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the Christmas shopping. It was horrible. We’d only been there a few hours and he got murdered. He didn’t even have time to get me a present!”
    “It is a big place,” Ratsey agreed. “But I know people. And the people know people. If the boy is there, I’ll hear of it soon enough.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you two love-birds in about a month,” he said. “And don’t worry about Tom. The boy’s as good as dead.”

at the red lion
    Three days after he had left Framlingham, Tom lost his horse, his food and almost his life.
    He had been riding hard and had stopped for the night in a small wood just outside a village. He had been too nervous to go into the village itself. He was travelling outside his parish without a licence and knew that if he was caught he would be flogged. And if they decided he was a beggar or a thief – and how else would a boy like him have his own horse? – they might burn a hole in his ear or slit his nostrils and brand him on the side of his cheek.
    And so he was on his own, asleep on a bed of leaves when the three men came. A foot breaking a branch near his head woke him. But he was quick-thinking enough to keep his eyes closed.
    “Look at the horse!” a voice whispered.
    “It’s a beauty!” whispered a second.
    “Take it! Take it! And cut the boy’s throat!” That was a third voice, slithering out of the night.
    “No need to kill him,” the first voice replied. “He’s asleep…”
    “Then take the horse.”
    “I’ve got it!”
    “Quick…”
    And then they were gone.
    Tom sat up, shivering. It had been a close escape. If he had so much as opened his eyes, a knife would have been the last thing he would have seen.
    It was harder after that. For two whole days he walked. The rain never stopped and soon he felt as if the water were going right through him. He had no food. After twenty-four hours his head was spinning and he could barely see the road ahead. At the start of his journey, he had done his best to avoid people. Now it was the other travellers who avoided him. He was a doomed, half-frozen boy, dying on his feet. Nobody wanted to come near.
    On the sixth day, just after the sun had set, Tom came to a town. At least, he assumed it must be a town. He had never seen so many tall and solid buildings so close together.
    The first of these was an inn. It was three floors high, its windows ablaze with light and flaming torches in front of the main door. The front of the inn was a brilliant pattern of black beams and white panels with a wooden balcony running all the way along the front. A cobbled pathway led underneath a wide arch and into an inner courtyard and even as Tom watched a great carriage arrived, pulled by four horses, and rattled under and in. Immediately two ostlers appeared, dressed in brown aprons, and ran forward to help the passengers dismount. At the same time, a huge man with a black beard appeared, laughing at nothing in particular and chewing what looked like a leg of lamb. Somehow Tom knew that this was the landlord.
    “Welcome, welcome!” the man bellowed. “Everyone is welcome at the Red Lion of Enfield. Come in! Come in!”
    Tom watched as the new arrivals went in, laughing and chattering amongst themselves. For a moment he swayed on his feet. He had no more strength left. If this was London, then London would be where he would die. He took a deep breath. His position was hopeless. He had nothing to lose. With the last of his strength, he forced himself across the road. The innkeeper had just seen the last of the guests into the building when he noticed Tom, covered in mud from head to foot and looking more like a broken-down scarecrow than a thirteen-year-old boy.
    The innkeeper frowned. “What do you want?” he demanded.
    “Please, sir…” Tom had to concentrate to make his lips move. “Can I work for you?”
    “Work for me? What the devil makes you think I need a young cozener like you? What work do you want? What work can