Morningstar

CHAPTER FOUR

The knight riding at the centre of the trio, a huge man wearing a shining breastplate of silver and a helmet sporting a horse-hair plume, lifted his arm and halted the convoy. The visor of his helmet was raised and I could see a corn-yellow moustache and eyes the colour of a winter sky, grey and cold. Reining in the giant black stallion, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and gazed upon the tall, lean form of Jarek Mace.

‘What do you want, fellow?’ he asked, his voice deep as distant thunder.

‘When you travel upon my road, sir knight, then you must pay my toll,’ Jarek answered.

‘A toll, is it?’ responded the knight, as laughter sounded from the riders behind him. ‘Tell me, fellow, how it is that you came to… own this road. For I was under the impression the forest was ruled by Count Azrek. He is — for the present — the Count of Ziraccu,’

Jarek told him. ‘I am the Lord of this Forest.’

‘And what might your name be, my lord?’ asked the knight.

‘Why, I am the Morningstar.’

The knight leaned back, removed his right gauntlet and opened a purse tied to the sword-belt at his waist. ‘And what will the toll cost us?’

‘All that you have,’ said Jarek.

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ snapped the knight. ‘I would have given you a silver penny for your impudence. Now step aside or feel the weight of my whip!’

‘Certainly, sir knight.’ Jarek moved to his right and then swung back — the longbow coming up, the string stretching, the notched shaft leaping from the bow. The knight swayed back as the arrow slashed by him to punch through the helmet of the young knight to his left. Without a sound the surprised victim slid from the saddle, pitching head-first to the ground.

Shafts flashed from both sides of the road, plunging into men and horses. The pain-maddened beasts reared, throwing their riders to the road. More arrows tore into the men-at-arms.

The two knights had both drawn their swords, but instead of entering the fray they spurred on their mounts towards Jarek Mace. The young bowman sprinted towards me, ducking just as a longsword hissed towards his head.

Instead of giving chase the knights galloped on towards Ziraccu. Jarek cursed and ran back into the road, notching a second arrow to his string. His arm came up and I watched him take aim and loose the shaft, which sang through the air and thudded into the back of the second knight. The man straightened in the saddle, then swayed, but clung on to the pommel as the horses moved out of range. Jarek turned.

The villagers had dropped their bows and charged the demoralized men-at-arms. Several of the enemy threw down their weapons and began pleading for mercy. There was none to be had, and they were all butchered.

It was not a pleasant sight.

At last Wulf the hunchback, covered in blood, approached where Jarek was sitting at the roadside.

‘My children are avenged,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you, Mace.’ Jarek merely nodded, but the hunchback remained where he was. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

‘Do? Take the booty and get away from this place as soon as possible. Those knights did not ride back for an early supper.’

‘Yes,’ Wulf agreed. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

Two of the villagers moved up to the driving seat of the wagon and turned the horses back towards the north, while Wulf and the others began stripping the dead of valuables and weapons.

Jarek loped to the wagon, pulling himself over the tailboard. I ran to join him. He was sitting beside some thirty small sacks of coin; scattered around him were golden ornaments, statues, bracelets, bangles and brooches.

‘I’m a rich man, bard,’ he said, chuckling. ‘I think I’ll buy a castle — by the sea.’

‘Why did you talk to the knights?’ I asked him. ‘Why not just attack?’

‘They were moving. A walking horse, when frightened, breaks into a run. A standing horse will usually rear. It is that simple. I wanted the convoy halted.’

‘You are an amazing man,’ I told him. ‘What made you give the name Morningstar?’

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I thought it would amuse you, Owen. And, anyway, the odds were that someone would escape. I didn’t want anyone rushing to Azrek with the name Jarek Mace, now, did I?’

‘You think he won’t find out, eventually?’

‘By then I will be long gone. What a fine day, to be sure!’ With his dagger he ripped open a coin-sack. Silver pennies tumbled out. He grabbed a handful and tossed them in the air, where they spun in the sunlight before tinkling down to the wagon boards. ‘I love money,’ said Jarek.

