Camelot’s Shadow
Sarah Zettel

To all those down the years who have told the tale.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Preview

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By Sarah Zettel

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The rain pelted down through the trees as if to make a second Flood. Its noise muffled Jocosa’s moans. The oaks had provided some shelter when the rain fell softly, but now they were as useful for stopping the water as a sieve.

Lord Rygehil eased his horse backward a few steps and lifted back the curtain of Jocosa’s litter. Rain ran in rivulets down onto the cushions and their occupants. Jocosa tossed restlessly beneath her woollen cloak, lost in her own tortured imaginings. The two maids who flanked their fever-racked mistress looked up at him in mute distress.

Rygehil’s throat closed on his breath. He let the curtain fall.

Curse this rain. He pounded his fist against his thigh and glared at the darkening sky from under the hood of his cloak. Curse King Arthur and his coronation, curse his useless physics and curse me, curse me for taking Jocosa so far from help!

The rain fell implacably on his head and shoulders. His horse stirred restlessly under him, shaking its mane and stamping its hooves. The animal was soaking wet, and no doubt cold. He could smell, rather than see, the steam rising from its back. The men-at-arms around him were at least as badly off, if not worse.

Forgive me, God. Forgive me. Rygehil bowed his head low over his horse’s neck. Mother Mary deliver my wife. I love her, I love her. Take me. I’ll go gladly to the grave, but spare my Jocosa, the radiant, the incomparable. I beg of you!

‘Hoofbeats, lord,’ said Whitcomb. Rygehil jerked his head up. ‘Liath is back with us at last.’

Without waiting for an order, Whitcomb urged his horse out onto the road. Sea of mud, more like, he thought ruefully as his horse sank up to its fetlocks in the mire.

Even though the clouds had brought night down far too early, Rygehil could make out young Liath, urging on his dun pony for all the poor beast was worth.

‘A fortress, my lord!’ Liath cried as he drew close. He brushed at his hood and sent an additional gout of water down his own shoulders. ‘An old Roman garrison. The roof is still good in spots. We shall have some shelter at least, and a place a fire can be made.’

Hope sparked in Rygehil’s heart. A fire, a dry place to rest, it could make all the difference to Jocosa.

‘Lead on, then, boy.’ Whitcomb’s voice called before Rygehil could get the words out. Rygehil glanced behind to see Whitcomb checking the thongs that held the litter to the mules’ backs.

‘On the road, then,’ Whitcomb cried, with one eye on the litter and the men and one on his lord. ‘Be quick, and careful with my lady!’

Rygehil let his men-at-arms pass him by. They were so soaked that even their mail no longer jingled. He took his place beside Jocosa’s litter and rode at the very edge of the road. The thrashing of rain, the squelch of hooves in mud and the hundred small thumps, rustles and mutterings that filled the night kept him from hearing whether she still moaned or not.

Surely, she has not fallen silent yet, not within moments of shelter and warmth. No. She is not that weak yet. Not yet.

His mind filled with a thousand memories: of how the sight of her beauty struck him a blow when he first saw her; of how his heart soared when he first kissed her lips; of how she moved about his hall with such grace and confidence, ordering everything to the very best advantage; of waking from a long, slow fever to the sight of her brown eyes gazing down at him.

Rygehil’s heart squeezed tight inside his chest. He had been chided many times by his father and brothers for laying so much store by one woman. He had never even wanted to listen to their words.

Rygehil forced himself to look away from the litter and its limp curtains. He pointed his attention down the mired road, hoping to catch some glimpse of Liath’s fortress.

The road took a turn and dipped down a small hill. The men cursed as they tried to negotiate their horses’ way down the mud-swamped slope.

‘Just here, my lord!’ Liath hastened his pony on, although the creature started to balk under him. At last the beast gave up resisting, tucked its hind legs under its tail and slid straight down the hill. Liath gaped like a fish but kept his seat, even when the pony hopped back onto all fours at the slope’s bottom. Rygehil took a moment to wonder if the boy was an extraordinary horseman or a very stupid one. As frantic as he was for Jocosa, he let his mount find its own way down. He could feel its muscles bunching and rolling as it struggled to stay upright. Rygehil tried to tear his attention away from the litter long enough to work on keeping himself in the saddle.

The trees parted at the bottom of the hill, opening on a meadow that sloped gently away from the road. At the top of the rise, Rygehil saw Liath’s shelter. His first thought was that it was far too small to be a fortress or garrison, but the shadows seemed to thicken as he stared at it and he grew uncertain as to which part was wall and which was twilight. But still, he could see the gate right enough. The building looked to be two storeys tall with a peaked roof that in the day’s last light appeared sound. A villa maybe, or an old temple that someone had turned into an outpost or hideaway before Arthur had spread his peace across the isle.

As the horses laboured up the muddy slope, the rain redoubled. Rygehil could see no more than a hand’s span in front of him. Behind him, Whitcomb was trying to direct the men minding the litter. He had to shout to be heard above the torrent. Rygehil dismounted his horse and handed the reins to Liath. Shouldering away the clod who was attempting to handle the balky litter-mule, he caught up the beast’s halter. With a firm hand and soothing words, he led the mule forward. Whitcomb took charge of the other and together they slogged towards the shelter.

After what seemed a thousand years of drowning rain and fading light, Rygehil heard cobblestones clatter under hooves. He lifted the edge of his hood and saw their chosen shelter looming against the dark sky, a black shadow against the thick grey. He could just make out the covered porch and, to his surprise, the open door.

‘Unfasten my lady’s litter,’ ordered Rygehil. ‘Liath, see if you can find some stabling for the animals. You and you,’ he pointed at two indistinct figures. ‘Help with the horses. If nothing else can be done for them, bring them onto the porch.’

The men undid the litter’s fastenings with fingers clumsy with cold. Una, Jocosa’s maid and dearest friend, peeked out from behind the litter’s curtain, taking in the situation with a shrewd eye. She jumped down at once in a cloud of skirts and veils. She was drenched in a second, but if her scolding was any sign, she cared nothing for it.

‘My lady must not be jostled, be careful you oaf, my lord, my lord, you must have greater care how you heave my lady about…’

With her fussing about them like a flustered hen, they gained the porch. Stepping under its roof was like emerging from the ocean. Rygehil shook his hood back, and felt a stream of extra water pour down his back.

