The village proved substantial enough to own not only a smithy, but a good-sized alehouse and while Arian was shod, Guyon and his men repaired to the latter to fortify themselves for the damp miles remaining.

The floor of the main room was covered in a thick layer of rushes upon which were set two well -scrubbed long trestles. Rush dips gave light of a kind and a fire burned cleanly in the hearth.

The ale-wife was a florid, handsome woman of middle years whose voice bore a strong Gwynedd lilt. Her husband, bluffly English by contrast, sent their son outside to tend the horses.

The only other customers were a young couple seated unobtrusively in the darkest corner of the room, quietly attending their meal. The girl raised her head at their entrance and stared at the armed men with wide, frightened eyes. She had fragile bones and delicate gauzy colouring. Her husband was a plain, wide-shouldered young man, somewhere between twenty and Guyon's own age. He looked warily at the newcomers and put his left hand protectively on top of the girl's.

His right stayed loose, within easy reach of the long knife at his belt.

Guyon, after one startled glance at the girl's luminous beauty, ignored the couple and sat down. Water dripped from his garments and soaked into the rushes. Eric gingerly eased himself down beside his lord and rubbed his aching knees.

The woman brought them bowls of mutton stew, fairly fresh wheaten loaves and pitchers of cider and ale, her manner deferential but briskly efficient. 'Foul night to be travelling, sire,' she addressed Guyon. 'You can bed down here if you've a mind to stay.'

He thanked her and shook his head. 'You've a new lord over at Thornford and I'd as lief not encounter him.'

'Worse for business than the plague!' complained the landlord, adding a bowl of honey cakes to the table. 'Started already it has and Sir Ralph barely in his grave. He could be a bastard, but he was so mean that it was good for business. Folks would come here rather than claim a night of hospitality up at the keep, what with him and mad Mabell for hosts.'

'Now folk don't come at all ,' his wife sniffed. 'Or if they do, they're like yourselves, here and gone for fear of Lord Walter and his routiers.' She hitched her bosom and stalked away.

Guyon and Eric exchanged glances. The couple in the corner finished eating and went out into the deluge, the man's arm curved around the girl's narrow shoulders.

One of Guyon's men gave an appreciative whistle. 'Pretty lass,' he said.

'Her father's one of the grooms at the keep,' the landlord volunteered, helping himself to a mug of cider, one eye cocked for the reappearance of his wife. 'The lad's a huntsman there, or he was.

Had an argument with the new lord and didn't see fit to stay beyond packing his belongings. He's a proud 'un, young Brand, and his wife's a rare beauty as you all saw. Sir Ralph was never one for the women. Too old and not enough steel in his sword to bother getting it out of the scabbard, but Lord Walter ...' He paused for effect and a gulp of cider and wiped his hand across his mouth. 'Nothing in skirts is safe from his pursuit.

Best game-keeper he'd got, that young man. New lord's an idiot if you ask me to throw away talent like that for lust. Mind you, I can see why he was tempted. I'd ...' He stopped, hastily put down his mug beside Eric's arm and stepped away from the trestle, pretending bustle as his wife returned, her mouth puckered, although not for a kiss.

Eric chuckled into his moustache. Guyon pushed his bowl aside and finished his ale, hiding his own smile behind his mug. 'I'm away to the smithy,' he announced, biting his lip to keep a straight face as their host grimaced like a goblin behind his wife's back. 'The farrier should have finished with Arian by now.'

'I'll come with you,' said Eric. 'There's safety in numbers in this neck of the woods.'

Guyon threw him an amused look, saw that his shield-bearer was grimly serious, and stopped smiling.

'We're in need of a huntsman at Ravenstow,' Guyon said thoughtfully as they crossed the street, which was deserted in the rainy evening. 'I haven't properly replaced Rannulf yet. Perhaps I should go after the lad and offer him employment.'

He flicked a mischievous glance at Eric and was not disappointed.

'You are courting danger if you do, my lord,' Eric warned. 'You heard what the landlord said. Sir Walter won't let them go, you know that. Don't you think you've chanced enough just lately?'

'And not so much as a boar in sight,' Guyon teased as they reached the smithy.

