Hawk Quest

IX

Four days later the hills petered out. From the last outlier, Vallon, Hero and Richard stood looking south over a great forest still clad in its winter coat. Strands of smoke rose in places from the canopy.

‘That must be Sherwood,’ said Vallon. ‘Raul says it’s one of the last refuges of the English resistance.’

‘Then we can relax our guard,’ Hero said.

‘On the contrary. From now on, we must be especially vigilant. Everyone we have dealings with, observe them closely. Look behind the smile. Trust no one.’

They descended a rutted track glinting with puddles. The forest closed around them — huge and ancient oaks with knuckled roots and fissured trunks spreading into vaulted crowns. The trees stood widely spaced and the ground beneath them was nearly bare. The fugitives stared down the empty avenues leading away in all directions. No one spoke.

The sun was sinking like flames in a smoky forge when they came to a millrace and followed it into a woodland village clumped around a green. It had rained on and off since morning and carts had churned the road to slurry. The travellers’ feet sucked in the mud. Some of the cottages had corn dolls tied to their doors. Vallon passed a tavern with a weathered sign depicting a man grinning out from branches and vines. Looking closer, Vallon saw that the greenery was sprouting from the man’s eyes, nose and mouth.

A cheerful hubbub came from the tavern. Hero and Richard eyed its lamplit windows with longing.

‘Not safe,’ Vallon said, and trudged on. A flock of geese mantled their wings and hissed at him. He’d reached the next house when he heard a familiar voice muffled by laughter and jeers. Frowning, he retraced his steps and stooped through the tavern door.

The room was crowded, but no one saw him enter. Everybody’s attention was craned on some drama taking place in a space around the hearth. Peering over their shoulders, Vallon saw Raul squatting on his haunches, one hand laid on the floor, a lad of about ten balancing on it. Raul’s face contused. Veins knotted on his temples. Slowly the boy came off the floor until he was level with Raul’s bent knees, suspended on a perfectly straight arm. Again, the veins on Raul’s temple bulged. He sprang to full height, at the same time swinging his arm up until the boy was poised above his head. The lad lost his balance and fell. Raul caught him, lowered him to the ground and tousled his hair.

Vallon pushed through the applause and catcalls. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

The crowd turned as if pulled by a string. When they saw the set of Vallon’s mouth, the sword hilt jutting at his side, they edged away and returned to their ale-benches. Raul gave a tipsy salute.

‘Captain, I was providing some harmless entertainment in return for the hospitality shown by these good souls.’

Vallon registered Wayland seated in a booth, the dog lying muzzled at his feet like some monstrous trophy.

‘I told you to keep away from public places.’

‘We can’t hide from everyone we meet. Now we’re in tamer parts, it’s safer to blend in.’

‘You call that blending in?’

The boy who’d featured in Raul’s stunt presented him with a cup of ale. Raul raised it to a man leaning against the counter separating the drinking hall from the landlord’s quarters. The man raised his own cup. Vallon appraised him. Lean and wiry, dressed in a filthy green jerkin and leggings, ears sticking out through a tangle of rat-tails under a leather skullcap.

‘Who’s that?’

‘His name’s Leofric. We met him on the road. He’s a charcoal burner.’

‘What did you tell him about us?’

Raul tugged his earring. ‘I told him we were a party of travelling showmen.’

‘A what?’

‘Travelling entertainers who perform at fairs and festivals. I said that we’d done poor business in the provinces and were heading back to London for the Easter holiday.’

‘I suppose that was your strongman act?’

Raul grinned. ‘Not bad, eh?’ He pointed at Wayland. ‘And that’s Wolfboy and his performing dog. Does whatever Wolfboy tells it to do.’

‘Wayland’s dumb.’

‘That’s what makes it such a great act.’

Hero smothered a laugh. ‘What’s my role?’

‘Storyteller,’ said Raul. ‘Captain, you’re the Swordmaster, a champion of France who fought in Castile with El Cid. You take on all comers, three at a time — a penny if they beat you.’ Raul stifled a hiccup. ‘’Course, you don’t use real swords.’

