Two minutes later a blackbird screeched and flew off. I heard voices coming up the path from the river. Putting my eye to the sight of the bow I watched them come, two men, shouldering through bracken, my sweating nervous horse dragging behind.

I could have killed them both. Or maybe one; the other would have gone before I could reload, and then it would have been cat and mouse and I had no idea who else might be around. Safer to wait.

They stood over the cat, laughing, more than pleased with themselves. The biggest one gazed up the track. ‘The rider might still be alive.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Should we look?’

The smaller one laughed and shook his head. ‘Not me. Cat’s had him. Or he broke his neck coming off. This horse is worth at least fifty marks, never mind the stuff in the bags.’

‘What if he turns up?’

They looked at each other. Then they laughed.

I had to take my finger off the trigger, force myself to be calm. I get angry too easily, and an agent needs control. They didn’t know I was Watch. I could have got up and told them – they might have backed off. Or might not. Bitterly I lay where I was, deep in leaves, woodbugs crawling over me. And all the time Galen Harn was slipping away.

They were in no hurry. They skinned the cat on the spot, taking the soft thick pelt, the teeth, the paws, some of the innards. Soon the air stank of blood; flies buzzed in clouds over the carcase. Finally, well into the morning, they gathered up their packs, loaded them on to the horse and set off, down towards the river. They talked loud and easy, but their bows were ready.

Stiff and filthy, I watched them go, then got up and followed, silent, from bush to tree. I may not be one of the magical Order, but even as kids in the Watchhouses we played this game. No one caught me then. Or now.

It took over an hour to reach the farm. I smelt it first, the tang of cattle over the marshy ground; then I saw the low rise of the roof, close to the water. The river was narrower here, still sluggish but shallow; I could see cows knee-deep in it on a bank of shingle. I could have crossed. But I wanted the horse.

The men tied it up and went inside.

Flat behind low scrub, I looked the place over. Not a village, as I’d feared, but a house, isolated. Maybe fewer than ten people. Abruptly the door opened; the two men were back, women with them, an old man, children. They fed the horse an apple, walked round it, slapped its legs admiringly. A small girl in a tattered dress was lifted on to its back.