Eric inhaled to remonstrate, but stopped before t h e damage was done. Having been Guyon's marshal for fifteen years, he was all too aware that his lord could be a devil incarnate when the mood was upon him: witness that escapade with the sheep and the silver. Arguing with him only made him the more determined to follow his course. Hold to silence, and sense might just prevail.

Guyon glanced along his shoulder at Eric, almost laughing to see the poor man choking on words he was longing to utter. 'Surely I am not so unamenable to reason,' he jested and picked up Arian's forehoof to examine the new shoe.

'My lord, you know you are not,' Eric said, not in the least mollified.

The stall ion's coat steamed gently as it dried in the heat from the forge, the dapple reddened to a flickering roan. Guyon put down the hoof and, with a nod to the farrier, paid him the halfpenny fee. In the act of putting the coin in his pouch, the man stopped, his gaze darting into the gathering twilight.

Eric swung round, right hand going to his hilt.

Hand on the bridle, Guyon stiffened. Hooves thudded on the dirt road and harnesses jingled. A man swore bawdily in Flemish and a woman cried out. Guyon spoke quickly to the farrier and, taking the reins, led Arian out of the enclosure and into the village street. At the crossroads twenty yards away a group of mounted, mailed Flemings had surrounded the young couple from the alehouse and were refusing to let them pass.

'I'm a free man,' Guyon heard the young huntsman say hotly in accented French. 'You've no right to bar my path.'

'Go on then, you're free!' laughed one of the men, teeth flashing. 'We've no quarrel with you that your little wife won't be able to mend. Lord Walter wants her back.'

'On her back!' corrected someone with a snigger.

'He has no right,' the young man replied, guarding his wife with his body. 'We are free to leave as we choose.'

'You're free to die,' replied the spokesman.

Suddenly a blade sparkled. The girl screamed as a Fleming groped for her bridle. Her husband felt for the dagger at his belt, but subsided in mid-motion to duck beneath the murderous sweep of the drawn sword.

'Let them pass,' commanded Guyon, his own sword free and confidently held, his knees commanding Arian to thrust forward between the couple and their tormentors.

The Fleming measured Guyon and the older man behind. Two of them to their nine and only the foremost mounted, but the grey was solidly boned, the man astride exuded the confidence of ability and they were probably not alone. 'Don't meddle in what's not your business,' he growled.

'Sound advice,' Guyon retorted. 'Apply it to yourselves and let them pass.' A swift glance revealed that the mercenaries were spreading out to encircle himself and Eric. Strained ears caught the sound of a shout from the alehouse end of the street.

The Fleming wasted no more time on words, but lunged at Guyon, whose arm was jarred to the shoulder as he warded the vicious blow, not with the safety of his shield but the blade of his own sword. Bluish-white the sparks glanced off, and he realised grimly that his assailant was left-handed. A man was taught from the cradle to crouch behind the shield worn on his left arm, to let it take the blows and to counter-strike with his sword in his right. Sword to sword was a nightmare. You parried and risked snapping the blade, or you missed the parry and you died.

Behind him, Eric gasped as a blow caught him beneath his guard, splitting his mail but not cutting through the thick quilting of his gambeson. The girl was crying. Someone snatched the dagger from her husband's hand and pinioned his struggling arms like a coney prepared for the table.

Guyon thrust his shield against a sword blow on his left and felt the blade score and slide off the toughened lime-wood. With his knees he commanded the stall ion to pivot and lunge against the mount of the left-handed Fleming, their leader, and brought his sword across, unexpectedly hard and low. It almost worked, but the mercenary was too experienced and at the last moment intercepted the move with a slicing sidelong slash. Guyon twisted and parried. Pain seared his thigh as the Fleming's blade bit flesh.

He locked his wrist against the pommel, sweeping the other sword sideways, changed his grip, and slashed. The Fleming grunted, lost his grip on the reins, and hunched over his saddle.

Guyon swung Arian. The end of a flail grazed his hair. He slammed his shield into the backswing, kneed Arian forward, and was rewarded by the shriek of someone unexpectedly unhorsed.

' Ledworth!'

Guyon heard with relief the rallying cry of his own men.

' A moi! ' he bellowed, hacking about him. Arian lashed out, and another horse neighed high and shrill with pain. The leader of the Flemings toppled from his saddle, hit the churned mud, shuddered and was still . His second in command looked around, saw that they were now outnumbered and, with panic in his voice, yelled the order to retreat.