He shook me as if I were indeed a rat. I managed to gasp: “Nothing. I was doing no harm! Let me go!”

The other man said softly, out of the darkness: “Here’s what he threw over the wall. A bag full of stuff.”

“What’s in it?” demanded my captor. And to me: “Keep quiet, you.”

He had no need to warn me. I thought I could smell smoke now, and see the first flicker of light as my fire took hold of the roof beams. I flattened myself back even further into the black shadow under the wall.

The other man was examining my bundle. “Clothes . . . sandals . . . some jewellery by the feel of it . . .”

He had moved out on to the towpath, and, with my eyes now used to the darkness, I could make him out. A little weasel of a man, with bent shoulders, and a narrow, pointed face under a straggle of hair. No one I had ever seen.

I gave a gasp of relief. “You’re not the King’s men! Who are you, then? What do you want here?”

The weaselly man stopped rooting in my bag and stared.

“That’s no concern of yours,” said the big man who held me. “We’ll ask the questions. Why should you be so scared of the King’s men? You know them all, eh?”

“Of course I do. I live in the palace. I’m—a slave there.”

“Marric—” it was the Weasel, sharply—“look over there, there’s a fire started. They’re buzzing like a wasp’s nest. No point in wasting time here over a runaway slave-brat. Slit his throat and let’s run for it while we can.”

“A moment,” said the big man, “he may know something. Look now, you—”

“If you’re going to slit my throat anyway,” I said, “why should I tell you anything? Who are you?”

He ducked his head forward suddenly, peering at me. “Crowing mighty fine all of a sudden aren’t you? Never mind who we are. A slave, eh? Running away?”

“Yes.”

“Been stealing?”

“No.”

“No? The jewellery in the bundle? And this—this isn’t a slave’s cloak.” He tightened his grip on the stuff at my throat till I squirmed. “And that pony? Come on, the truth.”

“All right.” I hoped I sounded sullen and cowed enough for a slave now. “I did take a few things. It’s the prince’s pony, Myrddin’s . . . I—I found it straying. Truly, sir. He went out today and he’s not back yet. He’ll have been thrown, he’s a rotten horseman. I—it was a bit of luck—they won’t miss it till I’m well away.” I plucked at his clothes beseechingly. “Please, sir, let me go. Please! What harm could I do—?”