Jarek Mace was in high good humour as the iron-rimmed wagon wheels rolled slowly along the forest road. Wulf and the others — having stripped all valuables from the twenty-two dead Ikenas — set off back over the hills to the village. They would arrive hours before us, but I was tired and had no wish to walk too soon among the bodies of the slain. The aftermath of revenge leaves no sweetness in the mouth, and a wagon full of gold was no recompense for a village of the dead.

The sun was low in the sky as we rounded the last bend and I saw the glittering lake and a large crowd awaiting us. Jarek was sleeping and I did not at first wake him.

The valuables in the wagon had come, I knew, from more than one settlement, and I guessed — rightly — that the waiting throng were representatives of those other villages and towns. I could see Megan standing beside a tall woman dressed in the severe black habit and white headscarf of the Order of Naesar-nuns.

As the wagon hove into sight the crowd pushed forward, yelling and cheering.

Jarek awoke at once. ‘What the devil?’ he said, sitting up.

A great cheer went up as he stood.

‘Morningstar! Morningstar!’ I saw Wulf and the other warriors at the front of the crowd with their arms raised; the last of the sunlight glinting on their stolen weapons.

Nimbly Mace leapt from the wagon to stand with hands on hips, accepting their tribute. The crowd parted and the Abbess strode forward; she was around sixty years of age, stern of face, her eyes deep-set and glacial blue. Moving past Jarek, she opened the tailboard of the wagon and reached inside. Lifting clear a small golden statue of the blessed Saint Katryn and holding it aloft, she turned to the crowd.

‘She is returned to us,’ cried the Abbess and a section of the crowd cheered.

An elderly man approached. His face was lined, his right eye dead and useless. With difficulty he bowed, then took Jarek’s hand.

‘You have saved our lives,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘We have had a bleak winter and the money they robbed from us was to have been used to buy food. Without it our community was finished. I have no way to thank you, but we will not forget you, Morningstar.’

Jarek was speechless, but I saw his eyes darken as men and women crowded round the wagon, lifting out goods and coin.

Megan came through the crowd, taking Jarek’s arm and leading him away from the throng. ‘Keep calm!’ I heard her whisper. ‘It is only money.’

‘My money!’ he hissed.

I almost felt sorry for him then. Not quite… but almost.

Back in Megan’s home we sat beside the fire. The young whore, Ilka, was sleeping, her back bandaged; the wound, Megan assured us, was free of infection. Jarek stared gloomily into the flames.

‘It was a fine act,’ I told him, making sure to keep the smile from my face. He glanced up at me, then grinned.

‘Easy made, swiftly lost,’ he said.

‘What will you do now?’ asked Megan.

Jarek shrugged. ‘I’ll head deeper into the forest. No point staying here — the village is finished.’

‘They didn’t kill everyone,’ said Megan. ‘Many people escaped into the undergrowth where the horses would not follow. We can rebuild.’

‘That is not what I meant. The killers will be back.’

Megan nodded. ‘What would you advise?’

‘It is not for me to give advice,’ answered Jarek. ‘Who am I but a wandering mercenary with no ties here?’

‘Silly boy,’ she told him. ‘You are the Morningstar!’

‘Oh, stop this nonsense,’ Jarek snapped. ‘It was a jest, nothing more.’

‘I know,’ replied Megan, ‘but you should have heard the men talk about it. You called yourself the Lord of the Forest. You demanded the Angostins pay toll to pass. You stood alone at the centre of the road. Can you not see it, Jarek? You took on the mantle of leadership — albeit for your own purposes.’

‘Well, I ended up with nothing as a result of it,’ he said.

‘Nothing?’ whispered Megan. ‘All those people thanking you, looking up to you. That is worth more than gold!’

‘Nothing is worth more than gold,’ he said, his smile in place. ‘But, yes, I’ll grant you it was more pleasant than having a boil lanced.’ He swung to me. ‘Did you enjoy the day, bard?’

‘I don’t enjoy watching men kill one another, but it was rewarding to see the joy on the faces of those who believed they had lost everything only to find a hero had rescued them.’