They manhandled the litter through the black and open doorway. Rygehil smelled mould and dirt and confinement. His boots thudded on a dirt floor. His eyes all but burst from their sockets in an effort to see through the gloom.

‘Here seems clear enough, my lord.’ Whitcomb’s voice sounded strangely harsh in the darkness.

‘Yes, yes, put my poor mistress down.’ Rygehil heard a flopping noise and imagined Una wringing her skirts out. ‘Oh, not there, for shame, ‘tis right in the draught. Here, here.’ Rygehil made out her shadow and guided the litter towards it. She was right. Jocosa would be better in a corner out of the doorway’s draught until they could get some sort of fire alight.

He and Whitcomb set the litter down as gently as they could. He heard the curtains rustle damply. A form scrambled out. Maia, who was but lately entered into Jocosa’s service, young and plump and gasping from her efforts.

Rygehil took a deep breath. ‘How does your mistress?’

‘I…oh, my lord…’

Rygehil dropped to his knees beside the litter. He tossed his gloves aside and lifted up the sodden curtain with a trembling hand. He could not see anything. He reached out blindly and his fingertips brushed skin as cold as marble.

‘No,’ he whispered. Jocosa’s arm lay under his palm, icy cold. He felt his way along its length to her shoulder. She was so thin, so drawn. He could feel the bones right under the skin. He reached across to her breasts, her beautiful, pale flesh that he had kissed and stroked so many times. Now he lay his hand flat and heavy against them to find her precious breath. But her bosom lay still and fear strangled his heart and brain.

Then, her chest heaved once under his hand, and again, and yet again.

‘She lives,’ he blurted out. ‘She lives still.’

‘Praise be to God!’ cried Una. ‘Haste, now, haste, you men and see what fire we can make. There must be something to be found that can burn. Maia, hold up your cloak, girl, and shelter me from the sight of these ruffians. My shift is yet dry. We can strip off my lady’s wet garments and wrap her in that.’

‘My lord?’ Whitcomb touched Rygehil’s shoulder.

Rygehil lifted his head. Some twenty paces away, towards what Rygehil had assumed to be the back of their shelter, stood an arched doorway. Through it, golden firelight flickered against stone walls and showed a staircase leading down.

Rygehil got slowly to his feet. ‘It seems we are not the first to take shelter here.’

‘Hallo!’ called Whitcomb. ‘Hail fellow traveller!’

They waited for the echo of his voice to fade. In the silence, Rygehil noted how little the new light revealed. He could see the doorway, he could see the first few stairs, but nothing else. He could not see the walls of the room he stood in, nor the doorway behind him. He could not even, he noticed with a start, hear the rain outside anymore.

What is this? He restrained the urge to cross himself. This was a place with a fire for Jocosa. A fire she must have to stay alive.

‘Una, Maia, look well to my lady.’ Rygehil laid a gentle hand on the litter curtain. ‘Whitcomb, you and I will go speak with the maker of that light. The rest of you, stand ready.’ He touched the hilt of his sword as if it were a piece of the True Cross and started forward.

‘My lord…’ Rygehil turned to look at Whitcomb. Whatever he meant to say, he evidently thought the better of it, as he closed his mouth and followed silently after his master.

The light dazzled his eyes that had been too long in darkness. Rygehil had to touch the wall to be sure of his way. The stone was smooth and cool under his hand, and solid under his boots. When his sight cleared, he saw the hollows worn in the centres of the steps from years of feet passing this way. This place was old, whatever it was.

Rygehil counted fifteen steps before his boots found dirt again. They stood in a short corridor of stone that opened up ahead and to the left. Strangely, this cellar smelled cleaner than the room upstairs. It felt dry, and was wholesome with the sharp scent of wood smoke. The flickering light of flames turned the stone walls orange and red and gold.

‘Who is there?’ called Rygehil as he moved forward. Again, silence answered him.

He reached the opening in the wall and peered into the chamber beyond.

First, he saw the fire blazing in its central pit. Its heat wafted over him like a welcome dream. Black against the golden fire stood the silhouette of a tall man. His robes hung in heavy folds all the way to the floor. Rygehil could make out the profile of a craggy face and deep-set eyes, but little else. The man stood completely still and gazed into the fire as if it held the secrets of Heaven.

Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the play of light and shadow, Rygehil began to make out other details of the chamber. Along with the strange, rapt man and his blazing fire, it held a large number of trestle tables. These were crammed with braziers, alembics, retorts, various squat beakers of clay. Among them were vessels made of clear blown glass, more than Rygehil had ever seen in his life. They also held lumps of raw minerals, twisted pieces of metal and other forms he could only guess at, but a raw, animal stench reached him over the clean smell of wood smoke and he decided he would be glad not to draw closer. More beakers hung from the cellar’s wooden roof beams, along with bunches of dried herbs and here and there a dead bird or hare.

All at once, the man turned and fixed Rygehil with a piercing stare. To his shame, Rygehil took a step back and laid his hand upon his sword hilt.

‘Your woman is very ill.’ The stranger’s voice was soft and dry, but its tone was almost musical.

Rygehil swallowed hard. ‘Who are you, Sir, that you know of her trouble?’

The stranger smiled thinly. ‘I am called Euberacon Magus, and, as you see, I am master of this place.’ He waved one long hand to indicate the room about him. ‘I know all that occurs within its confines. Thus, I know that your woman, your lady wife, I believe you term her, is in danger for her life.’

Rygehil realized his hand was still on his sword hilt. He left it where it was. ‘She needs shelter, and a fire. Sir, since you are provided of both, I beseech you to allow us to trespass upon your hospitality…’

‘She needs more than that.’ Euberacon turned his gaze back towards the fire. ‘Death on his pale horse seeks her in the storm outside. He may yet find his way here, if nothing is done to prevent him.’

Rygehil’s stomach knotted painfully at these words. At the same moment, Whitcomb touched his shoulder. ‘My lord, I do not like this. I do not like this man and his guesses and secrets. There is something unclean about this place.’

‘Your man is right to urge you to caution.’ Euberacon turned to them again, with his thin smile showing on his long, lined face. ‘All art, all science and all practitioners thereof should indeed be approached with caution.’

Rygehil waved Whitcomb to silence. ‘Are you a philosopher, Sir? Have you some skill as a physician?’

Euberacon inclined his head modestly. ‘I have, Sir. Bring the woman to me. I will see what may be done.’

