St Leonards Forest, England - 31st October 1792

Danny McMills was not having a good day. He'd lost his room and board at The George in Crawley, an aptly named town if ever there was one, two days ago when his money had finally run out. And it was hurting his career more than most would have considered.

When he came over from Ireland as a young man ten years ago, he'd initially sought out the work to support him and his sister in London, working in the taverns shifting barrels. But the work was hard on his young limbs and he was paid barely enough to live on.

So, in the cramped living quarters above one of London's many public houses, Danny got to thinking.

Every day, he watched the wealthy and the middle-class stroll through the tavern halls, drinking the beer, laughing raucously and striking him with their canes as he passed. He hated them, he hated them even more than he hated the landlord that beat him and threatened his little sister.

Every night, he watched as these wealthy men drew away in their fancy carriages to their fancy homes and their fancy wives. One night he was thinking hard, sat by the window in the dark in his room because he couldn't afford the candles. He'd finished work only a scant hour before, and downstairs one of the landlord's friends was just leaving, venturing out into the night, stepping over the pools of fresh rainwater that made the cobblestones sparkle. Danny rested his chin on his upturned palm and watched in the darkness, his sister's slow breathing in the flea-ridden bed behind him a regular, rhythmic mantra over the shouting voices below.

He heard the tavern door close, the timber frame of the building shivered and his sister whimpered in her sleep, turning over and twisting her tiny fingers about the threadbare blanket. Danny's eyes glassed over, staring blankly at the man as he stepped into his coach, waiting for him to pull away into the night and leave him in the silence with only the sound of the landlord's heavy step on the stair's for company.

It took him a few moments to realise that something was amiss out there. Seconds passed before he heard the hammering of horse's hooves on the cobbles. Seconds more before he saw the panting, chestnut mare charging out of the darkness like a warhorse to its death. He lifted his head a little, curling his knees beneath him on the rough wooden sill and pushing himself up a little, running his fingers over the dirty glass and opening the window a little to get a better look.

The man on the horse clattered to a halt beside the carriage, there was a moment of commotion, and a flash of light as shot was thrown from the barrel of the man's pistol and into the heaving chest and gasping lungs of the coach's driver, who slumped forward in his seat and crumpled to the ground amidst the hooves of the rear two coach-horses who jumped and whinnied and strained against their harness. The man rode forward and seized the reins of the horses, holding them still until they'd settled, then riding to the window of the carriage, throwing open the door shouting at the landlord's friend where he sat in the darkness within.

"Stand and deliver!" the man snarled in a rough, world-tempered voice.

In the window, Danny knelt and watched, transfixed as the highwayman took the man's money and galloped off into the night. The highwayman, Richard Skyres, was stupid and nothing more than a petty thief. He was soon tracked down as the man who had committed the robbery in the middle of such a large London street, and hung not a week after. But as Danny stood in the square and watched as this dirty, downtrodden, rag-clad and rough-spoken man was led up onto the gallows and struggled and kicked until the life was wrung out of him, he couldn't help but let his hate and dreams coalesce into the beginnings of a plan.

To start with, he stayed working at the inn, toiling day and night for enough money to buy the things that would become the tools of his trade, a fine horse, a pair of pistols, a rapier... a fine suit of clothes. After a few weeks of this he realised there was no need for all this work. He was to be a highwayman, he should start as he meant to go on and steal what he needed to escape this place.

So he waited, and he watched. Over the next month he began to take what he needed from the inn's patrons. Sneaking into their rooms while they drank in the bar below, or snored in the midst of a drunken slumber. A pair of breeches here, a flintlock pistol there, hiding them all under a loose floorboard in his room until his collection was all but complete. Two nights later, he finished his work when a nobleman from Scotland arrived on a fine chestnut mare, just like the one he'd seen Rick Skyres ride all those nights ago.

That night, he gathered his things together, whispered a few soft words to his sister, and snuck out into the darkened stable-yard with her, walking barefoot and silent as a thief across the cobbles to the stable where the horse was kept.

Once inside, he changed into the clothes he had taken over the past few months and abandoned his well-worn rags in the straw, not caring that the clothes he'd taken ill-suited and ill-fitted a boy of his years. He daren't sneak to the tack room and constrain the horse with bridle or saddle for fear of waking the groom that slept in the loft above, so he worked quietly, with his sister's bonny blue eyes on him the whole time, as he tied strips of their threadbare blanket about the horses hooves, swung her up onto its back, and teased at its mane until it walked out into the yard, and then out onto the streets beyond.

Untying the strips of cloth, he swung himself up before his sister, and spurred the horse onwards. That night, the highwayman Danny McMills claimed his first victim.

