Night-time. There's a full moon but it might as well not be there for all the good it's doing anybody behind that sheath of cloud. The moon is a false friend to people in our line of work. It's a question you have to keep asking yourself: is it better to see or to avoid being seen?

Speaking of questions, I got a better one wrong earlier today. Stay behind as usual, or beg to join the excitement of a raid? Seemed obvious at the time. Standing outside the manor house with my back pressed to the stone wall next to the stables and a shawl pulled about my shoulders, I'm beginning to think perhaps that was a mistake. Still, Theon's face when Caleb told him he'd be staying in my place has to be worth some of this. It's not as though I'm risking life and limb here. I'm just cold and no less bored than I would have been back in the forest, poking the fire and staring at clouds.

Apparently, this house belongs to a distant cousin of the king. It's not quite what you'd call a palace, but it is, or so say the men that were here last time, filled with useless but valuable possessions and plenty of gold he doesn’t really need. Which is, of course, why we're here. Caleb means to relieve him of some of it.

I'm here to stand watch. Watch for what, though, I'm not sure. The trouble is that, as the fireside stories would have it, bad news usually turns up wearing a black cloak, black boots, black trousers and a black tunic. Against the black outlines of trees against the black sky, I am struggling even to see Oake, the tall, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered thief stationed by the kitchen door across the courtyard, where the others entered the house. I like Oake – of all the men he is probably my favourite. Twice widowed before he was nine-and-twenty, poor man. That's probably what made a thief out of him – so much had been stolen already. He is a good man, strong as a horse but skilled at healing and a craftsman. His history is no cleaner than the others, though, and he is not a man to cross.

At the very least, I am hidden. Here, by the stables, I would be hidden by shadows even if the sky were clear. The smell of horse dung threatens to overpower me, but if beggars cannot be choosers, women standing watch for bands of thieves should probably take their dung and be grateful. Still, I wonder if perhaps Caleb has left me here in the hope that I will pass out and that they can escape and leave me behind. It's possible, though unlikely. Caleb's only real resentment for me, aside from the fact that I am the owner of a mouth he feels honour-bound to feed, is that I am not my mother. That is not, however, to say that he loves me as a daughter.

I cross my arms and try to breath through my mouth. With any luck, this night will soon be over. I catch a glimpse of Oake’s outline and watch him, waiting for the signal.

The men's return is loud enough to wake the dead and behind me the horses stir a little. By all rights, these men should have been caught by now. Now and then, we hear of the great thieves, those who are true artists, being sent to the gallows for knocking a thimble to the floor. Caleb's band of half-wits have been at this for years and never, it seems, learned anything. There is little justice in this world.

They regroup in the corner where Oake is waiting. I move carefully to join them, tracing the edges of the courtyard. I am just negotiating my way around a couple of barrels that have been pushed to one side when I see it – a ball of light rounding the corner of the house to the far side of the courtyard. I squint. What is it?

Slowly, horribly, a shape appears – a man, dressed only in a nightshirt and robe, his face illuminated by the torch in his hand. At a guess, I would say that he is a butler. It doesn't take a criminal mastermind like Caleb to work out what might have caught his attention.

I waver, frozen mid-step. He does not seem to have noticed anything amiss just yet. His movements seem to be those of a man searching for something he only half-expects to be there. Perhaps he hasn't yet worked out what's happening. It can, however, be only a few precious seconds before the torchlight catches the shape of one of the thieves and by then it will be too late.

I cannot warn them – if I move or speak, I will give away both their position and my own. I close my eyes, trying to block out the panic and think. There is only one thing I can do – and it is either very brave or very stupid. Probably both.

With no time for hesitation or planning, I lunge for the barrels beside me, knocking them over with as much force as I can muster. They are empty and crash to the ground with a satisfyingly loud noise. The man with the torch turns and looks in my direction. I run.

It is only as I round a corner and throw myself down a lane that I realise I haven't really thought this through. For a man who cannot long have been out of bed, he runs quickly and I am faced suddenly with the possibility that I might have saved the thieves only to be caught myself. It's not an appealing idea, and it's not the worst. I cannot run straight back to the camp with this man following me. I will have to take a different direction and hope I lose him.

At the end of the lane I take a last longing glance at the forest and turn left when I should turn right, leading my pursuer around a granary and along the edge of a field that by day is occupied by sheep. By a stroke of luck – first one tonight, it seems – the sky has cleared a little and I have some moonlight to see by.

I look back. He seems finally to be slowing. I find the last of my energy and release it, pushing myself harder. As fast as I can, I circle a barn to come back past the granary. I stop now, breathless. The ball of orange light that shows me the position of his torch is retreating now, walking slowly back down the lane, resigned. I am safe.

The full force of my exhaustion hits me now. My breath comes hard and every gasp aches like I am swallowing fire. I wait a moment to regain some of my strength – I have yet to get home.

Taking a last look back down the lane, I straighten up and cross the lane silently, slipping into the cover of trees and safety.

As I stagger into the clearing, the thieves are already sitting down around the fire, counting their gold. I am ready to collapse, but Caleb looks up as I arrive and I know that the night is not over yet. I know this expression.

“Caroline,” he begins. Around him, movement ceases. Even Jacob, my father’s second-in-command, stops simultaneously picking his nose and scooping gold into bags. Grown men with prices on their heads for much worse than robbery fear my father. If I weren't so tired, perhaps I would consider how strange it is that I am still alive.

“Caleb?”

“Caroline, are you aware that your clumsiness almost got every man here executed?” He’s calm in a way that is more frightening than fierce and shouting rage. He is at his very worst – sinister, determined and utterly convinced that he is right.

My legs threaten to stop working and I lean against a tree just in time. I try not to close my eyes in the hope that everything will melt away. I want to argue, to tell him about the man with the torch. I want him to see that I saved him. But I am dead on my feet and he would not believe me, so I lower my head in what I hope looks like deep and apologetic shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies do not undo mistakes, Caroline, and will not save you from punishment tomorrow. You will come to me when you have completed your duties, is that clear?”

It is unfair but I will gain nothing by telling him so. I nod silently and turn away, stumbling along the familiar pathway to my home. It is a tiny hut built from fallen branches – the smaller ones that I could lift alone. It is by no means sturdy and I have to repair it often, but it protects me from little showers of rain and weak winds and I feel better sleeping inside it than out in the open. I wrap myself in a torn and dirty blanket but I do not immediately fall asleep. I have a ritual to perform.

I close my eyes, wrinkling my face so that they are as tight as possible. Then I whisper into the darkness.

“My name is Caroline Forrester, daughter of Caleb. I have lived my life in the kingdom of Hoen. I am sixteen.”

Finished, I roll over, curling up tightly. I am asleep within moments.