The Buried Giant

Chapter One

You would have searched a long time for the sort of winding lane or tranquil meadow for which England later became celebrated. There were instead miles of desolate, uncultivated land; here and there rough-hewn paths over craggy hills or bleak moorland. Most of the roads left by the Romans would by then have become broken or overgrown, often fading into wilderness. Icy fogs hung over rivers and marshes, serving all too well the ogres that were then still native to this land. The people who lived nearby — one wonders what desperation led them to settle in such gloomy spots — might well have feared these creatures, whose panting breaths could be heard long before their deformed figures emerged from the mist. But such monsters were not cause for astonishment. People then would have regarded them as everyday hazards, and in those days there was so much else to worry about. How to get food out of the hard ground; how not to run out of firewood; how to stop the sickness that could kill a dozen pigs in a single day and produce green rashes on the cheeks of children.

In any case, ogres were not so bad provided one did not provoke them. One had to accept that every so often, perhaps following some obscure dispute in their ranks, a creature would come blundering into a village in a terrible rage, and despite shouts and brandishings of weapons, rampage about injuring anyone slow to move out of its path. Or that every so often, an ogre might carry off a child into the mist. The people of the day had to be philosophical about such outrages.

In one such area on the edge of a vast bog, in the shadow of some jagged hills, lived an elderly couple, Axl and Beatrice. Perhaps these were not their exact or full names, but for ease, this is how we will refer to them. I would say this couple lived an isolated life, but in those days few were “isolated” in any sense we would understand. For warmth and protection, the villagers lived in shelters, many of them dug deep into the hillside, connecting one to the other by underground passages and covered corridors. Our elderly couple lived within one such sprawling warren—“building” would be too grand a word — with roughly sixty other villagers. If you came out of their warren and walked for twenty minutes around the hill, you would have reached the next settlement, and to your eyes, this one would have seemed identical to the first. But to the inhabitants themselves, there would have been many distinguishing details of which they would have been proud or ashamed.

I have no wish to give the impression that this was all there was to the Britain of those days; that at a time when magnificent civilisations flourished elsewhere in the world, we were here not much beyond the Iron Age. Had you been able to roam the countryside at will, you might well have discovered castles containing music, fine food, athletic excellence; or monasteries with inhabitants steeped in learning. But there is no getting around it. Even on a strong horse, in good weather, you could have ridden for days without spotting any castle or monastery looming out of the greenery. Mostly you would have found communities like the one I have just described, and unless you had with you gifts of food or clothing, or were ferociously armed, you would not have been sure of a welcome. I am sorry to paint such a picture of our country at that time, but there you are.

To return to Axl and Beatrice. As I said, this elderly couple lived on the outer fringes of the warren, where their shelter was less protected from the elements and hardly benefited from the fire in the Great Chamber where everyone congregated at night. Perhaps there had been a time when they had lived closer to the fire; a time when they had lived with their children. In fact, it was just such an idea that would drift into Axl’s mind as he lay in his bed during the empty hours before dawn, his wife soundly asleep beside him, and then a sense of some unnamed loss would gnaw at his heart, preventing him from returning to sleep.

Perhaps that was why, on this particular morning, Axl had abandoned his bed altogether and slipped quietly outside to sit on the old warped bench beside the entrance to the warren in wait for the first signs of daylight. It was spring, but the air still felt bitter, even with Beatrice’s cloak, which he had taken on his way out and wrapped around himself. Yet he had become so absorbed in his thoughts that by the time he realised how cold he was, the stars had all but gone, a glow was spreading on the horizon, and the first notes of birdsong were emerging from the dimness.

He rose slowly to his feet, regretting having stayed out so long. He was in good health, but it had taken a while to shake off his last fever and he did not wish it to return. Now he could feel the damp in his legs, but as he turned to go back inside, he was well satisfied: for he had this morning succeeded in remembering a number of things that had eluded him for some time. Moreover, he now sensed he was about to come to some momentous decision — one that had been put off far too long — and felt an excitement within him which he was eager to share with his wife.

Inside, the passageways of the warren were still in complete darkness, and he was obliged to feel his way the short distance back to the door of his chamber. Many of the “doorways” within the warren were simple archways to mark the threshold to a chamber. The open nature of this arrangement would not have struck the villagers as compromising their privacy, but allowed rooms to benefit from any warmth coming down the corridors from the great fire or the smaller fires permitted within the warren. Axl and Beatrice’s room, however, being too far from any fire had something we might recognise as an actual door; a large wooden frame criss-crossed with small branches, vines and thistles which someone going in and out would each time have to lift to one side, but which shut out the chilly draughts. Axl would happily have done without this door, but it had over time become an object of considerable pride to Beatrice. He had often returned to find his wife pulling off withered pieces from the construct and replacing them with fresh cuttings she had gathered during the day.

This morning, Axl moved the barrier just enough to let himself in, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Here, the early dawn light was leaking into the room through the small chinks of their outer wall. He could see his hand dimly before him, and on the turf bed, Beatrice’s form still sound asleep under the thick blankets.

He was tempted to wake his wife. For a part of him felt sure that if, at this moment, she were awake and talking to him, whatever last barriers remained between him and his decision would finally crumble. But it was some time yet until the community roused itself and the day’s work began, so he settled himself on the low stool in the corner of the chamber, his wife’s cloak still tight around him.

He wondered how thick the mist would be that morning, and if, as the dark faded, he would see it had seeped through the cracks right into their chamber. But then his thoughts drifted away from such matters, back to what had been preoccupying him. Had they always lived like this, just the two of them, at the periphery of the community? Or had things once been quite different? Earlier, outside, some fragments of a remembrance had come back to him: a small moment when he was walking down the long central corridor of the warren, his arm around one of his own children, his gait a little crouched not on account of age as it might be now, but simply because he wished to avoid hitting his head on the beams in the murky light. Possibly the child had just been speaking to him, saying something amusing, and they were both of them laughing. But now, as earlier outside, nothing would quite settle in his mind, and the more he concentrated, the fainter the fragments seemed to grow. Perhaps these were just an elderly fool’s imaginings. Perhaps it was that God had never given them children.

You may wonder why Axl did not turn to his fellow villagers for assistance in recalling the past, but this was not as easy as you might suppose. For in this community the past was rarely discussed. I do not mean that it was taboo. I mean that it had somehow faded into a mist as dense as that which hung over the marshes. It simply did not occur to these villagers to think about the past — even the recent one.

To take an instance, one that had bothered Axl for some time: He was sure that not so long ago, there had been in their midst a woman with long red hair — a woman regarded as crucial to their village. Whenever anyone injured themselves or fell sick, it had been this red-haired woman, so skilled at healing, who was immediately sent for. Yet now this same woman was no longer to be found anywhere, and no one seemed to wonder what had occurred, or even to express regret at her absence. When one morning Axl had mentioned the matter to three neighbours while working with them to break up the frosted field, their response told him that they genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. One of them had even paused in his work in an effort to remember, but had ended by shaking his head. “Must have been a long time ago,” he had said.

“Neither have I any memory of such a woman,” Beatrice had said to him when he had brought up the matter with her one night. “Perhaps you dreamt her up for your own needs, Axl, even though you’ve a wife here beside you and with a back straighter than yours.”

This had been some time the previous autumn, and they had been lying side by side on their bed in the pitch black, listening to the rain beating against their shelter.

“It’s true you’ve hardly aged at all down the years, princess,” Axl had said. “But the woman was no dream, and you’d remember her yourself if you spared a moment to think about it. There she was at our door only a month ago, a kindly soul asking if there was anything she might bring us. Surely you remember.”

“But why was she wishing to bring us anything at all? Was she a kin to us?”

“I don’t believe she was, princess. She was just being kind. Surely you remember. She was often at the door asking if we weren’t cold or hungry.”

“What I’m asking, Axl, is what business was it of hers to single us out for her kindness?”

“I wondered myself at the time, princess. I remember thinking here’s a woman given to tending the sick, and yet here’s the two of us both as healthy as any in the village. Is there perhaps talk of a plague on the way and she’s here to look us over? But it turns out there’s no plague and she’s just being kind. Now we’re talking about her there’s even more comes back to me. She was standing there telling us not to mind the children calling us names. That was it. Then we never saw her again.”

“Not only is this red-haired woman a dream from your mind, Axl, she’s a fool to be worrying herself about a few children and their games.”

“Just what I thought at the time, princess. What harm can children do us and they just passing the time of day when the weather’s too dreary outside. I told her how we hadn’t given it a second thought, but she meant kindly all the same. And then I remember her saying it was a pity we had to spend our nights without a candle.”

“If this creature pitied us our lack of a candle,” Beatrice had said, “she had one thing right at least. It’s an insult, forbidding us a candle through nights like these and our hands as steady as any of them. While there’s others with candles in their chamber, senseless each night from cider, or else with children running wild. Yet it’s our candle they’ve taken, and now I can hardly see your outline, Axl, though you’re right beside me.”

“There’s no insult intended, princess. It’s just the way things have always been done and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well it’s not just your dream woman thinks it strange we should have our candle taken from us. Yesterday or was it the day before, I was at the river and walking past the women and I’m sure I heard them saying, when they supposed I’d gone out of hearing, how it was a disgrace an upright couple like us having to sit in the dark each night. So your dream woman’s not alone in thinking what she does.”

“She’s no dream woman I keep telling you, princess. Everyone here knew her a month ago and had a good word for her. What can it be makes everyone, yourself included, forget she ever lived?”

Recalling the conversation now on this spring’s morning, Axl felt almost ready to admit he had been mistaken about the red-haired woman. He was after all an ageing man and prone to occasional confusion. And yet, this instance of the red-haired woman had been merely one of a steady run of such puzzling episodes. Frustratingly, he could not at this moment think of so many examples, but they had been numerous, of that there was no doubt. There had been, for instance, the incident concerning Marta.

This was a little girl of nine or ten who had always had a reputation for fearlessness. All the hair-raising tales of what could happen to wandering children seemed not to dampen her sense of adventure. So the evening when, with less than an hour of daylight remaining, the mist coming in and the wolves audible on the hillside, the word went around that Marta was missing, everyone had stopped what they were doing in alarm. For the next little while, voices called her name all around the warren and footsteps rushed up and down its corridors as villagers searched every sleeping chamber, the storage burrows, the cavities beneath the rafters, any hiding place a child might go to amuse herself.

Then in the midst of this panic, two shepherds returning from their shift on the hills came into the Great Chamber and began warming themselves by the fire. As they did so, one of them announced how the day before they had watched a wren-eagle circle above their heads, once, twice, then a third time. There was no mistake, he said, it had been a wren-eagle. Word quickly went around the warren and soon a crowd had gathered around the fire to listen to the shepherds. Even Axl had hurried to join them, for the appearance of a wren-eagle in their country was news indeed. Among the many powers attributed to the wren-eagle was the ability to frighten away wolves, and elsewhere in the land, it was said, wolves had vanished altogether on account of these birds.

At first the shepherds were questioned eagerly and made to repeat their story over and over. Then steadily a scepticism began to spread among the listeners. There had been many similar claims, someone pointed out, and each time they had proved unfounded. Someone else stated that these same two shepherds had only the previous spring brought back an identical story, and yet no further sightings had followed. The shepherds angrily denied bringing any such previous report, and soon the crowd was dividing between those taking the shepherds’ side and those claiming some memory of the alleged episode the previous year.

As the quarrel grew heated, Axl found coming over him that familiar nagging sense that something was not right, and removing himself from the shouting and jostling, went outside to stare at the darkening sky and the mist rolling over the ground. And after a while, fragments began to piece themselves together in his mind, of the missing Marta, of the danger, of how not long ago everyone had been searching for her. But already these recollections were growing confused, in much the way a dream does in the seconds after waking, and it was only with a supreme act of concentration that Axl held on to the thought of little Marta at all while voices behind him continued to argue about the wren-eagle. Then, as he was standing there like that, he heard the sound of a girl singing to herself and saw Marta emerge before him out of the mist.

“You’re a strange one, child,” Axl said as she came skipping up to him. “Aren’t you afraid of the dark? Of the wolves or the ogres?”

“Oh, I’m afraid of them, sir,” she said with a smile. “But I know how to hide from them. I hope my parents haven’t been asking for me. I got such a hiding last week.”

“Asking for you? Of course they’ve been asking for you. Isn’t the whole village searching for you? Listen to that uproar inside. That’s all for you, child.”

Marta laughed and said: “Oh stop it, sir! I know they’ve not missed me. And I can hear, that’s not me they’re shouting about.”

When she said this, it occurred to Axl that sure enough the girl was right: the voices inside were not arguing about her at all, but about some other matter altogether. He leaned towards the doorway to hear better, and as he caught the odd phrase amidst the raised voices, it began to come back to him, about the shepherds and the wren-eagle. He was wondering if he should explain something of this to Marta when she suddenly skipped past him and went inside.

He followed her in, anticipating the relief and joy her appearance would cause. And to be frank, it had occurred to him that by coming in with her, he would get a little of the credit for her safe return. But as they entered the Great Chamber the villagers were still so engrossed in their quarrel over the shepherds only a few of them even bothered to look their way. Marta’s mother did come away from the crowd long enough to say to the child: “So here you are! Don’t you be wandering off that way! How often must I tell you?” before turning her attention back to the arguments raging around the fire. At this, Marta gave Axl a grin as though to say: “See what I told you?” and vanished into the shadows in search of her companions.

The room had grown significantly lighter. Their chamber, being on the outer fringe, had a small window to the outside, though it was too high to gaze out of without standing on a stool. It was at this moment covered with a cloth, but now an early ray of sun was penetrating from one corner, casting a beam over where Beatrice was sleeping. Axl could see, caught in this ray, what looked like an insect hovering in the air just above his wife’s head. He then realised it was a spider, suspended by its invisible vertical thread, and even as he watched, it started on its smooth descent. Rising noiselessly, Axl crossed the small room and swept his hand through the space above his sleeping wife, catching the spider within his palm. Then he stood there a moment looking down at her. There was a peacefulness on her sleeping face he rarely saw now when she was awake, and the sudden rush of happiness the sight brought him took him by surprise. He knew then he had made up his mind, and he wanted again to awaken her, just so he might break to her his news. But he saw the selfishness of such an action — and besides, how could he be so sure of her response? In the end he went back quietly to his stool, and as he seated himself again, remembered the spider and opened his hand gently.

When earlier he had been sitting on the bench outside waiting for the first light, he had tried to recall how he and Beatrice had first come to discuss the idea of their journey. He had thought then he had located a particular conversation they had had one night in this same chamber, but now, as he watched the spider run round the edge of his hand and onto the earthen floor, it struck him with certainty that the first mention of the subject had come that day the stranger in dark rags had passed through the village.

It had been a grey morning — was it as long ago now as last November? — and Axl had been striding beside the river along a foot-path overhung with willows. He was hurrying back to the warren from the fields, perhaps to fetch a tool or receive new instructions from a foreman. In any case, he was stopped by a burst of raised voices from beyond the bushes to his right. His first thought was of ogres, and he searched quickly around for a rock or stick. Then he realised the voices — all of women — though angry and excited, lacked the panic that accompanied ogre attacks. He nevertheless pushed his way determinedly through a hedge of juniper shrubs and stumbled into a clearing, where he saw five women — not in their first youth, but still of child-bearing age — standing closely together. Their backs were turned to him and they went on shouting at something in the distance. He was almost up to them before one of the women noticed him with a start, but then the others turned and regarded him almost with insolence.

“Well, well,” said one. “Perhaps it’s chance or something more. But here’s the husband and hopefully he’ll drive sense into her.”

The woman who had seen him first said: “We told your wife not to go but she wouldn’t listen. She’s insisting she’ll take food to the stranger though she’s most likely a demon or else some elf disguised.”

“Is my wife in danger? Ladies, please explain yourselves.”

“There’s a strange woman been wandering around us all morning,” another said. “Hair down her back and a cloak of black rags. She claimed to be a Saxon but she’s not dressed like any Saxon we ever met. She tried to creep up behind us on the riverbank when we were attending to the laundry, but we saw her in good time and chased her away. But she kept returning, acting like she was heart-broken for something, other times asking us for food. We reckon she was all the while aiming her spell straight towards your wife, sir, for twice this morning already we had to hold Beatrice back by the arms, so intent was she on going to the demon. And now she’s fought us all off and gone up to the old thorn where even now the demon’s sitting waiting for her. We held her all we could, sir, but it must be the demon’s powers already moving through her because her strength was unnatural for a woman so thin-boned and aged as your wife.”

“The old thorn …”

“She set off only a moment ago, sir. But that’s a demon to be sure, and if you’re off after her you’ll watch you’re not stumbling or cutting yourself on a poisoned thistle the way it will never heal.”

Axl did his best to hide his irritation with these women, saying politely: “I’m grateful, ladies. I’ll go and see what my wife is up to. Excuse me.”

To our villagers, “the old thorn” denoted a local beauty spot as much as the actual hawthorn tree that grew seemingly right out of the rock at the edge of the promontory a short walk from the warren. On a sunny day, provided the wind was not strong, it was a pleasant place to pass the time. You had a good view of the land down to the water, of the river’s curve and the marshes beyond. On Sundays children often played around the gnarled roots, sometimes daring to jump off the end of the promontory, which in fact had only a gentle drop that would cause a child no injury, but simply to roll like a barrel down the grassy slope. But on a morning like this one, when adults and children alike were busy with tasks, the spot would have been deserted, and Axl, coming through the mist up the incline, was not surprised to see the two women were alone, their figures almost silhouettes against the white sky. Sure enough, the stranger, seated with her back against the rock, was dressed curiously. From a distance, at least, her cloak appeared to be made of many separate pieces of cloth stitched together, and it was now flapping in the wind, giving its owner the appearance of a great bird about to take flight. Beside her, Beatrice — still on her feet, though with head lowered towards her companion — appeared slight and vulnerable. They were in earnest conversation, but spotting Axl’s approach below, stopped and watched him. Then Beatrice came to the edge of the promontory and called down:

“Just stop there, husband, no further! I’ll come to you. But don’t climb up here and be disturbing this poor lady’s peace now she’s at last able to rest her feet and eat a little of yesterday’s bread.”

Axl waited as instructed and before long saw his wife coming down the long field-path to where he was standing. She came right up to him, and concerned no doubt that the wind would carry their words up to the stranger, said in a low voice:

“Have those foolish women sent you after me, husband? When I was their age, I’m sure it was the old ones were full of fear and foolish beliefs, reckoning every stone cursed and each stray cat an evil spirit. But now I’m grown old myself, what do I find but it’s the young are riddled with beliefs like they never heard the Lord’s promise to walk beside us at all times. Look at that poor stranger, see her yourself, exhausted and solitary, and she’s wandered the forest and fields for four days, village after village commanding her to travel on. And it’s Christian country she’s walked across, but taken for a demon or maybe a leper though her skin bears no mark of it. Now, husband, I hope you’re not here to tell me I’m not to give this poor woman comfort and what sorry food I have with me.”

“I wouldn’t tell you any such thing, princess, for I see for myself what you’re saying is true. I was thinking before I even came here how it’s a shameful thing we can’t receive a stranger with kindness any more.”

“Then go on with your business, husband, for I’m sure they’ll be complaining again how slow you are at your work, and before you know they’ll have the children chanting at us again.”

“No one’s ever said I’m slow in my work, princess. Where did you hear such a thing? I’ve never heard a word of such complaint and I’m able to take the same burden as any man twenty years younger.”

“I’m only teasing, husband. Right enough, there’s no one complaining about your work.”

“If there’s children calling us names, it’s not to do with my work being fast or slow but parents too foolish or more likely drunk to teach them manners or respect.”

“Calm yourself, husband. I told you I was just teasing and I won’t do so again. The stranger was telling me something that greatly interests me and may some time interest you too. But she needs to finish the telling of it, so let me ask you again to hurry on with whatever task you have to do and leave me to listen to her and give what comfort I can.”

“I’m sorry, princess, if I spoke harshly to you just then.”

But Beatrice had already turned and was climbing the path back to the thorn tree and the figure in the flapping cloak.

A little later, having completed his errand, Axl was returning to the fields, and at the risk of testing the patience of his colleagues, deviated from his route to go past the old thorn again. For the truth was that while he had fully shared his wife’s scorn for the suspicious instincts of the women, he had not been able to free himself from the thought that the stranger did pose some sort of threat, and he had been uneasy since leaving Beatrice with her. He was relieved then to see his wife’s figure, alone on the promontory in front of the rock, looking out at the sky. She seemed lost in thought, and failed to notice him until he called up to her. As he watched her descending the path, more slowly than before, it occurred to him not for the first time that there was something different lately in her gait. She was not limping exactly, but it was as though she were nursing some secret pain somewhere. When he asked her, as she approached, what had become of her odd companion, Beatrice said simply: “She went on her way.”

