Читать книгу Camelot’s Shadow - Sarah Zettel - Страница 8

The violence of the maiden’s weeping shook the whole of her body. Gawain tightened his arm around her shoulders to keep her from throwing the whole of herself into the mud. Sudden violence, fear and loss had clearly robbed her of all composure.

‘My lady, do not grieve so,’ he murmured, not knowing if she could understand him in her state, but hoping the sound of his voice would bring her comfort. ‘You are safe now, I swear it. On my life, I swear it.’

Even as he spoke those words, his eyes searched the shadows of trees and bracken that crowded this disused length of road. There were too many places to hide here, too many ways to watch unseen. Sorcerers were full of more tricks than man could number, and there was no knowing if her attacker had taken himself miles away, or simply vanished into the trees behind the cover of his smoke.

He had to get her safe away from here.

But having begun to weep so hard, she did not seem to be able to stop herself. Her tears ran down in rivers and her sobs clogged a throat that seemed too tight to release them all.

‘Come away, lady. Come with me.’

She lifted her head, her tears coating her cheeks like a layer of ice. She looked not at him, but at the dead man stretched out before them. ‘I cannot leave him like this.’

Cursing hard necessity, Gawain took her hands in far too familiar a fashion so that she looked from the corpse to him. ‘Lady, there is nothing more that can be done for him, and we do not know where your assailant, has gone. He may be nearby and waiting.’

That broke through her grief and she looked up at him with stark terror in her eyes. Gawain berated himself inwardly for frightening her further, but she did not protest as he raised her to her feet and led her to her mount. The lady’s horse, fortunately, had not bolted, evidently deeming it a safer thing to stay with her mistress, rather than brave the dark forest.

The lady suffered him to help her onto the horse’s back. She huddled in the saddle. The moonlight showed him fair skin and regular features, and a lock of waving hair that had come free from a braid that was as thick as a man’s wrist, but it also showed him a face gone far too pale.

And if you stay here staring, Gawain, she will succumb to the cold as well as her shock. The early spring night was almost as chill as a winter’s day. Trusting the mare to hold steady under her mistress, Gawain went back and retrieved the bow from where it had fallen. He gave it into her hands, and she clutched it like a talisman, which was what he had hoped, because it would keep her from trying the reins. No doubt she could ride well enough, but her eyes had turned glassy and staring. There was no telling if she could guide the animal in the state she was now, nor where she might attempt to lead it. He also retrieved the vanished sorcerer’s knife. There was no point in leaving a weapon lying where it might be taken and used by any who passed.

‘Now, Mistress Horse.’ Gawain took hold of the mare’s bridle and stroked her neck. ‘Shall we be friends you and I? Your good lady is in need of aid from us both.’

The horse seemed to find this a reasonable request under the circumstances and remained quiet. Gawain looked again to the dead man on the ground. It was unseemly to leave him this way, but he must help the living.

What story is this? he wondered as he caught up the reins of his stallion, Gringolet. He had no answers, nor would he until the maiden had more fully recovered herself. It stank of magic, all of it. He’d set the sorcerer’s head on a platter, if he got his way; and that of Harrik’s witch beside it. The thought of Harrik reminded him afresh of the urgency of his errand though, and Gawain gritted his teeth.

God grant we find your friends soon, my lady. Gawain glanced at the sky where the stars shone down clear and brittle. The moon had almost set. For I must be gone come the day, but I would not leave you alone.

Gawain led the horses down the high road, the half-frozen mud muffling their hoofbeats and their breath making silver clouds in the deepening dark.

Euberacon, shrouded by night and magic, watched the rider hoist the weeping woman onto the horse and lead her away. The glittering light of moon and stars gave him a clear view of the device decorating the shield hanging from his horse’s saddlebow.

Well, my Lord Gawain, what do you think of the prize that has fallen into your purse? Is it not lovely and rare? Does it not fill your heart with tender and possessive thoughts?