Vallon shook his head at this nonsense and crossed to Wayland’s booth. He slid his sword under the table and subsided on to a bench. As soon as the weight was off his feet, he wondered how he would get up again.

‘Since we’re here, you might as well fetch us some ale.’

Raul came back balancing three cups. ‘The landlord asks if we want supper.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice dish of salt cod?’

The landlord stood behind the counter, smiling broadly, sharpening a knife on a steel. The boy sat on the board, swinging his legs.

‘Very well,’ Vallon said. ‘But we leave as soon as we’ve eaten.’

‘Can’t we stay the night?’ Richard said.

‘No. We’ve already attracted too much attention.’

Richard looked like he would cry. ‘Sir, it’s been three days since we slept under a roof.’

Raul patted his hand. ‘Don’t you fret. I’ve already found us beds. Leofric’s invited us to sleep at his cottage. It’s deep in the woods, Captain, well off the beaten track.’

Vallon studied the charcoal burner again. He was standing with his back to the room, sharing a joke with the landlord. He reached across the counter and cut a slice off a flitch of bacon with what looked like a flensing knife.

Vallon was tempted to accept. His joints ached from the damp that seeped into them at night.

‘Thank your friend and tell him we’ll be making our own arrangements.’

‘Like what? Another ditch?’

Hero’s expression turned mutinous. ‘We can’t go on living like animals. Lower than animals. Even the birds and beasts have their nests.’

Richard gave a flimsy cough of agreement.

Vallon looked at them over the rim of his cup. ‘We don’t accept invitations from strangers.’

Muttering under his breath, Raul went off to break the news to the charcoal burner. Vallon watched them. The man looked put out by the snub, but no more than was to be expected. He didn’t protest too much; he didn’t try to persuade. He touched his cup to Raul’s and shook hands when they parted. When the landlord came over with a platter of cod, Vallon dismissed the matter from his mind. He ate a few mouthfuls, then put his dish aside. He felt feverish. It had begun to rain again. For a while he listened to the water dripping off the eaves. The stuffy atmosphere made him sleepy. His head began to droop.

He woke from an ugly dream to find that the room had grown quiet. His fever was worse. The light hurt his eyes. Across the table, Hero and Richard lay fast asleep, heads cradled on their forearms. Raul sat in a bleary doze with his chin propped on his hand.

It had stopped raining. The tavern was nearly empty. Three locals sat talking quietly on an ale-bench beside the dying fire. When he looked at them, two averted their eyes. The other was old and sightless.

Vallon pulled Raul’s hand from under his chin. The German surfaced with a splutter.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

Raul bored a knuckle into his forehead. ‘Don’t know, but you had a fair old snooze. I reckoned you needed the rest.’ He threw his arms around Hero and Richard, and dropped his voice. ‘Didn’t want to wake these two, either.’

When Vallon stood, pain as piercing as a hot wire shot down one leg. He screwed his eyes shut and held on to the table. Raul reached out in concern. ‘Are you all right, Captain? You don’t look too good.’

‘The charcoal burner. When did he leave?’

Raul pulled at his beard. ‘Couldn’t say.’

‘What did he say when you told him we wouldn’t be lodging with him?’

‘Acted very decent, considering. Wished me a good night and said he’d look out for us on the road tomorrow.’

Vallon straightened with a shuddering breath. ‘We’ve been set up.’

‘Captain, you haven’t even spoken to the man. You don’t know the first thing about him.’

Vallon leaned over, hands braced on the table. ‘Why would a penniless charcoal burner offer to put up five strangers?’

‘I told him we’d pay.’

‘You boasted that I had a purse stuffed with silver.’

‘What’s wrong with you, Captain? All I said was that he wouldn’t go out of pocket.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Vallon, ‘he was going to make us pay.’ He lurched round. The landlord’s smile seemed to have been pasted on to his face. It reminded Vallon of the grinning grotesque on the tavern sign. The boy was still on the counter, still swinging his legs.

‘Ask him to give us lodgings for the night.’

‘Captain, I thought-’

‘Do as I say.’

The innkeeper greeted Raul’s request with an apologetic refusal.

‘There’s no room. He says there’s an inn at the next village.’

‘Tell him the night’s dark and we’re weary. We’ll pay to sleep in his stable.’

