dick observed with a touch of smugness.

"And it's not like we can kill him."

Turpin gave him a sharp look and a faint smile of approval.

"And we can't hand him over to Spiker or we’ll swing alongside him!"

Dick nodded; gingerly because he was afraid his head would fall off if he moved too fast. "I'm still thinking on it," he told him.

"Well, think faster. Edwin was talking about the coach that was due. He reckons that Spiker will have his men out looking for whoever attacked it. They could come here, Dick!"

Turpin tensed uneasily then shook his head. "No, no he won't. Spiker won't come over Dark Fell if he can help it. The coach would have turned back to its last stop. Spiker's got no reason to come to Beck's End."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye," Dick said firmly. "Now, make me some of that toast. Dry, mind. I need something to soak up that ale."

"Brandy and Elderberry too," Swiftnick observed as he reached for the toasting fork.

"What?"

"Brandy and Elderberry. That's what you were drinking."

Dick suppressed the urge to swear. No wonder he felt so terrible if he had been mixing his drinks like that. Elderberry was always insidiously lethal!

"Want some jam with the toast?"

"No…" Dick protested.

"Should I slather some dripping on it for you then?" Swiftnick asked, all sweet innocence.

"No!"

"But it's your favourite. Look, see…" Swiftnick scooped up the pottery crock and stuffed it under Turpin's nose. "Nice and thick the way you like it…"

Dick took one look and an incautious sniff and his stomach revolted. He bolted for the door with his plaintive cry of, "I'm going to shoot you!" echoing back to Swiftnick as the youth grinned wickedly after him.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Turpin slowly made his way up the main street towards the inn in search of his apprentice and a little light exercise to loosen up his stiff muscles. Swiftnick had been careful to avoid him since the dripping incident and Dick had been inclined to let him stay out of his way while he plotted his revenge on the lad. Now that he was feeling a little better, he had asked Edwin where Swiftnick might be and been told that he and Edgar had gone up to the inn to deliver the brand new fire grate the blacksmith had made for the inn's snug.

Strolling into the inn's yard, he soon spotted Swiftnick's bright blond head and Edgar's darker one as the two lads surreptitiously watched a couple of the tavern wenches flirting with some of the customers who were drinking at the table outside.

Dick snorted, unsure whether a tavern wench was a better prospect for Swiftnick than the dairymaid. Probably not, he thought. If was Swiftnick going to insist on getting his feelings bruised, then it might as well be with a nice respectable girl who would let him down gently when she dumped him for being a highwayman. Dick had no doubt that it would happen; no girl in her right mind would consider a highwayman as anything more than an adventurous fling. Which brought him back to Cherry the dairymaid and her involvement with Deville. He really was going to have to talk to her.

Swiftnick had spotted Turpin strolling toward him and was looking nervous. At least the lad was still alert, if out of character. A rich young merchantman's son wouldn't have got his hands grubby delivering fire grates. Dick beckoned to him and Swiftnick somehow managed to look away at the right moment to avoid seeing the gesture. Dick lengthened his stride; he was in the right mood to make Swiftnick's life a misery for a few minutes. Dripping? Hah! He'd give him dripping!

"Good morning, Mr Turner," Edgar greeted him cheerfully. "Do you feel rested now?"

"Rested?" Dick gave him a blank look.

"After fighting those dogs. Nick told me all about it. He said you were ever so brave. And you killed at least twenty of them."

Turpin glanced at his accomplice and caught Swiftnick out in a blush before he ducked his head. "He's exaggerating, lad. I don't think there were that many of them," he said dryly.

Edgar shot a disappointed look at Swiftnick. "Were they wild dogs then? Real mean, vicious, ferocious ones?"

"Ferocious aye, but I don't think they’re wild," Dick said slowly. "I think they belonged to Deville. They’re probably what makes folk think there's a werewolf up on the Fell."

Edgar's face fell even further. Having werewolf tales to tell made life seem a bit more exciting to the village lad. "Maybe they’re hell hounds then," he guessed hopefully. "Deville made a pact with the devil."

"He hasn't made a pact with the devil and they weren't hell hounds," Dick scoffed irritably. "That's a tale he tells to scare people. He's only a very nasty man who likes to hurt and rob people." He gave Edgar a sharp look. "So don't you go telling tales like that to everyone. Rumours like that cause trouble."

"I suppose," Edgar admitted sulkily.

Dick gave him a stern look. "Time you were getting back to the smithy. Edwin was looking for you. Not you Nick."

Swiftnick winced and reluctantly stopped sidling after Edgar as the blacksmith's lad started to head back to the forge. "Oh, I’ll see you later then, Nick. Thanks for the help." Edgar called back, clearly disappointed at losing the young highwayman's companionship.

Swiftnick murmured something polite as Edgar trotted off, too busy watching Turpin in trepidation to pay much attention to him. Dick folded his arms, winced as his bitten arm protested and as casually as he could manage unfolded them aga