Under Euberacon’s watchful eye, Arthur’s captain turned down the forest road, leaving behind dark trails of prints. Euberacon smiled briefly, and then turned back to the dead man. There was profit yet to be taken from this night’s work. The deep gouge in Euberacon’s chest where the knight’s spear had stabbed him was painful and the exposure of his ribs made him feel a little dizzy and weak, but it would close soon enough. The source of Euberacon’s life was no longer in his heart, and those who sought it there were bound to be sore disappointed. There was no reason to hurry home. The heart and eyes, the tongue and left hand, these were things not to be wasted. Euberacon drew his second, sharper knife and bent to work.

In the light of the setting moon, Gawain could barely make out the tiny roadside chapel where he had taken shelter for the night. It was a rude and neglected place. Piles of twigs and leaves in the corners and the char on the uneven flagstones told him it had lately been more a house of travellers and wild creatures than of God. But the thatched roof and stone walls were still whole and while the presence of another horse and another human would make for a cramped and slightly comical congregation, they would also add greatly to the warmth, and warmth would only aid the lady in her recovery.

‘Come my lady.’ Gawain held out a hand. Her hand was ice cold in his and he had to grip it hard to help her down because she had no strength to hold onto him. Trusting that her horse would not stray far, he led the lady through the low, narrow door. Inside, the dying coals of his little fire provided just enough illumination to show the dusty altar and chipped cross. The whole place smelled heavily of horse, and his palfrey whickered and stamped as he entered.

‘Rest you awhile, lady. I will see to the horses.’ Keeping hold of her hand, Gawain lowered himself onto one knee so the maiden would be able to steady herself as she sat by the fire. He felt her tremble as she did, her free hand automatically tucking her cloak and skirt under her to guard her from the cold of the cracked flags. He took that as a good sign. He had seen men after battle become like this, too stunned by what they had been through to see the world in front of them any longer. Fire, drink and a time of quiet rallied most of them. He prayed it would be so with her.

Outside; Gringolet stood alone, nibbling at the bracken. Gawain cursed under his breath and circled the chapel, to find that the mare had sniffed out a springlet and decided to help herself to a drink. He waited somewhat impatiently until she raised her dripping head and allowed him to lead her into the chapel, balking only slightly at the narrow doorway.

Inside, the lady had fallen, stretching out to her full length on the flags. Gawain dropped the mare’s reins and ran to her side, turned her, thrusting a hand under her cloak and leaning close, to search for breath and heartbeat.

To his immense relief, her heart beat steadily under her cloak and her warm breath brushed his cheek and mouth. For a moment, he inhaled a scent like summer itself. This close, he could see the colour was beginning to return to her white cheeks. Simple sleep then, was what had claimed her, and Gawain thanked God and the Virgin for it. That would heal her more than any clumsy words he could offer.

As gently as he could manage, he laid her back down and stood, running his hand through his hair and looking at the face the firelight revealed to him. Her cheeks were round and full, her features regular and delicate. Her hair underneath her veil was the colour of the flame, a reddened gold that shone like the setting sun. The few tresses that had come free of the braid trailed almost to her ankles. Her eyes were set wide beneath her clear, white brow, and he wondered what colour they would be when they opened.

He also noted that she was full and fairly grown. No wan and wilting flower she. Then he realized that he was staring, and he turned quickly away.

The horses were in urgent need of attention. Gringolet had not been unharnessed the whole hard day. The lady’s mare seemed to be fairly fresh, so wherever they had come from, it was not far. He thought again on the dead man left in the wood. Perhaps he could take word to the king of whatever injustice had come to pass here.

Unsaddling and unharnessing the horses and wiping them down took some time. The lady did not have much gear with her. A quiver of arrows, and the bow with the broken string, and a single saddlebag. Had she been hunting and become lost or distracted? The bag was heavy, but a cursory investigation of it showed she had not brought provisions, not as much as a skin of water or wine, which only deepened the mystery about her.

Gawain glanced back at her. Instinct had caused her to curl closer to the fire’s warmth. His exercise had kept him from feeling the deepening cold, so Gawain unclasped his cloak and laid it over her like a blanket. He leaned close to see if any token of fever clouded her clear brow. But there was only the summer scent of her, and the deep, regular breathing of a peaceful sleeper.

