'I've never been married, Godard said. 'When you're the youngest of eight, you don't expect to.

Their eyes held for a moment longer. Then Edith made a show of bustle and Godard cleared his throat. 'Mind you, that's not saying I wouldn't like to be.

She was silent, but he was strongly aware of her presence. One more step, one more push was all it would take. Being a cautious man he held back. Equally cautious, she avoided his gaze and went studiously about her business until the moment had passed.

Godard resumed watching the road. A child came with a quart pitcher and a request from his mother that it be filled with ale. He was followed by two men, thirsty after a day's toil in the fields. Godard drank a mug with them, then went to check on his horse. Shadows lengthened and dusk began to soften the world with shades of blue. The moon rose, luminous and cream-silver. The smell of chicken broth floated on the air in delicious wafts. Godard gnawed his thumb knuckle and willed Oliver to appear on the road, but except for villagers beating a path to the alehouse, it remained empty.

The stars twinkled out and the final strands of sunset vanished over the horizon. Finally Godard strode inside and swept on his cloak and hood. It was one matter for Oliver to tell him to ride on and seek another master, a different one for him to do it.

'I am going in search of my lord, he said to Edith, who was busy ladling broth and dumplings into a bowl for a customer.

She nodded briskly, adding, 'Have a care, and gave him a quick look in which there was unspoken concern.

Godard smiled and plucked his quarterstaff from the corner. 'You need not worry about that, he said in a gruff voice, but he was pleased that she was anxious for his welfare.

Once on the road, he made such haste as the moonlight would allow. He did not want to risk foundering his horse, but neither did he want to waste time. Godard was not afraid of the dark, but he was not particularly fond of being out in it either. Beyond the village, the road dwindled to a rutted cart track with smaller tracks branching off into the fields. Silence descended, the only sounds to break it being the clop of his mount's hooves and the champ of its breath. Godard began to sing to himself, then changed his mind. The darkness was too vast, too wide and full of hidden, listening ears.

He came to a wooded stretch where the road dipped down into a black hollow. Godard drew rein and seriously contemplated turning back for the warmth and welcome of the alehouse. He imagined a steaming bowl of broth, feather-light dumplings and Edith's welcoming smile. The pity was that without discovering what had happened to Oliver, he would be unable to enjoy any of it. 'Hah, he said with irritation, and kicked the gelding's flanks.

Man and horse descended into darkness. There was a boggy stream at the foot of the hollow which Godard heard, rather than saw, as the horse splashed through it. Emerging on the other side into a lacing of darkness and moonlight, he did not see the dappled horse on the track in front until it nickered and came trotting to greet him. Breath steamed from its nostrils. The reins were knotted around the saddle pommel and there were dark stains on its pale coat.

'Steady lad, steady, Godard crooned and caught Hero's bridle. He secured the destrier to his gelding and wondered what in Christ's name had happened to Oliver. The stains on Hero's coat looked like blood, and probably Oliver's to judge from their position.

He clicked his tongue and urged the gelding forward, and almost immediately saw the flash of chain-mail near the place where the grey had been standing. Godard flung down from the saddle, tossed a loop of bridle over a tree branch to secure the horses and ran to the fallen man.

'Lord Oliver?

There was a groan and Oliver tried to raise his head. 'Godard, you purblind fool, I told you to go.

'My hearing's not what it used to be. Where are you hurt? With gentle hands for one so huge, Godard tried to make an examination.

'Everywhere. There's not a whole bone in my body. Let me die. Oliver closed his eyes.

Godard tapped the side of his master's face with rigid fingers. 'I've not made this journey just to bring back your corpse. Where there's life there's hope, he said sternly.

'Where there's life there's pain, Oliver responded, but opened his eyes.

Godard tightened his lips. He knew that unless he got Oliver back to the alehouse in short order, he would die. If his wounds did not kill him, the cold would.

'You have to mount up, sir, he said. 'I will ride behind you and hold you in the saddle.

Oliver laughed, the sound choking off on a wheeze of agony. 'You're gullible enough to believe in miracles, then, he gasped.

'Yes, sir, Godard said stoutly. 'It's no more than two miles to the village. Seems a pity to lie here in the frost, even if you are dying, he added in a practical tone. Rising to his feet, he fetched the horses. There was a flask of usquebaugh in his saddle bag and he took a swallow for himself and gave the rest to Oliver. 'Drink this down. It'll put fire in your blood.

