‘The tall one is Tom Courtney,’ said the prostitute, with more than a little admiration in her voice.
Francis felt as though the blood was freezing in his veins. For so long, Tom Courtney had been an almost mythic figure, the demon who stalked his nightmares. Now he stood a few yards away, talking and joking with the other men. Utterly unaware of the vengeance that awaited him.
The prostitute read the look on Francis’ face.
‘You hate him,’ she mused. ‘You want to kill him. Yes?’ she asked, then as Francis started to protest, ‘Do not argue. I have seen the look that is in your eyes before, though mostly on men who had drunk a good deal more than you.’
Francis couldn’t take his eyes off Tom. ‘What of it?’
‘Tom Courtney is no stumbling sailor still on his sea legs. He’s the most dangerous man in the colony. The stories they tell of him …’ She shook her head.
His stepfather had failed in many things, but he had made sure Francis knew how to fight with sword and fists. More than once, Sir Walter’s debts had led him to the duelling field at dawn; he knew how to account for himself. Sir Walter had been a ferocious instructor, drilling Francis until his knuckles bled and his numbed fingers could hardly close around the hilt of his sword.
One day, this will save your life, he had insisted.
‘I can defend myself,’ Francis assured the woman stiffly.
‘Of course you can, luvvy,’ she leered. ‘But why take the risk? Do you even have a sword? You are not the only enemy Tom Courtney has in Cape Town. There are others I know who would be only too willing to help you.’
Reluctantly, Francis dragged his gaze away from the window and looked at her. ‘What are you offering?’
‘Buy me another drink, and I’ll tell you.’
As darkness fell, Francis climbed the hill. The sword in his belt slapped against his thigh, and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Its solid presence reassured him. This was how he would kill Tom Courtney: not the distant, anonymous death of a musket or pistol ball, but the intimate end of a blade through the heart. The same way Tom had killed William.
He cast a nervous eye at the men around him. They were dark figures, their skin grey in the moonlight. Long, straight-bladed cane knives swung easily in their fists.
Behind Francis, Jacob de Vries strode up the hill, swatting at the flowers by the roadside with his cane knife. The knives – heavy blades, more like swords – had been destined for the sugar plantations of Barbados, but the vagaries of trade had brought them to Cape Town, where Jacob had found more than one use for them.
He studied Francis, wondering about this raw English boy. When the prostitute introduced them, he’d half suspected a trap. The boy was so scrawny, his new beard barely hiding his callow cheeks, he looked as if a stiff drink could knock him down. But Jacob had put him through his paces with the blade he had found for him, and discovered he was a more than adequate swordsman: quick with youth, always aware, and with a few moves that had surprised even Jacob. And the fire in his eyes, when he spoke of Tom Courtney, could not be feigned.
Jacob knew that feeling well. Two years ago, he had been bringing a cargo of slaves down from Mozambique when his ship grounded on a sandbar. Tom Courtney had salvaged him – but as his fee he had forced Jacob to free all his slaves. He had lost a fortune, and one beautiful slave girl in particular he had wanted for himself. The bitch Sarah Courtney had taken her, teaching her manners and giving her a passage to England where she could live as a freedwoman.
Desire stirred in his loins as Jacob thought of the girl. She’d been completely naked when she came aboard, high breasted and hair plucked after the fashion of her tribe, leaving nothing to the imagination. He thought of what he would have done to her, and what he would do to Sarah Courtney once Tom was out of the way and could no longer protect her.
They reached the top of the hill. There were a few houses here, but one was empty: the owner had gone to Amsterdam, and wouldn’t return for months. Jacob and his men hid in the shadows of the garden wall, watching the boarding house opposite. Harpsichord music drifted out; lamps burned brightly inside. Through the windows, Jacob saw Tom and his brother and their wives sitting in the parlour. The brother wore a turban wound round his head, no better than a Kaffir. Jacob wondered if the turban would stay in place when he’d separated the head from its neck.
He tapped Francis on the shoulder. The boy jumped as if he’d pissed himself. Not a good sign, thought Jacob.
‘Do we go in now?’
Francis shook his head. Jacob wondered if he was having second thoughts. If it came to it, he could get rid of the boy with one stroke of his cane knife. Jacob knew places where bodies could be left, so that by the time anyone found them the jackals and vultures had picked them bare.
But there was no harm in waiting. And, in fact, a few minutes later, the door opened and Dorian Courtney came out, escorting a woman Jacob didn’t recognize. A half-caste, by the look of her. Perhaps he could find her later, once he was through with Sarah.
For now, Jacob couldn’t believe his luck. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the prospect of fighting both Courtney brothers – even with his strength of numbers – had worried him. Now he could pick them off one at a time.
He waited until Dorian and the woman were out of sight, then he grabbed Francis’ arm.
‘Now,’ he hissed.
But just as he was about to move, light flooded onto the lane again. Tom stepped out the door. Jacob ducked down hurriedly, but Tom was too lost in his own thoughts to notice the movement. When Jacob risked another glance, he saw him walking towards the high wall of the Company garden. He was unarmed.
Jacob chuckled happily. He looked at Francis again. Whoever you are, he thought, you have the Devil’s own luck.
‘Is that him?’ Francis asked. Sweat beaded on his face and his eyes were wide. Jacob wondered if he had the balls to see this through. It wouldn’t matter. Whoever wielded the blade, Tom Courtney would die that night anyway.
They followed Tom, keeping a safe distance behind. Again, luck was with them. Tom headed deeper into the garden, away from the town and anyone who might hear. He walked quickly, but he never looked back.
Scavenging hyenas giggled in the night. Francis drew his sword, trying to envision the look in Tom’s eyes as he suffered the killing blow. Francis had dreamed of this moment so long, but now it was upon him he felt more fear than anger. He had never killed a man before. The sword weighed his arm down, and his legs were as soft as wax.
Do it, he told himself. Do it for your father’s memory.
And five thousand pounds’ reward, added Sir Nicholas Childs’ voice in his head.
Jacob sensed his hesitation and started to move forward, the cane knife at the ready. Francis waved him back. ‘He’s mine,’ he mouthed.
Jacob shrugged and nodded. The boy had paid him: let him have his chance. If he failed, Jacob was ready to finish it.
Francis drew back his arm. He had imagined this moment a thousand times on the long voyage from England. Yet now he was actually here, it was not like he had thought it would be. In his mind, he had called Tom’s name, and watched the surprise in Tom’s eyes turn to horror as Francis told him who he was, and the reason he must die. He had savoured the terror as Tom finally understood that justice would be done; had