The request seemed to exhaust the landlord’s good humour. Raul pulled a face. ‘He says that if we’re so desperate for a bed, why did we turn down Leofric’s offer?’

The boy on the counter had stopped swinging his legs. It was probably the fever, but Vallon had the impression that the boy’s beetle-black eyes were bright with malice.

The landlord began clearing up, making an ostentatious clatter. The remaining drinkers had left. Vallon shook Hero and Richard. ‘Wake up. It’s time we were going.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Way — land?

‘He doesn’t like being cooped up,’ said Raul. ‘He must have gone outside for some fresh air.’

A crescent moon cast enough light for Wayland to keep the charcoal burner in sight. The man walked briskly down the middle of the track, singing under his breath. Wayland and the dog kept to the grassy verge. He’d been outside when the charcoal burner left the tavern, followed by the boy. The two had stood close, talking more like conspirators than friends taking their leave, and they’d parted without goodnights. There’d been no time for Wayland to take his suspicions to Vallon. By the time the boy went back inside, the charcoal burner was nearly out of sight, heading down one of the rides that radiated out from the village.

It was beginning to look like Wayland’s instincts had played him false. The charcoal burner gave every impression of a man intent on getting home. If he looks back, Wayland decided, I’ll know I’m right. Any man walking through a dark wood with dirty work on his mind would glance over his shoulder from time to time.

But the charcoal burner had eyes only for the road ahead. Wayland reckoned off one mile passed, then another. He’d been on the move since dawn and he contemplated with sinking heart the slog back to the village. Not a thing stirred in the trees. The only sounds were his own faint footfalls and the occasional click of his bow against his belt. The deeper he walked into the forest, the more conscious he became of his own presence. It was strange. He was stalking a man, yet Wayland felt it was he who was the centre of attention. Watching the bobbing figure in the moonlight, he had the unpleasant notion that the charcoal burner knew he was there, that he was luring him on. Another nasty fancy insinuated itself. He had the feeling that if he caught up with him and turned him round, it wouldn’t be the charcoal burner’s face he saw beneath the cap.

The man stopped. Wayland froze. At this distance he was just a shadow among shadows, a shape that no night-time traveller would turn back to investigate.

The charcoal burner walked backwards in a circle, as if he’d missed his turning and was trying to establish his whereabouts. He looked all about. He walked to one side of the ride, then began to cross to the other.

Cloud veiled the moon. When the crescent reappeared, the charcoal burner was gone. Wayland had last seen him near a stag-headed oak of enormous girth.

Wayland waited to make sure the charcoal burner didn’t return. The dog watched him, trembling. He nodded and it crossed the road like a wraith.

His gaze roamed about as he tried to work out the significance of the place. He couldn’t see any track leading off the ride. The only thing out of the ordinary was the old oak. His eyes kept returning to it, and the more he looked at it, the more it seemed to be looking back at him. Wayland’s shoulders hunched in an involuntary shiver. It wasn’t just his imagination. The oak had a face — two empty sockets above a gaping mouth. He fingered the cross at his neck.

The dog’s soundless return made him start. It led him across the ride and began to skirt round the oak, looking at it sidelong, like a fox eyeing a scarecrow.

Wait.

When Wayland saw the oak up close, he smiled at the tricks moonlight could play. Age and decay had hollowed out a cave at its base, and the two eyes were only the scars left by long-fallen branches. He saw something dangling from the top of the hollow. Thinking it might have been left there by the charcoal burner, he reached out and then snatched back his hand. It was a dead cat on a cord, its mouth frozen in a mummified snarl. He glanced over his shoulder before looking back at the hollow. The darkness inside was deep enough to hide a man. Wayland went cold all over at the thought that someone — some thing — was waiting with baleful concentration for him to come within reach.

He backed away and almost tripped over the dog. It took his sleeve in its mouth and tugged him away.

They went into the trees. The massive boles encircled them. There was little undergrowth — just a few hazel coppices and the occasional gleam of holly. Wayland struck a trail of sorts that descended a gentle slope. The dog’s relaxed gait told him that the charcoal burner was a long way ahead. He broke into a lope.

