Chapter 1
1809
NOW
TOMMY
Billy faces me. A smudge of dirt streaked across his chin. His dark hair falls longer over his right ear than his left—a bad haircut with a butcher’s knife.
‘Don’t worry, Tommy. We’ll take a rest once we get up this slope.’
‘It’s my joints.’ I rub my knees as if that will wipe the pain away. ‘They ache since Galicia. Must have been the cold, worked its way inside me. I blame Napoleon—chasing us across Spanish mountains in the winter.’
He nods because he knows. Fleeing the French broke me. I’m like this jug I once found—or stole, who knows. Looked fine on the outside, but inside, cracks ran from top to bottom. That’s me. Cracked inside.
We pick up a trail going uphill, Billy leading as usual. The track is narrow, animal made, not human. Keeping Billy’s tattered redcoat in my sights, I march up the slope behind him, trailing my fingers through the long grass. At the top, we stop for a breather beside a low stone wall. I re-tie the string around my boots, the only thing keeping them together, and scan the next field.
I’m used to seeing felled trees, bushes uprooted, the ground flattened to haul guns around. So there’s something about this English meadow—the chirp of crickets in the daisy-dotted grass, the crumbling molehills, the rabbit burrows waiting to snare my feet. Would all be very charming if it wasn’t for the boy. Skinny legs a blur beneath short trousers, bare feet kicking up the dust. He runs like a hare with hounds on its heels.
A man bursts from the woods at the far edge of this field, his long strides eating the ground between him and the boy. A wide-brimmed hat jammed on his head flaps like wings, like he’s part man, part bird. Some kind of monster.
But the boy is fast. Terror does that. I know too well how fear can push you, give you extra speed.
Not breaking his pace, the man dips mid-stride and swipes at something on the ground. He takes aim and hurls a stone.
The boy stumbles, arms flailing. He staggers but stays on his feet. Run, boy. My fists clench. Run! By the time the boy finds his footing, the man is on him. With the flat of his hand, he swats the boy like you would a fly. The boy crumples, folding in on himself like paper.
‘You think that’s his father?’ Billy hunches his shoulders, a scowl on his face.
I shake my head. ‘Nah, I don’t... Christ, I hope not.’
The man picks the boy up by one of his scrawny feet and drags him back the way he came, towards the woods. Each dull thud of the boy’s head against the ground sends a sharp jolt down my spine.
‘His master then. An apprentice running from his master.’
‘Could be.’ My eyes stay locked on the boy.
‘And because the master owns him, he has every right to haul him back.’ Billy kicks his boot against the wall.
Man and boy are steps away from the tree line. The boy thrashes like a fish on a hook, struggling to break free.
‘We should leave. This isn’t the fight we came back for.’ But he doesn’t move, arms crossed, watching everything.
‘Hmm.’ A familiar hollow feeling spreads beneath my ribs—that old emptiness that’s followed me since I was small enough to watch my mother’s back as she disappeared from my life.
Man and boy disappear into the woods. An explosion of crows whirl and caw from the treetops before settling again. Then silence. The kind that makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention.
Billy turns to me and does that thing with his eyebrows—raising one and not the other. I nod. He leaps over the wall and runs towards the trees with me in pursuit. Arms pumping, knapsack bouncing against my back, I struggle to keep up. Billy, always faster, pulls ahead.
I crash through the treeline, panting, pulse pounding in my ears. Thick branches reach for me, drawing me into the musty tangle of leaves and earth. Billy is nowhere to be seen. My mouth opens to call his name, but my voice is a coward, deserting me.
A narrow track cuts through the undergrowth, wide enough for one. I take it, stepping over roots and fallen logs. The trees close ranks like enemy soldiers. The light thins, and sounds fade until there’s nothing. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Where the hell is Billy?
A flash of movement flits between the trees. The boy? I follow. Plunge through a bank of brambles. Spiky fingers claw at my ankles, ripping more holes in my stockings. A massive oak, wider than two men, blocks my path. I edge around the trunk. Eyes locked on a shadow pooling across the forest floor. Fear has a smell. Acrid like gunpowder. It fills my nostrils as I gather my nerves. I leap from behind my cover—remembering too late I have no weapon except my rage.
Only darkness greets me, shifting and creeping along the leaf-strewn ground.
‘Psst.’
I whirl around. Billy presses a finger to his lips and jerks his head to the left. I stand still, straining to hear, but the only sound is the thudding in my chest—not like the steady march of soldiers, but the frantic rhythm of retreat.
Until another sound drowns all.
The wail rocks me backwards, stealing my breath. The sound is like the howl of the wind through the trees. Like the shriek of an animal in pain. It can’t be human, can’t be the boy. Without thinking, I sprint towards a lingering echo of the cry that clings to the trees, unwilling to die, and bolt into a clearing. My mind registers the hollow pit ahead, but my legs keep moving. Unable to stop, arms flailing, I drop, landing on the balls of my feet, knees bending into a roll. I bump against a body, scrabbling away from him until my back hits solid earth. The man I saw earlier lies on his back, his hat covering his face. Like he’s sleeping.