Against his will, Gawain remembered Pacis. Her skin had been white like this, her cheeks and shoulders this round as she lay sleeping beside him, before she had woken and kissed him lightly and bid him begone before her husband returned.

Before she had laughed when he had begged her to come with him.

Gawain busied himself with the fire to distract himself from those deeply unwanted thoughts. Before he had to look any longer at this beauty who reminded him so sharply of that other.

Agravain would have a whole sermon to preach if he could but see you now, he thought ruefully. Of his three brothers, Agravain was closest to him in age, and his harshest critic. Gawain had once heard that when the ancient emperors of Rome rode through the streets to display their spoils of battle, a man rode beside them whose job was to whisper in the conqueror’s ear ‘remember thou art mortal’. Agravain seemed to have taken that role on himself with respect to Gawain.

What will you do when one of your dalliances forgets her undying love for you and shows up at court in tears with a big belly and a witness to your pretty words? Agravain would say, and had said, more than once, his sharp face creased with anger. How much will our uncle have to settle on that cuckolded husband, or petty chieftain’s daughter? You could always refuse to acknowledge the truth of their claim, I suppose, but that would stain some of that virtue you polish up like your arms before you go into battle…

The situation was only made worse by the fact that Agravain’s scoldings were not without merit. Gawain poked at the fire with one of the damp sticks he had gathered and frowned. It wasn’t that he was unmindful of his responsibilities. He took them most seriously. Arthur was a great king and a great man. Living up to his example was a life’s work which Gawain set himself to with a good will. If it was love that led him astray, surely there were others who had done far worse?

Gawain grimaced as he thought of the colours Agravain’s face would turn if he spoke that light verse. And there were others who would not approve. He winced and glanced up at the cross above the altar.

Penitent, Gawain knelt in prayer, hands clasped before him. He carefully recited his pater noster and added, Father, forgive my sins and help me strive to be more worthy of the grace You showed through your Son, Jesus Christ. Mother Mary, guide this foolish sinner and show him how he may amend his faults. Amen, amen, amen.

Gawain crossed himself. Resolutely, he sat down facing the door with the fire and the lady at his back and his sword naked on his lap, in case the villain who pursued this maiden and killed her protector should attempt to return, and so that he would not have to watch her sleeping there and think again of Pacis.

Rhian woke slowly and reluctantly. The first thing she saw was a low fire smouldering on a floor of rough flagstones. The smell of horse hung in the air, overwhelming the smell of smoke.

Memory rolled over her like thunderclouds across a summer sky. She pushed herself instantly upright and became aware of a stiff neck and a sore back. A cloak slithered off her shoulders, but she paid it no mind. Across the fire she made out Thetis standing beside a great white charger and a small bay palfrey. The saddles and tidy piles of harness waited beside the splintered wooden door.

‘God be with you this morning, my lady,’ said a man’s voice, pleasantly, as if she had just walked into the great hall to break her fast. Rhian nearly jumped out of her skin, and she stared. Beside her sat the rider who had come to her aid. He regarded her with patient courtesy, and in the firelight Rhian could see that his eyes were the colour of dark amber, warm and deep. His grecian nose was somewhat crooked, having been broken at least once. His chin was clean-shaven in the old Roman style but it had clearly been several days since he had seen a barber. His mouth was wide and his black locks brushed the shoulders of a plain brown tunic trimmed with simple blue embroidery.

Rhian realized that her own cloak lay beneath her, protecting her from the cold stones of the floor. It was this man’s mantle that had fallen from her shoulders.

She tried to bring some order to her thoughts, but her mind did not seem fully hers to command yet. She swallowed to clear some of the sand that seemed to clog her throat. ‘God be with you, Sir.’

She meant to add, ‘where am I?’ but the sight of a cross over an ancient and dusty altar answered her question, at least in part. Before she could stop herself, she thought to tell her father this place was in need of repair so he could send Whitcomb to see what could be done.