“She would have been grateful for your kindness, princess. Did you speak long with her?”

“I did and she had a deal to say.”

“I can see she said something to trouble you, princess. Perhaps those women were right and she was one best avoided.”

“She’s not upset me, Axl. She has me thinking though.”

“You’re in a strange mood. Are you sure she hasn’t put some spell on you before vanishing into the air?”

“Walk up there to the thorn, husband, and you’ll see her on the path and only recently departed. She’s hoping for better charity from those around the hill.”

“Well then I’ll leave you, princess, since I see you’ve come to no harm. God will be pleased for the kindness you’ve shown as is always your way.”

But this time his wife seemed reluctant to let him go. She grasped his arm, as though momentarily to steady herself, then let her head rest on his chest. As though by its own instinct, his hand rose to caress her hair, grown tangled in the wind, and when he glanced down at her he was surprised to see her eyes still wide open.

“You’re in a strange mood, right enough,” he said. “What did that stranger say to you?”

She kept her head on his chest for a moment longer. Then she straightened and let go of him. “Now I think of it, Axl, there may be something in what you’re always saying. It’s queer the way the world’s forgetting people and things from only yesterday and the day before that. Like a sickness come over us all.”

“Just what I was saying, princess. Take that red-haired woman …”

“Never mind the red-haired woman, Axl. It’s what else we’re not remembering.” She had said this while looking away into the mist-layered distance, but now she looked straight at him and he could see her eyes were filled with sadness and yearning. And it was then — he was sure — that she said to him: “You’ve long set your heart against it, Axl, I know. But it’s time now to think on it anew. There’s a journey we must go on, and no more delay.”

“A journey, princess? What sort of journey?”

“A journey to our son’s village. It’s not far, husband, we know that. Even with our slow steps, it’s a few days’ walk at most, a little way east beyond the Great Plain. And the spring will soon be upon us.”

“We might go on such a trip, certainly, princess. Was there something that stranger said just now got you thinking of it?”

“It’s been a thing in my thoughts a long time, Axl, though it’s what that poor woman said just now makes me wish to delay no further. Our son awaits us in his village. How much longer must we keep him waiting?”

“When the spring’s here, princess, we’ll certainly think about just such a journey. But why do you say it’s my wishes always stood in the way of it?”

“I don’t remember now all that’s passed between us on it, Axl. Only that you always set your heart against it, even as I longed for it.”

“Well, princess, let’s talk about it more when there’s no work waiting and neighbours ready to call us slow. Let me go on my way just now. We’ll talk more on it soon.”

But in the days that followed, even if they alluded to the idea of this journey, they never talked properly about it. For they found they became oddly uncomfortable whenever the topic was broached, and before long an understanding had grown between them, in the silent way understandings do between a husband and wife of many years, to avoid the subject as much as possible. I say “as much as possible,” for there appeared at times to be a need — a compulsion, you might say — to which one or the other would have to yield. But whatever discussions they had in such circumstances inevitably ended quickly in evasiveness or bad temper. And on the one occasion Axl had asked his wife straight out what the strange woman had said to her that day up at the old thorn, Beatrice’s expression had clouded, and she had seemed for a moment on the verge of tears. After this, Axl had taken care to avoid any reference to the stranger.

After a while Axl could no longer remember how talk of this journey had started, or what it had ever meant to them. But then this morning, sitting outside in the cold hour before dawn, his memory seemed partially at least to clear, and many things had come back to him: the red-haired woman; Marta; the stranger in dark rags; other memories with which we need not concern ourselves here. And he had remembered, quite vividly, what had happened only a few Sundays ago, when they had taken Beatrice’s candle from her.

Sundays were a day of rest for these villagers, at least to the extent that they did not work in the fields. But the livestock had still to be cared for, and with so many other tasks waiting to be done, the pastor had accepted the impracticality of forbidding everything that might be construed as labour. So it was that when Axl emerged into the spring sunshine that particular Sunday after a morning of mending boots, the sight that greeted him was of his neighbours spread all around the terrain in front of the warren, some sitting in the patchy grass, others on small stools or logs, talking, laughing and working. Children were playing everywhere, and one group had gathered around two men constructing on the grass the wheel for a wagon. It was the first Sunday of the year the weather had permitted such outdoor activity, and there was an almost festive atmosphere. Nevertheless, as he stood there at the warren entrance and gazed beyond the villagers to where the land sloped down towards the marshes, Axl could see the mist rising again, and supposed that by the afternoon they would be submerged once more in grey drizzle.

He had been standing there a while when he became aware of a commotion going on over down by the fencing to the grazing fields. It did not greatly interest him at first, but then something in the breeze caught his ear and made him straighten. For though his eyesight had grown annoyingly blurred with the years, Axl’s hearing had remained reliable, and he had discerned, in the muddle of shouting emerging from the crowd by the fence, Beatrice’s voice raised in distress.

Others too were stopping what they were doing to turn and stare. But now Axl hurried through their midst, narrowly avoiding wandering children and objects left on the grass. Before he could reach the small jostling knot of people, however, it suddenly dispersed, and Beatrice emerged from its centre, clutching something with both hands to her breast. The faces around her mostly showed amusement, but the woman who quickly appeared at his wife’s shoulder — the widow of a blacksmith who had died of fever the previous year — had features twisted with fury. Beatrice shook off her tormentor, her own face all the time a stern, near-blank mask, but when she saw Axl coming towards her, it broke into emotion.

Thinking about this now, it seemed to Axl the look on his wife’s face then had been, more than anything else, one of overwhelming relief. It was not that Beatrice had believed all would be well once he had arrived; but his presence had made all the difference to her. She had gazed at him not just with relief, but also something like pleading, and held out to him the object she had been jealously guarding.

“This is ours, Axl! We’ll not sit in darkness any longer. Take it quickly, husband, it’s ours!”

She was holding towards him a squat, somewhat misshapen candle. The blacksmith’s widow tried again to snatch it from her, but Beatrice struck away the invading hand.

“Take it, husband! That child there, little Nora, she brought it to me this morning after making it with her own hands, thinking we’d grown tired of spending our nights as we do.”

This set off another round of shouting and also some laughter. But Beatrice went on gazing at Axl, her expression full of trust and entreaty, and it was a picture of her face at that moment which had first come back to him this morning on the bench outside the warren as he had sat waiting for the dawn to break. How was it he had forgotten this episode when it could have occurred no more than three weeks ago? How could it be he had not thought about it again until today?

Although he had stretched out his arm, he had not been able to take the candle — the crowd had kept him just out of reach — and he had said, loudly and with some conviction: “Don’t worry, princess. Don’t you worry.” He was conscious of the emptiness of what he was saying even as he spoke, so he was surprised when the crowd quietened, and even the blacksmith’s widow took a step back. Only then did he realise the reaction had not been to his words, but to the approach behind him of the pastor.

“What manners are these for the Lord’s day?” The pastor strode past Axl and glared at the now silent gathering. “Well?”

“It’s Mistress Beatrice, sir,” the blacksmith’s widow said. “She’s got herself a candle.”

Beatrice’s face was a tight mask again, but she did not avoid the pastor’s gaze when it settled on her.

“I can see for myself it’s true, Mistress Beatrice,” the pastor said. “Now you’ll not have forgotten the council’s edict that you and your husband will not be permitted candles in your chamber.”

“We’ve neither of us ever tumbled a candle in our lives, sir. We will not sit night after night in darkness.”

“The decision has been made and you’re to abide by it until the council decides otherwise.”

Axl saw the anger blaze in her eyes. “It’s nothing but unkindness. That’s all it is.” She said this quietly, almost under her breath, but looking straight at the pastor.

“Remove the candle from her,” the pastor said. “Do as I say. Take it from her.”

As several hands reached towards her, it seemed to Axl she had not fully understood what the pastor had said. For she stood in the middle of the jostling with a puzzled look, continuing to grip the candle as if only by some forgotten instinct. Then panic seemed to seize her and she held the candle out towards Axl again, even as she was knocked off balance. She did not fall on account of those pressing in on her, and recovering, held out the candle for him yet again. He tried to take it, but another hand snatched it away, and then the pastor’s voice boomed out:

“Enough! Leave Mistress Beatrice in peace and none of you speak unkindly to her. She’s an old woman who doesn’t understand all she does. Enough I say! This is no fit behaviour for the Lord’s day.”

Axl, finally reaching her, took her in his arms, and the crowd melted away. When he recalled this moment, it seemed to him they stayed like that for a long time, standing close together, she with her head resting on his chest, just the way she had done the day of the strange woman’s visit, as though she were merely weary and wishing to catch her breath. He continued to hold her as the pastor called again for the people to disperse. When finally they separated and looked around themselves, they found they were alone beside the cow field and its barred wooden gate.

“What does it matter, princess?” he said. “What do we need with a candle? We’re well used to moving around our room without one. And don’t we keep ourselves entertained well enough with our talk, candle or no candle?”

He observed her carefully. She appeared dreamy, and not particularly upset.

“I’m sorry, Axl,” she said. “The candle’s gone. I should have kept it a secret for the two of us. But I was overjoyed when the young girl brought it to me and she’d crafted it herself just for us. Now it’s gone. No matter.”

“No matter at all, princess.”

“They think us a foolish pair, Axl.”

She took a step forward and placed her head on his chest again. And it was then that she said, her voice muffled so he at first thought he had misheard:

“Our son, Axl. Do you remember our son? When they were pushing me just now, it was our son I remembered. A fine, strong, upright man. Why must we stay in this place? Let’s go to our son’s village. He’ll protect us and see no one treats us ill. Will your heart not change on it, Axl, and all these years now passed? Do you still say we can’t go to him?”

As she said this, softly into his chest, many fragments of memory tugged at Axl’s mind, so much so that he felt almost faint. He loosened his hold on her and stepped back, fearing he might sway and cause her to lose her own balance.

“What’s this you’re saying, princess? Was I ever the one to stop us journeying to our son’s village?”

“But surely you were, Axl. Surely you were.”

“When did I speak against such a journey, princess?”

“I always thought you did, husband. But oh, Axl, I don’t remember clearly now you question it. And why do we stand out here, fine day though it is?”

Beatrice appeared confused again. She looked into his face, then all around her, at the pleasant sunshine, their neighbours once more giving attention to their activities.

“Let’s go and sit in our chamber,” she said after a while. “Let it be just the two of us for a while. A fine day, right enough, but I’m all tired out. Let’s go inside.”

“That’s right, princess. Sit down and rest a while, out of this sun. You’ll soon feel better.”

There were others awake now all around the warren. The shepherds must have gone out some time ago though he had been so lost in thought he had not even heard them. At the other end of the room Beatrice made a murmuring sound, as though she were preparing to sing, then turned over under the blankets. Recognising these signals, Axl made his way across to the bed in silence, sat carefully on its edge and waited.

Beatrice shifted onto her back, opened her eyes partially and gazed at Axl.

“Good morning, husband,” she said eventually. “I’m glad to see the spirits chose not to take you away as I slept.”

“Princess, there’s something I want to talk about.”

Beatrice went on gazing up at him, her eyes still only half open. Then she brought herself up to a sitting posture, her face crossing the beam of light that earlier had illuminated the spider. Her grey mane, untied and matted, hung stiffly down past her shoulders, but Axl still felt happiness stir within him at this sight of her in the morning light.

“What is it you have to say, Axl, and before I’ve had time to rub the sleep from my eyes?”

“We talked before, princess, about a journey we might make. Well, here’s the spring upon us, and perhaps it’s time we set off.”

“Set off, Axl? Set off when?”

“As soon as we’re able. We need only be gone a few days. The village can spare us. We’ll talk to the pastor.”

“And will we go to see our son, Axl?”

“That’s where we’ll go. To see our son.”

Outside the birds were now in chorus. Beatrice turned her gaze towards the window and the sun leaking past the cloth hung over it.

“Some days I remember him clear enough,” she said. “Then the next day it’s as if a veil’s fallen over his memory. But our son’s a fine and good man, I know that for sure.”

“Why is he not with us here now, princess?”

“I don’t know, Axl. It could be he quarrelled with the elders and had to leave. I’ve asked around and there’s no one here remembers him. But he wouldn’t have done anything to bring shame on himself, I know for sure. Can you remember nothing of it yourself, Axl?”

“When I was outside just now, doing my best to remember all I could in the stillness, many things came back to me. But I can’t remember our son, neither his face nor his voice, though sometimes I think I can see him when he was a small boy, and I’m leading him by the hand beside the riverbank, or when he was weeping one time and I was reaching out to comfort him. But what he looks like today, where he’s living, if he has a son of his own, I don’t remember at all. I was hoping you’d remember more, princess.”

“He’s our son,” Beatrice said. “So I can feel things about him, even if I don’t remember clearly. And I know he longs for us to leave this place and be living with him under his protection.”

“He’s our flesh and blood, so why would he not want us to join him?”

“Even so, I’ll miss this place, Axl. This small chamber of ours and this village. No light thing to leave a place you’ve known all your life.”

“No one’s asking us to do it without thought, princess. While I was waiting for the sun to rise just now, I was thinking we’ll need to make this journey to our son’s village and talk with him. For even if we’re his mother and father, it’s not for us to arrive one fine day and demand to live as part of his village.”

“You’re right, husband.”

“There’s another thing troubles me, princess. This village may only be a few days away as you say. But how will we know where to find it?”

Beatrice fell silent, gazing into the space before her, her shoulders swaying gently with her breathing. “I believe we’ll know our way well enough, Axl,” she said eventually. “Even if we don’t yet know his exact village, I’ll have travelled to ones nearby often enough with the other women when trading our honey and tin. I’ll know my way blindfolded to the Great Plain, and the Saxon village beyond where we’ve often rested. Our son’s village can only be a little way further, so we’ll find it with little trouble. Axl, are we really to go soon?”

“Yes, princess. We’ll start preparing today.”

Chapter Two

There were, however, plenty of things to attend to before they could set off. In a village like this, many items necessary for their journey — blankets, water flasks, tinder — were communally owned and securing their use required much bargaining with neighbours. Moreover, Axl and Beatrice, advanced though they were in years, had their burden of daily duties and could not simply go away without the consent of the community. And even when they were finally ready to leave, a turn in the weather delayed them further. For what was the point of risking the hazards of fog, rain and cold when sunshine was surely just around the corner?

But they did eventually set off, with walking sticks and bundles on their backs, on a bright morning of wispy white clouds and a strong breeze. Axl had wished to start at first light — it was clear to him the day would be fine — but Beatrice had insisted on waiting till the sun was higher. The Saxon village where they would shelter the first night, she argued, was easily within a day’s walk, and surely their priority was to cross the corner of the Great Plain as close to noon as possible, when the dark forces of that place were most likely to be dormant.

It had been a while since they had walked any distance together, and Axl had been anxious about his wife’s stamina. But after an hour he found himself reassured: though her pace was slow — he noticed again something lop-sided about her gait, as if she were cushioning some pain — Beatrice kept moving on steadily, head down into the wind in open land, undaunted when confronted by thistles and undergrowth. On uphills, or ground so muddy it was an effort to pull one foot out after the other, she would slow right down, but keep pushing on.

In the days before their journey’s start, Beatrice had grown increasingly confident of remembering their route, at least as far as the Saxon village which she had regularly visited with the other women over the years. But once they lost sight of the craggy hills above their settlement, and had crossed the valley beyond the marshland, she became less certain. At a fork in a path, or facing a windswept field, she would pause and stand for a long time, panic creeping into her gaze as she surveyed the land.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Axl would say on such occasions. “Don’t worry and take all the time you need.”

“But Axl,” she would say, turning to him, “we don’t have time. We must cross the Great Plain at noon if we’re to do so in safety.”

“We’ll be there in good time, princess. You take all the time you need.”

I might point out here that navigation in open country was something much more difficult in those days, and not just because of the lack of reliable compasses and maps. We did not yet have the hedgerows that so pleasantly divide the countryside today into field, lane and meadow. A traveller of that time would, often as not, find himself in featureless landscape, the view almost identical whichever way he turned. A row of standing stones on the far horizon, a turn of a stream, the particular rise and fall of a valley: such clues were the only means of charting a course. And the consequences of a wrong turn could often prove fatal. Never mind the possibilities of perishing in bad weather: straying off course meant exposing oneself more than ever to the risk of assailants — human, animal or supernatural — lurking away from the established roads.

You might have been surprised by how little they conversed as they walked, this couple usually so full of things to tell each other. But at a time when a broken ankle or an infected graze could be lifethreatening, there was a recognition that concentration was desirable at each and every step. You might also have noted that whenever the path grew too narrow to walk side by side, it was always Beatrice, not Axl, who went in front. This too might surprise you, it seeming more natural for the man to go first into potentially hazardous terrain, and sure enough, in woodland or where there was the possibility of wolves or bears, they would switch positions without discussion. But for the most part, Axl would make sure his wife went first, for the reason that practically every fiend or evil spirit they were likely to encounter was known to target its prey at the rear of a party — in much the way, I suppose, a big cat will stalk an antelope at the back of the herd. There were numerous instances of a traveller glancing back to the companion walking behind, only to find the latter vanished without trace. It was the fear of such an occurrence that compelled Beatrice intermittently to ask as they walked: “Are you still there, Axl?” To which he would answer routinely: “Still here, princess.”

They reached the edge of the Great Plain by late morning. Axl suggested they push on and put the hazard behind them, but Beatrice was adamant they should wait till noon. They sat down on a rock at the top of the hillslope leading down to the plain, and watched carefully the shortening shadows of their sticks, held upright before them in the earth.

“It may be a good sky, Axl,” she said. “And I’ve not heard of any wickedness befalling a person in this corner of the plain. All the same, better wait for noon, when surely no demon will care even to peek out to see us pass.”

“We’ll wait, just as you say, princess. And you’re right, this is the Great Plain after all, even if it’s a benevolent corner of it.”

They sat there like that for a little while, looking down at the land before them, hardly speaking. At one point Beatrice said:

“When we see our son, Axl, he’s sure to insist we live at his village. Won’t it be strange to leave our neighbours after these years, even if they’re sometimes teasing our grey hairs?”

“Nothing’s decided yet, princess. We’ll talk everything over with our son when we see him.” Axl went on gazing out at the Great Plain. Then he shook his head and said quietly: “It’s odd, the way I can’t recall him at all just now.”

“I thought I dreamt about him last night,” Beatrice said. “Standing by a well, and turning, just a little to one side, and calling to someone. What came before or after’s gone now.”

“At least you saw him, princess, even if in a dream. What did he look like?”

“A strong, handsome face, that much I remember. But the colour of his eyes, the turn of his cheek, I’ve no memory of them.”

“I don’t recall his face now at all,” Axl said. “It must all be the work of this mist. Many things I’ll happily let go to it, but it’s cruel when we can’t remember a precious thing like that.”

She moved closer to him, letting her head fall on his shoulder. The wind was now beating hard at them and part of her cloak had come loose. Putting an arm around her, Axl trapped the cloak and held it tightly to her.

“Well, I dare say one or the other of us will remember soon enough,” he said.

“Let’s try, Axl. Let’s both of us try. It’s as if we’ve mislaid a precious stone. But surely we’ll find it again if we both try.”

“Surely we will, princess. But look, the shadows are almost gone. It’s time for us to go down.”

Beatrice straightened and began rummaging in her bundle. “Here, we’ll carry these.”

She handed to him what looked like two smooth pebbles, but when he studied them he saw complex patterns cut into the face of each one.

“Put them in your belt, Axl, and take care to keep the markings facing out. It will help the Lord Christ keep us safe. I’ll carry these others.”

“One will be enough for me, princess.”

“No, Axl, we’ll share them equally. Now what I remember is there’s a path to follow down there and unless rain’s washed it away the walking will be easier than most of what we’ve had. But there’s one place we need to be cautious. Axl, are you listening to me? It’s when the path goes over where the giant is buried. To one who doesn’t know it, it’s an ordinary hill, but I’ll signal to you and when you see me you’re to follow off the path and round the edge of the hill till we meet the same path on its way down. It’ll do us no good treading over such a grave, high noon or not. Are you fully understanding me, Axl?”

“Don’t worry, princess, I understand you very well.”

“And I don’t need to remind you. If we see a stranger on our path, or calling us from nearby, or any poor animal caught in a trap or injured in a ditch, or any such thing might catch your attention, you don’t speak a word or slow your step for it.”

“I’m no fool, princess.”

“Well, then, Axl, it’s time we went.”

