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fallen tiles proved dangerously slippery under his feet and he fell forward. The dangerous edge of the long gun swung like a headsman's blade through the air that his head had just occupied. Forward he reached, in that long thrust that the young Italian swordsman had used to skewer his burning ear-lobes. The tip of his great grandfather's sword jarred into the musketeer's groin and the short blade came near to tearing loose from his hand as he fell. There came a flat report, which echoed like the slamming of a door. It was a sound he knew now - the Dutchman has finished the business with his dag.
    No sooner was he down than he was up again, blinking his streaming eyes clear - but the musketeer was gone. In his place there stood a soldier with a pistol, cocked and ready. Tom slowed, slithering. The pistol came up, but it was aimed well wide of him. He threw a glance sideways and saw his companion there, dag still smoking. The Dutchman was the target of the Italian pistoleer and for the moment, he was help less. 'Morti ! ' he called in Latin. 'Die!' The Italian began to turn, swinging the hollow barrel of his pistol round until it gaped at Tom like Hell's Mouth.
    Tom's boots scrabbled for purchase on the slippery rubble beneath them and, by the best of good fortune, found it. Just as the Italian swung round to face him, pistol levelled and steady, Tom found sure enough footing to lunge. Up went the point of his great-grandfather's sword that had killed many a usurping Tudor soldier in the blood bath of Bosworth Field. Down came the match of the pistol's match-lock into the powder-filled priming pan. Into the very mouth of the barrel plunged the sword point, as thick as a thumb, running up the barrel just as the powder caught. Into the very throat of the thing went the steely weight of the good old sword, just at the moment that the charge exploded behind the tight-wedged ball.
    The power of Tom's thrust threw the Italian soldier's pistol up into his face just at the moment of discharge. The twisting blade snapped off, the tip of it shattered for a hand's length by the destruction of the gun. The barrel exploded, soft iron unable to accommodate so many contrary forces. The blast blew off the Italian's face and hand as it hurled him backwards, a hollowskulled corpse, into the rubble. Tom pulled his shattered, smoking sword back and found it a short sword indeed, while his hand and his arm were numb to the shoulder. He dragged himself erect and looked around. Two more dead enemies. The Hollander smiling, and waving his heartfelt thanks. Each of them owed the other a life now. They would surely be the closest of friends - or the bitterest of enemies. But there was no leisure to weigh the balance at this moment, with still a way to go before the English lines would be reached, with the last of the time running out.
    As he came up among the outer guards, Tom tore the signet from its hiding place within the wrist-piece of his gauntlet. The first guard that saw it called his sergeant and the sergeant called the Captain himself. Within moments, Tom and his silent Dutch companion were being hurried through the lines towards the General himself. After having been thwarted so many times, it was strange to be pushed forward so easily - and so far. He was before the Earl of Leicester within less than five minutes - a wonder, had he been able to count so short a time.
    'You are late,' snapped Lord Robert. 'Give me your message at once.' His hand reached down imperiously, thumb and fingers at play like rapiers duelling.
    Tom handed over the parchment at once. 'My lord,' he said. 'I am not the messenger. I found him dead upon the road and have brought his message to you in his place.'
    Leicester's eyes, only a breath less powerful than those of the Queen herself, regarded him over the top of the parchment.
    'And how did you fathom what this was - and calculate where to bring it?' he asked, turning away to share the contents of the message with a