‘My lord,’ breathed Whitcomb again. Rygehil ignored him.

‘I thank you, Sir. We will bear her here directly.’

He started up the stairway again. He felt Whitcomb at his back, bursting to say something more.

‘Here is hope for Jocosa, Whitcomb,’ he said softly. ‘What more am I to care for?’

‘I fear here may be more peril than hope,’ muttered Whitcomb. ‘If she dies now, at least her soul and yours are safe.’

Despite the close quarters, Rygehil whirled around. ‘Speak so again, Cein Whitcomb and I will have your heart out of your body. Jocosa will not die. She will not die.’

He hurried up the remaining stairs to the darkness of the upper chamber. His company received him without a word. They had doubtlessly heard his outburst, but he did not care.

‘We have met the master of this house. He is a philosopher and may be able to aid my lady. We shall take her to his chamber.’

It was impossible to fit the litter down the narrow stairway, so Rygehil scooped Jocosa tenderly into his arms. Her maids had wrapped her in Una’s dry shift and found a cloak that was still dry inside. Despite this, her skin was damp from her own perspiration and she lay far too still for a living being. She made no sound as he lifted her. Her head fell back against his chest. He bent to press his lips to her brow and felt the heat of the fever like a fire there. The only sign of life inside her was the all too infrequent rise and fall of her breast.

He carried her down the stairs with Whitcomb and Una at his heels.

Euberacon had moved from his place at the fire. Now he stood beside one of the trestle tables that had been cleared of its instruments and flotsam and covered with a clean, bleached cloth. Rygehil laid Jocosa down and stepped back.

Euberacon looked first at him, then at Whitcomb, then at Una.

‘Send the dross away.’

Rygehil faced them. ‘Return to the upper chamber. I will send for you if there is need.’

‘My lord…’

‘But my lord…’

‘Go!’ Rygehil ordered sharply. ‘All will be well. I will attend to all that is needful.’

They did not protest anymore, but Rygehil could tell they wanted to. When the sound of their footsteps had vanished, Euberacon looked down at Jocosa once more.

For a time he examined her closely. He bent his ear to her mouth and listened to her shallow, sparse breaths. He laid a hand on her brow and measured her fever. He touched her hands and feet and felt the coldness of them. He lifted first one lid and then the other and peered into her blind and staring eyes. He laid a hand on her belly and stood as if listening to some faraway voice.

At last, Euberacon straightened up. ‘Death has almost found her. There is none of man’s physic that will save her from him.’

It seemed to Rygehil that the world split in two. ‘There is nothing you can do?’ he heard himself ask.

‘I did not say so. There are things that may be done, but for them, I will demand a price.’

Whitcomb’s remark about souls came echoing back to Rygehil. ‘What price?’

Euberacon smiled his thin smile. ‘Compose yourself. I am not the Devil. I have no interest in souls in that way.’ Rygehil wanted to bridle at that, but he looked again at Jocosa, pale and still in the firelight, and did not dare.

‘Your wife carries a daughter in her womb. I claim the life of the child in return for the life of the woman.’

Rygehil opened his mouth to say ‘How do you know? How dare you? What manner of man are you?’ But he looked again at the room with its jars and mortars and nameless shadows. This stranger who asked for the life of his child. His child who waited within his wife…

His wife who would die, and presently. He felt it as he felt the blood and fear roaring through his veins. What was one child? They would have a dozen. It was nothing, such a bargain. There were many solutions that could be found before then. This man, this sorcerer, might be satisfied with gold or land or some servant woman. It was nothing, this promise now. It was everything. It was Jocosa’s life.

‘If that is the price, I will pay.’

Euberacon’s dark eyes glittered. ‘Very well then.’

The sorcerer melted into the shadows and returned with a piece of parchment. He spread it out on one of the work tables. From overhead, he selected a gourd and untied the thong that held it to the roofbeam. He unstoppered the gourd and instantly the room filled with the scents of myrrh and rich resins. He poured some of the powder out into a shallow dish.

Euberacon picked up a small knife from the table. With one sharp stroke, he scored his own palm. Rygehil gasped. The other man gave him a look bordering on contempt and held his wound over the dish. Bright blood dripped into the powder. From a bundle of plumes on the table, Euberacon plucked up a crow’s ebony feather. With delicate strokes, he mixed the blood and powder into a dark ink. He laid by the crow’s feather and selected the feather of a white swan. With the same knife that had cut his hand, he trimmed the quill into a point. He dipped the pen into the ink. Despite the blood, its point came out blacker than Euberacon’s rich robe. The sorcerer bent over the parchment and began to write.

Rygehil tried to see what words Euberacon laid down, but he could make no sense of the waving lines and dots. He had seen some Hebrew written once and thought it might be that, but it did not look quite right.

Whatever he wrote, Euberacon was soon finished. He sprinkled sand over his work and brushed it away. Then, he blew gently across it. Apparently satisfied, he reached for a glass beaker that seemed to contain nothing but the purest water. As he stretched out his hand, Rygehil saw his palm. The wound was completely gone.

Rygehil resisted the urge to cross himself. It is for Jocosa’s life. Her life.

Slowly, carefully, Euberacon poured the water from the glass across the words he had written. He tilted the parchment so the liquid flowed down into a brass bowl. When all the water had crossed all the words, he set beaker and parchment down and picked up the bowl.

‘Hold her head,’ he instructed Rygehil. ‘Open her mouth.’

Rygehil cradled Jocosa’s head in the crook of his arm, and as gently as he could, prised open her mouth with two fingers. Euberacon set the bowl to her lips and tipped it forward. The liquid ran into her mouth. Euberacon stroked her throat.

Jocosa coughed, once, and then again. Her eyelids flew open. Euberacon clamped her mouth closed. She stared wildly up at Rygehil for a moment and then he saw her throat move as she swallowed. Almost at once the fear left her as she looked at him, and recognized what she saw.

Euberacon withdrew his hand.

‘My lord?’ whispered Jocosa. ‘What day is this? How long have I lain asleep?’

‘Lady!’ Rygehil fell to his knees. His hand trembled as he touched her brow. The fever had departed and her skin was once again warm and dry. ‘Oh, my love.’ He bowed his head to her hand and could not speak another word.

Above him, Euberacon’s voice spoke.

‘You and your people may rest the night here. Be on your way in the morning. And do not forget your promise. When the child is of age, I will come for her.’

