hardly speak. Growing up in High Weald, rarely venturing far, he had never encountered such a person, though he had occasionally heard of them in whispered speculation with other boys.
‘I’m looking for Thomas Courtney,’ he mumbled. And then, seeing the recognition light her eyes, ‘Do you know him?’
He put a coin on the table. The woman snatched it up. She polished it on her skirts, and then slipped it into a pouch which she tucked inside her bodice.
Francis waited. ‘Well?’
‘Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’ she wheedled. ‘A proper gentleman always buys a lady a drink.’
Awkwardly, Francis called the barmaid, who fetched the woman another glass of beer. She gave Francis a pitying look as she put it on the table.
‘First time, dearie?’ said the prostitute, slurping her beer. ‘A big, handsome lad like you? I don’t believe it.’
‘I’m looking for Thomas Courtney,’ Francis insisted.
‘He won’t do the things I can do for you.’ Under the table, her foot rubbed against his calf. Francis hastily pulled it away.
She grinned at his discomfort. ‘Got any more of those silver coins in your purse? For another one of those, I’ll not just tell you where to find him. I’ll show him to you.’
Francis realized he had been foolish to give her money without getting anything in advance. He took out another coin, but kept it firmly pressed under his thumb.
‘This is yours. When you’ve taken me to him.’
The prostitute looked disappointed. ‘You’re a quick learner. I could teach you a few other things you’d never forget. For another coin that is.’
‘Take me to him,’ Francis insisted.
‘I don’t have to. I can see him from here.’
She pointed out the tavern’s window, smeared with lamp soot and salt spray. Beyond it was the harbour front, and the wooden jetty extending out into the bay. The Prophet’s boats had moored alongside, and a gang of black stevedores was unloading her cargo. In the midst of the bustle, three men stood talking, studying a bill of goods. Francis recognized the first two, the Prophet’s captain and the harbourmaster. The third was the tallest, standing over six feet with shoulders as broad as any of the porters working around him. He wore his thick black hair pulled back in a sailor’s queue. He was smiling as he talked, but his hard features said this was a man who would yield to no one.
‘The tall one is Tom Courtney,’ said the prostitute, with more than a little admiration in her voice.
Francis felt as though the blood was freezing in his veins. For so long, Tom Courtney had been an almost mythic figure, the demon who stalked his nightmares. Now he stood a few yards away, talking and joking with the other men. Utterly unaware of the vengeance that awaited him.
The prostitute read the look on Francis’ face.
‘You hate him,’ she mused. ‘You want to kill him. Yes?’ she asked, then as Francis started to protest, ‘Do not argue. I have seen the look that is in your eyes before, though mostly on men who had drunk a good deal more than you.’
Francis couldn’t take his eyes off Tom. ‘What of it?’
‘Tom Courtney is no stumbling sailor still on his sea legs. He’s the most dangerous man in the colony. The stories they tell of him …’ She shook her head.
His stepfather had failed in many things, but he had made sure Francis knew how to fight with sword and fists. More than once, Sir Walter’s debts had led him to the duelling field at dawn; he knew how to account for himself. Sir Walter had been a ferocious instructor, drilling Francis until his knuckles bled and his numbed fingers could hardly close around the hilt of his sword.
One day, this will save your life, he had insisted.
‘I can defend myself,’ Francis assured the woman stiffly.
‘Of course you can, luvvy,’ she leered. ‘But why take the risk? Do you even have a sword? You are not the only enemy Tom Courtney has in Cape Town. There are others I know who would be only too willing to help you.’
Reluctantly, Francis dragged his gaze away from the window and looked at her. ‘What are you offering?’
‘Buy me another drink, and I’ll tell you.’
As darkness fell, Francis climbed the hill. The sword in his belt slapped against his thigh, and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Its solid presence reassured him. This was how he would kill Tom Courtney: not the distant, anonymous death of a musket or pistol ball, but the intimate end of a blade through the heart. The same way Tom had killed William.
He cast a nervous eye at the men around him. They were dark figures, their skin grey in the moonlight. Long, straight-bladed cane knives swung easily in their fists.
Behind Francis, Jacob de Vries strode up the hill, swatting at the flowers by the roadside with his cane knife. The knives – heavy blades, more like swords – had been destined for the sugar plantations of Barbados, but the vagaries of trade had brought them to Cape Town, where Jacob had found more than one use for them.
He studied Francis, wondering about this raw English boy. When the prostitute introduced them, he’d half suspected a trap. The boy was so scrawny, his new beard barely hiding his callow cheeks, he looked as if a stiff drink could knock him down. But Jacob had put him through his paces with the blade he had found for him, and discovered he was a more than adequate swordsman: quick with youth, always aware, and with a few moves that had surprised even Jacob. And the fire in his eyes, when he spoke of Tom Courtney, could not be feigned.
Jacob knew that feeling well. Two years ago, he had been bringing a cargo of slaves down from Mozambique when his ship grounded on a sandbar. Tom Courtney had salvaged him – but as his fee he had forced Jacob to free all his slaves. He had lost a fortune, and one beautiful slave girl in particular he had wanted for himself. The bitch Sarah Courtney had taken her, teaching her manners and giving her a passage to England where she could live as a freedwoman.
Desire stirred in his loins as Jacob thought of the girl. She’d been completely naked when she came aboard, high breasted and hair plucked after the fashion of her tribe, leaving nothing to the imagination. He thought of what he would have done to her, and what he would do to Sarah Courtney once Tom was out of the way and could no longer protect her.
They reached the top of the hill. There were a few houses here, but one was empty: the owner had gone to Amsterdam, and wouldn’t return for months. Jacob and his men hid in the shadows of the garden wall, watching the boarding house opposite. Harpsichord music drifted out; lamps burned brightly inside. Through the windows, Jacob saw Tom and his brother and their wives sitting in the parlour. The brother wore a turban wound round his head, no better than a Kaffir. Jacob wondered if the turban would stay in place when he’d separated the head from its neck.
He tapped Francis on the shoulder. The boy jumped as if he’d pissed himself. Not a good sign, thought Jacob.
‘Do we go in now?’
Francis shook his head. Jacob wondered if he was having second thoughts. If it came to it, he
