When his fear began to recede, and the thought of dealing once more with his problems no longer caused a paralysing panic to take over his ability to reason, Farron emerged from under his blankets. He knew he needed to objectively take stock of his situation; to place recent events and factors within a logical framework, and to get it straight in his mind what was important to act upon. Only then could he form a coherent plan of action.

He perched on the end of his bed, placing the bag he'd hastily packed the night before at his feet, and began to go through the facts - things he knew for an absolute certainty.

First, his life was in danger. The overheard conversation between Pellow and the stranger the previous night confirmed that beyond doubt. Every minute he stayed here in Berkeley was to expose himself to the risk of something bad happening, and the danger was only going to increase once Lord Kilvern arrived with whoever it was that accompanied him.

Second, there was a mystery to his father's and his own past that needed solving, and staying in Berkeley was unlikely to help solve it.

Third, he was in possession of a piece of last age technology that still appeared to work, even if he didn't have any idea about what it did or what it was for. Perhaps that was what these people were after? But then no - Sable said it was something in his mind that they would want. Try as he might, Farron couldn't think what information he possessed that someone might want, beyond some skills in medicine and simple surgery. Certainly nothing anybody would wish to kill for.

Then there were the unknowns, and there were plenty of them. For example; how bad would the weather get in the next few weeks now that winter had all but arrived? The snows had come early the last few years, starting mid way through November the year before, and drifting so deeply, travel had been impossible. Scores of people across the kingdom had died in freezing temperatures and howling gales in the wastes between Freetowns and Protectorates. He had no idea how to solve the problem of food either. He was no forager or trapper. He would have to knock on doors and beg - and how could he do that, looking the way he did? And then, on top of everything, he only had the vaguest notion of where he was actually going. He had no real comprehension of how far away Plymouth or Falmouth was, or how long it would take to get there when travelling by foot. He doubted that he would be able to sneak a horse out of the stables without being discovered.

One thing he was certain of though - he couldn't leave in daylight. Slipping away from the castle and passing unobserved through the Protectorate boundary would only be possible in the dark, and even then it might prove difficult given the number of patrols about.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses - many of them - coming into the castle courtyard. Shouts and orders were being given; Farron could hear Lord Kilvern's voice echoing up the passageways. His stomach gave a lurch at the thought of his potential killer having arrived at the castle. He was considering slipping out quietly via the kitchens, hopefully stealing some provisions on the way through, when there were footsteps in the corridor and a knock on the door. Farron didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. Thom Hewlett entered the room, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Your presence is required outside," he said.

"Why?" asked Farron. "I'm normally required to stay in my rooms when we have visitors. I thought that was Lord Kilvern's wishes."

Thom pulled at his sash and fidgeted. Farron had never known Thom look so nervous. His own nervousness increased in sympathy.

"It seems that things are different this time. His guests are quite interested in meeting you. And no, I have no idea why his Lordship thought to bring you up as a subject of discussion. I suggest you go out, keep quiet, and get it over with, then come back here and stay in your room until I tell you the coast is clear. I'll have Minna bring up some food."

As was his habit when going outside in daytime, Farron pulled the hood of his cloak up to hide his face and placed his hands in his pockets. He followed Thom through the castle's corridors and stairways, wishing all the way that he didn't walk quite so fast. When they came out into the courtyard the light was bright enough to hurt his eyes and make him squint. He looked around quickly for the men who Pellow must have been referring to the night before, and sure enough saw a number of cloaks bearing the red and white stripes of Revenant Church Disciples standing by the Friar on the far side of the courtyard. They all stared at Farron with frozen, unreadable expressions on their faces. A sudden surge of anger went through him, fear and nervousness replaced with a reckless desire to show these bigoted people who had never met him before that he wasn't going to be intimidated. Instead he lowered his eyes and stared at the ground in front of his feet. 

"Ah, there you are!"

