Read the opening chapter of the book.

Chapter 1.

Cornwall 1760

She is shivering, but it is not from the cold. Her heart is thumping and her guts have tied themselves in knots. She feels as if she will be sick if she has to wait a moment longer. 

  The waiting is the hardest part.  

  It is not too late to change her mind. She could turn the horse around and go home. No one would ever know. It would be the sensible thing to do.

  When was the last time she did the sensible thing? 

  The stallion stamps impatiently, his whole body trembling with pent up energy. She leans forward in the saddle and whispers into his ear.

"It won't be long. And when I'm done I shall need you to run like the wind!"

The horse gives a bad tempered snort and lowers his head.

   She rests her face against the stallion's neck. She closes her eyes and breathes in the dark musk of horse sweat. She feels the warmth of him against her cheek. Her heart slows and the tide of her terror draws back.

   The stallion is jet black, with a single blaze of white on his nose in the shape of a knife blade. Steam rises from his flanks, mixing with the night mist, gathering about horse and black clad rider in a haze that makes them all but invisible where they wait in the shadow of the ruined house.

   The land is so deep in fog that the hilltop might be an island, adrift on a moonlit ocean. At the top of the hill stands the gibbet, looming over the world like an omen of doom. A man-sized iron cage hung from a tall wooden post, the gibbet is where the mortal remains of criminals are displayed after they have been hung on the gallows. The gibbet has played host to murderers, pickpockets, pirates and highwaymen, it has held poor men who stole bread for their starving children and innocent men who did nothing worse than displease the Magistrate. Innocent or guilty, they all went the same way; picked clean by the ravens and fallen to bones upon the earth of Reaver’s Hill. 

    The gibbet turns slowly on its chain, the rusty iron grating harshly in the stillness of the night. The bars seem to hold the moon prisoner, the mouth in the bone white face drawn open in a silent howl. If things go badly tonight then it will be her bones in the gibbet cage at the next full moon. 

  She turns away with a shudder.

  The stallion lifts his head, ears twitching. Then comes the sound that she has been waiting for; the thunder of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels on the road below.

"Now!" she hisses, kicking the stallion forward.

                                                  *             *            *            *             *

      The coachman sees the fallen tree only just in time to halt the carriage. He stands up in his seat, reins back the horses and the coach skids to a halt, dumping the passenger in the back onto the floor with a thump. Mr Periwigge clambers painfully to his feet and picks up his hat. He pulls down the window, leans out and yells up at the driver:

"You almost killed me - you idiot! What the blazes is going on!" 

"See for yourself," replies Noah."The road's blocked."

Mr Periwigge peers ahead into the fog. The remains of a dead tree have fallen down onto the road, leaving a gaping hole in the steep bank above.

"It's only an old stump," snarls Mr Periwigge. "Get out and shift it or I'll have you horsewhipped!"

Mr Periwigge is in a foul temper. The journey from Bristol has taken two daysand it has rained most of the way. He is battered and bruised and the thought of his final destination makes him shudder. Colby Hall is a godforsaken place at the best of times, half ruined and dreadfully damp. The wind howls constantly in the chimneys and the fires are forever going out. There are rumours that the hall is haunted - something that Mr Periwigge has no trouble in believing. 

  Mr Periwigge tries to tell himself that it is money alone that makes him do Squire Colby's bidding but he knows in his heart it is not. There is a great deal of money to be made in his business with Josia Colby but it is fear that makes Mr Periwigge come running whenever he is called - fear of what the Squire might do to him if he refuses.

Muttering curses at the verminous Mr Periwigge, the coachman is making ready to hand the reins to the coach guard when the guard gives a gasp and grabs him by the arm.

"Noah - Look out!"

A dark rider looms out of the mist. A rider wrapped in a heavy cloak and mounted on a tall, black horse. 

    The stallion comes alongside the carriage, bringing the rider level with the men on the driving seat. The rider glares at them from under the brim of the hat and they feel the heat of the stallion's breath on their faces. 

"Stand down lads!" calls the masked rider, drawing a pistol and levelling it at the two men.

"Oh Lord! It's Ned Sharpe's ghost!" gasps Noah, crossing himself and glancing up toward the gibbet on the hilltop.

"Aye lads," the rider laughs. "I've come to take my revenge and drag you off to hell!"

Bill, the guard, is not so easily frightened. He reaches into the sack at his feet and comes up holding a large rifle. Its barrel is made of brass and it bells out at the end like a trumpet.

"You are no more a ghost than I am," growls Bill, his fingers fumbling at the hammer of the blunderbuss.

There is a flash of powder, the crack of a gunshot and Bill hears a bullet whistle past his ear and bury itself in the carriage roof with a hollow thud.

"The next shot will be on target," says the rider, pulling out a second pistol and pointing it at Bill. "Drop your weapon, or I shall dispatch you to Judgement Day."

Bill doesn't like being shot at and he glares defiantly back at the highwayman. His thumb is resting on the trigger of his own gun and it will only take a flick of his wrist to put the rider in his sights. The blunderbuss holds half a pound of lead shot and at this range it will take the rider's head clean off. Bill loaded the gun first thing this morning but he has not checked it all day and there is no telling what the rain and fog might have done to the powder. It's an even bet whether it will fire at all.

"Put down your gun," says the rider evenly. "I've no quarrel with you. It is your passengers gold I'll be taking, not yours."

Under the cloak the highwayman seems a slight figure. The pistol is held steady enough but it looks very large in the rider's small, gloved hand. Bill guesses that the robber is no more than a boy. He darts a sideways glance at Noah, who sits wide-eyed with terror, holding onto the reins for dear life.

