Rapscallion

'Is that right?' The gravedigger considered Hawkwood's response. 'An' that's why you'd rather be fighting for Boney than for the King?'

'He's not my king,' Hawkwood said. 'That's why we had a revolution.'

The gravedigger sucked on his pipe stem. 'Emperors pay well, do they?'

'Better than kings,' Hawkwood said.

The gravedigger grinned and adjusted his gnarled grip on the reins. 'Got a cousin over Rochester way tells me they've got hundreds of your lot behind bars. Said the Crown Prince at Chatham is full to the gunwales with pressed Yankee sailors who've refused to fight for Farmer George.'

Which was why Hawkwood had been sent to Rapacious, further downriver, where there had been less risk of his false identity being discovered.

The gravedigger went on: 'Heard tell the army's been sendin' recruitin' sergeants aboard offerin' sixteen guineas to any American willing to switch sides. From what I knows of the hulks, you'd have thought they'd be queuin' up, but they ain't had any takers. You was lucky you got away.'

It had been some time since they'd left the farm. Sunset had given way to dusk, which in turn had darkened into an indigo- hued twilight. It was now night time. There were no clouds to mask the moon. The sky was bright and clear; the stars strewn across the night sky like diamonds on black velvet.

From what Hawkwood had been able to deduce, Asa Higgs had been true to his word, keeping them well away from anything resembling an established road. Most of the journey had taken them down narrow cart tracks and drovers' trails; hidden byways which, over the centuries, had been used by generations of farmers to herd stock across country to market. Some of the trails were so overshadowed by trees it was like passing through a series of tunnels. On these occasions, Higgs had been content to let the horse take the lead, which it had done without any notable deviation. The animal was obviously as familiar with the ground as its driver, which was fortunate, for even in daylight the most eagle-eyed person might have found himself teetering on the rim of the trail, or plunging into the steep-sided gulley below.

On one occasion they had crossed a river. As the cart rattled over the old stone bridge, Hawkwood had seen the moon reflecting on the dark water flowing beneath them.

Signs of habitation were few and far between. Occasionally a distant light would catch the eye, indicating an isolated cottage or farmstead. There had been no sign of any other travellers.

Hawkwood, Lasseur and the gravedigger might well have been the only people abroad.

'Your friend don't have a lot to say for himself,' the gravedigger murmured.

'Been a long day,' Hawkwood said. 'He's feeling a bit weary.'

The gravedigger was right, though. Lasseur had been noticeably quiet since they'd left the farm. It was obvious he was thinking about Jess Flynn.

Just as well we left when we did, Hawkwood concluded. It was patently obvious that Lasseur's feelings for the woman went beyond mere sympathy for the loss of her husband and her solitary status. The manner of their leaving had suggested the attraction was mutual, though Hawkwood knew it was equally possible that the widow's parting gesture had not been a sign of some deep-seated feeling but a tactile expression of gratitude for Lasseur's intervention when she had been attacked. A gut instinct, however, told him that wasn't the case. And therein, he knew, lay the problem. The privateer's concern for the underdog, while admirable, had already cost them dear, nearly compromising their escape plan, and Hawkwood's assignment in the process. The last thing Hawkwood needed was for Lasseur to lose his objectivity over a woman with whom he had no possible future. Sooner or later the Frenchman would have to be reminded that he couldn't save all the lost and disaffected souls, no matter how hard he tried.

The land rose before them. They were no longer travelling in the dips and the hollows but had emerged on to a broader track bordered on both sides by tangled thickets. The night was full of eerie feral sounds: owls hooting, frogs croaking, animals foraging and leaves rustling. Somewhere deep within the wood a fox barked. The noise rose like a scream into the night like a soul in torment. Even though he recognized the sound, the short hairs prickled along the back of Hawkwood's neck.

Suddenly the bark was cut short.

The evening seemed suddenly unnaturally still. Asa Higgs urged the horse on and looked about him warily.

Hawkwood tensed. There had been a movement to his right; a vague, shadowy shape at the corner of his vision, flitting through a break in the trees; moonlight glancing off. . . something; he wasn't sure what.

He felt Lasseur stir beside him and was reassured. Despite the distractions, the privateer's senses were still fully alert.

Even so, neither of them was prepared for the wild, nerve- jarring screech of laughter that exploded from the trees, or the ghastly apparitions that vaulted without warning on to the track ahead of them.

The startled gravedigger yanked back on the reins and the cart slewed sideways.

There were two of them; a matching pair. They were dressed like monks, in black habits and hoods. But it was not the nature of their attire, which was torn and streaked with dirt, or the pistol that each of them brandished that drew the eye and set the heart beating; it was what lay within the cowls. For the black-clad priors had no faces, only bare skulls that gleamed like white-hot coals in the darkness.

CHAPTER 15

Hawkwood wrinkled his nose. Piss; there was no mistaking the pungent odour. It was there, souring the inside of his nostrils every time he inhaled. Holding his breath wasn't a viable option, so there was little he could do except try and ignore it, which was difficult for the smell was coming off the man seated beside him in waves. It was strange, Hawkwood thought; before he'd washed the stench of the hulks from him, he doubted the smell would even have registered. Now, it was all he could do not to clamp his hand over his face.

Sensing Hawkwood's aversion, the black-clad figure turned his head. 'Ain't me. It's the bleedin' paint. An' if you think I smell bad, you're lucky it's me keepin' you company and not Billy back there.' The figure jerked a thumb. 'Now, 'e does bloody stink!'

Lasseur, who had given up his seat and shifted into the back of the cart with the coffins, grimaced.

Hawkwood's knowledge of alchemy bordered on the nonexistent. He had no idea what made the paint - if that was the catalyst - glow in the dark, and could have cared even less, though he had to admit the effect was quite dramatic, especially if you weren't expecting it. Presumably Asa Higgs had been anticipating some kind of ghostly manifestation, but even he'd nearly jumped out of his skin, much to the amusement of the spectral duo when they'd seen who was driving the cart.

The skull images had been painted in some kind of waxy substance on to close-fitting black cloth hoods, similar to those used by executioners. When framed by the folds of a cowl and lit by moonlight, the result was spectacular and, to the uninitiated, quite terrifying. It was certainly an effective way of persuading unwelcome visitors of an inquisitive disposition to keep their distance.

But from what?

The track continued its steady ascent. It was then that Hawkwood saw a light through a gap in the trees. There was some kind of man-made structure ahead, too, but its outline was indistinct. It was only as they rounded the final bend and the gradient flattened out that he realized what he'd been looking at.

The turreted gatehouse looked old, as did the high, grey-stone wall that flanked it. Set into the gatehouse was a Norman archway. Two men dressed in work-day clothes and armed with clubs and pistols guarded the entrance. The malodorous friar gave a nod and the pickets parted to let them through.

The gravedigger clicked his tongue and guided the horse forward. 'Welcome to the Haunt.'

'Haunt?' Lasseur echoed from behind.

'Monk's Haunt. Leastways, that's what we call it now. Used to be St Anselm's Priory; most of it fell into ruin, but there's a fair bit still standin'. You'll see for yourself. Place has seen a few owners since them days. One of the local squires moved in and built himself a house. It was run as a farm for a while after he died, and then Mr Morgan took it on. It was him who gave it the name, 'cause of all the stories 'bout how the place was haunted. That's how he stops nosey parkers from gettin' too close and learnin' 'is business; on nights when we're moving goods around, he gets the likes of Del here to play silly buggers and scare 'em away.'