The unmistakable voice of Lord Kilvern drew Farron's attention away from the Disciples, and he turned to find Kilvern, who had given his horse over to a stable hand, striding towards him. His riding clothes and cloak were crumpled and splattered with mud from the journey, and his face flushed from the cold wind that was blowing in fitful gusts across the castle courtyard, promising rain. Kilvern was tall and thin, not altogether an imposing figure, and neither for that matter a great leader. Had he not been a cousin of the King he would never have made Lord, but for the last twenty years he had been in charge of Berkeley Protectorate by command of the King, and so he was given due deference and respect by the people of the community, while people like Thomas Hewlett and certain other members of the council kept the Protectorate in good order. Farron knew this, and knew also that Kilvern disliked criticism or comment outside his Protectorate. Where Farron was concerned, Kilvern himself had told him that the fewer who knew of Farron's existence in the Kingdom, the better, and that even the King, who had consulted Sable on several occasions at court, thought Farron to be a tame - someone plague affected, yet docile enough to be free of the more violent, cannibalistic tendencies associated with the disease, and kept as a kind of mindless pet. There were one or two tames at court in Cirencester, Farron had been told. He had never seen one himself and secretly hoped he never would.

"I was telling Sir Darrick here about you and he's been most keen to meet you. Seems there aren't any of your kind left where he comes from, ain't that right Darrick?"

Sir Darrick strolled over to stand next to Kilvern and stared at Farron for a moment. He was even taller than Kilvern, though where Kilvern was thin, this man was broad and muscular. Even with a thick grey cloak wrapped around him to keep out the cold, Farron could tell this was a powerful individual. When he pulled off the hood of his cloak, it was to reveal a mane of long, sand coloured hair and a face half hidden by a thick beard sporting plaits wove through silver ringlets. Although Sir Darrick was smiling, the smile didn't reach his eyes, which remained curious and calculating.

"So, Kilvern. You weren't having me on after all. Seems like I lost the bet boys!" As he spoke this, Sir Darrick turned to a number of similarly grey clad men behind him. Farron counted ten men, all of them well built and most of them armed. Out of the corner of his eye, Farron caught Thom pulling again at his sash, his other hand tapping against his sword pommel. Farron glanced quickly at Thom and received a significant look in return. Definitely nervous, thought Farron. What was going on here? It began to dawn on him that the Revenant Monks might not be the threat that he assumed they were. This man, Sir Darrick, and the men with him might well be the 'others' to whom Pellow had referred.

"Does this tame truly speak? He appears a bit vacant to me," said Darrick. "Well boy? Do you talk?"

"I talk," replied Farron, slowly and deliberately, as if he found it difficult to form the words. He felt that it would be wise to come across as slow and stupid to this man.

"Good, good. Then we can speak at length tonight. You'll be at the feast of course? Won't he Kilvern?"

Darrick looked askance at Kilvern, who seemed lost for a moment at this unexpected statement.

"Well, I ... er, usually Farron doesn't...," stammered Kilvern with obvious discomfort.

Farron had never before been present at any function in the hall, let alone one where guests of the Protectorate would be attending. It was almost amusing to see how Kilvern squirmed at the thought of having him there. And what would the butler, Leffard think? It would be worth going just to see how apoplectic that man would get at the sight of him sat at table. Not that Farron had any real intention of being there if he could help it. No, whether Sir Darrick wanted it or not, Farron planned to be on his way by the time any feast got underway. The distraction might work in his favour. Sir Darrick on the other hand seemed quite intent on the matter.

"Nonsense! I insist! We don't have 'em in Norfolk you know, cleared out long ago and old King Tyrol won't have any truck with tame ones either. It's an opportunity I cannot miss, eh lads?"

Sir Darrick looked back at his men, who made noises of assent, albeit without Darrick's enthusiasm. They were all looking intently at Farron.

"Surely you got to see the tames at Cirencester? There are some there I understand," said Thom, who looked puzzled at this interest in Farron. "And between Norwich and here, surely you came across some tames, or even wild plague victims in the Wastes?"

"Why no, would you credit it? It was a damn miserable, wet and uninteresting journey, truth be told. And your King never once showed us his pets while we were there. It was only because I happened to mention the fact we hadn't come across any plague rats to Kilvern that he told me about his own one here! Now, I'm hungry and thirsty and I need to find lodgings for my men. If you'll excuse me."

Sir Darrick turned his back on Thom without waiting for a response, and with a nod to Lord Kilvern, led his men out of the courtyard. As soon as he was gone Thom took Farron by the elbow and led him back into the castle. At the stairs inside the entrance they were met by an elderly man whose burnished metal badge in the shape of a shield crossed with two swords indicated he was a Captain on active Yeomanry duties. The Captain saluted Thom and looked round to check no-one was nearby before leaning in closer to Thom and whispered that he had carried out his instructions as ordered. The Captain gave Farron a blank stare. Farron couldn't remember the man's name, but recognised him as one of the Farm Masters that lived on the other side of the town - the one whose sons had chased and beaten Farron on several occasions over the years. Thom gave the Captain an order to see that Sir Darrick and his men were billeted and to report back where they were staying, then propelled Farron up the stairs.