As Beatrice had promised, they were required to walk on the Great Plain for only a short distance. Their path, though muddy at times, remained defined and never took them out of sunlight. After an initial descent it climbed steadily, till they found themselves walking along a high ridge, moorland on either side of them. The wind was fierce, but if anything a welcome antidote to the noon sun. The ground everywhere was covered in heather and gorse, never more than knee high, and only occasionally did a tree come into view — some solitary, crone-like specimen, bowed by endless gales. Then a valley appeared to their right, reminding them of the power and mystery of the Great Plain, and that they were now trespassing on but a small corner of it.

They walked close together, Axl almost at his wife’s heels. Even so, throughout the crossing, Beatrice continued every five or six steps to chant, in the manner of a litany, the question: “Are you still there, Axl?” to which he would respond: “Still here, princess.” Aside from this ritualistic exchange, they said nothing. Even when they reached the giant’s burial mound, and Beatrice made urgent signs for them to move from the path into the heather, they kept up this call and response in level tones, as though wishing to deceive any listening demons about their intentions. All the while Axl watched for fast-moving mist or sudden darkenings in the sky, but there came no hint of either, and then they had put the Great Plain behind them. As they climbed through a small wood full of songbirds, Beatrice made no comment, but he could see her whole posture relax, and her refrain came to an end.

They rested beside a brook, where they bathed their feet, ate bread and refilled their flasks. From this point their route followed a long sunken lane from Roman days, lined by oaks and elms, which was much easier walking, but required vigilance on account of the other wayfarers they were bound to meet. And sure enough, during the first hour, they encountered coming the other way a woman with her two children, a boy driving donkeys, and a pair of travelling players hurrying to rejoin their troupe. On each occasion they stopped to exchange pleasantries, but another time, hearing the clatter of approaching wheels and hooves, they hid themselves in the ditch. This too proved harmless — a Saxon farmer with a horse and cart piled high with firewood.

Toward mid-afternoon the sky began to cloud as though for a storm. They had been resting beneath a large oak, their backs to the road and hidden from the passing traffic. A clean sweep of land lay visible before them, so they had noticed immediately the coming change.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Axl said. “We’ll stay dry beneath this tree until the sun returns.”

But Beatrice was on her feet, leaning forward, a hand raised to shield her eyes. “I can see the road ahead curving into the distance, Axl. And I see it’s not far to the old villa. I took shelter there once before when I came with the women. A ruin, but the roof was still good then.”

“Can we reach it before the storm breaks, princess?”

“We’ll reach it if we go now.”

“Then let’s hurry. There’s no reason to catch our deaths from a drenching. And this tree, now I’m looking at it, is full of holes the way I can see most of the sky above me.”

The ruined villa was further from the road than Beatrice remembered. With the first drops of rain and the sky darkening above them, they found themselves struggling down a long narrow path waist high with nettles through which they had to beat their way with their sticks. Though it had been clearly visible from the road, the ruin was obscured for much of this approach by trees and foliage, so that it was with a start, as well as relief, that the travellers suddenly found themselves before it.

The villa must have been splendid enough in Roman days, but now only a small section was standing. Once magnificent floors lay exposed to the elements, disfigured by stagnant puddles, weeds and grass sprouting through the faded tiles. The remains of walls, in places barely ankle high, revealed the old layout of the rooms. A stone arch led into the surviving part of the building, and Axl and Beatrice now moved cautiously towards it, pausing at the threshold to listen. Eventually Axl called out: “Is anyone within?” And when there was no reply: “We’re two elderly Britons seeking shelter from the storm. We come in peace.”

Still there was silence and they went in under the arch into the shade of what must once have been a corridor. They emerged into the grey light of a spacious room, though here too, an entire wall had fallen away. The adjoining room had disappeared altogether, and evergreens were pressing in oppressively right up to the edge of the floor. The three standing walls, however, provided a sheltered area, with a good ceiling. Here, against the grimy masonry of what once had been whitewashed walls, were two dark figures, one standing, the other sitting, some distance apart.

Seated on a piece of fallen masonry was a small, bird-like old woman — older than Axl and Beatrice — in a dark cloak, the hood pushed back enough to reveal her leathery features. Her eyes were sunk deep so that you could hardly see them. The curve of her back was not quite touching the wall behind her. Something stirred on her lap and Axl saw it was a rabbit, held tightly in her bony hands.

At the furthest point along the same wall, as though he had moved as far from the old woman as possible while keeping under cover, was a thin, unusually tall man. He wore a thick long coat of the sort a shepherd might wear during a cold night’s watch, but where it ended, the exposed lower parts of his legs were bare. On his feet were the kind of shoes Axl had seen on fishermen. Though he was probably still young, the top of his head was smoothly bald, while dark tufts sprouted around his ears. The man was standing rigidly, his back to the room, one hand on the wall before him as though listening intently to something occurring on the other side. He glanced over his shoulder as Axl and Beatrice came in, but said nothing. The old woman too was staring at them in silence and only when Axl said: “Peace be with you,” did they unfreeze a little. The tall man said: “Come in further, friends, or you will not stay dry.”

Sure enough, the sky had truly opened now and rainwater was running down some section of broken roof and splashing on the floor near where the visitors were standing. Thanking him, Axl led his wife to the wall, choosing a spot midway between their hosts. He helped Beatrice take off her bundle, then put his own down onto the ground.

Then the four of them remained like that for some time while the storm grew ever more fierce, and a flash of lightning illuminated the shelter. The oddly frozen stances of the tall man and the old woman seemed to cast a spell on Axl and Beatrice, for now they too remained as still and silent. It was almost as if, coming across a picture and stepping inside it, they had been compelled to become painted figures in their turn.

Then as the downpour settled to a steady fall, the bird-like old woman finally broke the silence. Stroking her rabbit with one hand while clutching it tightly in the other, she said:

“God be with you, cousins. You’ll forgive me not greeting you earlier, but I was surprised to see you here. You’ll know you’re welcome nonetheless. A fine day for travelling until this storm came. But it’s the kind that vanishes as suddenly as it appears. Your journey won’t be long delayed and all the better for your taking a rest. Which way do you go, cousins?”

“We’re on our way to our son’s village,” Axl said, “where he waits anxiously to welcome us. But tonight we’ll seek shelter at a Saxon village we hope to reach by nightfall.”

“Saxons have their wild ways,” the old woman said. “But they’ll welcome a traveller more readily than do our own kind. Be seated, cousins. That log behind you is dry and I’ve often sat contentedly on it.”

Axl and Beatrice did as suggested, and then there was silence for a few further moments while the rain continued to beat down. Eventually a movement from the old woman made Axl glance towards her. She was pulling back the rabbit’s ears, and as the animal struggled to free itself, her claw-like hand kept it firmly in its grasp. Then, as Axl watched, the old woman produced in her other hand a large rusted knife and placed it against the creature’s throat. As Beatrice beside him started, Axl realised that the dark patches beneath their feet, and elsewhere all over the ruined floor, were old bloodstains, and that mingled with the smell of ivy and damp mouldering stone was another faint but lingering one of slaughter.

Having placed her knife to the rabbit’s throat, the old woman became quite still again. Her sunken eyes, Axl realised, were fixed on the tall man at the far end of the wall, as though she were waiting for a signal from him. But the man remained in the same rigid posture as before, his forehead almost touching the wall. He either had not noticed the old woman or else was determined to ignore her.

“Good mistress,” Axl said, “kill the rabbit if you must. But break its neck cleanly. Or else take a stone and give it a good blow.”

“Had I the strength, sir, but I’m too weak. I have a knife with a sharp edge and that is all.”

“Then I’ll gladly assist you. There’s no need for your knife.” Axl rose to his feet, holding out his hand, but the old woman made no move to give up the rabbit. She remained exactly as before, the knife on the animal’s throat, her gaze fixed on the man across the room.

At last the tall man turned to face them. “Friends,” he said, “I was surprised to see you enter earlier, but now I’m glad. For I see you’re good people, and I beg you, while you wait for this storm to pass, listen to my plight. I’m a humble boatman who ferries travellers across choppy waters. I don’t mind the work though the hours are long and when there are many waiting to cross there’s little sleep and my limbs ache with each thrust of the oar. I work through rain and wind and under the parching sun. But I keep my spirits up looking forward to my rest days. For I’m but one of several boatmen and we’re each able to take our turn to rest, if only after long weeks of labour. On our rest days, we each have a special place to go, and this, friends, is mine. This house where I was once a carefree child. It’s not as it once was, but for me it’s filled with precious memories, and I come here asking only the quiet to enjoy them. Now consider this. Whenever I come here, within an hour of my arrival, this old woman will enter through that arch. She’ll sit herself down and taunt me hour by hour, night and day. She’ll make cruel and unjust accusations. Under cover of dark, she’ll curse me with the most horrible curses. She will not give me a moment’s respite. Sometimes, as you see, she’ll bring with her a rabbit, or some such small creature, so she can slay it and pollute this precious place with its blood. I’ve done all I can to persuade her to leave me, but what pity God placed in her soul, she has learnt to ignore. She will not go, nor will she cease to taunt. Even now it’s only your unexpected entrance that has caused her to pause in her persecution. And before long it will be time to begin my journey back, to more long weeks of toil on the water. Friends, I beg you, do what you can to make her leave. Persuade her that her behaviour is ungodly. You may have influence on her, being as you are from the outside.”

There was a silence after the boatman stopped talking. Axl remembered later feeling a vague compulsion to reply, but at the same time a sense that the man had spoken to him in a dream and that there was no real obligation to do so. Beatrice too seemed to feel no urge to respond, for her eyes remained on the old woman, who had now taken the knife away from the rabbit’s throat, and was stroking its fur, almost affectionately, with the edge of the blade. Eventually Beatrice said:

“Mistress, I beg you, allow my husband to assist with your rabbit. There’s no call to spill blood in a place such as this, and no basin to catch it. You’ll bring bad luck not only to this honest boatman but to yourself and all other travellers who stray in here seeking shelter. Put that knife away and slaughter the creature gently elsewhere. And what good can come of taunting this man as you do, a hard-working boatman?”

“Let’s not be hasty to speak harshly to this lady, princess,” Axl said gently. “We don’t know what has occurred between these people. This boatman seems honest, but then again, this lady may have just cause to come here and spend her time as she does.”

“You couldn’t have spoken more aptly, sir,” the old woman said. “Do I think this a charming way to spend my fading days? I’d rather be far from here, in the company of my own husband, and it’s because of this boatman I’m now parted from him. My husband was a wise and careful man, sir, and we planned our journey for a long time, talked of it and dreamt of it over many years. And when finally we were ready, and had all we needed, we set off on the road and after several days found the cove from where we could cross to the island. We waited for the ferryman, and in time, saw his boat coming towards us. But as luck would have it, it was this very man here who came to us. See how tall he is. Standing on his boat on the water, against the sky with his long oar, he looked as tall and thin as those players do when they hobble on their stilts. He came to where my husband and I were standing on the rocks and tied his boat. And to this day I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he tricked us. We were too trusting. With the island so near, this boatman took away my husband and left me waiting on the shore, after forty years and more of our being husband and wife and hardly a day apart. I can’t think how he did it. His voice must have put us in a dream, because before I knew it he was rowing off with my husband and I was still on land. Even then, I didn’t believe it. For who could suspect such cruelty from a boatman? So I waited. I said to myself, it’s simply that the boat cannot take more than one passenger at a time, for the water was unsettled that day, and the sky almost as dark as it is now. I stood there on the rock and watched the boat getting smaller and then a speck. And still I waited, and in time the speck grew larger and it was the boatman coming back to me. I could soon see his head as smooth as a pebble, now with no passenger left in his boat. And I imagined it was my turn and I would soon be with my beloved again. But when he came to where I was waiting, and tied his rope to the pole, he shook his head and refused to take me across. I argued and wept and called to him, but he would not listen. Instead he offered me — such cruelty! — he offered a rabbit he said had been caught in a trap on the island’s shore. He’d brought it to me thinking it a fitting supper for my first evening of solitude. Then seeing there was no one else waiting to be ferried, he pushed away, leaving me weeping on the shore, holding his wretched rabbit. I let it run off into the heather a moment later, for I tell you I had little appetite that evening or for many evenings after. That’s why it is I bring him my own little gift each time I come here. A rabbit for his stew in return for his kindness that day.”

“The rabbit was intended for my own supper that evening,” the boatman’s voice broke in from across the room. “Feeling pity, I gave it to her. It was simple kindness.”

“We know nothing of your affairs, sir,” Beatrice said. “But it does seem a cruel deception to leave this lady alone on the shore that way. What was it made you do such a thing?”

“Good lady, the island this old woman speaks of is no ordinary one. We boatmen have ferried many there over the years, and by now there will be hundreds inhabiting its fields and woods. But it’s a place of strange qualities, and one who arrives there will walk among its greenery and trees in solitude, never seeing another soul. Occasionally on a moonlit night or when a storm’s ready to break, he may sense the presence of his fellow inhabitants. But most days, for each traveller, it’s as though he’s the island’s only resident. I’d happily have ferried this woman, but when she understood she wouldn’t be with her husband, she declared she didn’t care for such solitude and refused to go. I bowed to her decision, as I’m obliged to do, and let her go her own way. The rabbit, as I say, I gave her out of simple kindness. You see how she thanks me for it.”

“This boatman is a sly one,” the old woman said. “He’ll dare to deceive you, even though you’re from the outside. He’ll have you believe every soul roams that island in solitude, but it isn’t true. Would my husband and I have dreamt long years to go to a place like that? The truth is there’s many permitted to cross the water as wedded man and wife to dwell together on the island. Many who roam those same forests and quiet beaches arm in arm. My husband and I knew this. We knew it as children. Good cousins, if you search through your own memories, you’ll remember it to be true even as I speak of it now. We had little inkling as we waited in that cove how cruel a boatman would come over the water to us.”

“There’s truth in just one part of what she says,” the boatman said. “Occasionally a couple may be permitted to cross to the island together, but this is rare. It requires an unusually strong bond of love between them. It does sometimes occur, I don’t deny, and that’s why when we find a man and wife, or even unmarried lovers, waiting to be carried over, it’s our duty to question them carefully. For it falls to us to perceive if their bond is strong enough to cross together. This lady is reluctant to accept it, but her bond with her husband was simply too weak. Let her look into her heart, then dare say my judgement that day was in error.”

“Mistress,” Beatrice said. “What do you say?”

The old woman remained silent. She kept her eyes lowered, and went on running the blade sulkily over the rabbit’s fur.

“Mistress,” Axl said, “once the rain stops, we’ll be returning to the road. Why not leave this place with us? We’ll gladly walk with you some of your way. We could talk at leisure about whatever pleases you. Leave this good boatman in peace to enjoy what remains of this house while it stands. What’s to be gained sitting here like this? And if you wish it, I’ll kill the rabbit cleanly before our paths part. What do you say?”

The old woman gave no reply, nor any indication of having heard Axl’s words. After some time, she rose slowly to her feet, the rabbit held closely to her chest. The woman was tiny in stature and her cloak dragged along the floor as she made her way to the broken side of the room. Some water splashed onto her from a section of the ceiling, but she seemed not to care. When she had reached the far end of the floor, she looked out at the rain and the encroaching greenery. Then bending slowly, she set the rabbit down near her feet. The animal, perhaps stiff with fear, did not move at first. Then it vanished into the grass.

The old woman straightened herself carefully. When she turned she appeared to be looking at the boatman — her strangely sunken eyes made it hard to be certain — then said: “These strangers have taken away my appetite. But it will return, I’ve no doubt.”

With that she lifted the hem of her cloak and stepped slowly down into the grass like one easing herself into a pool. The rain fell on her steadily, and she pulled her hood further over her head before taking her next steps into the tall nettles.

“Wait a few moments and we’ll walk with you,” Axl called after her. But he felt Beatrice’s hand on his arm and heard her whisper: “Best not meddle with her, Axl. Let her go.”

When Axl walked over to where the old woman had stepped down, he half expected to see her somewhere, impeded by the foliage and unable to go on. But there was now no sign of her.

“Thank you, friends,” the boatman said behind him. “Perhaps for this day at least, I shall be allowed peace to remember my childhood.”

“We too will be out of your way, boatman,” said Axl. “Just as soon as this lets up.”

“No hurry, friends. You spoke judiciously and I thank you for it.”

Axl went on staring at the rain. He heard his wife say behind him: “This must once have been a splendid house, sir.”

“Oh, it was, good lady. When I was a boy, I didn’t know just how splendid, for it was all I knew. There were fine pictures and treasures, kind and wise servants. Just through there was the banqueting hall.”

“It must sadden you to see it like this, sir.”

“I’m simply grateful, good lady, it still stands as it does. For this house has witnessed days of war, when many others like it were burnt to the ground and are no more now than a mound or two beneath grass and heather.”

Then Axl heard Beatrice’s footsteps coming towards him and felt her hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Axl?” she asked, her voice lowered. “You’re troubled, I can see it.”

“It’s nothing, princess. It’s just this ruin here. For a moment it was as if I were the one remembering things here.”

“What manner of things, Axl?”

“I don’t know, princess. When the man speaks of wars and burning houses, it’s almost as if something comes back to me. From the days before I knew you, it must be.”

“Was there ever a time before we knew one another, Axl? Sometimes I feel we must have been together since we were babes.”

“It seems that way to me too, princess. It’s just some foolishness coming over me in this strange place.”

She was looking at him thoughtfully. Then she squeezed his hand and said quietly: “This is a queer place indeed and may bring us more harm than the rain ever could. I’m anxious to leave it, Axl. Before that woman returns or something worse.”

Axl nodded. Then turning, he called across the room: “Well, boatman, the sky looks to be clearing so we’ll be on our way. Many thanks for allowing us shelter.”

The boatman said nothing to this, but as they were putting on their bundles, he came to assist them, handing them their walking sticks. “A safe journey, friends,” he said. “May you find your son in good health.”

They thanked him again, and were proceeding through the arch when Beatrice suddenly stopped and looked back.

“Since we’re leaving you, sir,” she said, “and may not meet with you again, I wonder if you’ll allow me a small question.”

The boatman, standing at his spot by the wall, was watching her carefully.

“You spoke earlier, sir,” Beatrice went on, “of your duty to question a couple waiting to cross the water. You spoke of the need to discover if their bond of love is such as to allow them to dwell together on the island. Well, sir, I was wondering this. How do you question them to discover what you must?”

For a moment the boatman seemed uncertain. Then he said: “Frankly, good lady, it’s not for me to talk of such matters. Indeed, we shouldn’t by rights have met today, but some curious chance brought us together and I’m not sorry for it. You were both kind and took my part and for that I’m grateful. So I will answer you as best I can. It is, as you say, my duty to question all who wish to cross to the island. If it’s a couple such as you speak of, who claim their bond is so strong, then I must ask them to put their most cherished memories before me. I’ll ask one, then the other to do this. Each must speak separately. In this way the real nature of their bond is soon revealed.”

“But isn’t it hard, sir,” Beatrice asked, “to see what truly lies in people’s hearts? Appearances deceive so easily.”

“That’s true, good lady, but then we boatmen have seen so many over the years it doesn’t take us long to see beyond deceptions. Besides, when travellers speak of their most cherished memories, it’s impossible for them to disguise the truth. A couple may claim to be bonded by love, but we boatmen may see instead resentment, anger, even hatred. Or a great barrenness. Sometimes a fear of loneliness and nothing more. Abiding love that has endured the years — that we see only rarely. When we do, we’re only too glad to ferry the couple together. Good lady, I’ve already said more than I should.”

“I thank you for it, boatman. It’s just to satisfy an old woman’s curiosity. Now we’ll leave you in peace.”

“May you have a safe journey.”

They retraced their steps along the path they had beaten earlier through the ferns and nettles. The storm had made the ground underneath treacherous, so for all their anxiety to put the villa behind them, they proceeded at a careful pace. When they finally reached the sunken lane, the rain still had not ceased, and they took shelter under the first large tree they could find.

“Are you soaked through, princess?”

“Don’t worry, Axl. This coat did its work. How is it with you?”

“Nothing the sun won’t soon dry when it returns.”

They put down their bundles and leant against the trunk, recovering their breaths. After a while, Beatrice said quietly:

“Axl, I feel afraid.”

“Why, what is it, princess? No harm can come to you now.”