Billy lands beside me. ‘Dead,’ he says.
I swallow hard against the sour taste climbing up my throat and kick the man’s leg. Nothing. I inch closer and flip his hat off with the tip of my foot. My breath escapes in a whoosh. ‘What the... what the... what?’
Billy leans over for a closer look. ‘Bloody hell.’
We stare at each other open-mouthed—much like the man on the floor, except his mouth gapes so wide his lips have split, blood crusting the corners.
‘This cannot be.’
Billy bends over the body again. ‘It can. Means he’s still here, the Dark Watcher. Fifteen years later and still killing. I said he would be.’
‘Is there a nail?’ No way am I checking. Not that I care about him, not after the way he treated the boy. He’s just another dead body, and I’ve seen plenty of those.
‘Wedged behind his teeth, keeping his mouth open. Same as before.’
‘The boy!’ He must be here somewhere. I scramble out of the pit and race around the trees, scanning the shadows. The killer could still be here too—that thought hits me late. Blood rushes through my head, roaring like cannon fire as I search.
‘He’s long gone,’ Billy calls after me.
‘You sure?’ The woods feel different now, like the murder has woken something dark that’s been sleeping here for fifteen years.
He nods. ‘If he wasn’t, we’d have found him.’
I sink to the ground beside Billy. ‘So, what now?’
‘Get away before someone comes. A soldier trained to kill. A dead body. Won’t look good. They hang men like us without proof.’
My knees creak like old doors when I stand. ‘We could give chase. The killer can’t have gone far.’
‘In these woods? He could be anywhere.’ He searches the trees. ‘And everywhere... just like before.’
My back prickles and tightens, trying to shrink away from what might be watching. I spin around, hand reaching for a weapon I don’t have, but there’s nothing, just darkness and the silent menace of the woods.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve come back to find the truth, and he’s part of that. We’ll lay our hands on him one way or another.’ Billy takes one last look at the dead man.
‘You know him?’
He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders, something I can’t read passing over his face. ‘We could cut through these woods to St. Merryn or skirt around them, go the long way.’
‘Long way. We’re in no hurry. No one’s expecting us.’ Not the woods with its shadows—I’ve enough to worry about.
We retrace our steps, Billy finding the path, me hunting for movement amongst the trees. The crack of a branch has me ducking for cover. Just an animal—easy to forget this isn’t bloody Spain where I’ve hunted and been hunted through woods just like these. Once out of the forest, we head for a five-bar gate leading to a field bound on all sides by a high hedge. A flock of geese squawk, wings spread in protest as they scatter before us. The grass is short here, eaten down to nothing. Even so, I trip, only some fancy footwork saving me from falling flat on my face.
Billy glances over his shoulder. ‘You alright there?’
‘Fine, I’m fine.’
His grin slips. ‘It’s changed in the fifteen years I’ve been gone. This used to be common land—sheep, goats, all roamed freely. Now, it’s new stone walls and tidy parcels. All claimed. All owned. The rich getting richer, that’s what this is.’
Scowling, he strides ahead. This is how we march. Him in front, me following. Keeping up would be easy if I wasn’t weighed down with worry.
He spins around, finger to his lips. ‘Shh. You hear that?’
We cock our heads.
‘Ruuun,’ we yell at the same time, bolting for the far hedge.
I’m not as fast as Billy, but I’m not slow. Still, the damn dog we heard is already behind me, jaws snapping at my ankles. I imagine mean, glinting eyes, spittle flying as it prepares to pounce. If I can just make it to the hedge... I risk a glance behind me. The dog’s more of a rat catcher than snarling beast. Short legs, stubby tail—ridiculous little thing. Laughing, I lunge into the hedge, rolling through thorns and brambles until falling on the other side. The damn dog tries to squirm through, snarling and barking. What is it about small things that makes them act like they’re so much bigger?
‘Have you seen what we’ve run from?’
We both laugh so hard we can’t speak, tears streaming down our cheeks. It feels damn good to shake the creeps off.
‘How is it we charge towards an enemy on a bloody battlefield but run from a scrawny dog hardly bigger than a... a rabbit?’
Billy throws his head back and roars. ‘Of all the things we’ve fled from, that dogs got to be the smallest.’ He stares at it through the bramble hedge. ‘Reminds me of another, back when I lived around here.’ He calls to it. ‘Here, boy, here.’
Ears flat against its head, the dog whines and flees.
‘Dogs don’t like me,’ he says, ‘not these days. Hey, you look like you’ve sprung from the hedge—covered in leaves and twigs. And you’ve ripped your jacket. Again.’
‘Three days of walking through fields and woods, sleeping under hedgerows... I’m not too bad, considering.’ I brush myself off. ‘But if we find a barn tonight, I’ll have a chance to clean myself up.’
‘It’s still light. We might make it to St. Merryn before dark.’
‘Best to arrive in time for breakfast.’ Truth is, my stomach flips whenever I think about what comes next. I need the night to gather my courage, practice my lies. The scar on my head itches—scratching it an old habit. But hell, this isn’t about me. It’s about a promise I made to Billy.
