Peering over Dawkin's shoulder, Eppie cast a look of circumspection down the precipitous ice ride, trying to conquer her sense of rising anxiety. Worn smooth by countless sledges wending down the valley, its hummocky surface glinted. Not wishing to be left out, Wicker leapt aboard. Dawkin tucked the badger between his legs and kicked off.

Twiss howled, trying to follow but Ella, knowing the dog was almost deaf and might be struck by a toboggan, kept a grip on his scruff.

Zipping beneath branches, bowed with powdery stiff snow, the children were rapidly lost from sight, though their voices, shrieking in exaltation, were clearly audible upon the hilltop.

Eppie charged back up, her cheeks glowing with exertion. *Another go?'

Dawkin's breath smoked in the wintry air. He returned her grin.

After a few more rides they waded to join children who were putting the finishing touches to a snow farmer who frowned down on them from coal eyes set close to a carrot nose. Melted ice soaked into Eppie's mittens. Though her hands hurt from chilblains, she was not going to miss out on the fun.

Gyles ploughed towards them, waving his enormously bandaged hand. *Only sprained worst luck.'

With the toe of his boot, Esmond drew a line in the snow. *Everyone throw from here. The winner's the one who knocks the apple off the snow farmer's hat.'

*Miles past!' Flip sang out rudely, seeing the attempts of other children. *Get your eyes glued on this.' His ball landed with a plop, away to the left.

Pip cast her brother a disparaging glance. *You couldn't fling a horse patty.'

Orderly turn-taking veered towards mayhem.

*Won't you have a go?' Eppie beseeched Dawkin.

*It wouldn't be fair.'

*They're getting nowhere fast. Wicker would love an apple.'

He gathered a handful of snow and sauntered to the line. All around him the children, dismayed with their dismal shots, ceased throwing. Silence descended. One by one they turned to watch him standing stock-still, sizing up the target.

With a rapid over-arm throw he launched the snowball. It smacked into the apple, dead centre. Whooping in delight, the boys swept off their caps and tossed them into the air. Girls fluttered around Dawkin, astounded by his skill and marvelling at his radiant good looks.

All too soon it was late afternoon. Snow spun aimlessly in the bitter wind, swirling around the higher slopes.

From the island drifted the smell of wood smoke and roasting chestnuts.

Dawkin's nose twitched. *I don't know about you, Ep, but I fancy something hot.'

Drifting along in George's sleigh they saw Thurstan gliding upon the ice, the tip of his sword sticking out like the spur on a fighting cockerel.

Eppie watched him twirl as fast as a spinning coin. *I wish I could do that.'

*He's a show off,' Dawkin muttered, a pang of jealousy in his voice.

Thurstan swirled towards Millisande, who appeared less confident, her arms waving as though she was wading chest-high in water. Seeing her take a tumble, Eppie winced in sympathy. *Miss Milli's not having the best of days.'

Upon the island, they stretched their hands to the fire and stamped their frozen toes.

*Get your puppy dog pies here!' rang out the staccato voice of a pie-man.

Sidling to the barrow, Eppie stared at the puny-sized pies on a gridiron, wondering whether or not, as meat was in short supply in winter, the man spoke in jest.

*Here, grab a hold!' Dawkin shoved a jacketed potato, in a greasy wrapper, into her hand.

*Ow!' she shrieked, biting into the cheese. Nursing her burnt tongue, she cast an eye around for Twiss and Wicker. She spotted them scavenging on discarded bones littered beneath the butcher's cart.

Sacks still tied to his feet, the pauper boy lingered beside the cart, his lips blue with cold. At first Eppie could not make out what he was eating. Then it dawned. Half-starving, he was chewing the stub end of a mutton candle.

A calf hoof tumbled from the brazier to the mushy snow.

The ragged boy dived and swept up the morsel.

*Magistrate!' the butcher yelled as the boy fled to the ice. *Him's stolen me flesh!'

Consumed by a rising sense of panic, Eppie crunched to the edge of the island to see what would happen. *If he's caught Thurstan will hang him for sure.'

A lump sprang to Dawkin's throat from the memory of his friend, Titcher. Without giving a thought to the repercussions of the transgression he was about to enact, he dragged the red cap over his face and scooped a handful of snow. Not the sort of snow that would turn to powder when it smashed into its target. Rather, he purposefully chose snow which was slightly melted. When compacted, it was rock-hard, weighty with half-ice, the sort that hurt. He let loose.

Hurtling forward, Thurstan was about to call a chase after the pauper boy when he was smacked, with a resounding thwack, in his gaping mouth. Sliding treacherously, he crashed onto the ice with an ungainly thud. A look of outrage written upon his face, he picked himself up and headed back to the land. Pestered by concerned skaters, wondering if he had injured himself with his sword, and trailed by giggling, wobbling Millisande, he was forced to make light of the calamity.

What neither Eppie nor Dawkin noticed, as they hugged one another in jubilation, was a sinister figure who lurked behind the butcher's cart, a man who had seen Dawkin lob the missile.