With no mask to hide his eyes, he pushed the loose hat down over the crown of his head, casting his face in shadow, and rode out of London until he encountered a carriage rattling along an old dirt track, heading north to one of the estates that rested just outside the capital.

His heart was racing, his blood slick with adrenaline as he played his part, taking on the role he had seen through the dirty glass of the inn window, riding before the carriage and forcing it to a halt.

Later, as he grew older, Danny always wondered how he'd managed in those days. He'd been so young and stupid, it was a wonder he wasn't caught that night and hung at sunrise the following day. Still, somehow, he'd evaded capture, he'd learnt his trade, and now he was the finest shot, the finest horseman, the most notorious highwayman in all of Sussex.

The lifestyle had never suited his sister, so he had seen to it that she got a job in one of the nearby manors, working and living as a serving girl while he went out and robbed the country blind, always returning to give her a share of his winnings, so that one day she wouldn't have to work as a serving girl any more. One day she wouldn't have to work at all. One day she could get herself a little house in one of the neighbouring towns and live happily without having to worry about supporting herself. With a decent dowry maybe she could even marry well, and have a family of her own.

That's what drove Danny McMills onwards; the thought that his sister. The thought that his sister's children and maybe even, God willing, his own children would be able to live in comfort and not have to leave everything they loved to move to London, and not have to work in the stinking inns and taverns, and not have to live in fear of being struck by the patrons or seduced by the landlord. It was that, that kept Danny going on nights like this where the wind was howling and the air was cold, and the whole world silent and sharp against him.

He had long since shot his fine chestnut mare, and by the time he came to Crawley, had beneath him a fine black colt with fur like polished soot and eyes like embers. He'd rented a room at the George, partly for the luxury, and partly for the jobs. The George was the largest coaching inn between London and Brighthelmstone, and every day hundreds of the spoilt-stupid passed through it, or by it, on their way down to the coast for a lungful of the medicinal salt air and a bellyful of the sweet, fresh fish.

It should have been easy pickings for a highwayman of his skill and renown, but Danny was in trouble.

For the last three weeks, King George's men had been hot on his trail. Someone must have given them some idea that he was up to no good, because no matter which way he turned, they were there. He had to lay low, and he couldn't do that at the largest coaching inn between London and Brighthelmstone. Especially when their waiting at every turn was constricting his income and making the high rates the inn demanded impossible to meet.

So Danny left the George and rode out into the forest, hoping to hide there amidst the trees until the King's men got bored of waiting and travelled back to London to pick on someone else. But winter was coming quickly this year, every night the earth froze and Danny would lay shivering until morning. Every morning he would rise to check the snares he had set the night before and find them all but empty. Every afternoon he would tear at the raw flesh of the small, malnourished creature he'd caught, with his teeth, not wanting to risk an open fire for the worry that King George's men were scanning the horizon.

He was growing thin and weak with hunger, drained and crazed with the cold, and he wasn't sure exactly how much longer he could keep living among the moulting trees and frozen streams. When he woke that morning, his breath was showing in the air before him, the sky was clear and pale as polished glass above him, the trees hung bare all around him and his horse lay drawing long, heavy breaths beside him. He groaned and got to his feet, his muscles aching and his joints creaking where they had frozen in their sockets overnight. He nudged his horse a little with his boot and looked down at it.

"Come on, old boy, time to get up."

When the horse didn't budge he drew the whip from his side and struck it hard across the flank with all the fury his failing body could muster.

"I said get up you damned lazy animal."

The horse groaned and struggled to its feet, weakly thrashing against the frost-touched earth. Danny sighed and quickly fastened the bridle about the animal's head, forcing the bit into a mouth sore and aching with the cold, and throwing the saddle across its back. He tightened the girth sharply and swung himself onto its back with a hiss of steaming breath. The horse struggled weakly under his weight, and after a moment he leant forward to pat it firmly on the neck.

"I know... I know," he whispered softly, pressing his eyes closed for a moment before touching his spurs to the animals side, the two of them walking with bowed heads, low spirits, and empty stomachs through the fading forest.

As he rode, not sure of where he was headed, but knowing that he must at least make some progress in case they were on his trail, his mind tipped and swung. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead and sighed, pressing his hat down over his drawn, hungry face. Neither of them could go on like this much longer, and he knew it.

So, with a sigh, he turned his mount towards the manse where his sister made her living, and pressed onwards. He'd been avoiding going to his sister, the last thing he wanted was to get her involved in all of this. The last thing he wanted was to have her swing for this. In fact, he wanted that even less than he wanted to swing for it himself. But it was getting to the stage where he had no other choice.

