Christmas dawn 1803, low cloud glowered from the summit of Arthur"s Seat and hovered a few yards above the ragged cliff-edge of Salisbury Crags. I stood with my feet in a muddy puddle as the two groups eyed each other across a hundred yards of the royal park.
"It"s Christ"s birthday," I said. "It"s a strange day to pick to try and kill somebody."
George pulled back the hammer of his pistol, aimed at a gnarled thorn tree and squeezed the trigger. The click was flat and sinister. "Every day is a strange day to try and kill somebody." He looked around. "What do they call this place?"
"This is Hunter"s Bog." I looked across to the opposing party. "It"s the traditional place for Edinburgh"s duels." I could see Marie standing slightly apart from the group and wondered if I should go and talk