"That man doesn't like me," observed Farron.

"Mmm. I thought you would be used to that by now."

"I don't think Sir Darrick likes me much either. What should I do Thom?" He hadn't meant for it to come out the way it did, but Farron could hear the plaintiveness in his voice reflecting his feeling of hopelessness. Thom didn't reply at first, instead guiding Farron to his room and closing the door behind them once inside.

"Listen. You have few friends here. You know that - you've always known that. Those of us who you can call friend - myself, Peter, the Godwit brothers included - all know your true worth. But the others, they cannot shake off the prejudice of hundreds of years of chaos caused by the plague. Perhaps they never will. Perhaps they don't want to. While you are here they all have something to focus their disappointment on for the life the plague left the people of this Earth. You are a symbol of a fallen empire, of the downfall.

"But at the same time you are unique - you are sane and intelligent yet still marked, and that disturbs and upsets people even more because it's unnatural. You're no tame, that's for sure. I don't know where Sable found you, or what his plans were for you, but I refuse to believe that he meant for you to grow old here, living hidden from sight."

Farron sat heavily on the bed and looked down at his feet. He knew all this of course - none of it he hadn't been able to work out for himself years before. Thom sat down next to him and Farron thought for a moment that he might be about to put his arm around him, to give him comfort and reassurance like his father would have. But no - instead, Thom leaned in closer and whispered so that no-one could chance to hear his words outside the door.

"Now, here arrives Sir Darrick, claiming to be a knight from the Fens, very interested in tames and wanting you near him at the feast tonight. Strange that he should turn up, a few days after our last visitor, who paid disagreeably close attention to your father. I don't believe in coincidences and I don't trust this man or his fellow knights. I've recalled the patrols. I will keep them all close by tonight, just in case. In the meantime, stay here until called, and try to stay away from Sir Darrick and his knights whatever happens."

Thom got up and left quickly, leaving Farron to ponder on his words. If Thom was thinking along the same lines as Farron, then he didn't need any more persuasion to link these so-called knights to his father's assassin.

Farron made his decision. Stepping to the window he threw it open and looked out into the deepening gloom. The sky was clear and he could make out several stars already. The air was crisp and still. It was going to be a cold night. With luck it would be a couple of hours at least until someone came to take him to the feast. It was time to go. Farron pulled his bag out from under the bed and took it the window. Checking there was no-one to see, he leant out and dropped it to the ground, where it landed with a soft thump behind a row of small bushes growing close to the castle's foundations. From the back of his small wardrobe, he pulled out a length of rope. Sable had insisted he keep it in his room in case of a fire, so that he could escape out the window if required. He had thought it odd at the time - the castle was mostly stone, with little in the way of combustible material, and it had stood for almost a thousand years without suffering a fire. Now, as he held the rope in his hands, Farron wondered if his father hadn't envisaged other reasons for wanting to escape out the window.

After a small struggle, Farron managed to pull a leg off one end of his bed. The wood was easily long enough to reach across the width of his window, yet strong enough to take his weight - he hoped. Tying one end of the line to the length of wood, Farron stepped onto the broad windowsill and squeezed through the opening. Fighting vertigo and wishing his hands weren't suddenly so sweaty, Farron knelt down slowly and pulled the wood up to the window, placing it across the width and holding it in place with the rope, the end of which he let fall to the ground below. Holding on to the rope with all his strength, he felt for a foothold below the ledge and gingerly began lowering himself down. His heart hammering in his chest, he moved inch by inch downwards. After only a few seconds his hands were screaming in agony from the effort of holding on. He concentrated on placing his feet and moved down as fast as he dared, fearful of a fall that would certainly injure him badly, if not kill him outright. Eventually, and with a feeling of great relief, he reached the ground and let go of the rope, flexing his hands to ease the cramps in his fingers. Blood ran warm and sticky down his fingers.

Trusting that with his weight off it, the bed leg would come through the window when he pulled, Farron tugged at the rope. With a clatter, the rope came down, the bed leg narrowly missing his head. He quickly gathered up the rope, then felt around for his bag. It wasn't there.

"Looking for this?" said a voice close by, and before Farron could even draw breath, a calloused hand clamped firmly over his mouth.