“Do you remember the strange woman in dark rags you watched me talking to up by the old thorn that day? She may have looked a mad wanderer, but the story she told had much in common with the old woman’s just now. Her husband too had been taken by a boatman and she left behind on the shore. And when she was coming back from the cove, weeping for loneliness, she found herself crossing the edge of a high valley, and she could see the path a long way before and a long way behind, and all along it people weeping just like her. When I heard this I was only partly afraid, saying to myself it was nothing to do with us, Axl. But she went on speaking, about how this land had become cursed with a mist of forgetfulness, a thing we’ve remarked on often enough ourselves. And then she asked me: ‘How will you and your husband prove your love for each other when you can’t remember the past you’ve shared?’ And I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Sometimes I think of it and it makes me so afraid.”

“But what’s to fear, princess? We’ve no plans to go to any such island or any desire to do so.”

“Even so, Axl. What if our love withers before we’ve a chance even to think of going to such a place?”

“What are you saying, princess? How can our love wither? Isn’t it stronger now than when we were foolish young lovers?”

“But Axl, we can’t even remember those days. Or any of the years between. We don’t remember our fierce quarrels or the small moments we enjoyed and treasured. We don’t remember our son or why he’s away from us.”

“We can make all those memories come back, princess. Besides, the feeling in my heart for you will be there just the same, no matter what I remember or forget. Don’t you feel the same, princess?”

“I do, Axl. But then again I wonder if what we feel in our hearts today isn’t like these raindrops still falling on us from the soaked leaves above, even though the sky itself long stopped raining. I’m wondering if without our memories, there’s nothing for it but for our love to fade and die.”

“God wouldn’t allow such a thing, princess.” Axl said this quietly, almost under his breath, for he had himself felt an unnamed fear welling up within him.

“The day I spoke with her by the old thorn,” Beatrice continued, “the strange woman warned me to waste no more time. She said we had to do all we could to remember what we’ve shared, the good and the bad. And now that boatman, when we were leaving, gives the very answer I expected and feared. What chance do we have, Axl, the way we are now? If someone like that asked of us our most treasured memories? Axl, I’m so afraid.”

“There, princess, there’s nothing to fear. Our memories aren’t gone for ever, just mislaid somewhere on account of this wretched mist. We’ll find them again, one by one if we have to. Isn’t that why we’re on this journey? Once our son’s standing before us, many things are sure to start coming back.”

“I hope so. That boatman’s words have made me all the more afraid.”

“Forget him, princess. What do we want with his boat, or his island come to that? And you’re right, the rain’s stopped out there and we’ll be drier stepping out from under this tree. Let’s be on our way, and no more of these worries.”

Chapter Three

The Saxon village, viewed from a distance and a certain height, would have been something more familiar to you as a “village” than Axl and Beatrice’s warren. For one thing — perhaps because the Saxons had a keener sense of claustrophobia — there was none of this digging into the hillside. If you were coming down the steep valley slope, as Axl and Beatrice were that evening, you would have seen below you some forty or more individual houses, laid out on the valley floor in two rough circles, one within the other. You might have been too far away to notice the variations in size and splendour, but you would have made out the thatched roofs, and the fact that many were “roundhouses” not so far removed from the kind in which some of you, or perhaps your parents, were brought up. And if the Saxons were happy to sacrifice a little security for the benefits of open air, they were careful to compensate: a tall fence of tethered timber poles, their points sharpened like giant pencils, completely encircled the village. At any given point, the fence was at least twice a man’s height, and to make the prospect of scaling it even less enticing, a deep trench followed it all the way around the outside.

That would have been the picture Axl and Beatrice saw below them as they paused to catch their breaths during their descent down the hill. The sun was setting over the valley now, and Beatrice, who had the better sight, was once more leaning forward, a step or two in front of Axl, the grass and dandelions around her as tall as her waist.

“I can see four, no five men guarding the gate,” she was saying. “And I think they’re holding spears. When I was last here with the women, it was nothing more than one gate-keeper with a pair of dogs.”

“Are you sure there’ll be a welcome here for us, princess?”

“Don’t worry, Axl, they know me well enough by now. Besides, one of their elders here is a Briton, regarded by all as a wise leader even if he’s not of their blood. He’ll see to it we have a safe roof tonight. Even so, Axl, I think something’s happened and I’m uneasy. Now here’s another man with a spear arrived, and that’s a pack of fierce dogs with him.”

“Who knows what goes on with Saxons,” said Axl. “We may be better seeking shelter elsewhere tonight.”

“The dark will be soon on us, Axl, and those spears are not intended for us. Besides, there’s a woman in this village I was wanting to visit, one who knows her medicines beyond anyone in our own.”

Axl waited for her to say something further, and when she went on peering into the distance, he asked: “And why would you be after medicines, princess?”

“A small discomfort I feel from time to time. This woman might know of something to soothe it.”

“What sort of discomfort, princess? Where does it trouble you?”

“It’s nothing. It’s only because we’re needing to shelter here I’m thinking of it at all.”

“But where does it lie, princess? This pain?”

“Oh …” Without turning to him, she pressed a hand to her side, just below the ribcage, then laughed. “It’s nothing to speak of. You can see, it hasn’t slowed me walking here today.”

“It hasn’t slowed you one bit, princess, and I’ve been the one having to beg we stop and rest.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Axl. So it’s nothing to worry about.”

“It hasn’t slowed you down at all. In fact, princess, you must be as strong as any woman half your age. Still, if there’s someone here to help with your pain, what’s the harm in going to her?”

“That’s all I was saying, Axl. I’ve brought a little tin to trade for medicines.”

“Who wants these little pains? We all have them, and we’d all be rid of them if we could. By all means, let’s go to this woman if she’s here, and those guards let us pass.”

It was nearly dark by the time they crossed the bridge over the trench, and torches had been lit on either side of the gate. The guards were large and burly but looked panicked by their approach.

“Wait a moment, Axl,” Beatrice said quietly. “I’ll go alone to speak with them.”

“Don’t go near their spears, princess. The dogs look calm but those Saxons look foolish with fear.”

“If it’s you they fear, Axl, old man that you are, I’ll soon show them their great error.”

She walked towards them boldly. The men gathered around her and as she addressed them they threw suspicious glances towards Axl. Then one of them called to him, in the Saxon language, to step closer to the torches, presumably so they could see he was not a younger man in disguise. Then after a few more exchanges with Beatrice the men allowed them through.

Axl was puzzled that a village which from a distance looked to be two orderly rings of houses could turn out to be such a chaotic labyrinth now they were walking through its narrow lanes. Admittedly the light was fading, but as he followed Beatrice, he could discern no logic or pattern to the place. Buildings would loom unexpectedly in front of them, blocking their way and forcing them down baffling side alleys. They were obliged, moreover, to walk with even more caution than out on the roads: not only was the ground pitted and full of puddles from the earlier storm, the Saxons seemed to find it acceptable to leave random objects, even pieces of rubble, lying in the middle of the path. But what troubled Axl most was the odour that grew stronger and fainter as they walked, but never went away. Like anyone of his time, he was well reconciled to the smell of excrement, human or animal, but this was something altogether more offensive. Before long he had determined its source: all over the village people had left out, on the fronts of houses or on the side of the street, piles of putrefying meat as offerings to their various gods. At one point, startled by a particularly strong assault, Axl had turned to see, suspended from the eaves of a hut, a dark object whose shape changed before his eyes as the colony of flies perched on it dispersed. A moment later they encountered a pig being dragged by its ears by a group of children; dogs, cows and donkeys under no one’s supervision. The few people they met stared silently at them, or else quickly vanished behind a door or shutter.

“There’s something strange here tonight,” Beatrice whispered as they walked. “Usually they’d be sitting in front of their houses or perhaps gathered in circles laughing and talking. And the children would be following us by now asking a hundred questions and wondering if to call us names or be our friends. Everything’s eerily still and it makes me uneasy.”

“Are we lost, princess, or are we still going toward the place they’ll be sheltering us?”

“I’d been thinking we’d visit first the woman about the medicines. But with things the way they are, we may be better going straight to the old longhouse and keeping out of harm’s way.”

“Are we far from the medicine lady’s house?”

“As I remember it, not far at all now.”

“Then let’s see if she’s there. Even if your pain’s a trivial thing, as we know it to be, there’s no sense in feeling it at all if it can be taken away.”

“It can wait till the morning, Axl. It’s not even a pain I notice till we’re speaking of it.”

“Even so, princess, now we’re here, why not go and see the wise woman?”

“We’ll do so if you particularly wish it, Axl. Though I’d have happily left it for the morning or maybe the next time I’m passing through this place.”

Even as they were talking, they turned a corner into what appeared to be the village square. There was a bonfire blazing at its centre, and all around it, illuminated by its light, a large crowd. There were Saxons of all ages, even tiny children in their parents’ arms, and Axl’s first thought was that they had stumbled upon a pagan ceremony. But as they stopped to consider the scene before them, he saw there was no focus to the crowd’s attention. The faces he could see were solemn, perhaps frightened. Voices were lowered, and collectively came through the air as a worried murmur. A dog barked at Axl and Beatrice and was promptly chased away by shadowy figures. Those among the crowd who noticed the visitors stared their way blankly before losing interest.

“Who knows what concerns them here, Axl,” Beatrice said. “I’d walk away except the medicine woman’s house is somewhere near. Let me see if I can still find my way to it.”

As they moved towards a row of huts to their right, they became aware of many more people in the shadows, silently watching the crowd around the fire. Beatrice stopped to talk to one of them, a woman standing in front of her own door, and after a while Axl realised this was the medicine woman herself. He could not see her well in the near-darkness, but made out the straight-backed figure of a tall woman, probably in her middle years, clutching a shawl around her arms and shoulders. She and Beatrice went on conferring in low voices, sometimes glancing towards the crowd, sometimes at Axl. Eventually the woman gestured for them to enter her hut, but Beatrice, coming up to him, said softly:

“Let me speak with her alone, Axl. Help me take off this bundle and wait out here for me.”

“Can’t I be with you, princess, even if I hardly understand this Saxon tongue?”

“These are women’s matters, husband. Let me talk with her alone, and she’s saying she’ll examine my old body carefully.”

“I’m sorry, princess, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Let me take your bundle from you and I’ll be waiting here as long as you wish.”

After the two women had gone inside, Axl felt a great weariness, especially in his shoulders and legs. Removing his own burden, he leaned against the turf wall behind him and gazed over at the crowd. There was now a growing restlessness: people would stride from the darkness around him to join the crowd while others hurried away from the fire, only to return a moment later. The blaze illuminated some faces sharply, while leaving others in shadow, but after a time, Axl came to the conclusion these people were all waiting, in a state of some anxiety, for someone or something to emerge from the timber hall to the left of the fire. This building, probably some meeting place for the Saxons, must have had a fire of its own burning inside, for its windows flickered between blackness and light.

He was on the verge of nodding off, his back to the wall, the muffled voices of Beatrice and the medicine woman somewhere behind him, when the crowd surged and shifted, letting out a soft collective growl. Several men had emerged from the timber hall and were walking towards the fire. The crowd parted and quietened for them, as though in expectation of an announcement, but none came, and soon people were pressing around the newcomers, their voices building again. Axl noticed that attention was focused almost entirely on the man who had come out last from the hall. He was probably no more than thirty but had about him a natural authority. Although he was dressed simply, as a farmer might be, he did not look like anyone else in the village. It was not just the way he had swept his cloak over one shoulder, revealing his belt and the handle of his sword. Nor was it simply that his hair was longer than any of the villagers’—it hung almost down to his shoulders and he had tied some of it with a thong to prevent it swaying over his eyes. In fact the actual thought that crossed Axl’s mind was that this man had tied his hair to stop it falling across his vision during combat. This thought had come to Axl quite naturally, and only on reflection did it startle him, for it had carried with it an element of recognition. Moreover, when the stranger, striding into the midst of the crowd, allowed his hand to fall and rest on the sword handle, Axl had felt, almost tangibly, the peculiar mix of comfort, excitement and fear such a movement could bring. Telling himself he would return to these curious sensations at some later point, he shut them out of his mind and concentrated on the scene unfolding before him.

It was the bearing of the man, the way he moved and held himself, that so set him apart from those around him. “No matter that he tries to pass himself off as an ordinary Saxon,” Axl thought, “this man is a warrior. And perhaps one capable of wreaking great devastation when he wishes it.”

Two of the other men who had emerged from the hall were hovering nervously behind him, and whenever the warrior drifted further into the crowd, both men tried their best to stay near him, like children anxious not to be left behind by a parent. The two men, who were both young, also wore swords, and in addition, each was clutching a spear, but it was evident they were quite unaccustomed to such weapons. They were, moreover, stiff with fear and seemed unable to respond to the words of encouragement their fellow villagers were giving them. Their gazes darted about in panic even as hands patted their backs or squeezed their shoulders.

“The long-haired fellow is a stranger arrived only an hour or two before us,” Beatrice’s voice said close to his ear. “A Saxon, but one from a distant country. The fenlands in the east, so he says, where he’s lately been fighting sea raiders.”

Axl had been aware for some time that the voices of the women had grown more distinct, and turning, saw that Beatrice and her hostess had come out of the house and were standing at the door just behind him. The medicine woman now spoke softly, for some time, in Saxon, after which Beatrice said into his ear:

“It seems earlier today one of the village men came back out of breath and his shoulder wounded, and when prevailed upon to calm himself told of how he and his brother, together with his nephew, a boy of twelve, were fishing at their usual spot by the river and were set upon by two ogres. Except according to this wounded man these were no ordinary ogres. Monstrous and able to move faster and with greater cunning than any ogre he’d ever seen. The fiends — for it’s by that name these villagers are talking of them — the fiends killed his brother outright and carried off the boy, who was alive and struggling. The wounded man himself got away only after a long chase along the river path, the foul grunts coming closer behind him all the while, but he outran them in the end. That would be him there now, Axl, with the splint on his arm, talking to the stranger. Wounded though he was, he was anxious enough for his nephew to lead a party of this village’s strongest men back to the spot, and they saw smoke from a campfire near the bank, and as they were creeping up to it, their weapons at the ready, the bushes opened and it seems these same two fiends had set a trap. The medicine woman says three men were killed even before the others thought to run for their lives, and though they returned unhurt, most of them are now shivering and muttering to themselves in their beds, too shaken to come out and wish well these brave men willing to go out now, even with the darkness coming and the mist setting in, to do what couldn’t be done by twelve strong men in broad daylight.”

“Do they know the boy is still alive?”

“They know nothing, but they’ll go out to the river even so. After the first party returned in terror, for all the urging of the elders, there was not a single man brave enough to join a further expedition. Then as fortune would have it, here’s this stranger come into the village seeking a night’s shelter after his horse has hurt a foot. And though he knows nothing of this boy or his family before today, he’s declared himself willing to come to the village’s aid. Those others going out with him are two more of the boy’s uncles, and by the look of them, I’d say they’re more likely to hinder that warrior than be of help. Look, Axl, they’re sick with fear.”

“I see that right enough, princess. But they’re brave men all the same, to go out when they’re so afraid. We chose a bad night to ask this village’s hospitality. There’s weeping somewhere even now, and there may be a great deal more before the night’s passed.”

The medicine woman seemed to understand something of what Axl had said, for she spoke again, in her own language, then Beatrice said: “She says to go straight to the old longhouse now and not show ourselves again till morning. If we choose to wander the village, she says there’s no telling how we may be greeted on a night like this.”

“My own thoughts exactly, princess. Then let’s be taking the good lady’s advice, if you can still remember the way.”

But just at that moment the crowd made a sudden noise, then the noise became cheering, and the crowd shifted again, as if struggling to change shape. Then it began to move, the warrior and his two companions near its centre. A low chanting started up, and soon the spectators in the shadows — the medicine woman included — joined in. The procession came towards them, and though the brightness of the fire had been left behind, several torches were moving within it, so that Axl could catch glimpses of faces, some frightened, some excited. Whenever a torch illuminated the warrior, his expression was calm, gazing to left and right to acknowledge words of encouragement, his hand once more on the handle of his sword. They went past Axl and Beatrice, continued between a row of huts and out of view, though the muted chanting remained audible for some time.

Perhaps daunted by the atmosphere, neither Axl nor Beatrice moved for a while. Then Beatrice began to question the medicine woman on the best way to reach the longhouse, and it seemed to Axl the two women were soon discussing directions to some other destination altogether, for they pointed and gestured into the distance towards the hills above the village.

They finally set off for their lodgings only when quiet had descended over the village. It was harder than ever to find one’s way in the darkness, and the occasional torches burning on corners seemed only to increase the confusion with their shadows. They were proceeding in the opposite direction to that in which the crowd had gone, and the houses they passed were dark with no obvious signs of life.

“Walk slowly, princess,” Axl said softly. “If either of us takes a bad tumble on this ground, I’m not certain there’ll be a soul coming out to help us.”

“Axl, I think we’ve lost our way again. Let’s go back to the last corner and this time I’ll be sure to find it.”

In time the path straightened and they found themselves walking beside the perimeter fence they had seen from the hill. Its sharpened poles loomed above them a shade darker than the night sky, and as they went on, Axl could hear murmured voices somewhere above them. Then he saw they were no longer alone: high up along the ramparts, at regular intervals, were shapes he realised were people gazing out over the fence into the dark wilderness beyond. He had barely time to share this observation with Beatrice before they heard footsteps gathering behind them. They quickened their pace, but now a torch was moving nearby and shadows swung rapidly before them. At first Axl thought they had stumbled upon a group of villagers coming in the other direction, but then saw that he and Beatrice were entirely surrounded. Saxon men of varying ages and builds, some with spears, others wielding hoes, scythes and other tools, were jostling around them. Several voices addressed them at once, and ever more people seemed to be arriving. Axl felt the heat of the torches thrust at their faces, and holding Beatrice close to him, tried to locate with his gaze the leader of this group, but could find no such figure. Every face, moreover, was filled with panic, and he realised any careless move could bring disaster. He pulled Beatrice out of the reach of a particularly wild-eyed young man who had raised a trembling knife in the air, and searched his memory for some Saxon phrases. When nothing came to him, he made do with a few soothing noises, such as he might have made to an unruly horse.

“Stop that, Axl,” Beatrice whispered. “They won’t thank you for singing lullabies to them.” She addressed one, then another of the men in Saxon, but the mood did not improve. Shouted arguments were breaking out, and a dog, tugging on a rope, broke through the ranks to snarl at them.

Then the tense figures around them seemed all at once to sag. Their voices quietened till there was only the one, shouting angrily, somewhere still a little way off. The voice came closer and the crowd parted to let through a squat, misshapen man who shuffled into the pool of light leaning on a thick staff.

He was quite elderly, and though his back was relatively straight, his neck and head protruded from his shoulders at a grotesque angle. Nonetheless all present appeared to yield to his authority — the dog too ceased barking and vanished into the shadows. Even with his limited Saxon, Axl could tell the misshapen man’s fury had only partly to do with the villagers’ treatment of strangers: they were being reprimanded for abandoning their sentry posts, and the faces caught in the torchlight became crestfallen, though filled with confusion. Then as the elder’s voice rose to a new level of anger, the men seemed slowly to remember something, and one by one slipped back into the night. But even when the last of them had gone, and there were sounds of feet clambering up ladders, the misshapen man went on hurling insults after them.

Finally he turned to Axl and Beatrice, and switching to their language, said with no trace of an accent: “How can it be they forget even this, and so soon after watching the warrior leave with two of their own cousins to do what none of them had the courage for? Is it shame makes their memories so weak or simply fear?”

“They’re fearful right enough, Ivor,” Beatrice said. “Just now a spider falling beside them could set them tearing at one another. A sorry crew you sent out to greet us.”

“My apologies, Mistress Beatrice. And to you too, sir. It’s not the welcome you would usually get here, but as you see, you’ve arrived on a night filled with dread.”

“We’ve lost our way to the old longhouse, Ivor,” Beatrice said. “If you’d point us to it we’d be much beholden to you. Especially after that greeting, my husband and I are eager to be indoors and resting.”

“I’d like to promise you a kind welcome at the longhouse, friends, but on this night there’s no telling what my neighbours may see fit to do. I’d be easier if you and your good husband agreed to spend the night under my own roof, where I know you’ll remain undisturbed.”

“We accept your kindness gladly, sir,” Axl broke in. “My wife and I are much in need of rest.”

“Then follow me, friends. Stay close behind me and keep your voices low till we arrive.”

They followed Ivor through the dark until they reached a house which, though in structure much like the others, was larger and stood apart by itself. When they entered under the low arch, the air was thick with woodsmoke, which, even as it made Axl’s chest tighten, felt warm and welcoming. The fire was smouldering in the centre of the room, surrounded by woven rugs, animal skins and furniture crafted from oak and ash. As Axl went about extricating blankets from their bundles, Beatrice sank gratefully into a rocking chair. Ivor, though, remained standing by the doorway, a preoccupied look on his face.

“The treatment you received just now,” he said, “I shudder with shame to think of it.”

