Turning first towards the old Lady Chapel, then glancing up Lady Wynd before looking back to town, she tipped her head to listen. There was the steady drip of water, the growl of the ocean, a shriek of laughter, and even faint strains of music, but no footsteps. Had she imagined the sound? Was her mind playing tricks?

Nae, ’twas not.

From the direction of the High Street, moving unsteadily past the graveyard wall, three men were strolling up Marygate. They walked close together, halted, then started again. She could just discern their outline through the tendrils of floating mist. Who might these men be? Considering the tavern lay behind them, she wavered. It would be rude not to greet them, especially since it was Hogmanay. But there was something about the way they leaned into each other and, when they saw her, began whispering, that made her stomach lurch.

‘Evening, lass,’ one called, increasing his pace and dragging the others with him. The voice was deep, unfamiliar. English.

The men, who were sodden from the rain, stopped a few feet away, leaving the entrance to Lady Wynd on their left between them, and studied her brazenly. They weren’t neighbours; they weren’t even incomers in the usual sense, though they were that too. These were soldiers. Too late, she realised her mistake; she should have gone inside.

‘I don’t remember seeing you before,’ said the tallest of them finally, one hand resting on his hip, his other arm slung around his companion’s shoulders. He nudged his mate, and nodded towards Sorcha appreciatively. ‘And I don’t think I’d forget if I did.’

The men chuckled darkly.

Sorcha’s throat grew dry. Before she’d left to go to Dagny’s, a number of soldiers had been quartered throughout the town, either awaiting transport to the battlefields of Flanders or stationed to protect the coast from potential invasion. They were an undisciplined mob, a mix of English and Scotsmen drawn from around the country and mostly sympathetic to the Crown. There’d been trouble. Terrible trouble. A woman had been raped.

As she measured the distance to her neighbour’s house, calculating if she could turn and dart down Abbey Wall Road in time, she understood her choices were few. The men might be drunk, but she was weary and, in her heavy boots, unable to run fast. Not even reaching her door meant safety, not with three armed men able to force their way in. She glanced at the knives attached to the belts at their waists.