‘I…’ Rygehil looked up.

Euberacon was nowhere to be seen.

Rygehil swallowed hard. Jocosa touched his hand. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ Rygehil embraced her. ‘Nothing at all, my love.’

ONE

Rhian of the Morelands was in the yard when her father told Vernus to remove himself from the hall. Normally, she would have been lurking around a corner or in the shadows of the gallery, but this time she found she could not bear to hear the pre-ordained reply.

So, she stood in the grassy yard with the fresh spring sun warm on her skin. Around her, vassals drove geese and goats to pasture and pigs to root in the forests. Servants toted bales and baskets into the hall and the outbuildings. In the distance she could hear old Whitcomb berating one of the new squires for being slow, or slovenly, or both. All was busy life and full activity.

Except me. She twisted her fingers together. Her handmaid, Aeldra, stood a respectful distance behind her, but she could feel the woman’s quiet disapproval. She should be at loom or spindle. She should be down in the cellar helping with the brewing, or seeing how Gwyneth and her new baby were getting on. She should be doing any of a thousand things.

It is like a verse from a country ballad.

‘And the maid went to her father,

And her knees she bent.

Begging, “Father, dearest father,

will you please relent?”’

She stared at the cloudless sky. Mother Mary, I beg you. Soften his heart.

‘Lady Rhian.’

The sound of Vernus’s voice turned Rhian around. He emerged from the doorway and crossed the yard to her, sidestepping a cluster of squawking chickens. When Rhian saw his shoulders set square and level, she felt her heart rise, but in another moment he was close enough for her to see his face. The lines of bitterness on his brow and around his broad mouth showed clearly.

‘It would seem I have failed in my suit to your father.’ He squeezed his riding gloves in his hands and spoke to the tips of his boots. ‘I am to take myself away and not return.’ He looked up at her. ‘Especially not with an offer of marriage.’

Rhian felt tears sting her eyes even as anger drove the blood to her cheeks. Cruelty. Sheer miserable cruelty. All the worse this time because Vernus was not just some faceless stranger who had sent a letter and gifts. He was a friend from her childhood, who had grown into a tall and handsome young man, well worth the position he would hold in the world. He had even been to Camelot and been presented to the king.

But no. She was not to have him.

‘My father seems determined I should die unmarried and go to run with the apes in Hell,’ she sighed. ‘Vernus, I’m truly sorry.’ And sick and sad and burning with fury. Perhaps I shall burst my heart with grieving and that will be an end to it.

‘Could you speak to your mother? Your father sets much by her counsel, perhaps she could persuade…’ his words trailed away as Rhian shook her head.

‘Not in this, she cannot.’ Tears threatened again. Rhian dropped her gaze to the ground and blinked hard. ‘My father has been turning away my suitors for five years now, and for five years my mother has tried to persuade him of the worth of each of them. But he will not hear of it.’ The heat of her anger dried up her tears. She stared hard at the window of the hall. ‘He will not hear anything from any of us.’

‘I will speak to my father. Perhaps he can persuade Lord Rygehil to part with you.’

Rhian felt a weak smile form. She wanted to touch his hand but decided she had better not. ‘Thank you, Vernus. Perhaps he can.’

Your father will marry you to Melina of White Hill whose father is not insane, and we both know this. Please go away, Vernus. I cannot stand here trading empty words anymore.

‘I must go, Rhian.’ He bowed to her. ‘But I have not abandoned you.’

‘Thank you, Vernus.’ She dropped a curtsey. ‘God be with you.’

‘And with you.’

His cloak swirled as he turned away and marched towards the stables, cutting a straight line through the myriad activities of the yard.

Rhian watched his back for as long as she could stand it. She dropped her gaze and caught sight of her reflection in the horse trough. Her eyes were a pleasant blue and since the age of fifteen, her figure had been rounded and full. She had seen the stablehands and foster boys casting glances at her so she knew she was not uncomely. Her hair was her crowning glory. It was red-gold in colour and even tightly braided as it was, it fell to the backs of her knees.

But it seemed she would have no use for what beauty she might have if her father continued to have his way.

‘Aeldra,’ she said to her maid. ‘Fetch my bow and arrows, and send a boy for my hounds. Meet me at the gate. I expect I shall soon want to be elsewhere.’

She lifted the hem of her skirt and strode into the hall.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior after the bright daylight, but her ears immediately caught the sound of preparations for the midday meal.

He did not even let Vernus stay to eat. Rhian’s teeth clenched together. She stood aside for the servants setting up the trestle tables and bringing the benches away from the walls. Kettles of fragrant stew hung over the fire pits arid a sheep’s carcass turned on a spit tended by ancient Cleve.

Her father, Lord Rygehil of the Morelands, sat slumped in his carved chair at the end of the hall. A wooden goblet dangled from one hand. He looked up when she came to stand before him and dropped the curtsey that respect demanded.

‘Yes, Rhian?’ he said in a tired voice.

‘And the maid went to her father,

And her knees she bent.

Begging, “Father, dearest father,

will you please relent?”’

But she would not beg. Not this day.

‘Why?’ she asked instead.

He sighed and straightened his back a little. His features fell into the hard lines she had come to know so well. ‘Because I did not choose to give you to him.’

As if that were not evident. ‘Lord Father, may I know the reason?’

He looked into the depths of his cup. ‘More ale!’ he called out and one of the servants hastened forward with a pitcher. Rhian wondered how much of that pitcher he had already drained.

‘Lord Father…’ she began again.

He pointed to her with his free hand. ‘Your place is not to question me, Rhian, it is to be silent and obey.’

He downed a prodigious portion of his drink, and when he lowered his cup, Rhian saw something unexpected in his face. Regret, as plain and full as the resentment had been earlier.

She opened her mouth, but all her earlier thoughts had fled her. ‘If you would just tell me what I have done, Lord Father, to merit this treatment.’

He shook his head heavily. ‘Nothing, Rhian. You have done nothing.’

He turned his attention back to his cup.

I have lost. I am lost. Rhian curtsied reflexively. When she lifted her eyes, she saw her mother, Jocosa, standing in the threshold between the great hall and the living rooms. Jocosa gestured to her. Rhian set her jaw again and followed her mother as she walked up the stairs of the stone tower and into the sun room.