“Please let’s think no more of it, sir,” Axl said. “You’ve shown us more kindness than we could deserve. And we arrived this evening in time to see the brave men set off on their dangerous mission. So we understand all too well the dread that hangs in the air, and it’s no wonder some should behave foolishly.”

“If you strangers remember our troubles well enough, how is it those fools are forgetting them already? They were told in terms a child would understand to hold their positions on the fence at all costs, the safety of the whole community depending on it, to say nothing of the need to aid our heroes should they appear at the gates pursued by monsters. So what do they do? Two strangers go by, and remembering nothing of their orders or even the reasons for them, they set on you like crazed wolves. I’d be doubting my own senses if such strange forgetfulness didn’t occur so often in this place.”

“It’s the same in our own country, sir,” Axl said. “My wife and I have witnessed many incidents of such forgetfulness among our own neighbours.”

“Interesting to hear that, sir. And I was fearing this a kind of plague spreading through our country only. And is it because I’m old, or that I’m a Briton living here among Saxons, that I’m often left alone holding some memory when all around me have let it slip?”

“We’ve found it just the same, sir. Though we suffer enough from the mist — for that’s how my wife and I have come to call it — we seem to do so less than the younger ones. Can you see an explanation for it, sir?”

“I’ve heard many things spoken about it, friend, and mostly Saxon superstition. But last winter a stranger came this way who had something to say on this matter to which I find myself giving more credence the more I think on it. Now what’s this?” Ivor, who had remained by the door, his staff in his hand, turned with surprising agility for one so twisted. “Excuse your host, friends. This may be our brave men already returned. It’s best for now you remain in here and not show yourselves.”

Once he had left, Axl and Beatrice remained silent for some time, their eyes closed, grateful, in their respective chairs, for the chance to rest. Then Beatrice said quietly:

“What do you suppose Ivor was going to say then, Axl?”

“About what, princess?”

“He was talking of the mist and the reason for it.”

“Just a rumour he heard once. By all means let’s ask him to speak more on it. An admirable man. Has he always lived among Saxons?”

“Ever since he married a Saxon woman a long time ago, so I’m told. What became of her I never heard. Axl, wouldn’t it be a fine thing to know the cause of the mist?”

“A fine thing indeed, but what good it will do, I don’t know.”

“How can you say so, Axl? How can you say such a heartless thing?”

“What is it, princess? What’s the matter?” Axl sat up in his chair and looked over to his wife. “I only meant knowing its cause wouldn’t make it go away, here or in our own country.”

“If there’s even a chance of understanding the mist, it could make such a difference to us. How can you speak so lightly of it, Axl?”

“I’m sorry, princess, I didn’t mean to do so. My mind was on other things.”

“How can you be thinking of other things, and we only today heard what we did from that boatman?”

“Other things, princess, such as if those brave men have come back and with the child unharmed. Or if this village with its frightened guards and flimsy gate is to be invaded this night by monstrous fiends wishing revenge for the rude attention paid them. There’s plenty for a mind to dwell on, never mind the mist or the superstitious talk of strange boatmen.”

“No need for harsh words, Axl. I never wished a quarrel.”

“Forgive me, princess. It must be this mood here is affecting me.”

But Beatrice had become tearful. “No need to talk so harshly,” she muttered almost to herself.

Rising, Axl made his way to her rocking chair and crouching slightly, held her closely to his chest. “I’m sorry, princess,” he said. “We’ll be sure to talk to Ivor about the mist before we leave this place.” Then after a moment, during which they continued to hold each other, he said: “To be frank, princess, there was a particular thing on my mind just now.”

“What was that, Axl?”

“I was wondering what the medicine woman said to you about your pain.”

“She said it was nothing but what’s to be expected with the years.”

“Just what I always said, princess. Didn’t I tell you there was no need for worry?”

“I wasn’t the one worrying, husband. It was you insisting we go see the woman tonight.”

“It’s as well we did, for now we needn’t worry about your pain, if ever we did before.”

She gently freed herself from his embrace and allowed her chair to rock back. “Axl,” she said. “The medicine woman mentioned an old monk she says is even wiser than her. He’s helped many from this village, a monk called Jonus. His monastery’s a day from here, up on the mountain road east.”

“The mountain road east.” Axl wandered towards the door, which Ivor had left ajar, and looked out into the darkness. “I’m thinking, princess, we could as easily take the higher road tomorrow as the low one through the woods.”

“That’s a hard road, Axl. A lot of climbing. It will add at least a day to our journey and there’s our own son anxious for our arrival.”

“That’s all true. But it seems a pity, having come this far, not to visit this wise monk.”

“It was only something the medicine woman said, thinking we were travelling that way. I told her our son’s village was more easily reached by the low road, and she agreed herself then it was hardly worth our while, there being nothing troubling me but the usual aches that come with the years.”

Axl went on gazing through the doorway into the dark. “Even so, princess, we might think about it yet. But here’s Ivor returning, and not looking happy.”

Ivor came striding in, breathing heavily, and sitting down in a wide chair piled with skins, allowed his staff to fall with a clatter at his feet. “A young fool swears he sees a fiend scaled the outside of our fence and now peeking at us over the top of it. A mighty commotion, I needn’t tell you, and it’s all I can do to raise a party to go and see if it’s true. Of course, there’s nothing where he points but the night sky, but he goes on saying the fiend’s there looking at us, and the rest of them cowering behind me like children with their hoes and spears. Then the fool confesses he fell asleep on his watch and saw the fiend in his dream, and even then do they hasten back to their posts? They’re so terrified, I have to swear to beat them till their own kin mistake them for mutton.” He looked around him, still taking heavy breaths. “Excuse your host, friends. I’ll be sleeping in that inner room if I’m to sleep at all tonight, so do what you can to find comfort here, though there’s little on offer.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Axl said, “you’ve offered us wondrously comfortable lodgings and we’re grateful for it. I’m sorry it wasn’t better news called you out just now.”

“We must wait, perhaps well into the night and the morning too. To where do you travel, friends?”

“We’ll set off east tomorrow, sir, to our son’s village, where he anxiously awaits us. But on this matter you may be of help, for my wife and I were just arguing the best road to take. We hear of a wise monk by the name of Jonus at a monastery up on the mountain road whom we might consult on a small matter.”

“Jonus certainly has a revered name, though I’ve never met the man face to face. Go to him by all means, but be warned, the journey to the monastery’s no easy one. The path will climb steeply for much of your day. And when at last it levels you must take care not to lose your way, for you’ll be in Querig country.”

“Querig, the she-dragon? I’ve not heard talk of her in a long time. Is she still feared in this country?”

“She rarely leaves the mountains now,” Ivor said. “Though she may on a whim attack a passing traveller, it’s likely she’s often blamed for the work of wild animals or bandits. In my view Querig’s menace comes less from her own actions than from the fact of her continuing presence. So long as she’s left at liberty, all manner of evil can’t help but breed across our land like a pestilence. Take these fiends which curse us tonight. Where did they come from? They’re no mere ogres. No one here has seen their like before. Why did they journey here, to make camp on our riverbank? Querig may rarely show herself, but many a dark force stems from her and it’s a disgrace she remains unslain all these years.”

“But Ivor,” Beatrice said, “who’d wish to challenge such a beast? By all accounts Querig’s a dragon of great fierceness, and hidden in difficult terrain.”

“You’re right, Mistress Beatrice, it’s a daunting task. It happens there’s an aged knight left from Arthur’s days, charged by that great king many years ago to slay Querig. You may come across him should you take the mountain road. He’s not easily missed, dressed in rusted chainmail and mounted on a weary steed, always eager to proclaim his sacred mission, though I’d guess the old fool has never given that she-dragon a single moment of anxiety. We’ll reach a great age waiting for the day he fulfils his duty. By all means, friends, travel to the monastery, but go with caution and be sure to reach safe shelter by nightfall.”

Ivor began to move to the inner room, but Beatrice quickly sat up and said:

“You were talking earlier, Ivor, about the mist. How you heard something of the cause for it, but then were called away before you could say more. We’re anxious now to hear you speak on this matter.”

“Ah, the mist. A good name for it. Who knows how much truth there is in what we hear, Mistress Beatrice? I suppose I was speaking of the stranger riding through our country last year and sheltered here. He was from the fens, much like our brave visitor tonight, though speaking a dialect often hard to understand. I offered him use of this poor house, as I’ve done you, and we talked on many matters through the evening, among them this mist, as you so aptly call it. Our strange affliction interested him greatly, and he questioned me again and again on the matter. And then he ventured something I dismissed at the time, but have since much pondered. The stranger thought it might be God himself had forgotten much from our pasts, events far distant, events of the same day. And if a thing is not in God’s mind, then what chance of it remaining in those of mortal men?”

Beatrice stared at him. “Can such a thing be possible, Ivor? We’re each of us his dear child. Would God really forget what we have done and what’s happened to us?”

“My question exactly, Mistress Beatrice, and the stranger could offer no answer. But since that time, I’ve found myself thinking more and more of his words. Perhaps it’s as good an explanation as any for what you name the mist. Now forgive me, friends, I must take some rest while I can.”

Axl became aware that Beatrice was shaking his shoulder. He had no idea how long they had slept: it was still dark, but there were noises outside, and he heard Ivor say somewhere above him: “Let’s pray it’s good news and not our end.” When Axl sat up, however, their host had already gone, and Beatrice said: “Hurry, Axl, and we’ll see which it is.”

Bleary with sleep, he slipped his arm through his wife’s and together they stumbled out into the night. There were many more torches lit now, some blazing from the ramparts, making it much easier than before to see one’s way. People were moving everywhere, dogs barking and children crying. Then some order seemed to impose itself, and Axl and Beatrice found themselves in a procession hurrying in a single direction. They came to an abrupt halt, and Axl was surprised to see they were already at the central square — there was obviously a more direct route from Ivor’s house than the one they had taken earlier. The bonfire was blazing more fiercely than ever, so much so that Axl thought for an instant it was its heat that had caused the villagers to stop. But looking past the rows of heads, he saw the warrior had returned. He was standing there quite calmly, to the left of the fire, one side of his figure illuminated, the other in shadow. The visible part of his face was covered in what Axl recognised as tiny spots of blood, as if he had just come walking through a fine mist of the stuff. His long hair, though still tied, had come loose and looked wet. His clothes were covered in mud and perhaps blood, and the cloak he had nonchalantly flung over his shoulder at his departure was now torn in several places. But the man himself appeared uninjured, and he was now talking quietly to three of the village elders, Ivor among them. Axl could see too that the warrior was holding some object in the crook of his arm.

Meanwhile, chanting had started, softly at first, then gathering momentum, till eventually the warrior turned to acknowledge it. His manner was devoid of any crude swagger. And when he began to address the crowd, his voice, though loud enough for all to hear, somehow gave the impression he was speaking in a low, intimate tone appropriate to solemn subject matter.

His listeners hushed to catch each word, and soon he was drawing from them gasps of approval or of horror. At one point he gestured to a spot behind him and Axl noticed for the first time, sitting on the ground just within the circle of light, the two men who had gone out with the warrior. They looked as if they had fallen there from a height and were too dazed to get up. The crowd started up a chant for them, but the pair seemed not to notice, continuing instead to stare at the air before them.

The warrior then turned back to the crowd and said something which caused the chanting to fade. He stepped closer to the fire, and grasping in one hand the object he had been carrying, raised it into the air.

Axl saw what appeared to be the head of a thick-necked creature severed just below the throat. Dark curls of hair hung down from the crown to frame an eerily featureless face: where the eyes, nose and mouth should have been there was only pimpled flesh, like that of a goose, with a few tufts of down-like hair on the cheeks. A growl escaped the crowd and Axl felt it cower back. Only then did he realise that what they were looking at was not a head at all, but a section of the shoulder and upper arm of some abnormally large, human-like creature. The warrior was, in fact, holding up his trophy by the stump close to the bicep with the shoulder end uppermost, and in that moment Axl saw that what he had taken for strands of hair were entrails dangling out of the cut by which the segment had been separated from the body.

After only a short time, the warrior lowered his trophy and let it fall at his feet, as though he could now barely work up sufficient contempt for the creature’s remains. For a second time, the crowd recoiled, before edging forward again, and then the chanting started up once more. But this time it died almost instantly for the warrior was speaking again, and though Axl could understand none of it, he could sense palpably the nervous excitement around him. Beatrice said in his ear:

“Our hero has killed both monsters. One took its mortal wound into the forest, and will not live through the night. The other stood and fought and for its sins the warrior has brought of it what you see on the ground there. The rest of the fiend crawled to the lake to numb its pain and sank there beneath the black waters. The child, Axl, you see there the child?”

Almost beyond the light of the fire a small group of women had huddled around a thin, dark-haired youth seated on a stone. He was already close to a man’s height, but one sensed that beneath the blanket now wrapped around him, he still had the gangly frame of a boy. One woman had brought out a bucket and was washing off the grime from his face and neck, but he seemed oblivious. His eyes were fixed on the warrior’s back just in front of him, though intermittently he would angle his head to one side, as though trying to peer around the warrior’s legs at the thing on the ground.

Axl was surprised that the sight of the rescued child, alive and evidently without serious injury, provoked in him neither relief nor joy, but a vague unease. He supposed at first this was to do with the odd manner of the boy himself, but then it occurred to him what was really wrong: there was something amiss in the way this boy, whose safety had until so recently been at the centre of the community’s concerns, was now being received. There was a reserve, almost a coldness, that reminded Axl of that incident involving the girl Marta in his own village, and he wondered if this boy, like her, was in the process of being forgotten. But surely this could not be the case here. People were even now pointing at the boy, and the women attending him were staring back defensively.

“I can’t catch what they’re saying, Axl,” Beatrice said in his ear. “Some quarrel about the child, though a great mercy he’s been brought back safe and he himself showing surprising calm after what his young eyes have beheld.”

The warrior was still addressing the crowd, and a tone of entreaty had entered his voice. It was almost as if he was making an accusation, and Axl could feel the mood of the crowd changing. The sense of awe and gratitude was giving way to some other emotion, and there was confusion, even fear in the rumble of voices swelling around him. The warrior spoke again, his voice stern, gesturing behind him towards the boy. Then Ivor came within the light of the fire and standing beside the warrior said something which drew a less inhibited growl of protest from parts of his audience. A voice behind Axl shouted something, then arguments were breaking out on all sides. Ivor raised his voice and for a small moment there was quiet, but almost straight away the shouting resumed, and now there was jostling in the shadows.

“Oh, Axl, please, let’s hurry away!” Beatrice cried into his ear. “This is no place for us.”

Axl put his arm around her shoulders and began to push their way through, but something made him glance back one more time. The boy had not changed his position, and was still staring at the warrior’s back, apparently unaware of the commotion before him. But the woman who had been tending to him had stepped away, and was glancing uncertainly from the boy to the crowd. Beatrice tugged his arm. “Axl, please, take us away from here. I’m afraid we’ll be hurt.”

The entire village must have been at the square, for they encountered no one on their way back to Ivor’s house. Only as it came into view did Axl ask: “What was being said just now, princess?”

“I’m not at all sure, Axl. There was too much of it at once for my weak understanding. A quarrel about the boy who was saved, and tempers being lost. It’s well we’re away and we’ll find out in time what’s occurred.”

When Axl awoke the next morning there were shafts of sunlight crossing the room. He was on the floor, but he had been sleeping on a bed of soft rugs beneath warm blankets — an arrangement more luxurious than he was accustomed to — and his limbs felt well rested. He was in good spirits, moreover, because he had awoken with a pleasant memory drifting through his head.

Beatrice stirred beside him but her eyes remained closed and her breathing unbroken. Axl watched her, as he often did at such moments, waiting for a sense of tender joy to fill his breast. It soon did so, just as he expected, but today was mingled with a trace of sadness. The feeling surprised him, and he ran his hand lightly along his wife’s shoulder, as though such an action would chase away the shadow.

He could hear noises outside, but unlike those that had woken them in the night, these were of people going about their business of an ordinary morning. It occurred to him he and Beatrice had slept unwisely late, but he still refrained from waking Beatrice and went on gazing at her. Eventually he rose carefully, stepped over to the timber door and pushed it open a little way. This door — it would have been a “proper” door on wooden hinges — made a creaking noise and the sun entered powerfully through the gap, but still Beatrice slept on. Now somewhat concerned, Axl returned to where she lay and crouched down beside her, feeling the stiffness in his knees as he did so. At last his wife opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“Time we were rising, princess,” he said, hiding his relief. “The village is alive and our host long gone.”

“Then you should have roused me earlier, Axl.”

“You looked so peaceful, and after that long day I imagined sleep would be welcome to you. And I was right for now you’re looking as fresh as a young maid.”

“Talking your nonsense already and we don’t even know what happened in the night. From the sound of things out there, they haven’t beaten each other to bloody pulp. That’s children I hear and the dogs sound fed and happy. Axl, is there water to wash with here?”

A little later, having made themselves presentable as best they could — and with Ivor still not returned — they wandered out into the crisp, bright air in search of something to eat. The village now appeared to Axl a far more benevolent place. The round huts which in the dark had seemed so haphazardly positioned now stood before them in neat rows, their matching shadows forming an orderly avenue through the village. There was a bustle of men and women moving about with tools or washing tubs, groups of children following in their wake. The dogs, though numerous as ever, seemed docile. Only a donkey contentedly defecating in the sun right in front of a well reminded Axl of the unruly place he had entered the night before. There were even nods and subdued greetings from villagers as they passed, though no one went so far as to speak to them.

They had not gone far when they spotted the contrasting figures of Ivor and the warrior standing ahead of them in the street, heads close together in discussion. As Axl and Beatrice approached, Ivor took a step back and smiled self-consciously.

“I wished not to wake you prematurely,” he said to them. “But I’m a poor host and you both must be famished. Follow me to the old longhouse and I’ll see you’re given your fill. But first, friends, greet our hero of last night. You’ll find Master Wistan understands our tongue with ease.”

Axl turned to the warrior and bowed his head. “My wife and I are honoured to meet a man of such courage, generosity and skill. Your deeds last night were remarkable.”

“My deeds were nothing extraordinary, sir, no more my skills.” The warrior’s voice, as before, was gentle and a smile hovered about his eyes. “I had good fortune last night, and besides, was ably helped by brave comrades.”

“The comrades he speaks of,” Ivor said, “were too busy soiling themselves to join the battle. It’s this man alone destroyed the fiends.”

“Really, sir, no more on this matter.” The warrior had addressed Ivor, but was now gazing intently at Axl, as though some mark on the latter’s face greatly fascinated him.

“You speak our language well, sir,” Axl said, taken aback by the scrutiny.

The warrior went on studying Axl, then caught himself and laughed. “Forgive me, sir. I thought for a moment … But forgive me. My blood is Saxon through and through, but I was brought up in a country not far from here and was often among Britons. So I learnt to speak your tongue alongside my own. These days I’m less accustomed to it, living as I do far away in the fenlands, where one hears many strange tongues but not yours. So you must excuse my errors.”

“Far from it, sir,” Axl said. “One can hardly tell you aren’t a native speaker. In fact, I couldn’t help notice last night your way of wearing your sword, closer and higher on the waist than Saxons are accustomed to do, your hand falling easily on the handle as you walk. I hope you won’t be offended when I say it’s a manner much like a Briton’s.”

Again Wistan laughed. “My Saxon comrades ceaselessly jest not only on my wearing of the sword, but my wielding of it. But you see, my skills were taught to me by Britons, and I’ve never wished for better teaching. It has preserved me well through many dangers, and did so again last night. Excuse my impertinence, sir, but I see you’re not from these parts yourself. Can it be your native country is to the west?”

“We’re from the neighbouring country, sir. A day’s walk away, no more.”

“Yet perhaps in distant days you lived further west?”

“As I say, sir, I’m from the neighbouring country.”

“Forgive my poor manners. Travelling this far west, I find myself nostalgic for the country of my childhood, though I know it’s some distance yet. I find myself seeing everywhere shadows of half-remembered faces. Are you and your good wife returning home this morning?”

“No, sir, we go east to our son’s village, which we hope to reach within two days.”

“Ah. The road through the forest then.”

“Actually, sir, we mean to take the high road through the mountains, there being a wise man in the monastery there we hope will grant us an audience.”

“Is that so?” Wistan nodded thoughtfully, and once more looked carefully at Axl. “I’m told that’s a steep climb.”

“My guests have not yet breakfasted,” Ivor said, breaking in. “Excuse us, Master Wistan, while I walk them to the longhouse. Then if we may, sir, I’d like to resume our discussion of just now.” He lowered his voice and continued in Saxon, to which Wistan replied with a nod. Then turning to Axl and Beatrice, Ivor shook his head and said gravely: “Despite this man’s great efforts last night, our problems are far from over. But follow me, friends, you must be famished.”

