'Like as not it's the soldiers from the keep, he said. 'Someone must have reported your presence. They're wary of strangers just now because of poor little Gifu. Best not be caught. They seize first and ask questions later.

Oliver spun from the trestle, grabbed his swordbelt and was already buckling it on as he strode to the door. He had no intention of being trapped inside a one-roomed cot by a band of mercenaries, and he knew if they caught him he was unlikely to live. He would be 'legitimately' executed as the Empress's spy or made a scapegoat for the girl's murder.

'God be with you, my son! cried Father Alberic, as Oliver snatched his shield from beside the door and ran out to the shelter for his horse.

'He has need to be, Oliver said grimly as he freed the reins and scrambled into the saddle. Hero gave a grunt of surprise and indignation as Oliver's heels slammed into his flanks. The stallion sprang forward, but the opening on to the village road was already blocked by four mounted soldiers.

The deep tones of late sunlight brightened the hide of the leading horse from bay to red and the rider's shield bore a device of crimson chevrons on a background of brilliant blue. The colours were sharp enough to cut and score themselves indelibly on the brain. Oliver and Randal de Mohun stared at each other in mutual shock, the moment stretching out as each man strove to recover his balance.

De Mohun affected to do so first, crossing his hands on the pommel of his saddle and grinning wolfishly. 'Our paths seem destined to cross, don't they? he said. 'Have you come seeking employment from me this time?

'You are on my land, Oliver snarled as shock gave way to the enormity of rage.

'Your land? De Mohun continued to grin. 'Passing strange, for I thought that this place belonged to Odinel the Fleming? He looked round at his men, inviting them to share in the mockery. 'If you have not come as a recruit, I can only assume that you are trespassing. He drew his sword, the low sun gilding the blade. 'Lord Odinel does not tolerate trespassers.

'Wait, Sir Randal, wait! cried Father Alberic, who had been watching the exchange with growing dismay. He hastened forward, tripping on the folds of his habit. 'I can vouch for this man. He has only come to pay his respects at his brother's grave.

'You can vouch for him, can you? de Mohun said silkily, and turned the sword in his hand.

'Go within your house, Father, Oliver said quietly without taking his eyes off de Mohun. 'This is no concern of yours and I would not see any harm come to you because of me.

The priest dithered.

'Go! Oliver spat.

Chewing his lip, Father Alberic backed away and with great reluctance returned to his dwelling.

'Touching, said de Mohun. 'But you give orders as if you are lord of this place, which you are not.

'Then that puts me on a footing high above yours, Oliver retorted, drawing his own sword. 'I would not even grace you with the title of "scum".

De Mohun spurred his mount at Oliver, who quickly turned side-on and parried the blow on his shield. At least, blocking the opening as he was, the other three could not push in and surround him, but neither could he win free without overcoming all four men.

One of them rode his horse up to the sharpened stockade fence, stood on his saddle and leaped over to Oliver's side, a dagger in his hand. Oliver saw the danger and, slashing a blow at de Mohun, pivoted Hero and rode straight at the man on foot. The sword swung and chopped, and the mercenary fell without time to scream, his dagger flying from his hands. In leaving the entrance, Oliver had opened himself to attack by the other three men, but there had been no other choice. There was a way out if his speed and timing were right but both had gone spinning awry in the frantic game of kill or be killed. De Mohun came at him head-on and his companions went left and right. As Oliver struck and parried, he knew that he faced certain death unless he could diminish the odds.

The soldier on his shield side was wearing a padded gam-beson but no mail. Oliver wrenched on the bridle and, as Hero pivoted, he slashed at the garment. The linen burst, disgorging its lining of felted wool. Oliver's sword bit deeper, opening up the man's ribs to the bone.

The soldier screamed and pulled back, clutching at the wound in his side. But in taking his man, Oliver had left himself dangerously open to the weapons of de Mohun and the other mercenary. Even as he turned to face them, he too was struck in the ribs. Unlike his victim, he was wearing a mail hauberk. De Mohun's blade skidded on the steel rings but, although it failed to cut, the blow was made with bone-shattering force. Pain that was both numb and agonising tore through Oliver's chest. A second blow followed the first, then a third and a fourth as the other mercenary joined in with gusto. Oliver warded the assault on his shield, but it quickly became splintered and battered, and his arm began to tire.