‘Now then,’ said her mother, sitting herself down on a cushioned chair. ‘I suppose you will run away and shoot at birds and hares until dark to ease your disappointment.’

Rhian felt her cheeks heat up. ‘That was my intention. What else should I do?’ She threw open her hands. ‘My father consistently denies me other employment for myself.’

‘I know.’ Jocosa took her daughter’s hand. ‘You will forgive your foolish mother. I fear one day you will run off and not come back to us.’

Rhian squeezed her mother’s hand. It felt as worn by years as her face appeared worn by care. In a chest in the treasury Rhian had once seen a miniature of her mother as a young woman. She had been lovely. As a girl, Rhian had wondered where all that beauty had flown. Now, she thought she knew.

‘On my soul, I would never leave without telling you, Lady Mother.’ Rhian let herself smile. ‘Where would I go, in any case? What neighbour would take me in knowing my father?’

Her mother pulled her gently down until Rhian sat upon a footstool. ‘I know, I know, my dear. Perhaps if one of your brothers or sisters had lived, he would not guard you so jealously. Perhaps…’ she stopped herself. ‘Go off to your woods. Shoot what you may. Come back before dark. Then you can amuse yourself with your other skill. Lurking in doorways.’ Rhian opened her mouth to protest, but her mother patted her hand. ‘Do not attempt to beguile me, my lamb. I know in Aeldra you have had an excellent tutor in such matters.’

As hard as she tried not to, Rhian fidgeted. ‘And why, Lady Mother, should I give way to that practice this evening?’

For a moment, her mother’s gaze drifted over Rhian’s shoulder and she seemed to be studying the grey stones of the wall. ‘Because tonight, I mean to have your father announce to you he has reconsidered the suit of Vernus of White Hill.’

Rhian’s heart leapt into her throat. ‘Mother, how?’

Jocosa’s shoulders slumped. ‘Tears, extortion, hysterical fits, threats to bar him from my bed if necessary.’ Her voice sounded drained and dull. ‘I have never, never had to work upon him thus before. Such gross artifice is to be despised. But in this matter, I am afraid your father’s reason has failed him.’ Her gaze came back to Rhian’s face. ‘So now, mine must fail me.’

Rhian said nothing for a moment, she just squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘But,’ she licked her lips. Her mouth had gone unaccountably dry. ‘Forgive me, but why would you want me to witness this…conversation?’

Her mother smiled and some life returned to her voice. ‘Firstly, so you do not hear about it through the general gossip. Secondly, because if nothing else, I am going to force my lord to give his reasons for forbidding you to marry. I want you to hear them from him, whether he knows he is giving them to you or not.’

Rhian let go of Jocosa’s hand and walked across to the window. She stared out across the yard with its people and animals strolling to and fro.

‘I do not like this, Lady Mother.’

‘No more do I,’ said Jocosa. ‘And if you can tell me what else can be done, I am willing to hear you and act.’

Rhian had no answer for her. ‘I will be back before dark.’ She gathered up her skirt and left.

The whirling in her mind did not clear even when she reached the gate in the wooden wall that surrounded the hall and its yards and buildings. Her three long-legged greyhaired hounds leapt to their feet, wagging their tails and baying and straining at their leashes. The boy, Innis, struggled to hold them in check. As she approached, they thrust their noses into her skirt and against her hands. She patted them absently. Aeldra frowned at her, but Rhian did not say anything. She just took her bow and quiver from her maid’s hands and slung them over her shoulder. Innis bowed until his scraggly forelock almost touched the ground.

‘Let us go then. I would see if there are any partridge we can catch unawares today.’ Rhian nodded to Innis and again to the guards who saluted her from either side of the gate. She tucked her skirt into her belt, set her gaze on the meadow past the earthen outer wall and followed the boy through it.

The dogs loped happily forward through the knee-high grasses towing Innis behind them.

‘Let them loose, Innis.’ Rhian unslung her bow and tested the string. ‘Let us see what they find.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ With some difficulty, Innis hauled the dogs to him so he could unfasten their leashes from their collars. With yelps of pure joy, all three sprang into the grass, free to run where they pleased. As she nocked an arrow into the string, Rhian found it in her heart to envy them.

In the next heartbeat, a great flurry of wings sounded from the burgeoning grass. Three brown partridge shot up towards the sky. Rhian drew her string back to her nose and sighted along the arrow’s shaft. She loosed and was rewarded by the sight of one of the birds plummeting back to earth and landing with a loud thud.

‘That one is for Vernus,’ she whispered. ‘And the next is for Aelfric, and the next for Daffydd, and the next for Shanus, and the one after that is for me.’

‘If my lady is thinking of counting her disappointments with arrows, we will be out here all the rest of the year,’ said Aeldra, puffing up behind her.

‘What would you have me do then?’ Rhian watched Innis crouch over the bird and pull out the arrow.

‘It is not for me to say, of course, my lady,’ said Aeldra with the false modesty that irritated Rhian so easily. ‘But there are ways to ensure your father must say yes to your suitor.’

Rhian rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘And don’t think I haven’t considered them Aeldra. But I would have to face my mother also and I’m not yet certain I could.’

All at once, one of the hounds bayed at the edge of the woods. Something flashed white and immediately there was a great crashing of underbrush and bracken as the creature, whatever it had been, fled into the forest. All three hounds barked and howled. They dived forward into the trees. Rhian ran after them.

What is it? A deer? No, it is too white for that…

She broke the treeline and was engulfed in the sun-dappled twilight of the forest. She saw the dogs’ grey backs plunging on ahead of her and again glimpsed the fleeting white form.

The dogs ran into a thicket of fern fiddleheads and Rhian lost sight of them. The wind blew through the forest, rustling the greening underbrush and confusing her further.

‘Orestes! Orion! Orpheus! Here, boys!’ she called, dashing forward. Somewhere behind her she heard Aeldra calling her name. Rhian ignored her. She wanted to find her dogs. She wanted to see that mysterious white quarry they had flushed.

All at once, she broke into a sun-soaked meadow. The sudden light dazzled her and Rhian stumbled to a halt, blinking hard.

When her gaze cleared, she looked around to take her bearings, but then found herself gawping in surprise.

In the centre of the clearing stood a broad, gnarled stump. On it lay a flat board covered with red and white figurines of extraordinary delicacy. Not one of them was taller than Rhian’s hand was long.