Ivor marched off with his lurching gait, prodding the earth at each step with his staff. He seemed too distracted to notice his guests falling behind in the crowded alleys. At one point, when Ivor was several paces ahead, Axl said to Beatrice: “That warrior’s an admirable fellow, didn’t you think so, princess?”

“No doubt,” she replied quietly. “But that was a strange way he had of staring at you, Axl.”

There was no time to say more, for Ivor, at last noticing he was in danger of losing them, had stopped at a corner.

Before long they came to a sunny courtyard. There were roaming geese, and the yard itself was bisected by an artificial stream — a shallow channel cut into the earth — along which the water trickled with urgency. At its broadest point the stream was forded by a simple little bridge of two flat rocks, and at that moment an older child was squatting on one of them, washing clothes. It was a scene that struck Axl as almost idyllic, and he would have paused to take it in further had Ivor not kept striding firmly on towards the low, heavily thatched building whose length ran the entire far edge of the yard.

Once inside it, you would not have thought this longhouse so different from the sort of rustic canteen many of you will have experienced in one institution or another. There were rows of long tables and benches, and towards one end, a kitchen and serving area. Its main difference from a modern facility would have been the dominating presence of hay: there was hay above one’s head, and beneath one’s feet, and though not by design, all over the surface of the tables, blown around by the gusts that regularly swept through the place. On a morning such as this, as our travellers sat down to breakfast, the sun breaking in through the porthole-like windows would have revealed the air itself to be filled with drifting specks of hay.

The old longhouse was deserted when they arrived, but Ivor went into the kitchen area, and a moment later two elderly women appeared with bread, honey, biscuits and jugs of milk and water. Then Ivor himself came back with a tray of poultry cuts which Axl and Beatrice proceeded to devour gratefully.

At first they ate without speaking, only now conscious of how hungry they had been. Ivor, facing them across the table, continued to brood, his eyes far away in thought, and it was only after some time that Beatrice said:

“These Saxons are a great burden to you, Ivor. Perhaps you’re wishing to be back with your own kind, even with the boy returned safe and the ogres slain.”

“Those were no ogres, mistress, nor any creatures seen before in these parts. It’s a great fear removed they no longer roam outside our gates. The boy though is another matter. Returned he may be, but far from safe.” Ivor leaned across the table towards them and lowered his voice, even though they were once more alone. “You’re right, Mistress Beatrice, I wonder at myself to live among such savages. Better dwell in a pit of rats. What can that brave stranger think of us, and after all he did last night?”

“Why, sir, what has occurred?” Axl asked. “We were there at the fire last night, but sensing a fierce quarrel, took our leave and remain ignorant of what went on.”

“You did well to hide yourselves, friends. These pagans were sufficiently aroused last night to tear out each other’s eyes. How they might have treated a pair of strange Britons found in their midst I dread to think. The boy Edwin was safely returned, but even as the village began to rejoice, the women found on him a small wound. I inspected it myself as did the other elders. A mark just below his chest, no worse than what a child receives after a tumble. But the women, his own kin at that, declared it a bite, and that’s what the village is calling it this morning. I’ve had to have the boy locked in a shed for his safety, and even so, his companions, his very family members, throwing stones at the door and calling for him to be brought out and slaughtered.”

“But how can this be, Ivor?” Beatrice asked. “Is it the mist’s work again that they’ve lost all memory of the horrors the child so lately suffered?”

“If only it were, mistress. But this time they appear to remember all too well. The pagans will not look beyond their superstitions. It’s their conviction that once bitten by a fiend, the boy will before long turn fiend himself and wreak horror here within our walls. They fear him and should he remain here, he’ll suffer a fate as terrible as any from which Master Wistan saved him last night.”

“Surely, sir,” Axl said, “there are those here wise enough to argue better sense.”

“If there are, we’re outnumbered, and even if we may command restraint for a day or two, it won’t be long before the ignorant have their way.”

“Then what’s to be done, sir?”

“The warrior’s as horrified as you are, and we two have been in discussion all morning. I’ve proposed he take the boy with him when he rides out, imposition though this is, and leave him at some village sufficiently distant where he may have a chance of a new life. I felt shame to the depths of my heart to ask such a thing of a man so soon after he has risked his life for us, but I could see little else to do. Wistan is now considering my proposal, though he has an errand for his king and already delayed on account of his horse and last night’s troubles. In fact, I must check the boy’s still safe now, then go see if the warrior has made his decision.” Ivor rose and picked up his staff. “Come and say farewell before you leave, friends. Though after what you’ve heard I’ll understand your wish to hurry from here without a backward glance.”

Axl watched Ivor’s figure through the doorway striding off across the sunny courtyard. “Dismal news, princess,” he said.

“It is, Axl, but it’s not to do with us. Let’s not dally further in this place. Our path today’s a steep one.”

The food and milk were very fresh, and they ate on for a while in silence. Then Beatrice said:

“Do you suppose there’s any truth in it, Axl? What Ivor was saying last night about the mist, that it was God himself making us forget.”

“I didn’t know what to think of it, princess.”

“Axl, a thought came to me about it this morning, just as I was waking.”

“What thought was that, princess?”

“It was just a thought. That perhaps God is angry about something we’ve done. Or maybe he’s not angry, but ashamed.”

“A curious thought, princess. But if it’s as you say, why doesn’t he punish us? Why make us forget like fools even things that happened the hour before?”

“Perhaps God’s so deeply ashamed of us, of something we did, that he’s wishing himself to forget. And as the stranger told Ivor, when God won’t remember, it’s no wonder we’re unable to do so.”

“What on this earth could we have done to make God so ashamed?”

“I don’t know, Axl. But it’s surely not anything you and I ever did, for he’s always loved us well. If we were to pray to him, pray and ask for him to remember at least a few of the things most precious to us, who knows, he may hear and grant us our wish.”

There was a burst of laughter outside. Tilting his head a little, Axl was able to see out in the yard a group of children balancing on the flat rocks over the little stream. As he watched, one of them fell into the water with a squeal.

“Who’s to say, princess,” he said. “Perhaps the wise monk in the mountains will explain it to us. But now we’re speaking of waking this morning, there’s something came to me also, perhaps the same moment you were having these thoughts. It was a memory, a simple one, but I was pleased enough with it.”

“Oh, Axl! What memory was that?”

“I was remembering a time we were walking through a market or a festival. We were in a village, but not our own, and you were wearing that light green cloak with the hood.”

“This must be a dream or else a long time ago, husband. I have no green cloak.”

“I’m talking of long ago, right enough, princess. A summer’s day, but there was a chill wind in this place where we were, and you’d placed the green cloak around you, though you kept the hood from your head. A market or perhaps some festival. It was a village on a slope with goats in a pen where you first set foot in it.”

“And what was it we were doing there, Axl?”

“We were just walking arm in arm, and then there was a stranger, a man from the village, suddenly in our path. And taking one glance at you, he stared like he was beholding a goddess. Do you remember it, princess? A young man, though I suppose we too were young then. And he was exclaiming he’d never set eyes on a woman so beautiful. Then he reached forward and touched your arm. Do you have a memory of it, princess?”

“There’s something comes back to me, but not clearly. I’m thinking this was a drunken man you’re talking of.”

“A little drunk perhaps, I don’t know, princess. It was a day of festivities, as I say. All the same, he saw you and was amazed. Said you were the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.”

“Then this must be a long time ago right enough! Isn’t this the day you grew jealous and quarrelled with the man, the way we were almost run out of the village?”

“I recall nothing like that, princess. The time I’m thinking of, you had on the green cloak, and it was some festival day, and this same stranger, seeing I was your protector, turned to me and said, she’s the loveliest vision I’ve seen so you be sure to take very good care of her my friend. That’s what he said.”

“It comes back to me somewhat, but I’m sure you then had a jealous quarrel with him.”

“How could I have done such a thing when even now I feel the pride rising through me at the stranger’s words? The most beautiful vision he’d seen. And he was telling me to take the very best care of you.”

“If you felt proud, Axl, you were jealous also. Didn’t you stand up to the man even though he was drunk?”

“It’s not how I remember it, princess. Perhaps I just made a show of being jealous as a sort of jest. But I would have known the fellow meant no harm. It’s what I woke with this morning, though it’s been many years.”

“If that’s how you’ve remembered it, Axl, let it be the way it was. With this mist upon us, any memory’s a precious thing and we’d best hold tight to it.”

“I wonder what became of that cloak. You always took good care of it.”

“It was a cloak, Axl, and like any cloak it must have worn thin with the years.”

“Didn’t we lose it somewhere? Left on a sunny rock perhaps?”

“Now that comes back to me. And I blamed you bitterly for its loss.”

“I believe you did, princess, though I can’t think now what justice there was in that.”

“Oh, Axl, it’s a relief we can remember a few things still, mist or no mist. It could be God’s already heard us and is hastening to help us remember.”

“And we’ll remember plenty more, princess, when we set our minds to it. There’ll be no sly boatman able to trick us then, even if there ever comes a day we care at all for his foolish chatter. But let’s eat up now. The sun’s high and we’re late for that steep path.”

They were walking back to Ivor’s house, and had just passed the spot where they were nearly assaulted the previous night, when they heard a voice calling from above. Glancing around, they spotted Wistan high up on the rampart, perched on a lookout’s platform.

“Glad to see you still here, friends,” the warrior called down.

“Still here,” Axl called in reply, taking a few paces towards the fence. “But hastening on our way. And you, sir? Will you rest here for the day?”

“I too must leave shortly. But if I may impose on you, sir, for a short conversation, I’d be most thankful. I promise not to detain you long.”

Axl and Beatrice exchanged looks, and she said quietly: “Speak with him if you will, Axl. I’ll return to Ivor’s and prepare provisions for our journey.”

Axl nodded, then turning to Wistan, called: “Very well, sir. Do you wish me to come up?”

“As you will, sir. I’ll happily come down, but it’s a splendid morning and the view is such as to lift the spirits. If the ladder’s no trouble to you, I urge you to join me up here.”

“Go see what he wants, Axl,” Beatrice said quietly. “But be careful, and it’s not just the ladder I’m speaking of.”

He took each rung with care until he reached the warrior, waiting with an extended hand. Axl steadied himself on the narrow platform, then looked down to see Beatrice watching from below. Only after he had waved cheerfully did she move off somewhat reluctantly towards Ivor’s house — now clearly visible from his high vantage point. He kept watching her for a further moment, then turned and gazed out over the top of the fence.

“You see I didn’t lie, sir,” Wistan said, as they stood there side by side, the wind on their faces. “It’s quite splendid as far as the eye will reach.”

The view before them that morning may not have differed so greatly from one to be had from the high windows of an English country house today. The two men would have seen, to their right, the valleyside coming down in regular green ridges, while far to their left, the opposite slope, covered with pine trees, would have appeared hazier, because more distant, as it merged with the outlines of the mountains on the horizon. Directly before them was a clear view along the valley floor; of the river curving gently as it followed the corridor out of view; of the expanses of marshland broken by patches of pond and lake further in the distance. There would have been elms and willows near the water, as well as dense woodland, which in those days would have stirred a sense of foreboding. And just where the sunlight went into shadow on the left bank of the river could be seen some remnants of a long-abandoned village.

“Yesterday I rode down that hillside,” Wistan said, “and my mare with hardly any prompting set into a gallop as though for sheer joy. We raced across fields, past lake and river, and my spirit soared. A strange thing, as if I were returning to scenes from an early life, though to my knowledge I’ve never before visited this country. Can it be I passed this way as a small boy too young to know my whereabouts, yet old enough to retain these sights? The trees and moorland here, the sky itself seem to tug at some lost memory.”

“It’s possible,” Axl said, “this country and the one further west where you were born share many likenesses.”

“That must be it, sir. In the fenlands we have no hills to speak of, and the trees and grass lack the colour before us now. But it was on that joyful gallop my mare broke her shoe, and though this morning the good people here have given her another, I will have to ride gently for one hoof is bruised. The truth is, sir, I brought you up here not simply to admire the country, but to be away from unwelcome ears. I take it you’ve by now heard what’s occurred to the boy Edwin?”

“Master Ivor told us of it, and we thought it poor news to succeed your brave intervention.”

“You may know also how the elders, despairing of what would happen to the boy here, begged I take him away today. They ask I leave the boy in some distant village, telling some story of how I found him lost and hungry on the road. This I’d do gladly enough, except I fear such a plan can hardly save him. Word will easily travel across the country and next month, next year, the boy could find himself in the very plight he is in today, yet all the worse for being lately arrived and his people unknown. You see how it is, sir?”

“You’re wise to fear such an outcome, Master Wistan.”

The warrior, who had been speaking while gazing out at the scenery, pushed back a tangled lock of hair the wind had blown across his face. As he did so, he seemed suddenly to see something in Axl’s own features and, for a small moment, to forget what he had been saying. He gazed intently at Axl, angling his head. Then he gave a small laugh, saying:

“Forgive me, sir. I was just now reminded of something. But to return to my point. I knew nothing of this boy before last night, but I’ve been impressed by the steady way he has faced each new terror set before him. My comrades last night, brave though they were when setting out, were overcome with fear as we approached the fiends’ camp. The boy, however, even though left at the fiends’ mercy for many hours, held himself with a calm I could only wonder at. It would pain me greatly to think his fate’s now all but sealed. So I’ve been thinking of a way out, and if you and your good wife were to consent to lend a hand, all may yet be well.”

“We’re keen to do what we can, sir. Let me hear what you propose.”

“When the elders asked me to take the boy to a distant village, they meant no doubt a Saxon village. But it’s precisely in a Saxon village the boy will never be safe, for it is Saxons who share this superstition about the bite he carries. If he were to be left with Britons, however, who see such nonsense for what it is, there can be no danger, even if the story were to pursue him. He’s strong, and as I’ve said, has remarkable courage, even if he speaks little. He’ll be a useful pair of hands for any community from the day he arrives. Now, sir, you said earlier you’re on your way east to your son’s village. I take it this will be just such a Christian village as we seek. If you and your wife were to plead for him, with perhaps the support of your son, that would surely secure a good outcome. Of course, it may be the same good people would accept the boy from me, but then I’ll be a stranger to them, and one to arouse fear and suspicion. What’s more, the errand which has brought me to this country will prevent my travelling so far east.”

“You’re suggesting then,” Axl said, “that my wife and I be the ones to take the boy from here.”

“That is indeed my suggestion, sir. However, my errand will permit me to travel at least part of the same road. You said you would take the path through the mountains. I’d happily accompany you and the boy, at least to the other side. My company will be a tedious imposition, but then the mountains are known to contain dangers, and my sword may yet prove of service to you. And your bags too could be carried by the horse, for even if her foot’s tender, she’ll not complain of it. What do you say, sir?”

“I think it an excellent plan. My wife and I were distressed to hear of the boy’s plight, and we’ll be happy if we can aid some resolution. And what you say is wise, sir. It’s among Britons, surely, he’s safest now. I’ve no doubt he’ll be received with kindness at my son’s village, for my son himself is a respected figure there, practically an elder in all but his years. He’ll speak for the boy, I know, and ensure his welcome.”

“I’m much relieved. I’ll let Master Ivor know our plan and seek a way to remove the boy quietly from the barn. Are you and your wife ready to leave shortly?”

“My wife is even now packing provisions for the journey.”

“Then please wait by the south gate. I’ll come by presently with the mare and the boy Edwin. I’m grateful to you, sir, for the sharing of this trouble. And glad we’re to be companions for a day or two.”

Chapter Four

Never in his life had he seen his village from such a height and distance, and it amazed him. It was like an object he could pick up in his hand, and he flexed his fingers experimentally over the view in the afternoon haze. The old woman, who had watched his ascent with anxiety, was still at the foot of the tree, calling up to him to climb no further. But Edwin ignored her, for he knew trees better than anyone. When the warrior had ordered him to keep watch, he had selected the elm with care, knowing that for all its sickly appearance, it would possess its own subtle strength and welcome him. It commanded, moreover, the best view of the bridge, and of the mountain road leading up to it, and he could see clearly the three soldiers talking to the rider. The latter had now dismounted, and holding his restless horse by the bridle, was arguing fiercely with the soldiers.

He knew his trees — and this elm was just like Steffa. “Let him be carried off and left to rot in the forest.” That was what the older boys always said about Steffa. “Isn’t that what happens to old cripples unable to work?” But Edwin had seen Steffa for what he was: an ancient warrior, still secretly strong, and with an understanding that went beyond even that of the elders. Steffa, alone in the village, had once known battlefields — it was the battlefields that had taken his legs — and that was why, in turn, Steffa had been able to recognise Edwin for what he was. There were other boys stronger, who might amuse themselves pinning Edwin to the ground and beating him. But it was Edwin, not any of them, who possessed a warrior’s soul.

“I’ve watched you, boy,” old Steffa had once said to him. “Under a storm of fists, your eyes still calm, as if memorising each blow. Eyes I’ve seen only on the finest warriors moving coldly through the rage of battle. Some day soon you’ll become one to fear.”

And now it was starting. It was coming true, just as Steffa had predicted.

As a strong breeze swayed the tree, Edwin moved his grip to a different branch and tried again to recall the events of the morning. His aunt’s face had become distorted out of all recognition. She had been shrieking a curse at him, but Elder Ivor had not let her finish, pushing her away from the doorway of the barn, blocking Edwin’s view of her as he did so. His aunt had always been good to him, but if she now wanted to curse him, Edwin did not care. Not long ago she had tried to get Edwin to address her as “mother,” but he had never done so. For he knew his real mother was travelling. His real mother would not shriek at him like that, and have to be dragged away by Elder Ivor. And this morning, in the barn, he had heard his real mother’s voice.

Elder Ivor had pushed him inside, into the darkness, and the door had closed, taking away his aunt’s twisted face — and all those other faces. At first the wagon had appeared only as a looming black shape in the middle of the barn. Then gradually he had distinguished its outline, and when he had reached towards it, the wood had felt moist and rotten. Outside, the voices were shouting again, and then the cracking noises had come. They had started sporadically, then several had come at once, accompanied by a splintering sound, after which the barn had seemed slightly less dark.

He knew the noises were stones striking the rickety walls, but he ignored them to concentrate on the wagon before him. How long ago had it last been used? Why did it stand so crookedly? If it was now of no use, why was it kept like this in the barn?

It was then he had heard her voice: difficult to distinguish at first, on account of the din outside and the sound of the stones, but it had grown steadily more clear. “It’s nothing, Edwin,” she was saying. “Nothing at all. You can bear it easily.”

“But the elders may not be able to hold them back for ever,” he had said into the dark, though under his breath, even as his hand had stroked the side of the wagon.

“It’s nothing, Edwin. Nothing at all.”

“The stones may break these thin walls.”

“Don’t worry, Edwin. Didn’t you know? Those stones are under your control. Look, what’s that before you?”

“An old and broken wagon.”

“Well, there you are. Go round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round the wagon, because you’re the mule tethered to the big wheel. Round and round, Edwin. The big wheel can only turn if you turn it, and only if you turn it can the stones keep coming. Round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round and round the wagon.”

“Why must I turn the wheel, mother?” Even as he had spoken, his feet had started circling the wagon.

“Because you’re the mule, Edwin. Round and round. Those sharp cracking noises you hear. They can’t continue unless you turn the wheel. Turn it, Edwin, round and round. Round and round the wagon.”

So he had followed her commands, keeping his hands on the upper edges of the wagon’s boards, passing one hand over the other to maintain his momentum. How many times had he gone round like that? A hundred? Two hundred? He would keep seeing, in one corner, a mysterious mound of earth; in another corner, where a narrow line of sun fell across the floor of the barn, a dead crow on its side, feathers still intact. In the half-dark, these two sights — the mound of earth and the dead crow — had come around again and again. Once he had asked out loud, “Did my aunt really curse me?” but no reply had come, and he had wondered if his mother had gone away. But then her voice had returned, saying, “Do your duty, Edwin. You’re the mule. Don’t stop just yet. You control everything. If you stop, so will those noises. So why fear them?”

Sometimes he went three or even four times around the wagon without hearing a single sharp crack. But then as though to compensate, several cracks would come at once, and the shouting outside would rise to a new pitch.

“Where are you, mother?” he had asked once. “Are you still travelling?”

No reply had come, but then several turns later, she had said, “I’d have given you brothers and sisters, Edwin, many of them. But you’re on your own. So find the strength for me. You’re twelve years old, almost grown now. You must be by yourself four, five strong sons. Find the strength and come rescue me.”