Whitcomb, helpless on the ground, the flash of a knife in the moonlight…

For you now there is no God, no saviour, no father, no mother, no protector save for me.

A man on a tall horse, his spear held high…

Whitcomb still and dead, his blood staining the ground black.

That evil memory robbed Rhian of any polite words. As if discomfited by the silence, the white warhorse stamped once. The knight got to his feet and went to the charger, patting its sides.

‘Gringolet reminds me he has not yet broken his fast,’ he said in that same pleasant, comfortable way. ‘With my lady’s permission, I will take the horses outside to see what they can make of the foraging nearby.’

Rhian nodded dumbly. The man pulled a light halter from the pile of gear. He looped it over Gringolet’s head and led the animal out into the crisp, grey morning. Thetis and the palfrey both followed, docile and comfortable, leaving the room more airy, but also much colder. Rhian wrapped her own cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

What have I done? Oh, Whitcomb, my friend. I have been the death of you.

Peace, she counselled herself. The fault was none of yours.

Was it not?

No, she told herself firmly. It was the sorcerer who held the knife. It was he who corrupted your father and broke your mother before you were even born.

The chapel door opened again and Rhian’s head jerked up, startled. The man paused in the doorway.

‘My lady.’ He bowed. ‘Your humble servant can only hope it was not he whom you were thinking of with such fury.’

Rhian blinked and tried to smooth her features. He was tall, this man. He’d had to stoop to enter the chapel and his shoulders almost filled the doorway. His mail shirt and other arms lay beside the horses’ harness, but he still wore his sword at his narrow waist.

And she had slept the night away beneath his cloak.

Rhian almost wanted to laugh, but she knew if she began, not only would it be hopelessly rude, but it might swiftly turn to tears. She cleared her throat, and tried to remember her manners. First of all, she stood, and picked up the cloak he had graciously loaned her. It was a rough wool, but well dyed a deep green and lined entirely with fur. Not at all the garment of a poor man. ‘I would know, Sir, to whom it is I owe such thanks. You surely saved my life this night.’

The knight bowed, a smooth and studied gesture. ‘I am Gawain, son of Lot Luwddoc of Goddodin, and companion to Arthur the King at the Round Table.’

Surprise tightened Rhian’s fingers around the cloak. This was Gawain? Nephew and heir to the High King? The acknowledged champion of all the High King’s chosen and the one who sat at his right hand when the cadre of the Round Table met together?

‘Have I said something to give offence to my lady?’ inquired Gawain, as he straightened up.

‘No…no…I…forgive me.’ Rhian cursed herself for her stammering, and for her inability to stop staring. ‘It’s just…I had not heard word of your being in this country,’ she finished. Feeling the fool, she held the cloak out to him. She could think of nothing else to do.

Gawain’s smile was small, and the arch of his brows said he knew this was not what she had first thought to say, but he was too polite to remark on it. ‘I am glad to hear that. I am meant to be travelling in secret.’ He smoothly accepted the cloak and slung it around his shoulders. He must have been freezing without it all night, despite the warmth the horses provided. Rhian felt her hands would go numb any moment. ‘As there are none here to introduce us properly, lady, may I be so bold as to ask the favour of your name?’

Manners, forgotten again. ‘I cry you mercy, Sir, for my country ways,’ she said, dropping her gaze and reminding herself sternly that she did in fact know how to comport herself before visitors of rank. ‘I am Rhian, daughter of Rygehil of the Morelands who is the barown of this land. My lord, I render you humble thanks for all you have done.’ She spread her skirts and curtsied deeply.

Gawain acknowledged the gesture with another stately bow. ‘I have heard Rygehil of the Morelands spoken of most fairly.’ He crouched down before the fire, poking renewed life into the modest blaze with a charred stick. ‘If my lady would care to refresh herself…’ he handed her a wineskin that had been warming by the coals.