‘Does it not strike you as… unfair… that this hero is the only one to lose money on the venture?’

‘You didn’t lose,’ I told him. ‘As soon as I saw that crowd I guessed what would happen, so I stuffed my pockets with coin and I kept this.’ Reaching inside my tunic shirt, I pulled clear a small pouch. Opening it, I tipped the contents into Jarek’s outstretched hands; there were rings and necklets, brooches and bracelets, all of heavy gold, several studded with gems, emeralds and rubies.

His smile widened and he winked at me. ‘By heavens, Owen, I like you more and more. I hope you have deep pockets?’

‘Deep enough, I would say, for around fifty silver pieces.’

‘There is hope for you, my friend, in this wicked world of ours.’

‘Maybe,’ muttered Megan, rising and stretching her back. Without a word to us she walked to the wide bed and laid herself down beside the sleeping Ilka.

Jarek returned the gold to the pouch, then slipped it inside his jerkin.

‘Why not travel with me, Owen?’ he asked. ‘We’ll see the high country, the lonely passes, the stands of pine.’

‘I think I will,’ I told him.

Towards midnight, with the women sleeping, the hunchback Wulf came to the door. ‘I need to talk with you, Mace,’ he said.

Jarek ushered him to the hearth where the hunchback sat awkwardly, his twisted back unsuited to the chair. ‘I’ve nothing here any more,’ he said. Jarek nodded, but remained silent. ‘Most women turned away from me, but not my Tess. A good woman — and I treated her right. Good young ’uns, too. Pretty — not like their sire. But they gone now. Gone.’ His voice trailed away and he cleared his throat and spat into the dying fire. ‘Anyways, what I’m saying is that I’ve no holds here.’

‘Why tell me?’ asked Jarek, not unkindly.

‘You’re a wandering man, Mace. There’s nothing here for any of us now, so I guess you’ll be traveling on. I’d like to accompany you.’

‘You don’t even like me, Wulf.’

‘True enough — but I liked what I saw on the road. I liked it when you stopped them — right well I liked it. You ain’t one of us, Mace — more like you are one of them. But, by God’s Holy Eyes, you were a Highlander at that moment.’

Jarek Mace chuckled, then reached out and laid his hand on Wulfs twisted back. ‘You are the best woodsman I’ve ever known,’ he said. ‘Having you with us will mean good food and less time lost. You’re welcome. But know this: I don’t intend taking on the Angostins again. There’s no profit in it.’

‘Time will tell about that, Mace,’ said Wulf.

We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers to pack their belongings ready for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on rough-built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled on to the wagon.

The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees and the Naeser Abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey of the souls to the Far River. Many tears were shed.

At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the Tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.

‘They are coming!’ he said, between great gulps of air. ‘Maybe a hundred horsemen.’

Word spread swiftly and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away towards the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.

‘Time to go,’ said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the north-west and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand: his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he too carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand-axe was thrust into this wide leather belt.

As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money-pouch and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-coloured woollen shirt. In truth I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the axe had built muscle to my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.

Which was just as well — for as we reached the hillside we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding towards us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.

Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree-line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.

Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.

Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider dragged on the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.

Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy further into the forest.

Within the hour all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.

The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with colour and life. From the high mountain-sides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.

For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares and, on the third day, Jarek killed a big-horn sheep and we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.

I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarce drink in the wonder of my surroundings.

I know it may seem callous, considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.

But then we met Piercollo….

Of us all he came closest to being the reality within the myth. There are more stories about him than any of us, including the Morningstar. And while the greater part of them are inventions or distortions, if life had placed him in those fictitious situations of peril he would have reacted just as the storytellers claim.

Added to which, there was never any malice in Piercollo. I do not believe he ever truly learned to hate. And what a voice! When he sang, such was the warmth and emotion that he could stave off winter. I’d swear that if he burst into song in an icy glade the snow would melt and spring flowers push up through the frozen earth just to hear him.

Of them all, I miss him the most.