As another breeze rocked the elm, Edwin wondered if the barn he had been in was the same one in which the people had hidden the day the wolves had come to the village. Old Steffa had told him the story often enough.

“You were very young then, boy, perhaps too young to remember. Wolves, in broad daylight, three of them, walking calmly right into the village.” Then Steffa’s voice would fill with contempt. “And the village hid in fear. Some men were away in the fields, it’s true. But there were plenty still here. They hid themselves in the threshing barn. Not just the women and the children but the men too. The wolves had strange eyes, they said. Best not to challenge them. So the wolves took all they wished. They slaughtered the hens. Feasted on the goats. And all the while, the village hid. Some in their houses. Most in the threshing barn. Cripple that I am, they left me where I was, sitting in the barrow, these broken legs poking out, beside the ditch outside Mistress Mindred’s. The wolves trotted towards me. Come and eat me, I said, I’ll not hide in a barn for a wolf. But they cared not for me and I watched them go right past, their fur as good as brushing these useless feet. They took all they wished, and only after they’d long departed did those brave men creep out of their hiding places. Three wolves in daylight, and not a man here to stand up to them.”

He had thought about Steffa’s story as he had circled the wagon. “Are you still travelling, mother?” he had asked once more, and again had received no reply. His legs were growing weary, and he had grown heartily sick of seeing the mound of earth and the dead crow, when at last she had said:

“Enough, Edwin. You’ve worked hard. Call your warrior now if you wish. Bring an end to it.”

Edwin had heard this with relief, but had carried on circling the wagon. To summon Wistan, he knew, would require immense effort. As he had the night before, he would have to will his coming from the very depths of his heart.

But somehow he had found the strength, and once he was confident the warrior was on his way, Edwin had slowed his pace — for even mules were driven more slowly towards the end of a day — and noted with satisfaction the cracking noises were growing more sparse. But only when silence had continued for a long time did he finally stop, and leaning against the side of the wagon, begin to recover his breath. Then the barn door had opened and the warrior had been standing there against the dazzling sunshine.

Wistan had come in leaving the door wide open behind him as though to show his contempt for whatever hostile forces had lately been gathered outside. This had brought a large rectangle of sun into the barn, and when Edwin had glanced about himself, the wagon, so dominant in the dark, had looked pathetically dilapidated. Had Wistan called him “young comrade” straight away? Edwin was unsure, but he did remember the warrior leading him into that patch of light, lifting his shirt and scrutinising the wound. Wistan had then straightened, glanced carefully over his shoulder, and said in a low voice:

“So, my young friend, have you kept your promise of last night? About this wound of yours?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve done just as you said.”

“You’ve told no one, not even your good aunt?”

“I’ve told no one, sir. Even though they believe it an ogre’s bite and hate me for it.”

“Let them go on believing it, young comrade. Ten times worse if they learn the truth of how you received it.”

“But what of my two uncles who came with you, sir? Don’t they know the truth?”

“Your uncles, brave as they were, became too sick to enter the camp. So it’s just the two of us who must keep the secret, and once the wound’s healed there’s no need for anyone to wonder about it. Keep it as clean as you can, and never scratch it, by night or day. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

Earlier, when they had been climbing the valleyside, and he had stopped to wait for the two elderly Britons, Edwin had tried to remember the circumstances around the wound. On that occasion, standing amidst the stubbled heather, tugging the reins of Wistan’s mare, nothing had formed clearly in his mind. But now, in the branches of the elm, gazing at the tiny figures down on the bridge, Edwin found coming back to him the dank air and blackness; the high smell of the bearskin covering the little wooden cage; the feel of the tiny beetles falling onto his head and shoulders when the cage was jolted. He recalled adjusting his posture and gripping the shaky grid before him to avoid being tossed about as the cage dragged along the ground. Then everything had become still again, and he had waited for the bearskin to be removed, for the cold air to rush in around him, and to glimpse the night by the glow of the nearby fire. For this was what had happened twice already that night, and the repetition had removed the edge from his fear. He remembered more: the stink of the ogres, and the vicious little creature hurling itself at the rickety poles of the cage, obliging Edwin to push as far back as he could.

The creature had moved so quickly it had been hard to get a clear view of it. He had had the impression of something the size and shape of a cockerel, though with no beak or feathers. It attacked with teeth and claws, all the time letting out a shrill squawking. Edwin trusted the wooden poles against the teeth and the claws, but now and then, the little creature’s tail would whip by accident against the cage and then everything seemed much more vulnerable. Thankfully the creature — still in its infancy, Edwin supposed — seemed oblivious of the power in its tail.

Although at the time these attacks seemed to go on forever, Edwin now supposed they had not lasted so long before the creature had been pulled back by its leash. Then the bearskin would thump over him, all would be blackness again, and he would have to grip the poles as the cage was dragged to another spot.

How often had he had to endure this sequence? Had it been just two or three times? Or as often as ten, or even twelve? Perhaps after the first time he had fallen asleep, even in those conditions, and dreamt the rest of the attacks.

Then on that final occasion, the bearskin had not come off for a long time. He had waited, listening to the creature’s squawks, sometimes far away, sometimes much closer, and the grumbling sounds the ogres made when talking to each other, and he had known that something different was about to happen. And it had been during those moments of dreadful anticipation that he had asked for a rescuer. He had made the request from the depths of his being, so it had been something almost like a prayer, and as soon as it had taken shape in his mind, he had felt certain it would be granted.

At that very moment the cage had begun to tremble, and Edwin had realised the entire front section, with its protective grid, was being drawn aside. Even as this realisation made him shrink back, the bearskin was pulled off and the ferocious creature flew at him. In his sitting position, his instinct was to raise his feet and kick out, but the creature was agile, and Edwin found himself beating it off with fists and arms. Once he thought the creature had got the better of him, and had for an instant closed his eyes, but then opened them again to see his opponent clawing the air as the leash dragged it back. It was one of the few times he had been permitted a good glimpse of the creature, and he saw that his earlier impression had not been inaccurate: it looked like a plucked chicken, though with the head of a serpent. It came for him again, and Edwin was once more beating it off the best he could. Then quite suddenly, the cage front was restored before him, and the bearskin plunged him back in blackness. And it had only been in the moments afterwards, contorted inside the little cage, that he had felt the tingling on his left side just beneath the ribs, and had felt the wet stickiness there.

Edwin adjusted again his foothold within the elm, and bringing down his right hand, touched gently his wound. There was no longer any depth to the pain. During the climb up the valleyside, the coarseness of his shirt had at times made him grimace, but when he was still, as he was now, he could hardly feel a thing. Even that morning in the barn, when the warrior had examined it in the doorway, it had seemed little more than a cluster of tiny punctures. The wound was superficial — not as bad as many he had had before. And yet, because people believed it to be an ogre’s bite, it had caused all this trouble. Had he faced the creature with even more determination, perhaps he could have avoided receiving any wound at all.

But he knew there was no shame in how he had faced his ordeal. He had never cried out in terror, or pleaded to the ogres for mercy. After the little creature’s first lunges — which had taken him by surprise — Edwin had met it with head held up. In fact he had had the presence of mind to realise the creature was an infant, and that one could in all probability create fear in it, just as one might in an unruly dog. And so he had kept his eyes open and tried to stare it down. His real mother, he knew, would be particularly proud of him for this. Indeed, now that he thought about it, the venom had gone out of the creature’s attacks soon after its opening forays, and it had been Edwin who had gained more and more control of the combat. He recalled again the creature clawing the air, and it seemed to him now likely it had not been displaying an eagerness to continue the fight, but simply panic at the choking leash. It was quite possible, in fact, the ogres had judged Edwin the victor of the encounter, and that was why proceedings had been brought to an end.

“I’ve watched you, boy,” old Steffa had said. “You have something rare. One day you’ll find someone to teach you the skills to match your warrior’s soul. Then you’ll be one to fear indeed. You’ll not be one to hide in a barn while mere wolves stroll unhindered about the village.”

Now it was all coming to pass. The warrior had chosen him, and they were to go together to fulfil an errand. But what was their task? Wistan had not made it clear, saying only that his king, far away in the fenland, was even now waiting to hear of its conclusion. And why travel with these two elderly Britons who required rest at each turn of the road?

Edwin gazed down at them. They were now discussing something earnestly with the warrior. The old woman had given up trying to talk him down, and all three were now watching the soldiers on the bridge from behind the cover of two giant pines. From his own vantage point, Edwin could see the rider had remounted and was gesticulating into the air. Then the three soldiers appeared to move away from him, and the rider turned his horse and set off at a gallop away from the bridge, back down the mountain.

Edwin had wondered earlier why the warrior had been so reluctant to stay on the main mountain road, insisting on the steep cut up the valleyside; now it was obvious he had wished to avoid riders such as the one they had just seen. But there now seemed no way to proceed with their journey without going down onto the road and crossing the bridge past the waterfall, and the soldiers were still there. Had Wistan been able to see from down where he was that the rider had departed? Edwin wanted to alert him to this development, but felt he should not shout from the tree in case the soldiers somehow caught the sound. He would have to climb down and tell Wistan. Perhaps, while there had been four potential opponents, the warrior had been hesitant about a confrontation, but now with only three at the bridge, he would consider the odds in his favour. Had it just been Edwin and the warrior, they would surely have gone down to face the soldiers long ago, but the presence of the elderly couple must have made Wistan cautious. No doubt Wistan had brought them along for a good reason, and they had so far been kind to Edwin, but they were frustrating companions all the same.

He remembered again his aunt’s contorted features. She had started to shriek a curse at him, but none of that mattered any more. For he was with the warrior now, and he was travelling, just like his real mother. Who was to say they might not come across her? She would be so proud to see him standing there, side by side with the warrior. And the men with her would tremble.

Chapter Five

After a punishing climb for much of the morning, the party had found its way obstructed by a fast-flowing river. So they had made a partial descent through shrouded woodlands in search of the main mountain road, along which, they reasoned, there would surely be a bridge across the water.

They had been right about the bridge, but on spotting the soldiers there, had decided to rest amidst the pine trees until the men had gone. For at first the soldiers had not appeared to be stationed there, but merely refreshing themselves and their horses at the waterfall. But time had passed and the soldiers had shown no signs of moving on. They would take turns getting onto their bellies, reaching down from the bridge and splashing themselves; or sit with their backs against the timber rails, playing dice. Then a fourth man had arrived on horseback, bringing the men to their feet, and had issued instructions to them.

Though they did not have as good a view as Edwin’s high in his tree, Axl, Beatrice and the warrior had observed well enough all that had passed from behind their cover of greenery, and once the horseman had ridden off again, exchanged questioning looks.

“They may remain a long time yet,” Wistan said. “And you’re both anxious to reach the monastery.”

“It’s desirable we do so by nightfall, sir,” said Axl. “We hear the she-dragon Querig roams that country, and only fools would be abroad there in the dark. What manner of soldiers do you suppose them to be?”

“Not easy at this distance, sir, and I’ve little knowledge of local dress. But I’d suppose them Britons, and ones loyal to Lord Brennus. Perhaps Mistress Beatrice will correct me.”

“It’s far for my old eyes,” Beatrice said, “but I’d suppose you right, Master Wistan. They have the dark uniforms I’ve often seen on Lord Brennus’s men.”

“We’ve nothing to hide from them,” Axl said. “If we explain ourselves, they’ll let us go by in peace.”

“I’m sure that’s so,” the warrior said, then fell silent for a moment, gazing down at the bridge. The soldiers had seated themselves again and seemed to be resuming their game. “Even so,” he went on, “if we’re to cross the bridge under their gazes, let me propose this much. Master Axl, you and Mistress Beatrice will lead the way and talk wisely to the men. The boy can bring the mare behind you, and I’ll walk beside him, my jaw slack like a fool’s, my eyes wandering loosely. You must tell the soldiers I’m a mute and a half-wit, and the boy and I are brothers lent you in place of debts owed you. I’ll hide this sword and belt deep in the horse’s pack. Should they find it, you must claim it as your own.”

“Is such a play really necessary, Master Wistan?” Beatrice asked. “These soldiers may often show coarse manners, but we’ve met many before without incident.”

“No doubt, mistress. But men with arms, far from their commanders, aren’t easy to trust. And here I am, a stranger who they may think good sport to mock and challenge. So let’s call the boy down off the tree and do as I propose.”

They emerged from the woods still some way from the bridge, but the soldiers saw them immediately and rose to their feet.

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said quietly, “I fear this will not go well. There remains something about you that proclaims you a warrior, no matter what foolish look you wear.”

“I’m no skilled player, mistress. If you can help improve my disguise, I’d hear it gladly.”

“It’s your stride, sir,” Beatrice said. “You have a warrior’s way of walking. Take instead small steps followed by a large one, the way you might stumble any moment.”

“That’s good advice, thank you, mistress. Now I should say no more, or they may see I’m no mute. Master Axl, talk us wisely past these fellows.”

As they came closer to the bridge, the noise of the water rushing down the rocks and under the feet of the three awaiting soldiers grew more intense, and to Axl had something ominous about it. He led the way, listening to the horse’s steps behind him on the mossy ground, and brought them to a halt when they were within hailing distance of the men.

They wore no chainmail or helmets, but their identical dark tunics, with straps crossing from right shoulder to left hip, declared clearly their trade. Their swords were for now sheathed, though two of them were waiting with hands on the hilts. One was small, stocky and muscular; the other, a youth not much older than Edwin, was also short in stature. Both had closely cropped hair. In contrast, the third soldier was tall, with long grey hair, carefully groomed, that touched his shoulders and was held back by a dark string encircling his skull. Not only his appearance, but his manner differed noticeably from that of his companions; for while the latter were standing stiffly to bar the way across the bridge, he had remained several paces behind, leaning languidly against one of the bridge posts, arms folded before him as though listening to a tale beside a night fire.

The stocky soldier took a step towards them, so it was to him Axl addressed his words. “Good day, sirs. We mean no harm and wish only to proceed in peace.”

The stocky soldier gave no reply. Uncertainty was crossing his face, and he glared at Axl with a mixture of panic and contempt. He cast a glance back to the young soldier behind him, then finding nothing to enlighten him, returned his gaze to Axl.

It occurred to Axl there had been some confusion: that the soldiers had been expecting another party altogether, and had yet to realise their mistake. So he said: “We’re just simple farmers, sir, on our way to our son’s village.”

The stocky soldier, now collecting himself, replied to Axl in an unnecessarily loud voice. “Who are these you travel with, farmer? Saxons by the look of them.”

“Two brothers just come under our care who we must do our best to train. Though as you see, one’s still a child, and the other a slow-witted mute, so the relief they bring us may be slender.”

As Axl said this, the tall grey-haired soldier, as though suddenly reminded of something, took his weight from the bridge post, his head tilting in concentration. Meanwhile, the stocky soldier was staring angrily beyond both Axl and Beatrice. Then, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, he strode past to scrutinise the others. Edwin was holding the mare, and watched the oncoming soldier with expressionless eyes. Wistan, though, was giggling loudly to himself, his eyes roving, mouth wide open.

The stocky soldier looked from one to the other as though for a clue. Then his frustration seemed to get the better of him. Grabbing Wistan’s hair, he tugged it in a rage. “No one cut your hair, Saxon?” he shouted into the warrior’s ear, then tugged again as though to bring Wistan to his knees. Wistan stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet, letting out pitiful whimpers.

“He doesn’t speak, sir,” Beatrice said. “As you see, he’s simple. He doesn’t mind rough treatment, but he’s known for a temper we’ve yet to tame.”

As his wife spoke, a small movement made Axl turn back to the soldiers still on the bridge. He saw then that the tall grey-haired man had raised an arm; his fingers all but formed a pointing shape before softening and collapsing in an aimless gesture. Finally he let his arm fall altogether, though his eyes went on watching with disapproval. Observing this, Axl suddenly had the feeling he understood, even recognised, what the grey-haired soldier had just gone through: an angry reprimand had all but shaped itself on his lips, but he had remembered in time that he lacked any formal authority over his stocky colleague. Axl was sure he had once had an almost identical experience himself somewhere, but he forced away the thought, and said in a conciliatory tone:

“You must be busy with your duties, gentlemen, and we’re sorry to distract you. If you’d let us pass, we’ll soon be out of your way.”

But the stocky soldier was still tormenting Wistan. “He’d be unwise to lose his temper with me!” he bellowed. “Let him do so and taste his price!”

Then finally he let go of Wistan and strode back to take up his position again on the bridge. He said nothing, looking like an angry man who had completely forgotten why he was angry.

The noise of the rushing water seemed only to add to the tense mood, and Axl wondered how the soldiers would react were he to turn and lead the party back towards the woods. But just at that moment, the grey-haired soldier came forward until he was level with the other two and spoke for the first time.

“This bridge has a few planks broken, uncle. Maybe that’s why we’re standing here, to warn good people like yourselves to cross with care or be down the mountainside tumbling with the tide.” “That’s kind of you, sir. We’ll go then with caution.”

“Your horse there, uncle. I thought I saw it limping coming towards us.”

“She has a hurt foot, sir, but we hope it’s no serious thing, though we don’t mount her, as you see.”

“Those boards are rotted with the spray, and that’s why we’re here, though my comrades think there was some further errand must have brought us. So I’ll ask you, uncle, if you and your good wife have seen any strangers on your travels.”

“We’re strangers here ourselves, sir,” Beatrice said, “so wouldn’t quickly know another. Though on two days’ journey we’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.”

Noticing Beatrice, the grey-haired soldier’s eyes seemed to soften and smile. “A long walk for a woman of your years to make to a son’s village, mistress. Wouldn’t you rather be living there with him where he can see to your comforts each day, instead of having you walk like this, unsheltered from the road’s dangers?”

“I wish it right enough, sir, and when we see him, my husband and I will talk to him of it. But then it’s a long time since we saw him and we can’t help wonder how he’ll receive us.”

The grey-haired soldier went on regarding her gently. “It may be, mistress,” he said, “you’ve not a thing to worry about. I’m myself far from my mother and father, and not seen them in a long while. Perhaps harsh words were said once, who knows? But if they came to find me tomorrow, having walked hard distances as you’re doing now, do you doubt I’d receive them with my heart breaking with joy? I don’t know the kind of man your son is, mistress, but I’d wager he’s not so different to me, and there’ll be happy tears no sooner than he first sees you.”

“You’re kind to say so, sir,” said Beatrice. “I suppose you’re right, and my husband and I have often said as much, but it’s a comfort to hear it said, and from a son far from home at that.”

“Go on your journey in peace, mistress. And if by chance you come upon my own mother and father on the road, coming the other way, speak gently to them and tell them to press on, for their journey won’t be a wasted one.” The grey-haired soldier stood aside to let them pass. “And please remember the unsteady boards. Uncle, you’d best lead that mare over yourself. It’s no task for children or God’s fools.”

The stocky soldier, who had been watching with a disgruntled air, seemed nevertheless to yield to the natural authority of his colleague. Turning his back to them all, he leaned sulkily over the rail to look at the water. The young soldier hesitated, then came to stand beside the grey-haired man, and they both nodded politely as Axl, thanking them a last time, led the mare over the bridge, shielding her eyes from the drop.

Once the soldiers and the bridge were no longer in sight, Wistan stopped and suggested they leave the main road to follow a narrow path rising up into the woods.

“I’ve always had an instinct for my way through a forest,” he said. “And I feel sure this path will allow us to cut a large corner. Besides, we’ll be much safer away from a road such as this, well travelled by soldiers and bandits.”

For a while after that, it was the warrior who led the party, beating back brambles and bushes with a stick he had found. Edwin, holding the mare by her muzzle, often whispering to her, followed closely behind, so that by the time Axl and Beatrice came in their wake, the path had been made much easier. Even so, the short cut — if short cut it was — became increasingly arduous: the trees deepened around them, tangled roots and thistles obliging them to attend to each step. As was the custom, they conversed little as they went, but at one point, when Axl and Beatrice had fallen some way behind, Beatrice called back: “Are you still there, Axl?”

“Still here, princess.” Indeed, Axl was just a few paces behind. “Don’t worry, these woods aren’t known for special dangers, and a good way from the Great Plain.”

“I was just thinking, Axl. Our warrior’s not a bad player at that. His disguise might have had me fooled, and never letting up with it, even with that brute tugging his hair.”

“He performed it well, right enough.”

“I was thinking, Axl. It’ll be a long time we’re away from our own village. Don’t you think it a wonder they let us go when there’s still a lot of planting to do, and fences and gates to be mended? Do you suppose they’ll be complaining of our absence when we’re needed?”

“They’ll be missing us, no doubt, princess. But we’re not away long, and the pastor understands our wishing to see our own son.”

