stood in silence. The thickness of the door prevented them from hearing whether Pepper had retraced his path or if he was still outside with his ear pressed against the wood.
Hawkwood tried the handle. Although there had been no sound of a key turning he'd half expected the door to be locked, but it opened without opposition. The passage outside was dark, empty and silent.
'So,' Lasseur said, testing the cot and wincing at the lack of spring in the thin palliasse. 'The adventure continues. What do you think of our Monsieur Morgan?'
'I think anyone who surrounds himself with a cordon of armed men deserves to be taken seriously.'
Lasseur smiled. Candlelight played across his aristocratic face. 'And Pepper?'
'Pepper's dangerous,' Hawkwood said, without hesitation.
Lasseur considered that for a moment. 'This proposition Morgan talked about; what do you think he meant?'
'It won't be something for nothing,' Hawkwood said. 'It never is.'
Lasseur looked around the room. 'So, we sleep on it.'
Hawkwood stretched out on the second cot and laced his hands behind his head.
'For now,' he said.
Dawn.
Hawkwood pushed aside his blanket, sat up and pulled on his boots. He looked over at Lasseur's cot. The Frenchman
gave no sign that he was awake. His face was turned to the wall.
Picking up his coat, Hawkwood let himself out of the cell and made his way to the privy, where he took a piss before sluicing his face with cold water in one of the large stone washroom sinks. His fingertips brushed stubble. He ran a hand along his jaw and wondered idly about growing a beard. Then he pictured the look on Maddie Teague's face when he turned up at her door sporting whiskers. Not such a good idea after all, he decided.
He shrugged on the jacket. Time to take a walk.
Retracing his path to the cloisters, Hawkwood left the shelter of the arches, cut away from the main buildings and headed towards open ground. Jacket collar turned up, hands in pockets, he walked in plain sight. Mindful of the maxim that it was unwise to send a terrier down a rat hole without there being at least one viable way out, Hawkwood knew his first task was to gauge the layout of the Haunt and the efficiency of its outer defences.
Hawkwood had no watch. He guessed it was a couple of hours past sunrise. The morning had all the makings of another fine day. A watery sun had burned away most of the early haze. Misty vapours still hung low above the dew-soaked grass. Wood pigeons fluttered and cooed in the nearby woods while, beyond the trees, from meadows further down the hill, the sound of lowing cattle rose plaintively in the still air. In such a peaceful setting, it wasn't hard to see why a religious order had found the site so appealing. The elevation and isolation would certainly have given the holy fathers the illusion they were closer to God.
Hawkwood doubted the current landowner harboured the same spiritual sentiment. Ezekiel Morgan's appreciation of the location would be governed purely by logistics. It would have taken a blind man not to see the strategic advantage of occupying a position with such commanding views over the surrounding countryside. Even allowing for the encroaching woodland, the chances of a substantial force scaling the Haunt unseen were, Hawkwood judged, exceedingly remote.
He looked back over his shoulder. Daylight revealed the extent of Ezekiel Morgan's domain. Jess Flynn's smallholding could probably have fitted into the Haunt several times over. If the size of the estate was anything to go by, the profits from running contraband were manifestly greater than anything Hawkwood could have envisaged. Small wonder the man put so much effort into protecting his privacy.
In addition to the house and the stable block, Hawkwood could see a number of outhouses and a large barn. There were several paddocks, with a handful of horses in each. The remains of the original priory buildings were easily identifiable by their age and architecture. The walls were all that were left of the chapel, the roof having long since collapsed, leaving the nave exposed to the elements. The tall windows, which would once have been monuments to the art of stained glass, looked like sightless eye sockets in a line of grey skulls. Dark-fleeced sheep grazed among the stones.
Hawkwood took a deep breath. The air was fresh and scented with grass and pollen and a world away from the pervading stench of London's crowded streets. The smell of the hulk seemed a distant memory.
The nine-foot perimeter wall looked, at first sight, to be intact, but as he continued walking, Hawkwood noticed shading in the stonework where repairs had been undertaken. Further on, he saw where parts of the wall had fallen down. Set in the breaches were lengths of palisade. The palisades didn't look that strong. It was clear they were intended purely as a holding measure, for at the base of each were assorted tools, buckets, a large pile of loose stones, and sacks of sand and lime; the main ingredients for making mortar.
Stretches of the wall disappeared behind trees, but Hawkwood was confident they would be undamaged or, if they had fallen into disrepair, stop-gapped and awaiting full restoration. He'd seen enough to be certain that Morgan, like a good general, would make sure his perimeter was protected above all else. Hawkwood was reminded of the fortified villages he'd seen in Spain, another place where churches dominated the high ground.
The appearance of other early risers came as no great surprise. The presence of livestock had guaranteed some kind of on-site work force. A couple of figures were making their way between one of the barns and the stable block. It hadn't been hard to spot Morgan's pickets either, as they patrolled the outer edges of the grounds. They were some distance away, but close enough for him to see the cudgels in their hands and the pistols in their belts. They'd issued no challenge. Hawkwood assumed it was because he was in plain sight and therefore had not been perceived as a threat. Lifting a hand in feigned recognition, he proceeded on his circuit without interruption. The lack of interest in his presence suggested the pickets weren't as conscientious as their employer supposed, which in turn meant that the Haunt wasn't quite as watertight as Morgan thought it was. It was possible that the men had grown lax after a night's patrol, but Hawkwood filed the information away for future reference.
Ahead of him, the walls of an ancient outbuilding rose out of the sheep-cropped grass. Empty doorways gaped like open jaws. Weeds sprouted around the bases of the moss-covered stones. He was about to pass by the ruin when a dark, four- legged shape appeared through one of the gaps in the wall. When it saw Hawkwood it stopped dead.
Hawkwood froze.
The dog was huge, with a brindle coat. Powerful shoulders supported a head that was at least three feet off the ground. When the second dog, which was just as large, padded round the corner of the wall to his right, Hawkwood's stomach turned over. This one had a fawn pelt and a black face and muzzle.
The brindle-coated dog growled. It was possibly one of the most chilling sounds Hawkwood had ever heard. It came from deep within the animal's throat and it felt as if the air was vibrating.
The dogs took a pace forward. Their paws made no noise on the still damp grass.
Behind them, two more shapes materialized into view. One tall and grey-bearded, the other short and bull- necked and carrying a stout blackthorn walking stick.
'Captain Hooper!' Ezekiel Morgan called cheerily. 'Good morning to you. You're out and about early. I trust the accommodation is to your satisfaction?'
Hawkwood realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He made a point not to look at the dogs, which wasn't easy, given the way they were eyeing him and the size of their teeth.
'New billet, strange bed. It takes a while to settle. Thought I'd get some fresh air. You know how it is.'
He hadn't had to lie. His sleep
Morgan stretched out his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. 'A morning constitutional? Splendid idea! Who could blame you on a day like this? Makes a man glad to be alive. Captain Lasseur's not with you?'
Hawkwood wondered if the man standing at Morgan's shoulder was glad to be alive. It was difficult to tell. Cephus Pepper's face was a model of taciturnity.
'Still in his pit. How's the new arrival?'
Morgan lowered his arms and tapped the stick against the side of his boot. 'The foal? He's in fine fettle. The mare's a good mother. They'll do very nicely, I think.'
Morgan was making no attempt to call the dogs to heel. Hawkwood knew the man was confirming who was in charge: Morgan's house, Morgan's rules.
'Fine-looking animals,' Hawkwood said, conscious that it was probably wise to remain still and not make any
