be left, so that by the time anyone found them the jackals and vultures had picked them bare.
But there was no harm in waiting. And, in fact, a few minutes later, the door opened and Dorian Courtney came out, escorting a woman Jacob didn’t recognize. A half-caste, by the look of her. Perhaps he could find her later, once he was through with Sarah.
For now, Jacob couldn’t believe his luck. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the prospect of fighting both Courtney brothers – even with his strength of numbers – had worried him. Now he could pick them off one at a time.
He waited until Dorian and the woman were out of sight, then he grabbed Francis’ arm.
‘Now,’ he hissed.
But just as he was about to move, light flooded onto the lane again. Tom stepped out the door. Jacob ducked down hurriedly, but Tom was too lost in his own thoughts to notice the movement. When Jacob risked another glance, he saw him walking towards the high wall of the Company garden. He was unarmed.
Jacob chuckled happily. He looked at Francis again. Whoever you are, he thought, you have the Devil’s own luck.
‘Is that him?’ Francis asked. Sweat beaded on his face and his eyes were wide. Jacob wondered if he had the balls to see this through. It wouldn’t matter. Whoever wielded the blade, Tom Courtney would die that night anyway.
They followed Tom, keeping a safe distance behind. Again, luck was with them. Tom headed deeper into the garden, away from the town and anyone who might hear. He walked quickly, but he never looked back.
Scavenging hyenas giggled in the night. Francis drew his sword, trying to envision the look in Tom’s eyes as he suffered the killing blow. Francis had dreamed of this moment so long, but now it was upon him he felt more fear than anger. He had never killed a man before. The sword weighed his arm down, and his legs were as soft as wax.
Do it, he told himself. Do it for your father’s memory.
And five thousand pounds’ reward, added Sir Nicholas Childs’ voice in his head.
Jacob sensed his hesitation and started to move forward, the cane knife at the ready. Francis waved him back. ‘He’s mine,’ he mouthed.
Jacob shrugged and nodded. The boy had paid him: let him have his chance. If he failed, Jacob was ready to finish it.
Francis drew back his arm. He had imagined this moment a thousand times on the long voyage from England. Yet now he was actually here, it was not like he had thought it would be. In his mind, he had called Tom’s name, and watched the surprise in Tom’s eyes turn to horror as Francis told him who he was, and the reason he must die. He had savoured the terror as Tom finally understood that justice would be done; had allowed Tom to fall to his knees and beg for his life, before finally ending it.
But now that he was here, all he wanted was for it to be over. His mouth was dry; he could not issue the challenge.
It did not matter, he told himself: the deed was all that mattered. He aimed the sword at the middle of Tom’s shoulders, holding the blade flat, the way his stepfather had taught him, so it would slide between the ribs. The blood sang in his ears. He stepped forward.
He trod too heavily. Gravel crunched under his foot. Tom spun around. For the first time in his life, Francis came face to face with the man who had killed his father.
‘Thomas Courtney,’ he asked, trying not to let his voice waver.
He looked surprised. ‘I am he.’
Francis lunged. Tom leaped back, just in time. The tip of the sword sliced open his shirt front; cold steel stung his skin, but it was only a scratch. The movement brought Francis too far forward, off balance. Tom could have knocked the sword from his hand, but already another figure was coming up beside the first, his heavy straight blade poised for a blow at Tom’s head. Tom retreated, out into a patch of moonlight that shone through a gap in the hedge.
In the moonlight he saw that there were five of them. He knew Jacob de Vries, and three of the others were familiar faces, rough men who he had seen before in Jacob’s company. The fifth was the youth who had attacked him with the sword. He had never laid eyes on him before. However, his features were hauntingly familiar.
He had no time to think about it. The boy came at him again, a flurry of quick, well-trained strikes that almost took his arm off. The other ruffians fanned out in a loose cordon, cutting off his escape and slowly tightening the net around him.
The boy was clearly the ringleader. The skill and ferocity of his attack marked him as the danger man.
‘Who in the Devil’s name are you?’ he challenged him. ‘Don’t I know you?’
The only answer he got was another lunge with the sword. Tom jumped back. Too late, he saw triumph light up his assailant’s face. The ground gave way beneath Tom. He tumbled down a muddy embankment into one of the empty sunken ponds. The youth stood at the top of the bank, breathing hard, looking down on his unarmed adversary.
Behind him, Jacob turned to one of his men. ‘Stay here with the boy, make sure he finishes the job.’ He would have liked to watch Tom die, but he had to get back to the house before Dorian returned. Dorian would be helpless if Jacob was holding a knife to his wife’s throat. Perhaps he’d make him watch what he did to her, before he turned his attention to Sarah.
He leered down at Tom. ‘It’s high time I paid a call on your pretty little wife. I’ll leave the boy to finish with you.’
With a last glance of triumph at Tom Courtney, he headed back to the boarding house. Two of his men followed; the third stayed with Francis.
In the bottom of the empty pond Tom was trying to recover his footing in the treacherous mud. He had killed so many men, perhaps it was inevitable that one day the angel of good fortune would desert him. His father had died before his time; so had his grandfather. But he still had no idea who this implacable enemy might be.
And while he breathed, he would not let Jacob de Vries lay a finger on Sarah. He pressed his hands into the mud to push himself up and there, half buried, he felt something hard and sharp. He wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled it out of the mud. It was a length of heavy three-inch pipe that had once carried water to feed the pond.
Francis came sliding down the muddy bank of the pond balancing like a dancer, with the sword poised to split Tom’s skull. Tom came to his knees and raised the metal pipe and blocked the blow. Metal rang on metal; but Tom was able to stop the blade inches from his own face.
Tom pushed back, throwing Francis off balance. Francis’ feet shot out from under him and he went down in the black mud. Tom pushed himself to his feet and ran at him with the metal pipe poised. But before he could reach him one of the other men charged down the bank brandishing a cane knife. Tom turned to meet him and ducked under the swinging blade. Then he grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand and used the impetus of his blow to keep him turning off balance, twisting his arm up behind his back until his shoulder joint popped out of its socket. The man screamed with the pain and dropped to his knees. Tom swung the water pipe in his right hand into his temple and he toppled face down in the mud.
Tom snatched up the cane knife from where it had fallen from the man’s hand and turned back to face Francis. But Francis was plastered with mud, and he had lost his sword as he fell. Now he refused to meet Tom again, and he staggered back