Donning her skates for the last time, Eppie, at first, went carefully and safely. Growing bolder, she listened with pride and pleasure to the whip-whip of the blades as she set her feet down firmly. *Watch me, Dawkin!'

*That's gr- !' Struggling to keep his balance, blades skimming, he flipped forward onto the ice, landing with a noise like a fish thrown onto dry land. To his horror, the ice creaked beneath his outstretched palms. Trapped within the ice lay pools of water as silver as mercury. *Ep!' He tried to control the quavering fear in his voice. *I think it's time we went home.'

She pulled a long face. *I was just getting the hang of this.'

Reaching the shore, they joined folk who were hurrying away to make ready for Christmas Day. It had begun to snow again. Most of the stallholders had left, although the wassail singers remained, their voices, soft and melodic, drifting through the darkening skies as they sang, *God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.'

Intent on making a few last minute sales, the butcher greedily eyed a gang of apprentice tanners, easily recognised by their brown-stained hands. *Hoy, lads, what d'ya say ta pork scratchings?' Leaning against the neck of his less than sure-footed pony, he was leading it back across the ice towards where the tanner boys, having arrived late on the ice, were racing one another to the island. Blue smoke curled from the brazier set upon the cart.

Dawkin was shocked to see the butcher's pony trotting towards the icy patch where he had fallen only moments ago. *Get away from there, guv'nor! The ice is cracking!'

His warning came too late. From beneath the cart came a boom like gunpowder blasting within a rocky cave. Jagged lines shot out from the rear wheels. The cart tipped backwards and the brazier crashed down, sending up a spout of water.

A hand slapped heavily upon Dawkin's shoulder. *I thought I recognised that voice.' The chimney sweep cast him a sickly smile. *Where ya bin hidin', ya good fer nowt weasel?'

Dawkin shrank under the man's grip. *I ain't been hiding, Mr Crowe. You didn't want me. Me arm was broked.'

*Well, look-e *ere, seems it's nicely mended. Yer coming with me. Christmas is always a busy time. And like as not I'll get a good few years out o' ya yet, though you'll have to lose some of that puppy fat you've put on.' Swooping, he tossed Dawkin into the wagon, where the other climbing-boys sat. *An' if you lads wanna live out the night, you'd better keep a tight hold on *im.'

Stricken at being forced away from Eppie, Dawkin valiantly fought against the ensnaring arms.

*You can't take him!' Eppie shrilled at Crowe. *You've no right!'

*Ah, but you see, Mr Crowe has every right.' At the sound of that calm, confident voice, she knew she was defeated.

Following his clout, Thurstan smouldered with a cool anger. *Permit me to introduce a witness who saw this boy throw the snowball.'

A vindictive smile twisted Squire Bulwar's lips.

*To strike an officer of the law is a capital offence,' Thurstan said. *So, unless your young friend wishes to face a more, how shall I say, final punishment, I fear he must comply, whether he wishes or no.'

With a cutting lash of his whip, Crowe sent his horse bolting. *A week of starvation will tame the lad's wicked ways.'

*Stay!' Eppie implored Twiss, raising a finger to the dog, knowing that he would be unable to keep up with her.

She tore after the wagon.

Not once did she stop to draw breath.

Snow fell into her eyes, upon her hair and melted down her face. Up ahead, she could see Wicker, ever loyal, racing after Dawkin, her earlier whimpers of distress now a high-pitched yap: quick, quick, quick.

The road wound on to Litcombe, a dirty ribbon trailing through the white hills. Travellers passed Eppie, amongst them the butcher riding his piebald pony.

Not until Crowe's wagon had travelled so far that Dawkin's cap looked like a speck of blood, did she stop, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Her cry of despair was thrown back to her from the slopes of the frozen valleys: *D a w k i n!'

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.

DEVIL'S KNELL Evening deepened in the valley. With no lantern to guide her, Eppie put her trust in Dusty to lead her and Twiss home.

One by one, the stars appeared, strangely bright, speckling the pristine heavens.

Worn out, she rested her head upon Twiss's back, as he lay curled up beside her, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Becoming aware of the trap at a standstill, she opened her eyes and realised they were home. Clambering down, she unlatched the cart gate and led the donkey to the shed. Jenny had not returned. This being the season of goodwill Wakelin had, no doubt, prolonged his journey with sojourns at alehouses along the way. Padding to the corner, Twiss nestled sorrowfully on the straw, which smelt of his beloved badger.

Having fed Dusty and rubbed her coat dry, Eppie left the door slightly ajar in case Twiss wanted to follow. *It'll be cosier indoors.'

Martha had spruced up the parlour. The shelf above the hearth was decked with sprigs of holly. Laid upon the table were servings of meat hash and apple charlotte, while upon the dresser were the best china plates, each with a slice of plum cake and a hunk of cheese.

*At last!' Martha cried. *It's well past darklins. I was worried. You'll both be needing a warming drink, though I couldn't keep the food warm.' She turned away from the stove. The kettle in her hand sent up a hiss of steam. *I've kept this hot.' She glanced up, a smile on her lips. *Eppie, has something happened?'

