Across the valley in the Black Castle dungeons, cold, thirsty and hungry, James sat on the bare bench, looking through the bars. He’d had a rough night, trying to sleep on the narrow bench with just the thin blanket to cover him. He wondered what time it was. It felt like morning, but he had no way of knowing.

He’d have been afraid if he let himself, but he pushed down the flickers of fear every time they stole up on him.

He thought constantly of escape. If he could just get out of the cell, he knew the castle and all its hiding places, all its secrets; he felt sure he could get to the tunnel, get out. There had to be a way back through the waterfall. After all, Merry had done it.

He couldn’t bear sitting still, so he got up and paced. He peered out of his bars but he couldn’t see much. His cell was the furthest from the stairs, so all he could see were the empty cells opposite.

He paused when he heard the heavy step of someone descending the stairs. Any approach meant a chance of interrogation. Or worse. Or a chance of escape.

He stood ready, heart pounding, hands loose by his sides.

Aeron, the jailer and watchman, appeared, wheezing slightly. James flexed his fingers, readied himself. He wasn’t stronger than the jailer but he was nimbler and faster.

The man stopped before the cell, red-faced, furtive-looking. He was carrying a tankard.

‘Here,’ he said roughly, passing it between the bars. ‘Ale, watered down. Kitchens think it’s for me.’

James nodded, took it. ‘Thank you!’ His throat was so dry his words came out as a croak. He hadn’t spoken for so long, his voice sounded odd. He’d only been in the dungeons overnight, had only been deprived of food and drink for perhaps fourteen hours, but it seemed a lot longer than that and he already felt weak. Not so weak that he didn’t covertly study the man, note the ring of keys protruding from one of the pockets in his tunic.

‘Don’t sit right with me,’ said the jailer. ‘Starving you. Not as old as you look, are you?’ he asked, squinting through the bars. ‘Not much more than a boy. I had a boy once. Died of the sweating sickness three years past. How many summers are you?’

‘Sixteen,’ answered James. ‘Yesterday.’

The jailer gave a snort. ‘Not the best way to mark it, banged up in the dungeons . . .’

James twisted his face in a wry smile. ‘Not really.’ He remembered with a flash of longing his birthdays past: nice dinner in his home, just a floor above but a world away . . . artful presents picked by his family, something fun and practical from Merry, who he was never allowed to see on his actual birthday, just the day after. Today. If only . . .

‘Drink that,’ the man was saying. ‘I’ll have something else for you shortly.’

He returned fifteen minutes later with a steaming bowl. He pushed it under the door in the gap between the floor and the base of the iron bars.

James bent, picked it up. Some kind of gruel. ‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. He ate it quickly, gratefully. He didn’t care how it tasted. It was food and it was warm. He pushed the bowl back to the man. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘It’s Aeron, isn’t it?’

‘It is. And say nothing of it. Act groggy when they come for you, to question you next.’

‘When d’you think they will? What time is it now?’

‘Mid-morning. They’re all busy with the king’s tourney, so who knows? After that I reckon.’

‘And that’s tomorrow?’ asked James.

‘So I hear.’ With a nervous glance behind him, Aeron took the evidence of his meal away.

James fell silent. Tomorrow Merry would come. He could only pray she would win the tourney – and then run.

Where was she, he wondered. Had she managed to sleep, knowing what was coming, what she would have to do, before an audience of earl, countess and king?

God, he wished he could get out of here, for a million reasons, but to see Merry, to watch her compete, to help her . . .

James wondered about Longbowman Owen. Did he have any inkling, any sixth sense that someone would come to save him and his family, or was he lost in despair? It seemed the latter, for the man didn’t speak. James had occasionally heard the low rumble of a word or two from the far end of the dungeons when the jailer gave him food and ale, but that was it.

‘Don’t give up hope,’ he called out now.

‘Who’s this offering me succour?’ came the faint reply, contempt in the voice. ‘The fake Lord James? The thief?’

‘So they say,’ replied James.

‘Tomorrow the king will call on an Owen to come forward and honour our pledge,’ said Owen. ‘And I will not be there.’ He cursed bitterly in Welsh. ‘One day I shall avenge my family on the de Courcys. And God help them when I do.’

James felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was not an idle threat, issued in the heat of the moment. This was the vow of a man who thought he was about to lose everything.

‘An Owen will come forward,’ James said. ‘An Owen will stand for you.’

There was an electric silence. Then a question: ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend, strange as it may seem. And don’t ask me more. Just wait and see.’

‘Someone will come forward? A longbowman?’

‘No,’ answered James, voice full with pride. ‘A longbow girl.’

There was a laugh of sheer disbelief. ‘Now that I would like to see,’ came the reply.

Just you wait, then, thought James, but he didn’t answer. Time would answer for him.

He sat back on the bench once more and stared at the bars. When would his chance of escape come? He raked his fingers through his hair. He needed a weapon. An iron bar would be good, but he’d already yanked and pulled at the bars in the vain hope that one might come loose. Now he patrolled his cell, trailing his hand over the walls. He paused when his finger caught on a rough stone. He’d felt it give. He stopped, glanced around, then started to dig and scratch at the surrounding mortar, gouging away with his nails.

He didn’t know how long it took him, he didn’t care, time was all he had locked up in his cell, but finally he pried it loose. He pulled it from the wall and examined it. It was small, only about four inches long and two across, but it fit perfectly in his hand. It was smudged with blood from his skinned fingertips. He didn’t notice. He felt exultant. Now he had a weapon and he felt the odds shift, just fractionally, maybe enough, in his favour. He pushed the stone down inside his waistband, hidden by the pleats of his doublet and he waited for the next day to dawn.