They must have covered more than a mile when the dog clamped itself to the ground. Wayland squatted beside it. He smelled wood — smoke and pig shit. As he crept forward, it occurred to him that the charcoal burner would have a dog. Too late to worry about that. The trees thinned and he made out the shape of a hut in a clearing. Pale smoke drifted from its roof and a splinter of light showed at a shuttered window. Pigs grunted on the other side of the clearing. He heard low voices, then the sound of a door closing.

He ran light-footed towards the house and sidled up to the window. What he expected to see — what he hoped to see — was the charcoal burner at home with his family, yawning by the hearth, pulling his boots off. Wayland put his eye to the chink and his throat dried. Swaying tallow lamps lit a room full of men with long matted hair and beards, dressed in crudely stitched hides and the greenish jerkins that Wayland took to be the uniform of a company bound to some malign purpose. He knew what they were; Ulf had warned him about them. Men of the woods. Former resistance fighters turned bandits and cutthroats.

A man scabbed with dirt moved aside and Wayland saw the charcoal burner standing before a dark-haired man sitting with his back to the window. He was clean-shaven and looked almost civilised in that wild company. Around his collar hung a necklace of dried fungi — some rustic charm or remedy.

‘Travelling entertainers, Ash. That’s what the German said. And maybe they are. Anyway, they’re foreigners — all but one, a dumb English youth. Wolfboy, the German called him. He’s got a dog, a monster, looks like it’s bred more for the bear pit than the theatre. You wouldn’t want to run into that hound on a dark night.’

Ash made a curt gesture.

‘Shame to kill it,’ the charcoal burner said. ‘I wouldn’t mind having that dog myself.’

Ash wasn’t interested in the dog. ‘Who else is in the party?’

‘A couple of young boobies and a Frenchie — a Frank, not a Norman. Tough, mean-looking fellow, knows how to handle himself. The German said he fought in Spain. He challenges people to cross swords with him.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this crew,’ said a bystander. ‘A night ambush is always chancy. It only takes one of them to get away and-’

‘Shut up,’ Ash said. He turned back to the charcoal burner. ‘Why didn’t you bring them here?’

The charcoal burner showed graveyard teeth. ‘I was going to. It was all set up. I’d got the German well-bladdered, your boy was about to bring you the news, then Frenchie turned up and told the German they’d be going on down the road.’

Ash leaned back on his stool. ‘You must have given yourself away.’

‘On my life. I did everything just like I always do. Ask your uncle.’

Ash scratched his knee. ‘What goods are they carrying?’

‘I’m not promising you the moon. To tell the truth, they look like they’ve spent the last week dossing on a dunghill, but — and you’d hate yourself for missing the chance — the Frenchie carries a jewelled sword that must be worth its weight in silver. He wears a fine ring, too, and paid for his meal in coin.’

Ash fingered his necklace. ‘If they’ve got money, why have they been sleeping rough?’

The charcoal burner dropped to his haunches. ‘That’s what I was wondering. What if they’re on the run? There might be a bounty on them.’

Ash didn’t answer. No one disturbed his thoughts. At last he sniffed, wiped a finger under his nose, reached for his sword and laid it across his lap.

‘How soon do we expect them?’

‘They’re probably leaving the tavern about now. I told your uncle to keep them happy until I was well clear.’

‘They might camp in the woods. Finding them won’t be easy.’

‘Edric’s going to follow them. If they sleep out, so much the better. We can fall on them at first light.’

Ash’s cheeks lifted in a smile. ‘Edric’s a good lad.’

‘He’s his father’s boy.’

Wayland realised they were talking about the youngster Raul had lifted one-handed above his head.

Ash stood, crossed to the opposite wall and unhooked a rusty mail vest cut down from a Norman hauberk. He raised his arms and shrugged it on and turned around and showed his face. It was expressionless, his eyes as flat as coins. Wayland raised his hand to his throat and gave a slow swallow. The charm around Ash’s neck was a string of withered human ears.

Ash looked straight at him, walked towards the window and flung out his hands. Wayland threw himself to one side and pressed back against the wall behind the half-opened shutter. He drew his knife.

