The farmer rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘Hmm, I’d say some fifteen or so miles. Travellers do say the Fox and Pheasant ain’t bad, tho’ I never been there myself. But if you don’t tarry, you’ll get there ’fore sunset. Bear right as you leave the village, then carry on along the road till you come to the corner of a wood, then take the left-hand fork.’

‘Any thieves in the wood?’ asked Rose.

‘Nah,’ said Jon, selecting a fresh piece of straw from the ground and popping it in his mouth. ‘There’s a witch, you see. Scares ’em off, she does!’ The old farmer chuckled. ‘Keep away from the woods and you’ll be fine.’

‘This must be the fork,’ said Jack. They had come to a junction marked by a set of old stocks on which someone had heaped a pile of leaves and old rags.

Yori glanced nervously towards the dark wood. ‘Do you really think there is a witch in there?’

‘England has its fair share of them,’ Rose replied. ‘I wouldn’t go wandering off, if I were you.’

‘Don’t worry, Yori,’ said Jack, seeing his friend go pale. ‘The farmer was just trying to frighten us, that’s all.’

But no sooner had he spoken than the pile of rags twitched, causing his horse to rear up in fright. Mouldy leaves tumbled aside to expose a grey-haired, wrinkled old crone in the stocks. The creature looked more dead than alive: her face was lined and rough as a piece of bark, her eyes little more than slits, her hands curled and blackened like crow’s feet, and her skinny legs protruded through the holes of the stocks like the limbs of a dead tree. Then the crinkled corpse of a woman gave a dry cough.

‘She’s still alive!’ Akiko gasped, scrambling down from her horse.

‘Careful!’ warned Rose. ‘She could be the witch.’

‘She’s just an old woman,’ said Akiko. ‘What harm can she do?’

Rose gave her a sober look. ‘A witch can do a lot of harm, from what I hear.’

‘We don’t know she’s the witch,’ said Jack, dismounting.

Remaining in her saddle, Rose shook her head doubtfully. ‘Who else would be put in stocks out here?’

‘Well, we can’t leave her like this,’ insisted Akiko. ‘She’ll die.’

Witch or not, Jack agreed with Akiko. He dismounted and opened the satchel on his saddle. Sir Henry’s stable boy had given him a leather water bottle and he took it out. Pulling the stopper, he pressed the spout to the old woman’s parched lips. Her tongue sought out the water like a wriggling worm. She swallowed, then coughed and spluttered.

‘Kindness can kill,’ she rasped.