Rhian took it with thanks and drank the sweet, watered wine gratefully. It coursed through her, strengthening her blood and clearing her mind. She lowered the skin to find Gawain watching her thoughtfully. In the daylight streaming through the open chapel door, she could see his eyes were lit from within by sparks of wit, and, for all his courtly words, a bit of wariness.

‘Was it your father you rode with last night?’ he asked.

Rhian set the skin down. ‘No.’

‘Your husband then?’ The wariness in him became ever-so-slightly more marked.

Rhian wondered briefly if she should lie, but found she did not have the heart for it. ‘No. My father’s steward.’ Whitcomb. Fresh sorrow filled her heart.

Her answer caused Sir Gawain’s brows to arch sharply, and Rhian dropped her gaze again.

‘Would my lady consent to share her tale with her humble servant?’

Rhian bit her lip. The tears which had watered the ground beside Whitcomb’s corpse had made her rage against her father fresh and green. Still, it was hard for her to think of speaking openly to a representative of the High King. To tell this story would bring shame not only upon father, but also upon mother. But, it was not only that. To her surprise, a part of her still longed to hear her father’s horse outside, to have him come to tell her it was a mistake, that all was forgiven, that she could come home now and she would be safe, and all would be well and right. That part still knew the love between father and daughter, and could only weep.

Seeing her hesitate, Gawain said delicately, ‘If my lady prefers, I could simply escort her back to her father’s hall…’

‘No!’ The word was out before Rhian could stop her tongue.

Gawain bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘Then, my lady, you must tell me how I may best be of assistance.’

Rhian looked at him again. This was a man of whom songs were made. No doubt they exaggerated freely, but still, if he was even half as noble as the tales claimed, he would take serious note of her distress, and there were advantages to him being the king’s man. He could order the convent to take her, where they might not take a woman alone…

He could help make sure Whitcomb got a Christian burial.

And if he did decide to take her back to father after all? The thought stiffened Rhian’s spine even as it brought on a fresh wave of fear. Well, these were woods she had known since she was a girl, and Gawain was on some important errand. He would surely tire soon of trying to chase her through them on horseback.

‘My lady,’ said Gawain once again, this time with a trace of exasperation in his voice. Impatience seemed to bring out the extremes of formality in him. ‘Forgive your servant, but, his errand is urgent, and he fears if he must endure the steel of your gaze any longer he will be wounded so gravely that he will be unable to complete his appointed task. I ask you again, for the sake of that God we both love, how can I be of service to you?’

Rhian drew the shreds of her composure together. She had to answer him.

It was pride and nothing else that also made her choose to match his formality of speech. ‘Again I cry you mercy, noble sir. I would have answered you before, but I must speak of dark and shameful matters, and I hesitate to bring dishonour upon one whom the Lord commands I should honour above all save Christ.’

His expression flickered, and Rhian thought for a bare instant he looked impressed. ‘Speak freely, my lady,’ he told her. ‘Be assured your servant will listen discreetly and advise you as best he may.’

So Rhian squared herself against the tumult within her, and told Lord Gawain all that had happened to her the day before – how her father had refused her best and final suitor, how her mother had arranged matters so that they came to know the strange and dreadful promise her father had made, and how Whitcomb had agreed to help her in her flight.

As she spoke of how the sorcerer Euberacon had waylaid them on the road, the memory of his hooded eyes, and how he seemed able to take command of her, sent a deep chill through her, but she still forced herself to speak calmly. She felt glad that Sir Gawain had seen the sorcerer vanish as he had. Otherwise he might think her a mad woman, or worse, a witch.

As he promised, the knight listened discreetly. In fact, he scarce moved a muscle for the length of her tale. Only his eyes narrowed. Did he accuse Rhian of having steel in her gaze? His own was nothing less than cold iron.

At last, there was nothing more to tell. Gawain turned his eyes away and stared a long while out of the chapel door.

When he finally spoke, he said, ‘Lady, these things you tell me of are most strange and of grave import. I am not sorry I came to your aid.’

Despite the return of her fears, Rhian felt her mouth quirk up. ‘And I am right glad to hear it.’