'I should have killed you on the Jerusalem road years ago! panted de Mohun. He was incandescent with the fury and joy of battle. Oliver had no breath to answer. All he knew was that it was now or accept the grave. For all that he had contemplated the oblivion of death, he had no desire to embrace it at the hands of Randal de Mohun.

His shield high, he spurred Hero at the other soldier's chestnut and cut low, aiming at the man's unprotected legs. The sword bit flesh down to bone, and the man bellowed with rage and pain. A space opened up between the mercenaries and Oliver urged Hero through it. Then he slapped the reins down on the stallion's neck.

At a dead gallop, the grey shot out of the priest's yard, through the church gate, and on to the greensward in front of the bell tower. De Mohun's bay ploughed after them at breakneck speed, caught up and confronted. The horses pushed together, hooves flailing, teeth snapping. The men hacked at each other. De Mohun had the advantage of being fresher and without injury. Oliver's shield wavered as he grew increasingly tired, and de Mohun launched a vicious, overarm blow. Oliver felt, rather than heard, his collar-bone crack, and in that same instant lost all strength in his shield arm. De Mohun came in again like a wolf. His sword point lodged in the bend of Oliver's elbow and he began to prise the bones apart.

Through blinding pain, Oliver chopped across and down. De Mohun snatched his hand away to avoid losing his fingers, and once again Oliver turned Hero and dug in his heels. He had no coherent idea of where he was going. All that was left was the hazy instinct to flee.

Showering turf, Hero spun round the side of the church and galloped towards the graves beneath the yew trees. Oliver could not determine whether the roaring in his ears was the sound of de Mohun's pursuit or his own heartbeat. One was as close as the other. The gravestone flashed past and the stockade fence loomed. Oliver lashed the reins down on Hero's neck. The stallion took a short, choppy stride, bunched his muscles and, ears back, took a flying leap.

The horse sailed over the posts, landed on the slope of the bank with a jarring thud, and stumbled and pecked all the way down to the ditch at the bottom. But he kept his feet and, with a tremendous surge, lunged up and out on to the far side.

Barely conscious, Oliver clung to mane and bridle. Through blurring vision, he watched de Mohun's bay take the stockade, drag a hindleg and come down hard on the bank. Man and horse somersaulted over and over, finishing in a tangled heap in the ditch. The bay threshed to its feet but, in the act, rolled and trampled upon its rider, mashing the chain mail into his body. The horse stood trembling and shuddering, bloody froth blowing from one nostril.

'Jesu, Oliver whispered and, despite his agony, rode Hero over to look at de Mohun. He was face down in the ditch. If not dead, then he soon would be, for his nose and mouth were immersed in the churned, muddy water, but Oliver suspected that his soul was already on its way to hell.

Turning Hero, he headed towards the road and felt the wetness of blood sliding down his arm and webbing his hand.


The day that Godard passed at the alehouse was one of the most pleasant he could remember. It was not that he did anything out of the ordinary. He spent the morning hewing wood for Edith and, after a substantial midday meal of bacon stew and savoury griddle cakes, occupied the afternoon by mending her spade and her wooden rake. The delight was in living as he had lived before the war had torn the land apart; the delight was in looking at Edith as she went about her chores with quiet efficiency. She looked a good, buxom armful; a comfort when a man needed comfort, but she had strength too, and beautiful butter-coloured braids beneath her kerchief.

'Suppose you and your lord will be moving on tomorrow, she said, and looked at him from her eye corner while preparing a broth with chicken dumplings.

Godard sighed and rose from his stool. 'Like as not, he said, and went moodily to look out of the door, his arms folded, his massive frame propped against the opening. The light was shifting and slanting as the sun dipped westwards and a chill perked the air.

He heard the slosh of water as she stirred the cauldron. "Tis a pity, she said after a moment. 'I did not realise how much I missed male company until I had one to myself again.

Godard unfolded his arms and looked round. 'What about your customers?

'Oh, them. She sniffed and waved her ladle. 'They all have wives waiting at home, and those that don't are only worth a skillet round the head to send them away before bedtime.