The flames were roaring around her now. Choking black smoke stung her eyes and her long, matted hair was smouldering in the intense heat. The shack began to buckle and collapse. One of the blazing roof planks came crackling down inside. Annie screeched and her tattered skirts caught fire.

      In that terrifying, scorching moment, she heard a stern, commanding voice yell out and the burning door was ripped away. A tall, cloaked figure braved the leaping flames and strode into the inferno. She felt strong hands rip the fiery rags from her body, then carry her outside.

      Cold night air filled her gasping lungs and her eyes were blurred and streaming. The rescuer carried her down the steep slope to the beach and laid her gently on the sand. Then he removed his cloak and covered her nakedness.

      Peering up, Annie tried to look on him, but her vision was watery. All she could make out was an imposing figure in a high black hat. Behind him, on the grassy ridge, her hovel blazed fiercely and nearby was a crowd of scared and angry men, bearing sticks and boathooks.

      ‘Peace be on you, mistress,’ her saviour said. ‘None shall harm you now. You have my solemn pledge.’

      ‘She’s a witch!’ the mob cried. ‘Cast her back into the flames. Let her evil be scourged from our land.’

      Drawing his sword, the stranger rounded on them.

      ‘Whosoever lays hands on this girl will feel the bite of my steel,’ he promised. ‘What is this madness?’

      The men eyed the weapon doubtfully. They were simple fishermen and farmers, unused to facing gentlemen with swords. The flames shone brightly over the blade and the sight cut through their righteous fury. Lowering their eyes, they grew silent and shuffled their feet – except for one.

      ‘Who are you to flout the Almighty’s justice?’ a sharp voice demanded.

      The crowd parted and the unmistakable figure of a Puritan strode forward. His face was grim and sour and he was uncowed by the blade that swung round to point at him.

      ‘I am Sir Melchior Pyke, natural philosopher, scholar and, at this moment, a whisker’s breadth away from adding butcher to my accomplishments,’ Annie’s protector thundered, and the authority in his voice caused many to gasp and stare. ‘What justice is here? I see none. Here is but a wretched girl cruelly wronged.’

      ‘Wronged?’ the Puritan cried. ‘Did you not hear? That foul hussy is in the devil’s service. Her mother was a witch and so is she. She is an abhorrence in the eyes of the Lord.’

      ‘I heard naught but frightened sheep bleating foolish accusations, and now I perceive that you are the shepherd who drives them to commit murder.’

      ‘Shepherd?’ the Puritan repeated with pride. ‘Aye, I am John Ashe, licensed preacher, and this is my flock.’

      ‘Whitby folk?’

      ‘Nay, Master,’ Annie spoke up from the folds of the cloak. ‘Them’s from Sandsend and yonder. There’s none in Whitby would hurt their Annie.’

      ‘Stay silent, witch!’ the preacher commanded, flinging sand at her face.

      ‘Do that again and I shall fillet you,’ her saviour growled.

      ‘You spoke of sheep,’ the Puritan said, undaunted. ‘Amen to that. Tom Brooksby, stand forth.’

      A stout, bald-headed man edged forward, not daring to meet the stern gaze of the man with the sword. Muttering under his breath, he explained he farmed a modest plot near Goathland. With a quick glance at Annie, he related how, yesterday, he caught her trespassing and chased her away. That night he was tormented by evil dreams in which she danced with a black ram and that morning he found two of his sheep dead.

      ‘’Twas her doing an’ no mistake,’ he said bitterly.

      ‘And them’s not the first to be killed in the dead of night!’ called another. ‘There’s many who’ve lost livestock.’

      ‘A wild dog is the most likely cause,’ Melchior Pyke stated. ‘As for your dreams, Tom Brooksby, they are the busy night’s work of your own conscience and ale-soaked fancies.’

      ‘All know she’s a witch and more!’ the preacher declared hotly.

      ‘And I say unto you, where are your proofs of malice? It’ll be the assizes for all if you dare harm this girl – and thence the drop.’

      ‘Proofs?’ the preacher cried. ‘There are ways of obtaining such proofs. Stand aside and I shall provide them. I have learning in these matters.’

      The sword jerked to the man’s throat and nicked a ribbon of blood from his neck. The preacher recoiled and the crowd murmured unhappily.

      ‘The law of King James allows it,’ the Puritan spluttered indignantly. ‘His own work, his Daemonologie, is most clear . . .’

      ‘Do not throw His Majesty’s name at me! I am lately come from Scottish Jimmy’s court. I know the king well and account him friend and patron. Before you cite any more of the king’s works, know that I assisted with the translation of his own Bible!’

      The claim drew astonished cries from everyone and any lingering resistance was quashed.

      ‘Friend of the king,’ they whispered in awe. ‘An’ a right holy one at that.’

      John Ashe studied the man’s face as if for the first time. He was surely not yet thirty years of age, his handsome features were strong with character and an intelligence as keen as his sword blade glinted in his steel-grey eyes.

      ‘I must yield to your greater learning,’ the Puritan said humbly. ‘Pray forgive any imprudence on my part.’

      ‘I do not call an attempted burning “imprudence”,’ the man replied sternly. ‘Yet you beg pardon of the wrong person. It was not I whom you wronged.’

      The Puritan looked down at the cloaked girl with displeasure.

      ‘The Almighty has watched over you this night,’ he said coldly. ‘Give thanks for His boundless mercy. Take learning from it and leave the paths of wickedness.’

      Annie glowered up at him and spat.

      ‘That was no apology,’ her rescuer agreed. ‘Now get gone from this place; you have done enough evil work this night. But hear me, all of you: restitution must be made. You will catch no fish, nor tend your beasts, till you have built a new home and furnished it to this lady’s liking. You will begin at first light, so bring timber and tools. Am I understood?’

      The crowd grumbled and John Ashe shook his head in defiance.

      ‘And you, preacher,’ Melchior Pyke instructed, ‘will bear the expense of those things that are not so easily replaced or remade, from your own purse.’

      ‘You overreach yourself !’ he objected.

      Many in the crowd agreed with him and their initial fear of the stranger was beginning to fade.

      ‘He can’t make us do that,’ some of them mumbled.

      ‘Oh, I can,’ he assured them. ‘If you are not here tomorrow, I will send my manservant to fetch each and every one of you. For your own sakes, I pray you, do not compel me to send him on that errand. He is not so patient as I – are you, Mister Dark?’

      He had called out, past the crowd, and they turned to see whom he was addressing.

      A tall, wiry-looking man in a long black coat had crept up silently behind them and they drew in their breath when he stepped into the firelight.

      No one had ever seen flesh so grey