We were walking down into a shaded glen. The sun was high, just past noon on a warm spring day. Jarek Mace was leading us and we were moving north-west towards the distant market town of Lualis. As usual I brought up the rear, walking behind Wulf whose mood on this day was sullen, the loss of his family heavy upon him.

Then we heard the sound of a man singing, his voice rich, the language unknown to me. But the song soared out above and through the trees with a power I could scarce believe. My skin tingled with the excitement of it, and I knew that this… unknown… singer was performing for the forest, just as I had months before with my harp. He was singing from the heart, carrying the music from the well of his soul and releasing it into the air like a flock of golden birds.

Mace dropped back to where Wulf and I stood spellbound.

‘What the hell is that?’ asked Jarek Mace. Wulf’s hand slashed the air, commanding silence, and we stood for several minutes and listened. At last the song faded. Mace looked at us both, then chuckled and shook his head. Stringing his bow, he strode off in the direction from which the song had come. As we followed him there came the aroma of roasting meat. We had breakfasted on wild turkey and were far from hungry, yet the smell made the mouth water and the stomach growl. Suddenly it was as if I had not eaten in days, such was my new-found appetite.

We came to a clearing beside a swift-flowing stream. There, beside a trench fire-pit upon which a whole sheep was being turned upon a spit, sat a huge black-bearded man. He was wearing a purple shirt and hose of wool, and about his shoulders was a chequered black and white shawl. He glanced up as we emerged from the trees, but did not stand or greet us.

‘Good day to you,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘I see we are in time for lunch’

‘You are in time to watch me eat my lunch,’ agreed the man amiably. The voice was deep, and heavily accented. He smiled as he spoke, but the smile did not reach the sombre brown eyes.

‘That is hardly civil,’ Jarek told him. ‘Here we are, three hungry travelers, and you with a complete sheep almost ready for the carving.’ He moved to the fire trench, where several pots bubbled beside the sheep. ‘Ah, liver broth, vegetables, wild onions and herbs. Quite a feast for one man?’

‘Yes, I am looking forward to it. But I prefer to eat in privacy. So why not be on your way?’

Mace grinned and stepped back from the fire trench. ‘Has it occurred to you, my large friend, that we could just confiscate this meal? You are one against three.’

The large man sighed and rose ponderously to his feet. Sitting down he had seemed large enough, but now, standing, he was an alarming size. Somewhere around seven inches above six feet tall, his breadth of shoulder was immense and he towered over Mace.

‘How would you do that?’ he asked, the words spoken softly. ‘With your bow? You think an arrow could stop me reaching you and breaking your arms and legs?’

‘Good point,’ Mace agreed, laying aside the bow and drawing his longsword.

‘No good either,’ said the man. ‘One cut, one thrust, is all you get. And I have been cut before.’

‘Turn the spit,’ said Mace, ‘the meat is charring.’The giant glanced back, saw that it was true and moved to the roasting sheep, turning the iron handle with one hand.

‘Now,’ said Mace, ‘it would appear that we are in somewhat of a quandary. We are hungry, you are loth to share your food. We do not want to kill you, nor to be killed. Therefore, let us wrestle for it.’

The man stared at him without expression for several heartbeats, then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You would wrestle me?’

‘Best of three falls,’ offered Mace. ‘What do you say? If you win we’ll be on our way. If I win we share the meat.’

‘Agreed,’ said the man. Turning to me, he pointed to the spit. ‘You think you can keep her turning?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I told him. He moved away from the spit to stand before Mace, looming over him and dwarfing him.

‘First let us talk about the rules,’ said Mace, stepping in close. Suddenly he hooked his foot behind the giant’s leg and hammered his elbow into the man’s face. As he stumbled back, Mace leapt feet-first at him, his boots thundering against the huge chest. His opponent toppled like a tree, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud. ‘Rule number one — there are no rules!’

The giant was unperturbed. Raising himself to his elbows he gave a low, rumbling laugh. ‘Had you asked for a one-fall advantage I would have given it to you,’ he said, climbing to his feet. Mace ran forward and once again leapt at him feet-first. This time the man swayed and caught the flying figure, holding him in his arms with no more effort than if he held a child. With a sway of the hips and a grunt of effort, he hurled Mace high into the air.

