Scanning the Inmost Ward for any sign of movement, Mayhew relented. "You know."

Osborne winced at his words. "Are you not afraid?"

"This is the work we were charged to do, for queen and country. Raise the alarm. Then we must take ourselves to the prisoner."

Within moments, guards raced to their positions under Osborne's direc tion. Venturing to the gate, they peered beyond the curtain wall to where the string of lanterns kept the dark at bay.

"Nothing," Osborne said with relief, his voice almost lost beneath the screams of the animals.

Mayhew kept his attention on Saint Thomas's Tower in the outer curtain wall. Beyond it was the river, and beneath it lay the water entrance that had become known as Traitors' Gate, after the enemies of the Crown who had been transported through it to imprisonment or death. The guards had disappeared inside, but there was no clamour.

After five minutes, Osborne's relief was palpable. "A false alarm, then. Perhaps it was only Spanish spies. With the country on the brink of war, they must be operating everywhere. Yes?"

A guard emerged from Saint Thomas's Tower, pausing for a moment on the threshold. Mayhew and Osborne watched him curiously. With an odd, lurching gait, he picked a winding path towards them.

"Is he drunk?" Mayhew growled. "His head will be on the block by noon if he has deserted his post."

"I… I do not…" The words died in Osborne's throat as the guard's path became more erratic. His jerky movements were deeply upsetting, as if he had been afflicted by a palsy.

Mayhew cursed under his breath. "I gave up a life at court for this."

As the guard neared, they saw his hands continually went to his head as if searching for a missing hat. Despite himself, Mayhew reached for the knife hidden in the folds of his cloak.

"I am afraid," Osborne whispered.

"Do you hear music?" Mayhew cocked his head. "Like pipes playing, caught on the breeze?" As he breathed deeply of the night air, he realised the foul odour of the city had been replaced by sweet, seductive scents that took him back to his childhood. A tear stung his eye. "That aroma," he noted, "like cornfields beneath the summer moon." He inhaled. "Honey, from the hive my grandfather kept."