To one side, on a fallen tree, sat a gigantic man all of a sparkling green colour, as if he’d been fashioned out of a monstrous emerald. One of his hands could have engulfed Rhian’s waist. The crown of his head brushed the leaves of the oak tree he sat under. Skin, hair, eyes, all shone greener than the sea. His plaited beard might have been grown from dewy meadow grass. His jerkin, mail and hose were so green the fresh leaves paled next to them. Beside him on the ground lay a battle-axe of the same brilliant colour.

Rhian was rooted to the spot, unable to move or think. The great, green giant smiled so broadly she could see that his teeth were indeed emeralds that flashed in the sun.

‘It’s called chess,’ the giant’s voice boomed all around Rhian’s head. ‘And a merry game it is too.’ His eyes glittered as if he had caught two stars in them. ‘Would you learn this game of nations and of power, pretty maiden? Step forward, then.’

Rhian found her feet moving. Without any thought or help from her, they carried her body into the sunlit meadow until she stood over the board. Now she saw the figurines were people, men and women all standing on a board inlaid with neat squares of ebony and ivory.

‘Now, then.’ The giant winked at her. ‘Which side for you, pretty one? The red?’ He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. ‘I think not, though the red king knows you passing well.’ He plucked a scarlet figurine from its place and Rhian saw a man with a lean, lined face and hooded eyes who wore long robes like a nobleman, or a monk.

‘The white is your side, and the white queen is your protector, I think.’ Another figurine lay nestled in the hollow of his enormous palm, although Rhian didn’t see him put down the first. This one was a woman, perfectly formed, with a circlet on her long hair. Her eyes were wide and her face was wise, somehow. ‘And with her, the white king, but not before the white knight.’ Another figurine appeared in his palm. This was a man on a horse, holding his spear aloft and his shield before him. Rhian could not see his face, but she clearly saw the five-pointed star carved on the shield.

‘Will these three keep you from the red king and the red castle?’ The giant shook his head gravely. His palm was empty.

‘You do not speak, pretty one. Perhaps chess is not the game for you?’ The sparkling green smile grew fierce. Rhian felt her heart fluttering against her ribcage, but still she could not move. ‘Perhaps you prefer riddles? Excellent!’ The giant slapped the stump and all the figurines rattled on their board. ‘Now, answer me this and be quick, pretty one,’ he leaned over her, blocking the sun with his great, green head. ‘What is it every woman wants?’

The scene in front of her began to fade and blur, as if her eyes had filled with tears. The giant laughed again ‘Answer! Answer!’ he ordered. ‘Answer, my pretty one!’

A noise. From the forest. A sharp, high barking. Drawing closer. The dogs. The dogs had found her.

Rhian found her tongue could move.

‘Sweet Mother Mary, save me!’ she screamed.

And she was alone.

All the strength fled from Rhian’s body and she fell backward onto the forest floor.

For a long moment, she lay there blinking stupidly at the leaves above her. She heard the barking coming closer. All at once her hounds swarmed over her, whining, nosing and licking. They put their heavy feet on her stomach, squeezing out what little breath she had.

‘Off, off,’ she grunted. She managed to heave herself upright.

‘Lady Rhian!’ Aeldra’s voice drifted through the trees. ‘My lady, where are you?’

Rhian got to her feet. Her gaze swam, but steadied. The clearing was empty save for herself and the nosing, wagging dogs.

It was nothing. A dream. I have been too long out in the sun. I fainted, perhaps, or sat down to rest and dreamed.

But then her gaze drifted across to the rotting tree stump and she saw on it two figurines, one red, one white. Her heart in her mouth, she crossed to look at them. The red one was a tall woman, the very essence of beauty and perfection. She wore chains around her neck and bracelets on her arms. Her robes fell in heavy folds over her feet.

The white figure was a hag. It stooped to half the red lady’s height. It was a grizzled, toothy horror gaping up at Rhian with a pig’s glaring eyes.

‘My lady!’ A crashing and thrashing sounded through the brush behind her. Heavy-footed and out of breath, Aeldra waded through the grass. ‘Where have you been? I…’ she stepped up beside Rhian and saw the figurines.

‘What are these?’ Aeldra reached out one hand towards the red lady.

‘No!’ Rhian smacked her hand away. ‘Leave them. They are cursed. I’m sure of it.’ She took Aeldra’s arm with one hand and the hem of her skirt with the other. ‘Let us leave here, Aeldra, and find Innis. I would be back at home.’

Rhian set off between the trees. She very carefully did not look back.

Harrik, Hullward’s son stepped into the council tent. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed the gathering. There were a dozen men, all Saxons, like himself, most battle scarred, also like himself. They squatted or lounged on piles of furs around the smoking central fire.

Dogs, Harrik thought. Dogs at the feet of their master. He lifted his gaze.

Wulfweard, called Wolfget by those who knew his vicious nature, sat in a slatted chair. He alone of the gathering was armed. A naked sword lay across his thighs. The symbol was hardly needed. The menace in Wolfget’s hooded blue eyes shone plain enough.

‘Be welcome to this assembly, my Lord Harrik,’ said a musical voice.

Harrik started. A woman, clothed in a gown of smoky red circled the fire towards him. ‘Let me offer you the guest cup and bid you know my Lord Wulfweard wishes you to sit at his right hand.’

Harrik struggled to keep himself from gawking like a boy. Wolfget had never before taken a wife, let alone one so blindingly lovely. Her golden hair hung to her waist and was plaited with a thread of silver. Her face was smooth and round with blue eyes set wide above a slim, straight nose. Her breasts and hips swelled amply beneath the dark red of the gown which hung from her shoulders as if to call attention to their perfect roundness.

Harrik mastered himself and took the wooden cup from her soft, clean hand.

‘My thanks.’ He took a swallow of the mead.

Wolfget was flanked by two empty chairs. Harrik took his place in the right-hand seat as invited. The woman took the left.

Wolfget swept his cold gaze across the assembly.

‘Brothers.’ His voice was hard. ‘It is ten years since the defeat at Mount Badon scattered our strength. Since then, Uther’s upstart bastard has held us as his vassals, claiming our lands, our sons, our very bodies as his own. We have submitted in silence, knowing ourselves to be weak and divided.’ He laid a thick hand on the sword’s hilt.

‘Wounded to the death as we were, we were wise to do so. But now, our wounds are closed. Our sons grow tall and strong. Our brothers eye the rusted swords and axes hanging on our walls with restless anticipation. Now is the time to force Arthur the Bastard to pay for what he has stolen.’