I winced at the thought of the landing that would follow — but Jarek Mace was a man of surprises. His body twisted in the air in a full somersault and he landed perfectly on his feet.

‘Very good,’ said his opponent, clapping his hands. ‘Now let us be serious.’

They circled one another for several moments; then Mace darted in, dropped to his knee and hurled his full weight against the giant’s legs. The man did not move. Reaching down he grabbed Mace by the jerkin, hauling him to his feet — and beyond.

‘A nice try, but you are competing at the wrong weight.’ With infinite lack of speed the giant lifted his arms and slammed Mace to the ground. Then the stranger stood and walked back towards the fire trench. Mace rolled to his knees, drew his dagger and was about to rush in and stab his opponent in the back when the man, without looking back, spoke again.

‘I like you, little fellow,’ he said. ‘Let us call it a draw — and eat.’

I never knew whether Piercollo heard the whisper of iron hissing from the sheath; he never spoke of it. But I saw the light of anger fade from Mace’s eyes.

‘It is safe now, I think,’ called the stranger, and a group of women and children came out from their hiding-places in the trees. There were three elderly women, four younger wives and eight children ranging in age from around four to twelve. Mace stood open-mouthed as they appeared, and I looked towards Wulf; there was no reaction from the hunchback and I guessed he had known of their presence all along.

‘Let us eat!’ said our host. There were no plates, but the children had pulled sections of bark from surrounding trees and scrubbed them clean, and the succulent mutton was placed upon them.

It was a feast as fine as any I have tasted — the meat rich and full of flavour, the broth divine, the wild onion soup without peer. At last replete, I sat back against a tree and took out my harp.

The giant approached me as I tuned the strings. ‘You are a lover of music, eh? Good! After a fine meal there should always be music. My name is Piercollo. You play and I shall sing. Yes?’

‘I would be honoured,’ I told him. Wulf joined us, and from his small pack took a flute. He smiled self-consciously. ‘I have heard you play, Owen, and I am not as skilled. But, if you will bear with my lack of talent, I would like to take part.’

‘What shall we play?’ I asked them, and we discussed the merits of various songs until at last we decided upon ‘The Forest Queen.’ It is not performed much in these more enlightened days, but it was a good song with a simple chorus. You know it?

It was a song of the Before Times, when the land of the Ikenas was said to have been peopled by an elder race who knew great magic. The last Queen was Elaine who, betrayed in love, walked through the forest, becoming at last a restless spirit whose song could be heard in the rushing of the streams and the wind whispering through the branches of the trees.

I set a slow and haunting melody. After several quavering, uncertain notes, Wulf joined in. Then Piercollo sang. The children gathered around us and, after a while, began singing the chorus.

It was more beautiful than you could possibly know: the sun shining on the hollow, the whispering of the stream, the harp, the flute and the majestic voice of Piercollo ringing out in the mountains. I remember that day more brightly than any that followed, for it was full of enchantment that not even Cataplas could have duplicated.

We sang and played for more than an hour until dusk. Several of the children were asleep by the fire trench and I saw Jarek Mace stroll away from the hollow to walk to the brow of a nearby hill.

I joined him there and sat beside him.

‘Thank God all that wailing is over,’ he muttered. ‘It was driving me insane.’

I felt a great sadness come over me then. For all his charm and courage Mace had no concept of the beauty of music, nor indeed had he taken any joy in the comradeship and the closeness the music had generated. He was a man apart.

‘What are you looking for, Jarek?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘There is a castle I want to own. It stands on the cliff-tops overlooking the western sea, far down in the south.’

‘Why that castle?’

‘Why not?’ he answered, looking away.

Changing the subject, I mentioned the wrestling bout and the incredible balance and dexterity he had shown when thrown into the air.

‘I used to be a tumbler,’ he told me, his smile returning. ‘And a juggler, and a walker upon the high rope.’

‘You have had an interesting life.’