‘Fair enough.’ Billy marches across the grass and slips through an opening in the opposite hedgerow.
I scramble to my feet and follow, emerging onto a drover’s road. A turnpike stands nearby, leading to a cluster of cob cottages on a village green, a line of shops at the far end. The buildings lean towards each other as if their thatch roofs are too heavy. They slump against each other for support the way soldiers do after a long march.
‘Hungry?’ he asks.
‘Always.’ Bending from my waist, arms hanging loose as if I have no insides to hold me up, I pluck a long stem of grass and roll it under my tongue.
‘There’s dried biscuits and water in the knapsack.’
I pull a face.
‘Or there’s this village—with shops. Cobblers, chandlers, bakers... I’ll wager they’ve got food.’
‘Like as not.’
‘And we have money.’
I shake my head. No, no, no. My redcoat’s patched with so much coarse cloth I look like a beggar. I haven’t washed for weeks or changed my clothes—don’t have any clothes to change into. I’ve grown used to the smell of stale sweat, don’t even notice it anymore, but others will.
‘Looking like this?’
‘They won’t care, not if you pay and don’t pilfer.’
‘It’s been too long since I’ve done this.’
‘Hmm, let’s see.’ He taps his chin. ‘You walk in, ask for bread and cheese, pay and leave. Simple. I’ll be with you.’
‘Ah, umm, nno nneed.’ My tongue stumbles over the words.
‘Well, I’ll be hanged. You’re scared of the daftest things. Dogs... shops... wom—’
‘No.’ I draw out the no like he’s being stupid. ‘Not scared, just not hungry anymore.’
‘Oh Lord, this plan of ours is going to be harder than I thought.’
Ignoring him, I walk over to a fingerpost and point. ‘What does this say?’
‘St. Merryn, that way. If you won’t go to the shop, let’s move on.’
We follow the wide, grassy drover’s road, the walking easy. Even my old boots find their rhythm as my thoughts drift to the dead man and the boy. Ahead, a lonely spiral of smoke catches my eye. Could be something, could be nothing, but we follow the wisps anyway, through a field of stubble dotted with hand-mows, the sweet scent of wild thyme scattering perfume as we walk. So different to Portugal and Spain, littered with burnt buildings and destroyed crops. Leaving the field, we follow a dirt track overgrown with weeds and grass, winding between granite outcrops and yellow heather. A turn in the track reveals a barn set apart from a limewashed farmhouse. Our bed for the night.
No one stops us when we push through the slatted wooden doors and enter. I climb a ladder to a hayloft and settle down, using my backpack as a pillow, my redcoat as a blanket.
‘So, tomorrow we’ll be home.’ Home. The word sounds wrong on my tongue, like it knows I’m not made for living in one place.
‘Yup.’
I fiddle with the buttons on my jacket, wishing my stomach would stop clawing its way up my throat. Billy needs me to do this. It’s the only way to make things right.
‘Are crimes forgotten after fifteen years, d’you think? Men like us... doesn’t take much to get arrested and accused.’
He raises an eyebrow; I raise him two.
‘Shh, sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got your back. Always.’
It should be the other way around. After what happened in Spain, I owe him more than I can ever repay.
‘Can’t. Bodies tired, but my mind won’t stop... It’s the boy and the man. The nail. All that stuff.’
He says nothing, probably because it brings back memories of why he fled in the first place, why he traded fields and hedgerows for battlefields.
‘Tell me again about when you lived here. About you and the Dark Watcher.’
He lies back, one knee over the other, foot jiggling to some song in his head. ‘It started when I was fifteen, much like today, with a body in the woods.’ His voice catches. ‘That’s when everything changed.’
As Billy tells the story I’ve heard a hundred times but never tire of, his words fade into the night, and I can almost see it—the village, the woods where it all began. The past reaches across fifteen years and pulls me back to where his troubles took root...
Chapter 2
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER 1794
THEN
BILLY
A small crowd had already gathered, mostly young men fresh from the fields, banging dust from their hats and wiping grime from their brows. Wrapped in dark coats and black silk bonnets, a knot of old ladies huddled together with nothing better to do than watch someone die.
At the foot of the gibbet sprawled a man in a yellow nankeen coat.
The vicar and the executioner hauled him to his feet and onto a platform. His knees buckled before they could place the rope around his neck. I looked away. I wasn’t here for the hanging anyway, only for the gossip. My father always said hangings weren’t for women or children—not for men either, if he had his way.
I drifted towards the young men, circling the pack, listening out for tittle-tattle. One of them hawked and spat, spit landing square on my boots. He laughed as I backed away, biting down the curses I wanted to hurl.
I would’ve left then, but there was my sister, linen cap atop raven black hair, lurking behind a furze bush. Watching.
Beyond her, George hovered near the gibbet, notebook in hand, already jotting down measurements for the coffin while the condemned man still breathed. The ease with which my sister worked with him, preparing the dead for burial, got under my skin