‘A quarter moon,’ Ash said, inches from his ear. ‘Wear your hoods and mantles. Muffle your blades.’ He pulled the shutters close.

Heart in mouth, Wayland returned to the peephole to see the outlaws grabbing swords, bows, billhooks, spears, an axe. They pulled on shapeless hoods and mantles covered with twigs and leaves. In the rancid light they looked like members of some infernal sect.

‘We’ll wait for them at the goblin oak,’ said Ash. ‘Leofric, you and Siward go back down the road as far as the next turning. Let them pass, then fall in behind. Keep well into the trees.’

‘What about Edric?’

‘Bring him with you. The boy can watch. It will be a good lesson.’

‘Maybe they can put on their show before we kill them. Edric would like that.’

Ash breathed in through his nose. The man who’d spoken looked away. ‘Sorry, Master Ash.’

‘Take one alive for questioning. Kill all the others. Make sure the Frenchie dies in the first volley. Don’t give him a chance to use his sword. We’ll hide the bodies well away from the road. The swine will deal with them in the morning.’

Someone laughed. ‘Your hogs eat better than we do.’

Before Wayland could flesh out this image, the outlaws began to make for the door. He raced to the edge of the clearing and dropped behind a tree. Nine cowled shapes came out of the hut. They filed past him at spitting distance, breath steaming through the slits in their hoods.

The pigs in their enclosure squealed with excitement. They knew what the outlaws’ departure betokened. It was as though a feeding bell had been rung.

Wayland’s first impulse was to run and warn Vallon. But what if the fugitives had left the road and the boy was already on his way to Ash? Even with the dog’s help, it might take all night to find the fugitives’ camp. He thought of torching the cottage, but the outlaws would be a mile away before the building was ablaze and might not see the fire.

He couldn’t wait any longer. The outlaws were already out of sight. Wayland was about to follow when he thought of something else. He sprinted back to the hut, kicked open the door and plunged inside. On the wall hung one of the hoods and capes the outlaws wore as camouflage. He struggled into the cape and pulled the mask over his head.

When he caught up with the outlaws, they were strung out over fifty yards of trail. He looked for the moon and saw it floating tiny and remote above the trees. Vallon must have stopped for the night by now. Wayland reached a decision. He would shadow the outlaws as far as the oak, then tail the charcoal burner and his partner down the ride. Once he’d dealt with them, he’d lie up and wait for the boy. He’d choose a spot far enough away from the oak to give the travellers plenty of warning if they were still on the road.

About halfway to the ride, the outlaws stopped and bunched. After a whispered exchange, two shapes detached themselves and disappeared into the trees to the right. When Wayland realised that Leofric and Siward were taking a short cut, he teetered with indecision. If he followed them, he might miss the boy returning to the oak. If he stayed with the main party and the fugitives were still on the road, he’d lose the chance to warn them before the two bandits met up with the boy.

Wayland struck out after the scouts.

They were woodsmen on their home ground and moved with assurance, ill-defined shapes flitting through moonlight and shadow. Wayland followed at a stealthy jog. The moon drifted behind a skein of cloud. Darkness stole across the forest floor, hiding Wayland’s quarry. Worried that he might blunder into them, he slowed to a walk. He could feel the bandits getting away from him.

Here.

The dog turned and Wayland laid his hand on its neck.

They went on at speed, Wayland trusting to the dog’s nose.

Without warning, the dog sank down. It turned a grave eye, telling him that the outlaws had halted and were close. The moon played hide and seek in the clouds. Wayland could make out the ride to his left. Ahead was a glade dotted with clumps of undergrowth. One of the shapes separated into two. A figure ghosted towards the ride, checked that it was empty, then ran into the trees on the other side.

It would be easier to deal with the outlaws singly, but how? Even if he could disarm them without shedding blood, it would take too long. The boy might have already passed by and reached the rendezvous. He had to get back as soon as possible.

He patted the dog’s shoulder and pointed across the ride. Kill him.

It stood, took a few steps, then looked back.

He pulled up his mask. Kill him.

The dog loped off without a sound.