Her tart remark startled Gawain. For an instant he looked annoyed, caught out, but then a smile spread across his face. Rhian felt her throat tighten. She had thought him fair before, but that smile of his brightened the very air around him.

‘Now it is I who must cry you mercy, my lady.’ Still smiling, he gave a small bow where he sat. His wry humour, though, quickly faded. ‘But you give me tidings that match with those I already carry to the High King. I have just heard tell of a witch from a man I trust, now you speak to me of a sorcerer. I must make haste back to Camelot. There are darker councils abroad in this land than Arthur suspects.’ These last words he spoke more to himself than to her.

‘Then, Sir, we must not linger here. If you can delay your errand long enough to see me to the sisters…’ Rhian tried to keep the plea from her voice.

‘I fear I can do no such thing, my lady.’ Rhian’s heart plummetted. ‘I must be importunate and instead ask you to ride with me to Camelot and give witness of these matters to the High King.’

And what would King Arthur do after that, but send her back to her father? Panic squeezed Rhian’s heart.

Her thoughts must have showed plainly on her face, for Gawain said, ‘At court you may plead your case to Queen Guinevere. Her Majesty is of a generous and discerning heart. I promise, she will not fail to hear you.’

The queen will hear, and the king will hear, and all the world will know what father has done. God and Mary why do I care? Let him reap the shame he has sown, and let us be gone, because it is morning. He will be searching for me by now, if he cares even that much.

She wanted to be able to hate. She wanted there to be nothing in her but anger, but other feelings twisted inside her, bringing with them nothing but pain.

Beyond this, there were other matters of cold law that might remove from her hands what little hope she still clutched. ‘And if it is judged that I am my father’s and his to do with as he pleases? What then?’

For a moment, bare anger showed in Gawain’s eyes, as if she had spoken insult. ‘You do not know Her Majesty, or you would not speak so,’ he said, and his words had an edge to them. Belatedly, he seemed to notice this, and his voice grew gentle again. ‘She has never turned away any who ask for her protection.’

Rhian swallowed. There was no time to argue. The sky outside was brightening. She could see it through the cracks in the chapel’s roof. Whitcomb would already be missed. A search would be sent out soon, and there would be fresh tracks on the muddy road for them to follow.

‘I will go with you, then, Sir,’ she said, glancing at the chapel door as if she thought the sorcerer’s shadow would cross the threshold at any moment.

Gawain did not miss the gesture. ‘If my lady will permit, I would say we ride on to the town of Pen Marhas. The master there is Arthur’s man and will give our horses and ourselves good rest before we reach the final road to Camelot.’

‘With a good will, Sir,’ said Rhian, although she felt none. She did not want this. She only wanted the impossible – for all of this not to be. She wanted to be home in her bed and waking up to find that father had consented to let her marry Vernus after all, and for mother to be planning the betrothal feast.

Furtively, she looked at the neglected cross. ‘May I pray a moment?’

‘Of course, my lady,’ said Gawain. ‘I will see to the horses.’

Rhian knelt on the stones, clasped her hands together tightly, bowing her head and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She heard Gawain’s footsteps as he came and went, heard the gentle ring of harnesses lifted, settled and tightened over the stamping and mild protest of the horses.

She meant to pray. She tried. She wanted to call up images of the Virgin’s serene face, of Christ’s noble suffering, but all she could see were the eyes of the sorcerer, and how he called and compelled.

Was it he who sent the vision of the Green Man to frighten her into a faint? Had he already begun his possession of her then, and his laying his claim on her at the crossroads was the end of it, rather than the beginning?

Fear wrung a single tear from Rhian’s eye, and it trickled down her cheek.

Was there any man, king or companion who could keep her safe?

And yet, she had prayed before in the darkness, and there had come Gawain, who had caused the sorcerer to flee before him and brought her back to herself.

With that thought, the fear eased, and Rhian found her fingers loosening a little from each other.

Mother Mary, if this man truly is your servant, I beg you watch over us. Help me to know that I am doing the right thing. And watch over Whitcomb until he may rise again at the Day of Judgement. Amen.