Slowly, the trees thinned out into small, open fields left fallow and filled with long, dew-silvered grass that sparkled with the first light of morning. After what couldn't have been more than half an hour, he saw the house looming against the pale winter sky, red and sharp and cold in the morning air. Slowing his horse to a standstill, he stood at the edge of the mist-touched field and stared up at it, his dark eyes shining dully with hunger and apprehension.

It was then that he saw them.

At first, they evaded his attention, still as they were in the morning mist before his hunger-glazed eyes. But after a moment one of them lifted its head and looked at him. Turning his head sharply and drawing his pistol, he stared straight into the eyes of the white hart at the far edge of the field. Around it, the dappled does lifted their heads from grazing and edged towards the safety of the trees. But the young stag didn't even shiver, it just stood and stared at him, and Danny stared back, and he smiled.

Its white fur glistened silver in the cold winter light, its tawny antlers scratching pale, branch-like marks against the dark and leafless trees. For an instant, their gazes locked, black on black, hunger and fear and expectancy pouring between them. Then the hart turned, and with a flurry of movement white and fresh as snowfall, it darted into the forest.

Danny shouted sharply to the horse beneath him, forcing his spurs against its side. With a sheik of pain and fury, the horse took off at a gallop, tearing through the long, wet grass towards the trees and disappearing after the heard of deer under the low, dark cover of the woods.

They gave chase for hours, ducking between the branches of the trees until they were scattered with twigs and dead leaves. Pounding the cold, needle-clad earth until all sense of time and space left them, until the world turned dull and dim and there was nothing left but the dark shadows the trees cast against the ground and the white flash of their mark against the grey.

It wasn't until all three, man and mount and mark were slick with sweat and weak with running, until the cold air stung sharp in their lungs and the world began to reel around them that Danny drew alongside the hart as it bounded and leapt between the trees. With a cry, he threw himself from his horses back, grasping hold of the stag's pale antlers and twisting it to the ground with the last of the strength he had.

A few minutes passed as they drew long, ragged breaths of the frozen, painful air. Danny felt his mind slipping, felt the soft white fur and heaving sides of the deer beneath his head, but all the time he held it. Held it even as its sharp hooves thrashed against him and he bled with the struggle. It could have been hours by the time he finally found the strength to pull himself up from resting his weight against him. The short light of the day was already fading, beside him his horse stood slick and shivering, and beneath him, the white hart struggled weakly against him, wild eyed with exhaustion.

He reached up and took hold of those tawny antlers and twisted, there was a sharp snap as loud as pistol-shot, the hart's eyes twisted in its skull and fell still, and Danny passed out of all ability to care.

Night had fallen when he came back around, the stag still faintly warm like a lover beneath him. He struggled to his feet and looked down at it, its dark eyes glassy, its flesh limp and dead against its pine-needle death-bed. Struggling to his feet, he led his mount to the creature's side, slung the deer onto his horse's back, and turned towards home.

The hours passed slow and cold as he headed back towards the estate, as he pulled himself up the hill on which it rested in the star-clad darkness. Leading his mount to the building, he forced the horse against the wall, hiding it from any casual glances through the candle-slick windows, and crept along the rough, brick walls of the building to the door to the servant's quarters. Drawing his pistol, he flattened himself against the wall and rapped sharply against the door beside him. Then, when it swung open he spun around in a flurry of leaf-scattered velvet and levelled his gun at his sister.

She caught her breath sharply and stifled a scream, in an instant, Danny slid the pistol to his belt and held up his hands to her.

"Marie... Marie it's me."

The small, dark girl in the doorway shot him a cold, hard glance, looked over her shoulder and stepped outside before pushing him back hard against the wall and speaking to him sharply in a low, harsh whisper.

"Danny, by the gods, what the hell are you doing here? You have to go, Danny, it isn't safe."

"Why not?" he whispered, catching his breath back and leaning back against the building.

"Don't you know? They're everywhere! They've know what yer've done, Danny, they've put a price on yer head, they're offering sixty pounds to any man, woman or child that can bring ya in, dead or alive."

Danny caught his breath sharply.

"Sixty pounds? Jesus Christ, May, what did I do? Kill the fockin' King himself?"

Marie shook her head and swallowed hard, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"I dun know, Danny. But they want ya, and they want ya bad. And they ain't gonna stop until they get ya. Jesus, Danny, what did yer do?"

Danny shrugged a little and peered out into the night: "I dun know, May. I swear, I don't."

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, Danny started to laugh under his breath, and before long he could hardly breathe. His sister glanced around nervously and pushed him hard, impaling him on a furious stare.

