Smith pulled the mask further over his face, checked that his powder was dry and patted Anson’s neck. “Not long now, boy, and we’ll be moving.”
They had stood in the shelter of the bushes for the past hour, with the undulating Appleby Common stretching around them and a dismal drizzle weeping from a dull grey sky. Three men had ridden past in that time and one farm cart, but Smith ignored them. He wanted one man and was prepared to wait all day and night.
The bushes topped a ridge that was no great height but afforded a view that extended to the spire of St Lawrence and the crumbling castle in Appleby. Smith produced his spyglass, opened it, and focussed on a hint of movement.
That could be my man, he told himself and shifted the spyglass, checking the road as far as he could see. The C