A little peace came to her then, and hope grew a little stronger. She was able to rise and walk outside without flinching. Dawn shone through the trees, doing little yet to dispel the night’s cold, but at least there was light. Gawain was working among the three horses. The glance he gave her was only mildly inquiring, leaving her the privacy of her thoughts.

Thetis was already saddled. Rhian’s bow with its broken string protruded from the quiver hanging from the saddle. Rhian tried not to look at it. She tried to hang on to the peace of prayer as she mounted Thetis. She would not be abandoned now. Surely not now.

Gawain mounted his palfrey. The warhorse’s reins had been tied to the smaller horse’s harness. It was obviously used to this arrangement for it started forward peaceably enough when Gawain nudged the palfrey into a walk and then into a trot.

There should have been a squire, Rhian realized, shocked that she had not noticed before. He had said his errand was urgent, but what was so urgent that the High King’s nephew would travel without even one servant or companion?

The unwelcome sensation of being watched stole over her. Rhian shivered and knotted her fingers into the reins as she urged Thetis forward to follow Gawain onto the highway.

Neither of the travellers looked back to note the pair of ebony ravens perched in the bare oak tree. Nor did they see that while one flew off to the east, the other flew to the west, as if to join their party and travel alongside them.

‘There, Sir!’ The boy running ahead of the mounted men pointed as he cried out.

Rygehil squinted. The dawn had not completely penetrated the thick trees yet and they rode through twilight. The shape that the boy pointed out was little more than a mound of darkness on the bed of last year’s fallen leaves. But for the crows, it might have been a log or a faggot dropped by some peasant out cutting fuel. The ill-favoured birds swirled above the fallen form. They perched upon it, stabbing eagerly downward with their sharp beaks.

It is a deer, Rygehil tried to tell himself. It is a sheep that strayed from its pen. But his heart did not believe that, and it flared within him. He drove his heels into his horse’s sides and charged forward to the ragged crossroads, scattering crows in all directions so that they cursed him loud and raucously with their harsh cries.

When he saw it was a man that lay in the scuffed and scattered leaves, his first feeling was one of relief, for the corpse was not Rhian. But in the next moment he recognized the face, cold and grey in the faint light of dawn, and then he saw what had been done to it.

‘Whitcomb,’ he breathed, tears stinging his eyes. He dismounted and knelt beside his steward.

The mutilations were vile, obscene, and the true old man’s blood was everywhere. The men behind him were saying their prayers. Someone retched. Above all the crows cawed, speaking to their comrades of their prize. Rygehil squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he crossed himself. Bitter gall filled his throat and his soul.

You deserved better, my friend. Better than me for a master, and a far, far better death than this was.

Slowly, Rygehil stood and looked about him. The men, who had remained on their ponies murmured uneasily to each other. The boys holding the reins simply looked scared. Leaves and loam had been churned and kicked. Whitcomb’s blood had spilled freely onto the exposed and muddy ground. That same mud held hoof prints that travelled in several directions, as did the prints of men’s boots, and the smaller disturbances of a woman’s feet.

He looked down to the road. The hoof prints continued north and east, already blurring and softening as dew and warmth worked on them.

Does he have you then, my child? Did Whitcomb offer up his life to try to buy off that fate I sold you to? Or are you free now and gone far away?

Gradually, Rygehil became aware that he was cold, and that behind him, ponies and mules stamped and snorted and men blew hard into cupped palms.

Hobden, a thin man with a wispy beard, coughed behind his rawboned hand. ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Shall we go on?’

Rygehil looked out at the crossroads again, but his mind seemed to have gone as numb and as cold as his naked hands.

‘No,’ he answered at last. ‘We will take Whitcomb home with us.’ He turned away.

‘B – but my lord,’ stammered Hobden. The man had turned pale, with fear or with anger, Rygehil could not tell which. ‘Your daughter…’

‘May God preserve her,’ Rygehil said, bowing his head so that the men would not mark his shame at his own cowardice. ‘For I no longer can.’