"What's so fockin' funny, Danny? They want yer dead."

Danny bit his lower lip and chuckled, straightening himself up and staring out across the rolling hills down towards the lake that shimmered black and silver under the winter sky.

"I must be the most famous highwayman in all of bloody England, May."

"It's not funny, Danny," Marie snapped: "They're gonna fockin' kill ya."

Danny's lips twisted into a cold, cracked smile: "They're gonna have ta catch me first."

Marie sighed and stepped away, exasperated.

"Listen, May," Danny urged, taking her by the shoulders and drawing her close: "I need ya ta do somethin' fer me. I haven't eaten in nearly a week and I'm starvin'."

He paused and nodded to his tired mount with the white hart still flung across its back.

"I got myself something ta eat but I daren't light a fire in case they see me."

Marie pressed her eyes closed and swallowed hard, for a moment, Danny thought that she may just tell him to leave.

"Yer can't bring it in like that. Cut it down fer me, get rid of the bloody horse of yours and meet me back here in ten minutes."

"I swear yer an angel sent down from Heaven ta watch over me, May."

"Just do it, Danny. And hurry!"

And with that she stepped back inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Half an hour later, Danny was sat in the empty kitchen of the house tearing at the leg of steaming venison in his hands. The oil and cooked blood from the meat ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin, but he was mad and ravenous with hunger and ate until his stomach screamed with pain for him to stop. When he was finished, Marie brought him a tankard of cheap ale, and he washed the meat down quickly before resting back against his chair and catching his breath.

"Now," Marie hissed, clearing away the table: "Yer have ta go. Yer have ta go before someone catches ya-"

But before she could finish, the door opened and a young woman stepped into the kitchen, her shoes clicking sharply on the tiled floor. She turned to Marie and smiled, then her eyes fell on Danny and she paused, after a moment she raised her hand to her mouth and caught her breath, stepping backwards, but Danny was already on his feet and closing in on her.

"You're the one," she stuttered: "You're the one they're looking for. You're Danny McMills!"

Her voice rose into excited hysteria, and when Danny slammed her back against the wall, he pressed his leather-gloved hand hard down over her mouth to stifle her scream.

"Shhhhhhhhhhh," he soothed, staring into her dirty-green eyes with a soulful flash of ember-black: "Now, don't ya go makin' a scene. Alright?"

The girl's eyes widened adoringly and she nodded a little behind his firm grip on her skull.

"Good," Danny purred in his smooth, enchanting voice, and with a flourish, he released her and began to dust the leaves and twigs from his black velvet coat.

The girl swallowed and watched him for a long moment.

"I can't believe it's you..."

"Came as a bit of a shock ta me too," Danny muttered absently as he smoothed the wrinkles out of his deer-skin breeches: "Yer know, just when ya think yer know you ya are, ya wake up in tha freezin' cold, starvin' hungry, an yer find yerself the most wanted man in England."

The girl stared at him blankly, but Marie smiled and crossed her arms as Danny gathered his things and shot her one final dose of his hot, dark eyes. Lifting his pistols from the table and checking the rapier at his side, he strode towards the door, standing in front of the girl for a long moment, his breath hot on her shivering skin.

"What's yer name, lass?"

"J-Julie."

"A pretty name fer a pretty girl," he whispered, brushing his leathered finger across her cheek: "Now, I want yer ta promise me that yer not gonna go tellin' anyone that ya saw me here. An if ya do, then at least give me an hour before ya do. An tell em that I forced my way in an threatened ya with my pistols. Can ya do that fer me, Julie?"

The girl shivered hard: "Y-yes sir. Yes, sir I can."

"Yer a good girl, sweetheart," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her, grasping her by the waist and pulling her hard against him.

A soft whimper caught at the back of her throat, but she didn't fight him, and he'd known that she wouldn't. He drew away slowly and licked his lips, resting his forehead against hers.

"Now, if yer wouldn't mind," he said, lifting her aside and placing her back down on the kitchen tiles behind him, he opened the door, and then paused for a moment before turning to face the two women in the room, sweeping his hat from the loose waves of his hair and bowing deeply with a flourish.

"Ladies, I wish yer the finest of evenin's. Take care ta tell yer friends when they shoot me down that yer were held up by Danny McMills, the most famous and most handsome of highwaymen in all the country."

He flashed a smile at his sister and closed the door sharply, slipping into the shadows and creeping from the building, sprinting down the hill and swinging himself up onto his horses back. He cried out sharply and spurred forward, taking off at a gallop into the woods as dark banks of cloud gathered in the sky above him.