'It will take more than fire, Oliver said, but set the flask to his lips and drank grimly.

'Just get yourself on to the horse, sir, I will do the rest, Godard said.

The usquebaugh tore through Oliver's veins, infusing a false sense of heat and well-being, taking the edge off his suffering. But it was still agony to stand up. The pain in his ribs was so violent that he could scarcely breathe and his left arm was totally useless. The blood had ceased to flow from the wound when he had fallen from the horse, but now, as he strove to rise, he felt the hot trickle begin again. Gritting his teeth, fighting a nauseous wave of blackness, he set his foot in the stirrup and Godard boosted him across the big gelding's back. He almost fell off the other side and only saved himself by clutching convulsively at the reins with his half-good right hand.

Godard swiftly mounted up behind him and took his weight.

'Jesu, it would be easier to die, Oliver groaned as the gelding paced forward.

'But better to live, Godard said. Darkness engulfed them has the horses clopped through the hollow, and then emerged into the moon-dappled woods. 'How came you by your wounds?

Oliver spoke slowly with effort. 'Randal de Mohun was captain of Ashbury's garrison… When he heard there was a stranger in the village he came to investigate.

'Randal de Mohun, God's teeth! Godard had asked the question in order to keep Oliver talking and prevent him from slipping into unconsciousness. Now his eyes widened and he paid full attention. 'How did he come to be at Ashbury?

'Simple… He had heard me talk of the place. Oliver paused to fight the pain and gather strength. 'He knew that it was held by one of Stephen's Flemings… small chance of being called to account for his crimes. It killed two birds with one stone… gave him employment and a place to keep his head low.

'The whoreson, Godard said in hoarse revulsion.

'One girl-child is dead, molested in the forest, but there will be no more, Oliver said, after another pause. 'We fought, and he is dead. He closed his eyes and felt the darkness drifting in. Godard's voice prodded at him, asking more questions, making demands. He felt anger and tried to snarl at Godard to leave him be. The sounds he made bore no resemblance to those he had intended. He wanted peace and he could not have it. If he could only achieve the darkness, there would be freedom from pain.

'Not far, Godard kept saying, but still the lurching stride of the bay gelding continued. He was almost beyond notice when it stopped — too far gone to help himself, but not far enough to diminish the excruciating pain as Godard lifted him bodily from the saddle and carried him into the alehouse. The staring startled faces, the blazing fire, the tearing agony in his body all served to convince him that Godard had plucked him from purgatory and personally deposited him in hell.

Chapter 24

Catrin stood with Louis in the keep's undercroft which should have been stuffed to the roof arches with supplies to withstand the siege, but which showed little more than a few barrels of salted fish and meat, some sacks of meal and half a dozen bacon flitches. There was a motley collection of root vegetables, not in the best condition. Hands on hips, Catrin studied the depressing total of their assets. 'There is perhaps enough for another week if we live exclusively on watery stew, she said. 'Although I suppose we could make it more palatable if we use some of that. She indicated the casks of red Gascon wine that numbered in total as many as the combined barrels of salt fish and beef.

Louis scowled. Above their heads came the muted clump of one of the siege engines launching a stone at the walls. They were entering the third week and although Wickham's solid stones had stood up well to the pounding, their supplies were in less robust condition.

Louis rubbed one hand over his face. Til have to break out between their lines and fetch help from Simon de Senlis at Northampton, he said. 'Tonight. There's no moon and it will be easier to slip past their sentries.

Catrin stared at him in tight-lipped silence. 'You think that is wise?

He spread his hands. 'What choice do we have? Another week and there will be nothing to eat.

'They do not know that. Another week and they might go away.

'Yes, but if I can return with an army, I'll be able to trap them like a grain between two millstones.

Catrin let out her breath on a sigh of exasperation and paced the length of the half-empty undercroft. Any trust she had put in Louis had long since flown out of one of his precious glass windows. Their supplies were low because he had not bothered to replenish them, preferring to put Gascon wine and colourful wall hangings before the basic daily staples. His excuse was that he had been using the old before buying the new but it was a threadbare lie.