An angry rumble of assent rose from the assembly. Wolfget smiled and Harrik felt a chill cross his skin. He cast a glance towards the woman. All her attention was fixed on Wolfget in an attitude of rapt adoration. Harrik’s chill deepened. In the flickering firelight he could see the stump of the ear Wolfget had lost at Badon. Harrik himself was missing two fingers from the same battle. The ghosts of them twitched in memory of the blow.

Kolbyr, who’d seen both his brothers ridden down by Arthur’s captains, got heavily to his feet. ‘My heart is with you, my Lord Wulfweard, and I would sooner die in battlefield mud than a vassal’s bed, but how can we wage such a war? The Bastard sits secure in Camelot with a hundred captains who will leap into action at the flick of his little finger.’

‘Truth, truth,’ said Ehrin, whose jaw had been so broken his words slurred in his mouth. ‘Strong of purpose we may be, but we are not so strong of arms and warriors.’

‘Our course is simple,’ said Wolfget. ‘Does the Bastard think us divided? Divided we will appear. In our separate lands we will strike here, there, take this town and that. He will respond with men and arms, as he must to preserve the peace that so boldly bears his name. We will harry those men, wear them down, kill all we can and withdraw. Soon, the Bastard’s forces will be weakened by so many small cuts, they will not be able to defend themselves when we are ready to give the death blow.’

Harrik frowned. This was not the brash, heated Wolfget he knew from the wars. This stranger was a calm-hearted strategist. With a beautiful woman at his shoulder. Harrik glanced at her again. Had he been a young man, he would have stood up and made some fearless speech about rushing into battle, not for Wolfget’s sake, but for hers.

Which was a point to be considered closely.

‘Harrik you sit as silent as stone.’ Wolfget’s soft voice broke Harrik’s reverie. ‘What are your deep thoughts?’

‘My thoughts are of Badon,’ he said, looking into the depths of the guest cup. ‘My thoughts are of lands, and of my son, hostage in Camelot to my word. And he is not alone there.’ Let me see your eyes, ‘brothers’, how many of your sons does Arthur hold? ‘I am thinking of the thousand thousand ways Arthur is entrenched on this island. I am thinking of the kings who are his neighbours and who pay him tribute.’ He gave them all a grim smile. ‘I am thinking we could have more easily bested all the Roman legions than this king.’

To Harrik’s surprise, Wolfget nodded. ‘Your words are sound, Harrik, and they should be weighed carefully. But think of this. Does the Bastard have neighbours and friends? Yes. But so do we. The terms of Arthur’s peace have been hard on many, and many would be glad to see it broken. We have our secret friends in every town and fortress. Do arms and men flow from Arthur? They will flow into our hands.’

Harrik looked around and saw how the eyes of the men on the floor shone with eagerness. He knew then how it would be. There would be hours of talk, some close questioning of Wolfget, perhaps even a few words of wisdom spoken. But in the end, they would all pledge their lives on Wolfget’s naked sword.

Feeling like an old man, Harrik got stiffly to his feet. It would be better if he stayed, of course, if he lied and flattered and foreswore himself. But he could not. He would not.

‘What ails you, my Lord Harrik?’ asked the woman softly.

‘Old wounds, my lady.’ Harrik bowed to her. ‘This assembly will do as it will. We have been brothers in arms before this. I have been proud to say so. But I myself must consider carefully whether the peace that came when we laid down those arms has not benefited our people as it has the Britons.’

He left the tent amid a stony silence. Out in the open air he called for his horse and his sword. The animal was brought to him by a sour-faced man with Wolfget’s blazon on his tunic. Harrik mounted and urged the horse into an easy canter until he was well out of earshot of the assembly encampment.

When he judged he had gone far enough, he pulled up on the reins. The horse halted and Harrik climbed down. Looking sharply about him, he led the animal into the thick of the forest. There, he tethered the horse loosely to an elm tree. He did not want the animal trapped if he did not come back. He tightened the laces on his scabbard so his sword would not jingle. Then, one careful step at a time, he made his way through bracken and fern back to the camp.

He had been uneasy when Wolfget sent his messenger with the invitation to this secret council. He had grown more uneasy each time he contemplated it. It was folly, this idea that the handful of Saxons who remained on the Isle of Britain could defeat Arthur. Worse, it was suicide.

But is it enough for what I do now? Harrik glimpsed the fabric of the tents and the sparkle of studded leather through the trees. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Trying not to rustle the carpet of leaves beneath him, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Is it truly enough to turn spy on your own people?

Apparently, it was, because he lay prostrate on the ground with fern leaves tickling his brow and nose, watching the camp carefully.

And we’ll see who stays and goes, and when and how. If I am wrong about how it will go, so much the better. But if I am right…

He composed himself to patience. To keep his mind from the incessant itch of the ferns, he set about studying the sentries, thinking how he would have posted and armed them in Wolfget’s place.

Men came and went. Servants brought wine and meat into the tent. The guests came out to relieve themselves or check on their horses. The sentries paced, or lounged about. The lounging became more frequent as the time wore on. Harrik shook his head minutely. Wolfget was not well served.

The tent’s flap lifted again. This time, it was the woman who came out. In the full daylight she was even more shatteringly lovely than he had thought. His heart and loins both began to ache with an urgency he had thought himself past.

The woman looked about her. Evidently, she saw nothing that displeased her. She raised one hand and spoke a word Harrik could not understand. In the next breath, he heard the flapping of heavy wings. A raven glided down from the trees and came to rest on the woman’s waiting wrist.

She brought her wrist down until the bird’s eyes were level with her own. She contemplated the raven for a long time, and it stared back unwinking, which a beast should not have been able to do. At last, the woman opened her mouth.

The raven thrust beak, head, and neck well down her throat.

Harrik jerked backward, forgetting the need for silence. The woman and the bird stood still, its head in her mouth, like some foul statuary. He realized the muscles of her throat swelled and contracted. Not swallowing, but pushing something out.

Harrik’s own throat clamped down around his breath.

The raven pulled its head free of the beauty’s mouth. She smiled broadly and lifted her wrist again. The bird spread its shining wings and flew away.

She watched her pet vanish into the sky, turned, and went back inside the tent.