The moon showed itself again, casting faint shadows. Wayland could see the remaining bandit half hidden behind a tree. He would have to skirt around until he had a clear target. He began his stalk, soundless as a cat’s shadow, until the man’s back was in view. Wayland didn’t know if it was Leofric or Siward and didn’t care. Given the chance, either man would kill him as casually as he would swat a fly. Wayland summoned up an image of Ash, those dead black eyes. He thought of the fugitives and imagined what the gang would do to the one they captured. He braced back, leaning away from the curve of the bow. At full draw, the arrow was pointing halfway to the moon. He brought it down in a smooth arc, watching the iron leaf at its tip, poised to release the moment the point passed down the man’s spine.

His target jumped aside. Wayland blinked. The bandit was leaning out from the tree, like a runner tensed for the off. He’d heard the stifled commotion on the other side of the ride. Before Wayland could sight again, the bandit pushed off from the tree and went zigzagging into the dark.

Wayland emptied his lungs in a sigh of frustration. Now he would have to stalk the man again. This time it would be more difficult. The bandit would be nervous.

A long-eared owl gave a cooing moan — ‘oo-oo-oo’. If Wayland hadn’t been such an excellent mimic himself, he would have sworn that the call was genuine. The bandit expected an answer. But Wayland knew that his accomplice was dead, gaping up through the branches with his blood leaking from his throat.

The outlaw repeated the call.

If he didn’t get a response this time, he’d know that something was wrong. Wayland cupped his hands around his mouth and echoed the owl’s plaintive cry.

No answer. The bandit must be wondering why his partner had crossed back over the ride. Or perhaps he’d given the wrong call.

He hooted again. Still no response. The silence pressed in on him. His heart beat against his ribs.

Somewhere a twig snapped underfoot. Wayland tensed, all his senses out on stalks.

Ahead of him, a piece of forest began to move, creeping away from him. He stepped from cover and walked towards it, making no attempt at concealment.

The bandit whirled, his arrow pointing at Wayland’s chest. He fluttered a hand across his eyes.

‘Siward?’

Wayland raised a hand and kept walking.

The charcoal burner ran at him. ‘What are you doing? What was that noise?’

Wayland put a finger to his lips.

‘They’ll be here any moment,’ the charcoal burner whispered. ‘Why have you come back?’

Wayland was so close that he could see the man’s eyes through the slots in his hood. He stabbed his finger and the charcoal burner turned.

‘What?’

Wayland stepped in close and swung his knife back, elbow locked.

The charcoal burner tensed and put a hand to his ear. ‘Something’s coming.’

From afar came a faint but forceful scuffling, heading their way. The sound grew louder — a helter-skelter gallop, a relentless … what? The charcoal burner stepped back, colliding with Wayland.

Out of the trees came the dog, racing in a wide curve, its paws scrabbling for purchase. It saw the two men and skidded to a stop. Slowly it turned its head and there it stood, faintly luminous in the shadows, vapour pluming from its jaws.

‘Oh my God!’ the charcoal burner breathed. His bow twanged and Wayland heard the arrow go skittering across the leaf litter.

‘Shoot!’ cried the charcoal burner, fumbling for another arrow.

The dog was already into its charge, a grey-black blur. The charcoal burner dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife. He managed to throw up one arm before the dog flattened him.

Wayland ran forward. The dog had the man’s shoulder in its jaws and was shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat. The knife flew out of his grip. Wayland seized the dog’s mane and tried to wrestle the beast off.

No!

He hauled it away bucking and lunging on its hind legs.

Leave him!

The dog looked at him with blood-crazed eyes.

Leave him.

The dog stalked off in a stiff-legged circle. The charcoal burner scuttled backwards on his elbows. Wayland followed and stood over him, holding his knife. The charcoal burner looked up at the falconer, his hood twisted and the fabric over his mouth sucking in and out. Wayland leaned down and pulled the man’s hood off. He took off his own hood. The charcoal burner’s eyes rolled up into his skull and his head flopped back.

Wayland trussed him hand and foot and tied him to a tree. He slashed the man’s hood into strips and gagged and blindfolded him.

Then he went in search of the boy.

Vallon’s eyes tracked from side to side, probing the forest margins. All lay quiet as the grave. Raul carried his crossbow loaded, occasionally turning and walking backwards to check the ride behind.