   Boy or not, the rider's gun is pointing straight at Bill's heart. He has no liking for Mr Periwigge and no wish to die to save the man's gold. With a curse, Bill lowers the blunderbuss and tosses it down between the shafts of the carriage, causing the harnessed horses to snort and stamp nervously. 

"Very wise," says the rider. "Now, my fine gentlemen, if you will do as I ask then I promise that no harm will come to you. Please be good enough to step down from your perch and lie upon the ground."

When Noah and Bill are lying face down in the mud, the rider jumps nimbly from the saddle, steps up to the carriage and knocks at the door with the pistol butt.

"Open up!"

"Don't shoot me," cries Mr Periwigge bravely. "Spare my life!"

"Step out where I can see you and there'll be no need for anyone to die," calls the highwayman.

Mr Periwigge tumbles out of the door, a small leather suitcase clutched tightly to his chest.

"Hand me your valuables," says the highwayman. "And I can let you be on your way."

"Do you know who I am?" says Mr Periwigge in a quivering voice. "I am a personal friend of Squire Colby - the Magistrate. I am travelling tonight on his business. He will hear of this and - "

"I do not care if you're travelling on the business of the devil himself!" growls the highwayman. "Deliver me your valuables or I shall be forced to plug your heart with lead."

Mr Periwigge gulps. He is no hero but there will be hell to pay if he loses the package that he is carrying to Colby Hall, not to mention the small fortune he paid for it on the Squire's behalf. Still holding tightly to his suitcase with one hand, Mr Periwigge reaches into the pocket of his coat and draws out a tiny silver pistol. There is a powder flash and Mr Periwigge's hat and wig fly off his head. He gives a yelp and drops the suitcase and the silver pistol, which discharges itself at his feet with an unconvincing 'pop'.

"You couldn't wound a sparrow with that trinket," snaps the highwayman, putting the smoking pistol away and whipping out a third. "No more tricks. My next shot will be the end of you - make no mistake!"

Mr Periwigge falls back against the carriage and he slides slowly down to sit in the mud, his eyes fixed with horror on the smoking bullet hole in the middle of his fallen hat.

  The highwayman pockets the silver pistol and relieves Mr Periwigge of a gold snuffbox and signet ring, before slashing open the case with a swiftly drawn knife. Mr Periwigge's silk shirts and undergarments are tossed out and the highwayman comes up holding a large leather bag that clinks in a most satisfying way. Mr Periwigge scowls at this but he says nothing. 

  The highwayman is about to cast the case aside when something else slips out; a package tied up in brown paper.

"That is of no use to you," says Mr Periwigge hastily, clearly more terrified at the thought of losing the parcel than he is of the highwayman's loaded pistol. "It is for Squire Colby and he will not be pleased to lose it."

"All the better," laughs the highwayman. "There is no man I would rather rob than Josia Colby!"

The paper is torn away to reveal a small, leather bound book with a binding of intricate gold leaf. On the cover of the book are engraved three keys, woven about with a wreath of leaves. In the dimness of the night the golden patterns flicker like living flames. 

The highwayman stows the book safely away in the folds of the cloak.

"You'll hang for this!" says Mr Periwigge in a trembling voice.

"A good evening to you sir," replies the highwayman, with a bow. "Jack Shadow, at your service. Be careful how you go in the fog. It is easy to go astray on a night like this."

   As the highwayman rides away into the mist,        Mr Periwigge grabs up his mud-soaked wig and jams it hastily back onto his bald head. Bill and Noah are climbing warily to their feet and wiping the dirt from their clothes.

"Get after him, you gutless cowards!" he shouts.

The coachman shakes his head:

"I'm not taking a bullet from Jack Shadow, not for anyone." He has had quite enough of Mr Periwigge, of rain and mud and the wilds of Cornwall. He wants nothing more than to go back to Bristol and never leave the city again. 

  Mr Periwigge turns to the guard. 

"You are supposed to protect me from the likes of that ruffian!" 

   Bill is in no hurry to face the dark rider again and by the time he has cleaned the mud from his blunderbuss and found his dry powder, the sound of the galloping hooves has died away.

   Bill might have felt differently about giving chase if he had seen what happened as the rider crossed Reavers Hill.

   As the stallion breaks out of the fog onto the moonlit hilltop, a breeze lifts the rider's hat and sends it tumbling to the grass. A pale blue ribbon twists after the hat and the rider's long, chestnut hair falls down over her shoulders. Ruby Gilbert wheels the horse about and rides back. She jumps down, grabs up the hat and ribbon and leaps nimbly back up into the saddle, before turning the horse and galloping off once more, her eyes flashing with wild delight.

   Down the hill she races, in a whirlwind of mist and rushing trees. The stallion runs sure-footed and Ruby knows the road so well that she could ride it blindfold. At the bottom of Reavers Hill they turn up the lane toward Bascome village. On the flat ground, Ruby urges the stallion into a reckless gallop and he springs forward, flying along the lane like a thunderbolt.

  Ruby has never dared to ride the stallion through the village before. Normally she would escape across the moors or stay out of sight on a poacher's path but the fog hides them so well that it makes her bold. The danger of the robbery has passed and Ruby is in a tameless mood. It has been a good night; she has enough gold to feed her family for many months and she has robbed Squire Colby's messenger into the bargain!

   They leap over the bridge by the inn and tear up the village street, the stallion's hooves thundering on the cobbles, the whitewashed houses slipping past in a blur. The coachman took Ruby for the ghost of a highwayman and now she flies like a phantom rider through the foggy village, making enough noise to wake the dead.  Ruby laughs as she rides; let the wild galloping wake the whole village! Who among them - living or dead - would guess that the fearsome highwayman, Jack Shadow, is a girl of thirteen years old?