Harrik, struggling to keep his breathing under control, crawled back into the woods on his hands and knees. He moved as far and as fast as he could, but finally, he had to stop and vomit at the roots of a birch tree.

What manner of secret friends have you, Wolfget? He raised his head and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. What alliances have you made for us?

He sat and listened for a moment. No sound of pursuit cut through the small rustles of wind and the forest life. Harrik forced himself to get to his feet and take his bearings. As soon as his knees had stopped shaking enough that he could be sure of his footing, he made his way back to his horse.

The animal was still there, chewing thoughtfully at the undergrowth. Harrik led it back to the road and slung himself into the saddle. To his shame, he found he had to work to keep himself from taking the horse to a gallop to escape as quickly as possible from what he had seen.

You are a fool. A fool! He admonished himself. You have seen far worse things in battle.

But the truth was, he had not. He had heard stories of such horrors, of course, and told a few himself, with great relish. Witches and wizards had their ways and everyone knew it. Did not Arthur have Merlin to advise him and keep watch over his captains and capital? But to see so unnatural a thing…

I grow old. I grow dull. Perhaps this role of spy and traitor is all I am fit for anymore.

The forest thickened around him. The sound of his horse’s hooves became muffled by the unbroken carpet of leaves. The wind freshened and Harrik tried to catch a glimpse of sky between the leafy branches overhead. There might be rain before long, but without a clear view of sky there was no telling. The prospect of concluding his business in a downpour, further darkened his mood, but he rode on.

Up ahead, the road forked, one branch bearing west, the other continuing north. At their crux, a man tended a small fire. A great, pale horse was tethered nearby. Green trappings hung from its reins. A bay palfrey stood beside it, nuzzling a patch of fern. Its reins were also hung with green. The studded shield propped against a tree was covered in green as well.

The man himself was no longer a youth, but neither was he old. He was dark in hair and eye. His beard had been shaved clean off. His shoulders and arms were powerful. Here was a man who had not led an idle life. He could not be taken for anything but a Briton lord. He looked up at Harrik’s approach and raised a friendly hand.

‘God be with you this day, good sir.’

‘God be with you,’ Harrik answered. ‘I’d be glad of a rest. May I share your fire?’

‘You may,’ said the man. ‘If you can tell me my name.’

Harrik gave a show of consideration. ‘I think you are my Lord Gawain, captain of the Round Table and nephew to Arthur, the High King.’

Gawain smiled and got to his feet. ‘My Lord Harrik,’ he bowed deeply. ‘You are most welcome.’

‘And I am most honoured.’ Harrik dismounted and tethered his small hairy horse next to Gawain’s animals. ‘I was stunned to receive word Arthur would send his nephew to me.’

‘He means it as a token of his good will.’ Gawain opened one of his saddlebags which lay on the ground beside his shield. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. ‘As you will find written here.’ The document was sealed in red wax impressed with the dragon rampant that was Arthur’s sign.

‘You may assure His Majesty that I will read this with great attention.’ He tucked the document into his shirt.

‘But now you have other news for me?’ Gawain folded his legs and settled by the fire again.

‘I do.’ Harrik sat beside him. He watched the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words he wanted would not come.

‘I have a son at Camelot,’ he said awkwardly. ‘My only boy. They have taken him well in hand there. I visited him not three months ago. He has been taught to read and write Latin. He can use a sword and ride better than I could at his age. He grows into a strong and reasoned man.’ He paused. A stick in the fire snapped in two. ‘Not a brute. Not a barbarian. Not like the men I knew when I was a boy, a world away from here.’

Gawain nodded. ‘I think you will find word of your boy in His Majesty’s letter. I believe my brother Geraint intends to take him as squire.’

Harrik touched his shirt. ‘I like this peace of Arthur’s. I like this land. I do not…’ He clenched his fist. ‘I will not see it die to feed Wolfget’s blood-lust.’

‘You too are a strong and reasoned man,’ said Gawain softly. ‘I ask you, of your courtesy, tell me what you have seen.’

Harrik spoke slowly, sketching the events of the council. Gawain listened attentively. When Harrik named each of the men he saw there, Gawain asked pointed questions about where their lands were, how many men they commanded, and who their allies were. Harrik could see the knight sketching a map of the treachery in his mind.

Then, Harrik told him of the woman and the raven.

Gawain’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That, friend, is an unwholesome thing.’

Harrik gave one short bark of a laugh. ‘Those are milder words than I would use, my lord.’

Gawain smiled. ‘You have not seen the inside of Merlin’s workroom. No,’ he held up his hand. ‘Pray do not ask me. I was a youth when I had my glimpse, and more of a fool than I knew.’

Harrik dismissed the suggestion with a wave. ‘I have no intention of questioning you. As it is, I know more of magic than I care to.’

‘That shows your wisdom as clearly as anything you have yet done,’ said Gawain soberly. ‘My Lord Harrik, it was my intention to linger in this land for a day or two to see what else I could learn, but what you have told me, both about Wulfweard and his nameless lady, shows me I must return to the High King without delay.’

Harrik stood. ‘Let me take my leave of you then.’

They clasped hands and each commended the other to God. Harrik rode away feeling moderately better. The High King’s letter crackled in his bosom. His old loyalties sold for new safety and peace, and his son’s life.

All at once, his horse stumbled. A curse slipped out of Harrik’s mouth. The animal recovered its gait, but not completely. It limped now, favouring its left foreleg.

‘God’s legs,’ muttered Harrik, as he halted the beast and climbed to the ground. He bent down and with a practised hand, coaxed the horse to lift its hoof and show him the bottom.

There, a round stone shoved deep into the soft frog of the hoof. Harrik retrieved the hoof pick from his pack and swearing in each of the three languages he knew, finally managed to pry it loose. There was no question of being able to ride any further, though. The animal was lamed. He would have to walk the rest of the way.

He let the horse drop its hoof and looked at the stone. It was a round-bottomed, sharp-edged chunk of flint that had done the damage.

How does such a thing come to be in a forest? This belongs on some low riverbank.

He drew his arm back to hurl the thing into the bushes.

But as he looked where he aimed, he saw a huge black raven sitting on the branch of a maple tree. The bird gave a rough, mocking croak and flew into the air.

Harrik’s fist closed around the stone. His heart grew chill and inside him a small quiet voice told him the horse’s lameness did not matter now. Harrik, Hullward’s son, would not reach home after all.

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