From time to time Matthew caught sight of the watchtower through the trees; the structure had a conical roof turned ebony by the elements, and set in the stone sides at different elevations were small loopholes from which could be fired arrows or ancient hand cannons. It looked to him like part of the roof had caved in and a section of stones had given way and fallen out about forty feet up, but otherwise it was still a formidable defense position. Of signs of life there were none … which worried Matthew more than seeing Black’s soldiers manning the loops.

Their horses left the forest road for a rougher trail up the ridge. The watchtower loomed nearer. Matthew noted that Devane had brought his four-barrelled pistol out from the folds of his cloak and held it across the saddle in front of him, his hand upon the ugly weapon like the touch of a priest’s blessing on a child’s brow. Matthew had no doubt the gun had more than once been Julian Devane’s salvation.

Further along they came to a wall of rough stones about five feet high, wracked by time and nearly enveloped by brown weeds and thorny thicket. They were nearly under the watchtower, and yet had seen no movement other than the scurrying of a hare and two deer bounding away side-by-side. An opening in the wall was wide enough for a single man to pass through, but not a horse.

Devane swung himself down, his hand still on the pistol. “We walk from here,” he said, and reaching into his saddlebag that contained the supplies of ammunition, flints, pieces of dried and salted fish and beef wrapped up in waxed paper, he withdrew a spyglass. He opened the glass to its optimal position and aimed it up at the tower. After a moment of study he closed the glass but kept it in hand. “Tie your horse up,” he directed. And then: “Ready your pistol, you might need—” He stopped, because Matthew already had it out, and readied.

They secured their horses in the thicket. With his pistol at his side Matthew followed Devane through the opening into another area of overgrown brush, yet there was a path of sorts through the tangle. Here and there stood piles of stone rubble and the occasional single slab that indicated the foundations of whatever had once stood here. “Quiet,” Devane cautioned, though Matthew was making no noise. They wound their way through the ruins, still climbing. Presently the land straightened out at the top of the ridge and there before them, surrounded by chunks of stone that had fallen from the time-worn tower, was an open doorway.

“All right,” said Devane, as if speaking to a spirit of protection Matthew could not see. He entered the tower, with Matthew two paces behind.

The dank interior offered a staircase, the risers worn thin and smooth by ancient medieval boots. Up and up Devane and Matthew climbed, passing several platforms from which the loopholes could be defended. The wind churned within through gaping holes in the walls, the one at forty feet large enough to fit a carriage if a carriage could be hauled by winged horses.