Furious, I strapped my jerkin tight and kicked the horse on; we galloped now, leaping small walls and hedges, four moons watching us through cloud. Down lanes bordered with stone walls, past a dark farmhouse, skirting tangled copses; the search for a track seemed endless. It was almost light before I found it. A narrow, beaten trail. It looked as if animals had trodden it; it led into a dark stand of juniper and fireberry bushes, and smelt of nightcat.

The horse didn’t like it. Neither did I, I suppose, but time was pressing and I was angry and a bit reckless. So I rode down. I can see old Jellie shaking his head now.

It was dark among the trees, the branches low and tangled. I had to dismount, slashing them aside, leading the horse. Uneasy, flybitten and scratched, we scrambled down, tread muffled on a springy mattress of needles, the winter’s shrivelled berries. The track dropped steeply and the horse kept whickering, the smell of its fear sharp on the air. I swore at it, then swung my crossbow out and racked it, hastily. In the undergrowth a twig had cracked.

I stopped, raising the bow. The copse was dim. Ahead, somewhere below, I could see a pale daylight but here the trunks crowded, silent.

I heard it before it leapt and squirmed around; the yowl was in my face, past me, then the lithe black shape had fastened on to the horse; it reared, screaming with terror. I aimed too fast; the bolt shot wide, crunched in an ashbole. Then the horse was gone, in a heedless bloodstained panic, the nightcat streaking after it like a shadow.

Furious, I scrambled down the track, all hope gone. I’d seen what a nightcat could do – there’d be no chance of riding back to the bridge. And I was scared, believe me. But I needed the food and money in the saddle-bags. Everything was on that wretched horse. Then as I came out of the trees, I fell smack over something lying in the path, and stared at it, on hands and knees.

The nightcat lay sprawled, mid-jump. One paw was flung up, the snarling mouth wide in the agony of its death. It was still hot. Fleas jumped off it. I reached out, cautiously, and touched it. The great head slumped; blood clotted the black fur, just congealing. A crossbow bolt stuck out of its neck.

I rolled, instantly, under the nearest bush, racked the bow hastily and re-loaded it. I’d missed the cat. This was someone else’s work. And they’d be back for it. Steadying my breath, controlling, I waited for them under the leaves. Always see what you’re up against, Jelly used to wheeze. I’d never believed he’d been a field-agent, not then, but his captures were listed in all the Watchtowers, so he must have been thinner once.