Black Wreath by Peter Sirr Page A

first dream voice said.
    ‘And we know what happens to spies, don’t we lads?’
    There was a cacophony of voices, all shouting together, vying with each other. James stared out of his sleep at the dream figures. They looked terrifying in the moonlight, like demons, wild-eyed and raucous and spoiling for a fight. As the noise went on and James tried to answer their queries as civilly as he could, explaining where he had come from and how he had got there, it began to dawn on him that this was no dream, and these were no dream-demons. They were real men with real voices and real daggers and he was in real danger from which there was no waking up. He tried blinking, just in case, but each time he opened his eyes the men were still there.
    ‘I think we should hang him,’ one was saying now. He couldn’t have been any older than James, a skinny, half-nourished boy with big eyes and a baby face.
    ‘Not a bad idea, Kitty, not a bad idea, if we had a bit of rope, but we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to steal some.’
    ‘We could just knife him. We have our hangers,’ the one they called Kitty offered helpfully. ‘Lovely blood,’ he addedwith a leer. He drew close to James and touched his neck with the point of his short sword.
    ‘Put your hanger away,’ the first one barked. ‘I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night. Help Kelly and Hare to put the stuff in the hide.’
    James saw the two men and the boy make off into the darkness with a large sack.
    The man who seemed to be the leader turned to James. ‘The name is Jack Darcy.’ He waited for this revelation to take its effect on James.
    James obliged him by gasping. ‘The highwayman?’
    Darcy smiled, gratified. ‘The very same. Best there ever was, highwayman, footpad, and … murderer when I have to be.’ He looked hard at James, studying the lad.
    He doesn’t look much like a murderer, James was thinking. Or even a highwayman. His face was sinister up close in the weak moonlight, but it was fine featured and handsome, and his clothes were respectable, even foppish, with a good coat and fine boots, so far as James could judge by the light.
    ‘So you worked in the college, did you? A boy of education. Let’s hear you speak,’ Darcy commanded. ‘Say something for me!’
    ‘What do you want me to say?’
    ‘Anything you want. A rhyme or a recimitation, anything that shows us the cut of your voice.’
    James flailed around in his mind, in search of something he might say. He remembered some lines McAllister was fond of reciting. James closed his eyes and let the words find their wayout into the cold night air, shivering a little as he spoke.
    When I consider every thing that grows
    Holds in perfection but a little moment,
    That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
    Whereon the stars in secret influence comment …
    ‘I can’t remember the rest,’ James said.
    ‘Oh that will do nicely,’ Darcy said.
    The others, who had re-emerged from the darkness, added shouts of mock appreciation and grandiose applause.
    ‘Quiet, can’t you,’ Darcy said. ‘What we have here is an employable asset.’
    ‘A wha’?’ said Kitty.
    ‘Every business has to put its best foot forward,’ Darcy said. ‘To introduce itself to the public, if you get my meaning. And speaking of introductions, I’m nearly forgetting my manners. James, what did you say your second name was?’
    ‘Brown,’ James said. He was going to take no chances with his name here.
    Darcy gave him his long stare again, as if he thought James Brown was a likely story indeed. But he let it pass.
    ‘James Brown,’ he placed sly emphasis on the surname. ‘Meet Tom Kitt, known as Kitty, assistant to the company; Mr Joseph Hare, footpad, assistant highwayman; Mr Jonah Kelly, footpad, associate highwayman, swordsman first class.’
    Kitty, Hare and Kelly all bowed elaborately, sweeping their hats through the air. James didn’t like the look of any of thethree. Kitty, he guessed,