Dense clouds hid the moon while a chill breeze lifted spindrift from the Channel waves. Smith checked that his pistol was secure in his belt, and the knife sat snug against his hip. He wore dark clothing with soft-soled boots, smeared soot over his face to conceal his features, and fastened a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as a further disguise.
“Is that you, Smith?” Blackwell stood in the shadow of the ancient Saxon St Dunstan’s church, with the gravestones spreading beneath the creaking boughs of a yew tree and the square tower of the church thrusting to the darkness.
“There’s no need to broadcast my name,” Smith said.
“Dymar is here, too,” Blackwell indicated Broken-nose, who hid his features behind a black kerchief and carried a brace of pistols in his broad leather belt. A cu