*I've lost Dawkin!'

*Whatever can you mean?' She slipped the kettle back onto its hook.

*The chimney sweep took him!'

*No!'

Drawing Eppie to sit beside her on the settle, Martha lovingly enfolded her with her arms. Both felt an anguish so deep, so cold, it was as though the boy had died.

Church bells clanged, plaintive and mournful, tolling a devil's knell to rid the land of evil. The bells also served to guide any soul lost in the snowstorm homeward.

Eppie's heart went out to Dawkin, one lost soul who would not be returning home tonight.

*I'll ask Wakelin to go and speak to Mr Crowe,' Martha suggested. *He's often spoken of the man and was on good terms with him whilst he was at the cropping shop.'

This thought cheered Eppie. Drying her tears, she told Martha all about the ice market and the fun that she and Dawkin had had. She told her about Ezra and the singers. In a desperate attempt to distract herself from the loss of Dawkin, she sang a few lines from a carol that the men had sung. A happy thought struck her. *Whilst Wakelin isn't here we could have a song.' Kneeling beside the dresser, she fetched the flute from its hiding place.

*That's a nice idea,' Martha said. *The music will flutter though the air to Litcombe. Dawkin will hear it and it'll cheer him. He'll know we're thinking of him.'

Eppie knew Martha's idea was fanciful, that she was trying to distract her from her sorrow, but it was a nice idea all the same.

Lottie romped on the bed, strewn around her a collection of playthings: an egg whisk of bound twigs, biscuit and pastry cutters, a jelly mould and a wooden butter stamp.

Seeing Eppie fix the ivory joints of the boxwood flute together, Lottie eagerly wafted her arms around her head. *Lottie want song!'

Martha went to sit beside them on the bed. *Wakelin makes such a clatter when he returns. I'll listen out. When I hear him coming we'll stop.'

Twiss raised his weary head. Though he could not hear Wakelin humming, he sensed his master returning homeward. Crunching through the snow, the dog plodded onto the lane and waited expectantly, whistling low in his throat.

One of Thurstan's flying coaches raced past Wakelin on the lane. Unbeknown to him, the coach, easily perceived as carrying travellers hastening home to make ready for the Christmas celebrations was, in actuality, empty of fee-paying passengers. What it contained were sacks of forged coins. Owning a stagecoach inn, Thurstan received a steady cash flow in the course of business. The minting equipment was kept in caves near Malstowe, where Thurstan supervised the clandestine operation. The gang clipped and filed metal from the tapered edges of the coins in order to use the metal to make new coins. They rubbed them with wax and salt to make them appear old before they put the money back into circulation.

Snug in the driving seat, a rug over his knees, a stone bottle filled with hot sand beneath his feet, Fulke blew a trumpet, warning of the coach's approach.

Jacob was in the woodshed fetching logs. Huffing with irritation, he scurried down the path to open the toll gate.

On the perch at the rear of the carriage stood a guard, eyes alert, a blunderbuss to hand. It was this man who noticed something standing directly in their path, its head lowered as though sleeping in an upright position. *Waz that?'

Fulke narrowed his eyes to help him see better in the darkness. *Dog.' Seeing it standing before Dank Cottage, he added, *I reckon it's them Dunham's.' Fists tightening upon the reins, he gave a cry of encouragement to the horses. *Let's have it!'

Rocking on leather springs the carriage hurtled towards Twiss.

At the last moment, conscious of the ground shaking beneath his paws, Twiss made to escape. Struck with a blinding blow from the lead horse, he fell.

Not only had Wakelin earned a little money to give to Martha, he had bagged a hare and appropriated a yule log from du Quesne's orchard. Granted it was not oak, nor was it so big that two men would have to lug it to the hearth. It was, however, well-seasoned and would burn brilliantly. *This is gonna be the best Christmas ever,' he thought.

Before the cottage gate something whined. Jacob was crouched over it, stoking it. At the man's feet was a lantern.

Wakelin left Jenny and the cart further along the lane and approached, quietly. *What's up?' he asked gently, sensing something awful had happened.

*It's your dog. Thurstan's coach ran him down. I was just gonna go tell your ma.'

Beside himself with grief, Wakelin fell to his knees. *Twiss, me old mate?' Stroking his faithful friend's head, his fingers sank into a sticky patch that could only be blood.

Whimpering, Twiss paddled with his front paw, longing to rise. Then he went still. Each breath became less perceptible, the distance between each breath longer. He took one last look at Wakelin, for the dog knew he was dying and that he would never see his master again. It was a look of pleading, for Wakelin to save his friend's life. All this Wakelin saw and understood in an instant. It was over.

Manfully, Wakelin wrestled with his emotions. He had done nothing to stop his dog dying. There was nothing he could have done, but he still felt guilty about not thinking of some way of helping his dog. His throat felt so stiff that he could not even speak the words of farewell he longed to utter. Tears sprang to his eyes.

Cradling Twiss, his fingers clutching the dog's cold, damp fur, he let himself into the parlour just as Eppie launched into the mellow notes of Silent Night, Holy Night.