‘How far have we come?’ asked Vallon.

‘Two miles at least. It must be nearly midnight.’ Raul nudged his chin in the direction of Hero and Richard. ‘Those two are ready to drop.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Captain, if you’re worried there’s an ambush ahead, why are you leading us into it?’

‘Wayland knows this is the road we’re taking.’

‘We might not see him until morning. You know what he’s like. He might have gone hunting. Or more likely, he’s tucked up in a cosy roost.’

‘If he is, I’ll kill him.’

They walked on into the oppressive silence.

‘I was in a wood like this once,’ said Raul. ‘It was in Normandy, the dead of winter, just before Yuletide. I had a week’s leave and my wages and I was going to spend them in Rouen. I’d set out in good time, but it snowed in the afternoon and I took a wrong fork. A dreary day it was, sky as dark as doom, not a house or a soul to be seen. I came to a forest and followed a track through it. No other travellers had trodden that path all day. When night fell I was still in the wood, only a sprinkling of stars to keep me straight. Walking through that winter wood, I felt like I was the only being in the world, so I took out my whistle and played a tune to keep myself company. Then I stopped whistling because I had the feeling that I had more company than I cared for.

‘It was the trees. It was as if they were turning round to look at me as I passed. I watched them out of the corner of my eye and I swear I saw them bunching up on me. That was bad enough, but then …

‘Something touched my back. I shot into the air and jumped round. “Who’s there?” I called, but no one answered. Nothing but trees and snow. Right, I told myself, pay no heed to the bogles and bugbears. Easier said than done, Captain. As I went on, the flesh on my back was crawling, itching for another touch. Well, it didn’t come, but something else did. I heard it creeping up on me — scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. Froze the blood in my veins, stopped me in my tracks. Whatever was after me stopped, too. This time I didn’t dare turn round, because I knew that whatever was behind me had wings and horns and eyes as big as trenchers. I walked on, my knees knocking, and that thing came walking after me. Every time I stopped, it stopped, and every time I went on, it kept coming after me.

‘It came closer — scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. I began to walk faster, then faster still, but it just kept its own sweet pace a few feet behind me. Captain, I’ve fought in many a battle and I swear I never run from the enemy, but that thing at my heels scared me more than any mortal man with sword or lance. My nerve cracked, I don’t mind admitting it, and I broke into a flat-out run. But fast as I ran, there was no getting away from it. I could hear it catching up, getting closer, hissing with rage and breathing down my neck.

‘Just when I thought it would sink its claws into me, I saw a flame in the trees ahead. A woodcutter’s camp. I ran for it as if Old Nick himself was after me, which for all I knew he was, and threw myself down by the fire gibbering like a loony. The old woodcutter, bless his soul, he looked down at me, and then he looked behind me and a very peculiar expression came over his face.

‘“What is it?”’ I cried.

‘Slowly he put out his bony hand and pointed. I scrambled round. And then I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’ Vallon said, keeping his eyes on the trees.

Raul halted, wheezing with laughter. ‘A length of rope that had worked loose from my pack and was dragging behind me.’

Vallon didn’t laugh, didn’t break step. ‘Raul, you’re a drunken blowhard.’

‘Wait. I ain’t finished.’

Vallon grabbed him. ‘I heard a cry.’

Raul’s eyes patrolled. ‘Probably a fox.’

Vallon turned. ‘Wayland’s not coming. We’ll find a path through the forest.’

‘Without Wayland, we’ll go round in circles. Let’s make camp and move on at first light.’

Vallon felt a spurt of fury. ‘What does the wretch think he’s doing? If this was a regular company, I’d have him hanged for desertion.’

Raul took his arm. ‘Come on, Captain, I’ll find us a place to rest.’

‘Sir,’ Hero said, pointing down the ride.

Vallon made out a flicker of movement. He drew his sword. ‘Everybody into the trees.’

They ran for cover. Raul went down on one knee and took aim. Vallon watched the advancing shape take on human outline. ‘It’s Wayland,’ he said. ‘Wayland and his dog.’