‘Have I?’ he said, with genuine surprise. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. Tell me, Owen, are you happy?’ The question surprised me and I looked into his eyes, seeking any sign of mockery, but there was none. He was genuinely — at that moment — interested.

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Very. You?’

He shrugged and turned away. ‘I will be — when I have my castle. You know, I used to think music was some sort of trick,that people only pretended to enjoy it. For me it is a meaningless series of discordant sounds. I hate it, for its beauty is denied to me.’

‘It is a great loss,’ I agreed, ‘but did you not find the companionship agreeable? The children sitting around the fire, the woodsmoke, the security?’

‘Ah, the romantic in you again, eh, Owen? It was just a roast sheep, my friend, on a warm afternoon. Nothing more.’

‘I think you are wrong. I think I will remember this day all my life.’

‘You should eat roast sheep more often,’ he said, thumping my back. Then he stood, took his bow and wandered off into the forest.

I helped Piercollo clean the pots and scrape the animal fat from the disassembled spit. He gathered the iron rods, bound them together and carried them to an enormous pack he had left under a tree.

‘You are a cook?’ I asked him.

‘Not just a cook. The cook. I was known as the finest food maker in Tuscania. I should have stayed there. But no, when the Angostins visited my Duke they clamoured for my services. Great golden coins they laid under my nose. Come to Ikena, they said. Serve us and become rich. Foolish Piercollo! He listened and he liked the touch of their gold.’ He shook his great head. ‘I should have stayed in my own land.’

‘It is not so bad in Ikena,’ I told him. ‘I grew up there, on the southern coast.’

‘No, it is not so bad,’ he agreed. ‘But the weather? Rain and fog, drizzle and mist. And the people! Pigs would have a better understanding of food. They bring me across the continent, across the ocean, and for what? Burned meat and soft vegetables. There is no skill in such meals. Even that I could have borne, but not Azrek. Oh, no. Not him.’

‘Tell me of him,’ I urged Piercollo.

‘Believe me, Owen, you would not wish to hear.’

‘Tell me.’

‘He is a torturer. Every night the screams could be heard from the dungeons. Men and women… and even little ones. Very bad, Owen. I think he likes to hear people scream. Well, I do not like it. One day I look for my implements and they are gone. I ask where they are. I am told the Count has them. You know what he does? He is roasting a man on my spit! That is enough for Piercollo. I left.’

‘Sweet Heaven! But surely anyone roasted like that would die swiftly?’

‘Yes, but not this time. The Count has a sorcerer — a vile man. He kept the prisoner alive for hours — alive to suffer as no man should suffer. I am glad to be free of such a Lord. All I wish for now is to return to Tuscania.’

‘Where did you come upon the children?’He smiled, his teeth startlingly white in the gathering dusk. They hear Piercollo sing as they are wandering in the forest. The women tell me their village was attacked some days ago. Now they head for the town of Lualis. I too will go there; it is a river town, and rivers lead to the sea. From the coast I shall find a ship to take me home.’

‘You have family in Tuscania?’

‘I have a sister. A good woman — big, well-made. Eight sons she has borne, and not a single daughter. I will stay with her for a while. What of you? Where are you heading?’

I spread my hands. ‘Everywhere and nowhere. I live in the forest.’

‘It is not so bad a place. Many deer and wild pig, rabbits and mountain sheep. Good onions and herbs. I like it here also. But it will not be peaceful for long — not now the rebels have made it a stronghold.’

‘Rebels?’ I enquired. ‘I have heard of no rebels.’

‘I was in Ziraccu when the news came in. There is a rebellion here, led by a hero called Morningstar. He and a hundred men attacked a convoy led by the Count’s two brothers. One of them was killed. Azrek has offered a thousand crowns’ reward for Morningstar’s capture. And an army is being raised to crush the rebellion.’

I said nothing as my mind reeled with the news, but Piercollo continued to speak. ‘I would like to meet this Morningstar,’ he said. ‘I would like to shake his hand and wish him well.’

‘Perhaps you will,’ I whispered.