Raul slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I don’t deny it, Captain. I feel happier with him back. If anyone thinks they can spring a surprise on us, they’d have to get up a lot earlier than Wayland.’

‘There’s someone with him,’ said Hero.

‘It’s the boy from the tavern,’ said Vallon. He looked the other way. ‘Stay hidden.’

Wayland swayed to a standstill in front of them. He’d roped the boy to the dog’s collar. Looped over his shoulder was some kind of ragged and leafy garment.

‘Raul, find out what’s happening.’

Vallon scanned the road while the German questioned Wayland.

When Raul rejoined him, he was as solemn as an owl. ‘You were right, Captain. There are seven cut-throats waiting up ahead by an old oak. There were two others, but Wayland dealt with them.’

‘Killed them?’

‘The dog killed one. He tied the other up.’

‘He should have killed him.’

‘I know, but there’s a tender streak in the lad.’

‘What’s the boy’s part in this?’

‘He was tracking us in case we slept in the forest. His father’s the leader. The outlaws start them young in these parts.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Hero whispered.

‘Wayland knows where they’re lurking,’ Raul told him. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time they discover we’ve taken a different path.’

Vallon looked at the falconer. ‘Can you guide us around the ambush?’

Wayland looked uncertainly at Hero and Richard.

‘They ain’t up to it,’ said Raul. ‘They’re dead for lack of sleep.’

‘They’ll be dead all right. We have to get out of the forest before daylight.’

Wayland pointed at the boy, then at the dog, then made a sweeping gesture down the ride. He pointed at the fugitives and made the same gesture.

Vallon frowned. ‘I think he’s saying we should go on down the track, using the boy as a hostage.’

Wayland pointed at himself, then across the ride, and moved his hand in a half circle, indicating that he would make his way back until he was behind the outlaws’ position.

Vallon looked at the boy. ‘Find out his father’s name.’

At Raul’s approach, the boy backed to the end of his tether, breathing in and out through his nose. Raul wrapped one hand around the boy’s collar and hoisted him off the ground. ‘Give us your father’s name, you little shit.’

The boy uttered a choked syllable.

‘What was that? Ash, did you say?’

The boy jerked his head up and down. Raul dropped him. ‘Sounded like Ash.’

Wayland nodded.

Vallon’s eyes patrolled the dark avenue. ‘Imagine how many travellers have met their deaths along this road.’ He turned to Raul. ‘I think we should put back into Ash’s life some of the terror he’s dealt out.’

To the waiting outlaws it must have seemed like a cavalcade from fairyland, the boy lolling astride the giant dog, Vallon’s sword glinting across his shoulder, the other fugitives in close attendance.

The procession halted a bowshot short of the oak.

‘Ash?’ Raul shouted. ‘Ash? Your eyes don’t deceive you. That’s your son on the dog, and it will rip the life from him just as cruelly as it tore out Siward’s throat. Leofric’s dead, too. Wolfboy killed him. Do you want to know where Wolfboy is? He’s closer than you think. He’s watching you. He’s cloaked and hooded in your own uniform. Look at your neighbour. Look close. Are you sure he’s the man you take him for? Are you sure it’s a man at all? Wolfboy can change form. Listen.’

Stark silence, and then a sound that made the hairs on Vallon’s neck stand up. The dog that everyone thought was mute lifted its head and joined in. The mournful howling of hunting wolves rose up until it enveloped the forest, and then it fell away, leaving a tingling hush.

‘The show’s over,’ Raul cried. ‘Don’t follow us if you want to see your boy again. Do as I say and you’ll find him unharmed at the next village.’

The procession moved on. A mile beyond the ambush site, the trees gave way to open common. Raul puffed out his cheeks. ‘Captain, that was the longest walk of my life. My back felt as wide as a barn.’

Vallon frowned at him. ‘How did you know I fought alongside Rodrigo Diaz?’

‘The Cid? I didn’t. It was just showman’s patter.’ He missed a step. ‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Go on with the others.’

Raul’s footsteps faded. The road behind stretched away like a ribbon of blackened silver. Up ahead, a dog began to yap. Vallon touched his brow with the back of his hand. He felt as if he’d walked through a bad dream.