“I hope that’s right, Axl. I wouldn’t want them saying we’re gone just when they have most need of us.”

“There’ll always be some to say so, but the better of them will understand our need, and would want the same in our place.”

For a while they continued without talking. Then Beatrice said again: “Are you still there, Axl?”

“Still here, princess.”

“It wasn’t right of them. To take away our candle.”

“Who cares about that now, princess? And the summer coming.”

“I was remembering about it, Axl. And I was thinking maybe it’s because of our lack of a candle I first took this pain I now have.”

“What’s that you’re saying, princess? How can that be?”

“I’m thinking it was maybe the darkness did it.”

“Go carefully through that blackthorn there. It’s not a spot to take a fall.”

“I’ll be careful, Axl, and you do the same.”

“How can it be the darkness gave you the pain, princess?”

“Do you remember, Axl, there was talk last winter of a sprite seen near our village? We never saw it ourselves, but they said it was one fond of the dark. In all those hours we had of darkness, I’m thinking it might sometimes have been with us without our knowing, in our very chamber, and brought me this trouble.”

“We would have known had it been with us, princess, dark or not. Even in thick blackness, we would have heard it move or give a sigh.”

“Now I think of it, Axl, I think there were times last winter I woke in the night, you fast asleep beside me, and I was sure it was a strange noise in the room roused me.”

“Likely a mouse or some creature, princess.”

“It wasn’t that kind of sound, and it was more than once I thought I heard it. And now I’m thinking of it, it was around the same time the pain first came.”

“Well, if it was the sprite, what of it, princess? Your pain’s nothing more than a tiny trouble, the work of a creature more playful than evil, the same way some wicked child once left that rat’s head in Mistress Enid’s weaving basket just to see her run about in fright.”

“You’re right what you say there, Axl. More playful than evil. I suppose you’re right. Even so, husband …” She fell silent while she negotiated her way between two ancient trunks pressing against each other. Then she said: “Even so, when we go back, I want a candle for our nights. I don’t want that sprite or any other bringing us something worse.”

“We’ll see to it, don’t worry, princess. We’ll talk to the pastor as soon as we return. But the monks at the monastery will give you wise advice about your pain, and there’ll be no lasting mischief done.”

“I know it, Axl. It’s not a thing to worry me greatly.”

It was hard to say if Wistan had been right about his path cutting off a corner, but in any case, shortly after midday, they emerged out of the woods back onto the main road. Here it was wheel-rutted and boggy in parts, but now they could walk more freely, and in time the path grew drier and more level. With a pleasant sun falling through the overhanging branches, they travelled in good spirits.

Then Wistan brought them to a halt again and indicated the ground before them. “There’s a solitary rider not far before us,” he said. And they did not go much further before they saw ahead of them a clearing to the side of their road, and fresh tracks turning into it. Exchanging glances, they stepped forwards cautiously.

As the clearing came more into view, they saw it was of a fair size: perhaps once, in more prosperous times, someone had hoped to build a house here with a surrounding orchard. The path leading off from the main road, though overgrown, had been dug with care, ending in a large circular area, open to the sky except for one huge spreading oak at its centre. From where they now stood, they could see a figure seated in the shadows of the tree, his back against the trunk. He was for the moment in profile to them, and appeared to be in armour: two metal legs stuck out stiffly onto the grass in a childlike way. The face itself was obscured by foliage sprouting from the bark, though they could see he wore no helmet. A saddled horse was grazing contentedly nearby.

“Declare who you are!” the man called out from under the tree. “All bandits and thieves I’ll rise to meet sword in hand!”

“Answer him, Master Axl,” Wistan whispered. “Let’s discover what he’s about.”

“We’re simple wayfarers, sir,” Axl called back. “We wish only to go by in peace.”

“How many are you? And is that a horse I hear?”

“A limping one, sir. Otherwise we are four. My wife and I being elderly Britons, and with us a beardless boy and a half-wit mute lately given us by their Saxon kin.”

“Then come over to me, friends! I have bread here to share, and you must long for rest, as I do for your company.”

“Shall we go to him, Axl?” Beatrice asked.

“I say we do,” Wistan said, before Axl could respond. “He’s no danger to us and sounds a man of decent years. All the same, let’s perform our drama as before. I’ll once more affect a slack jaw and foolish eyes.”

“But this man is armoured and armed, sir,” Beatrice said. “Are you certain your own weapon is ready enough, packed on a horse amidst blankets and honey pots?”

“It’s well my sword’s hidden from suspicious eyes, mistress. And I’ll find it soon enough when I need it. Young Edwin will hold the rein and see the mare doesn’t stray too far from me.”

“Come forth, friends!” the stranger shouted, not adjusting his rigid posture. “No harm will come to you! I’m a knight and a Briton too. Armed, it’s true, but come closer and you’ll see I’m just a whiskery old fool. This sword and armour I carry only out of duty to my king, the great and beloved Arthur, now many years in heaven, and it’s almost as long surely since I drew in anger. My old battlehorse, Horace, you see him there. He’s had to suffer the burden of all this metal. Look at him, his legs bowed, back sunk. Oh, I know how much he suffers each time I mount. But he has a great heart, my Horace, and I know he’d have it no other way. We’ll travel like this, in full armour, in the name of our great king, and will do so till neither of us can take another step. Come friends, don’t fear me!”

They turned into the clearing, and as they approached the oak, Axl saw that indeed, the knight was no threatening figure. He appeared to be very tall, but beneath his armour Axl supposed him thin, if wiry. His armour was frayed and rusted, though no doubt he had done all he could to preserve it. His tunic, once white, showed repeated mending. The face protruding from the armour was kindly and creased; above it, several long strands of snowy hair fluttered from an otherwise bald head. He might have been a sorry sight, fixed to the ground, legs splayed before him, except that the sun falling through the branches above was now dappling him in patterns of light and shade that made him look almost like one enthroned.

“Poor Horace missed his breakfast this morning, for we were on rocky ground when we awoke. Then I was so keen to press on all morning, and I admit it, in an ill temper. I wouldn’t let him stop. His steps grew slower, but I know his tricks well enough by now, and would have none of it. I know you’re not weary! I told him, and gave him a little spur. These tricks he plays on me, friends, I won’t stand for them! But slower and slower he goes, and soft-hearted fool I am, even knowing full well he’s laughing to himself, I relent and say, very well, Horace, stop and feed yourself. So here you find me, taken for a fool again. Come, join me, friends.” He reached forward, his armour complaining, and removed a loaf from a sack in the grass before him. “This is fresh baked, given to me passing a mill not an hour ago. Come, friends, sit beside me and share it.”

Axl held Beatrice’s arm as she lowered herself down onto the gnarled roots of the oak, then he sat down himself between his wife and the old knight. He felt immediately grateful for the mossy bark behind him, the songbirds jostling above, and when the bread was passed, it was soft and fresh. Beatrice leant her head against his shoulder, and her chest rose and fell for a while before she too began to eat with relish.

But Wistan had not sat down. After giggling, and otherwise amply displaying his idiocy to the old knight, he had wandered away to where Edwin was standing in the tall grass, holding his mare. Then Beatrice, finishing her bread, sat forward to address the stranger.

“You must forgive my not greeting you sooner, sir,” she said. “But it’s not often we see a knight and I was awe-struck by the thought. I hope you weren’t offended.”

“Not offended at all, mistress, and glad of your company. Is your journey still a long one?”

“Our son’s village is another day away now we’re come by the mountain road, wishing to visit a wise monk at the monastery in these hills.”

“Ah, the holy fathers. I’m sure they’ll receive you kindly. They were a great help to Horace last spring when he had a poisoned hoof and I feared he wouldn’t be spared. And I myself, recovering some years ago from a fall, found much comfort in their balms. But if you seek a cure for your mute, I fear it’s only God himself can bring speech to his lips.”

The knight had said this glancing towards Wistan, only to find the latter walking towards him, the foolish look vanished from his features.

“Allow me then to surprise you, sir,” he said. “Speech is restored to me.”

The old knight started, then, armour creaking, twisted round to glare enquiringly at Axl.

“Don’t blame my friends, sir knight,” Wistan said. “They were only doing as I begged them. But now there’s no cause to fear you, I would cast off my disguise. Please forgive me.”

“I don’t mind, sir,” the old knight said, “for it’s as well in this world to be cautious. But tell me now what sort you are that I in turn have no cause to fear you.”

“The name is Wistan, sir, from the fenlands in the east, travelling these parts on my king’s errand.”

“Ah. Far from home indeed.”

“Far from home, sir, and these roads should be strange to me. Yet at each turn it’s as if another distant memory stirs.”

“It must be then, sir, you came this way before.”

“It must be so, and I heard I was born not in the fens but in a country further west of here. All the more fortunate then to chance upon you, sir, supposing you might be Sir Gawain, from those same western lands, well known to ride in these parts.”

“I’m Gawain, right enough, nephew of the great Arthur who once ruled these lands with such wisdom and justice. I was settled many years in the west, but these days Horace and I travel where we may.”

“If my hours were my own, I’d ride west this very day and breathe the air of that country. But I’m obliged to complete my errand and hurry back with news of it. Yet it’s an honour indeed to meet a knight of the great Arthur, and a nephew at that. Saxon though I am, his name is one I hold in esteem.”

“I take pleasure in hearing you say so, sir.”

“Sir Gawain, with my speech so miraculously restored, I would ask a small question of you.”

“Ask freely.”

“This gentleman now sits beside you, he’s the good Master Axl, a farmer from a Christian village two days away. A man of familiar years to yourself. Sir Gawain, I ask you now, turn and look carefully at him. Is his face one you’ve seen before, though a long time ago?”

“Good heavens, Master Wistan!” Beatrice, who Axl thought had fallen asleep, was leaning forward again. “What is this you ask?”

“I mean no harm, mistress. Sir Gawain being from the west country, I fancy he might have glimpsed your husband in days past. What harm’s in it?”

“Master Wistan,” Axl said, “I’ve seen you look strangely at me from time to time since our first meeting, and waited for some account of it. What is it you believe me to be?”

Wistan, who had been standing over where they were sitting three abreast beneath the great oak, now crouched down onto his heels. Perhaps he had done so to appear less challenging, but to Axl it was almost as if the warrior was wishing to scrutinise their faces more closely.

“Let’s for now have Sir Gawain do as I ask,” Wistan said, “and it’s only a small turn of his head needed. See it as a childish game if you will. I beg you, sir, look at this man beside you and say if you’ve ever seen him in days past.”

Sir Gawain gave a chuckle, and moved his torso forward. He seemed eager for amusement, as though indeed he had just been invited to participate in a game. But as he gazed into Axl’s face, his expression changed to one of surprise — even of shock. Instinctively, Axl turned away, just as the old knight appeared almost to push himself backwards into the tree trunk.

“Well, sir?” Wistan asked, watching with interest.

“I don’t believe this gentleman and I met till today,” said Sir Gawain.

“Are you sure? The years can be a rich disguise.”

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice interrupted, “what is it you search for in my husband’s face? Why ask such a thing of this kind knight, until this moment a stranger to us all?”

“Forgive me, mistress. This country awakens so many memories, though each seems like some restless sparrow I know will flee any moment into the breeze. Your husband’s face has all day promised me an important remembrance, and if truth be told, that was a reason for my proposing to travel with you, though I sincerely wish to see you both safely through these wild roads.”

“But why would you know my husband from the west when he’s always lived in country nearby?”

“Never mind it, princess. Master Wistan has confused me for someone he once knew.”

“That’s what it must be, friends!” said Sir Gawain. “Horace and I often mistake a face for one from the past. See there, Horace, I say. That’s our old friend Tudur before us on the road, and we thought he fell at Mount Badon. Then we ride closer and Horace will give a snort, as if to say, what a fool you are, Gawain, this fellow’s young enough to be his grandson, and with not even a passing likeness!”

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “tell me this much. Does my husband remind you of one you loved as a child? Or is it one you dreaded?”

“Best leave it now, princess.”

But Wistan, rocking gently on his heels, was gazing steadily at Axl. “I believe it must be one I loved, mistress. For when we met this morning, my heart leapt for joy. And yet before long …” He went on looking at Axl silently, his eyes almost dreamlike. Then his face darkened, and rising to his feet again, the warrior turned away. “I can’t answer you, Mistress Beatrice, for I know not myself. I supposed by travelling beside you the memories would awaken, but they’ve not yet done so. Sir Gawain, are you well?”

Indeed, Gawain had slumped forward. He now straightened and breathed a sigh. “Well enough, thank you for asking. Yet Horace and I have gone many nights without a soft bed or decent shelter, and we’re both weary. That’s all there is to it.” He raised his hand and caressed a spot on his forehead, though his real purpose, it occurred to Axl, might have been to obscure his view of the face beside him.

“Master Wistan,” Axl said, “since we’re now speaking frankly, perhaps I may in turn ask something of you. You say you’re in this country on your king’s errand. But why so anxious to adopt your disguise travelling through a country long settled in peace? If my wife and that poor boy are to travel beside you, we’d wish to know the full nature of our companion, and who his friends and enemies might be.”

“You speak fairly, sir. This country, as you say, is well settled and at peace. Yet here I am a Saxon crossing lands ruled by Britons, and in these parts by the Lord Brennus, whose guards roam boldly to gather their taxes of corn and livestock. I wish no quarrel of the sort may come from a misunderstanding. Hence my disguise, sir, and we’ll all of us move more safely for it.”

“You may be right, Master Wistan,” Axl said. “Yet I saw on the bridge Lord Brennus’s guards seemed not to be passing their time idly, but stationed there for a purpose, and if not for the mist clouding their minds, they might have tested you more closely. Can it be, sir, you’re some enemy to Lord Brennus?”

For a moment Wistan appeared lost in thought, following with his eyes one of the gnarled roots stretching from the oak’s trunk and past where he stood, before burrowing itself into the earth. Eventually he came nearer again, and this time sat down on the stubbled grass.

“Very well, sir,” he said, “I’ll speak fully. I don’t mind doing so before you and this fine knight. We’ve heard rumours in the east of our fellow Saxons across this land ill used by Britons. My king, worrying for his kin, sent me on this mission to observe the real state of affairs. That’s all I am, sir, and was going about my errand peaceably when my horse hurt her foot.”

“I understand well your position, sir,” said Gawain. “Horace and I often find ourselves on Saxon-governed land and feel the same need for caution. Then I wish to be rid of this armour and taken for a humble farmer. But if we left this metal somewhere, how would we ever find it again? And even though it’s years since Arthur fell, isn’t it our duty still to wear his crest with pride for all to see? So we go on boldly and when men see I’m a knight of Arthur, I’m happy to report they look on us gently.”

“It’s no surprise you’re welcomed in these parts, Sir Gawain,” Wistan said. “But can it really be the same in those countries where Arthur was once such a dreaded enemy?”

“Horace and I find our king’s name well received everywhere, sir, even in those countries you mention. For Arthur was one so generous to those he defeated they soon grew to love him as their own.”

For some time — in fact, ever since Arthur’s name had first been mentioned — a nagging, uneasy feeling had been troubling Axl. Now at last, as he listened to Wistan and the old knight talk, a fragment of memory came to him. It was not much, but it nevertheless brought him relief to have something to hold and examine. He remembered standing inside a tent, a large one of the sort an army will erect near a battlefield. It was night, and there was a heavy candle flickering, and the wind outside making the tent’s walls suck and billow. There were others in the tent with him. Several others, perhaps, but he could not remember their faces. He, Axl, was angry about something, but he had understood the importance of hiding his anger at least for the time being.

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice was saying beside him, “let me tell you in our own village there are several Saxon families among the most respected. And you saw yourself the Saxon village from which we came today. Those people prosper, and though they sometimes suffer at the hands of fiends such as those you so bravely put down, it’s not by any Briton.”

“The good mistress speaks truly,” Sir Gawain said. “Our beloved Arthur brought lasting peace here between Briton and Saxon, and though we still hear of wars in distant places, here we’ve long been friends and kin.”

“All I’ve seen agree with your words,” Wistan said, “and I’m eager to carry back a happy report, though I’ve yet to see the lands beyond these hills. Sir Gawain, I don’t know if ever again I’ll be free to ask this of one so wise, so let me do so now. By what strange skill did your great king heal the scars of war in these lands that a traveller can see barely a mark or shadow left of them today?”

“The question does you credit, sir. My reply is that my uncle was a ruler never thought himself greater than God, and always prayed for guidance. So it was that the conquered, no less than those who fought at his side, saw his fairness and wished him as their king.”

“Even so, sir, isn’t it a strange thing when a man calls another brother who only yesterday slaughtered his children? And yet this is the very thing Arthur appears to have accomplished.”

“You touch the heart of it just there, Master Wistan. Slaughter children, you say. And yet Arthur charged us at all times to spare the innocents caught in the clatter of war. More, sir, he commanded us to rescue and give sanctuary when we could to all women, children and elderly, be they Briton or Saxon. On such actions were bonds of trust built, even as battles raged.”

“What you say rings true, and yet it still seems to me a curious wonder,” Wistan said. “Master Axl, do you not feel it a remarkable thing, how Arthur has united this country?”

“Master Wistan, once again,” Beatrice exclaimed, “who do you take my husband to be? He knows nothing, sir, of the wars!”

But suddenly no one was listening any more, for Edwin, who had drifted back to the road, was now shouting, and then came the beating of rapidly approaching hooves. Later when he thought back to it, it occurred to Axl that Wistan must indeed have become preoccupied with his curious speculations about the past, for the usually alert warrior had barely risen to his feet as the rider turned into the clearing, then slowing the horse with admirable control, came trotting towards the great oak.

Axl recognised immediately the tall, grey-haired soldier who had spoken courteously to Beatrice at the bridge. The man still wore a faint smile, but was approaching them with his sword drawn, though pointed downwards, the hilt resting on the edge of the saddle. He came to a halt where just a few more of the animal’s strides would have brought him to the tree. “Good day, Sir Gawain,” he said, bowing his head a little.

The old knight gazed up contemptuously from where he sat. “What do you mean by this, sir, arriving here sword unsheathed?”

“Forgive me, Sir Gawain. I wish only to question these companions of yours.” He looked down at Wistan, who had again let his jaw drop slackly, and was giggling to himself. Without taking his eyes off the warrior, the soldier shouted: “Boy, move that horse no closer!” For indeed, behind him, Edwin had been approaching with Wistan’s mare. “Hear me, lad! Let go the rein and come stand here before me beside your idiot brother. I’m waiting, lad.”

Edwin appeared to comprehend the soldier’s wishes, if not his actual words, for he left the mare and came to join Wistan. As he did so, the soldier adjusted slightly the position of his horse. Axl, noticing this, understood immediately that the soldier was maintaining a particular angle and distance between himself and his charges that would give him the greatest advantage in the event of sudden conflict. Before, with Wistan standing where he was, the head and neck of the soldier’s own horse would momentarily have obstructed his first swing of the sword, giving Wistan vital time either to unsettle the horse, or run to its blind side, where the sword’s reach was diminished in scope and power by having to be brought across the body. But now the small adjusting of the horse had made it practically suicidal for an unarmed man, as Wistan was, to storm the rider. The soldier’s new position seemed also to have taken expert account of Wistan’s mare, loose some distance behind the soldier’s back. Wistan was now unable to run for his horse without describing a wide curve to avoid the sword side of the rider, making it a near-certainty he would be run through from behind before reaching his destination.

Axl noted all this with a sense of admiration for the soldier’s strategic skill, as well as dismay at its implications. There had been a time when Axl, too, had once nudged his horse forward, in another small but subtly vital manoeuvre, bringing himself in line with a fellow rider. What had he been doing that day? The two of them, he and the other rider, had been waiting on horseback, staring out across a vast grey moor. Until that moment his companion’s horse had been in front, for Axl remembered its tail flicking and swaying before him, and wondering how much of this action was due to the animal’s reflexes, and how much to the fierce wind sweeping across the empty land.

Axl pushed these puzzling thoughts away as he struggled to his feet, then helped up his wife. Sir Gawain remained seated, apparently stuck to the foot of the oak, glowering at the newcomer. Then he said quietly to Axl: “Sir, help me rise.”

It took both Axl and Beatrice, one on each arm, to bring the old knight to his feet, but when finally he straightened to his full height in his armour and pulled back his shoulders, he was an impressive sight. But Sir Gawain seemed content to stare moodily at the soldier, and eventually it was Axl who spoke.

“Why do you come upon us like this, sir, and we but simple wayfarers? Do you not remember how you quizzed us not an hour before by the waterfall?”

“I recall you well, uncle,” the grey-haired soldier said. “Though when we last met a strange spell had fallen on us guarding the bridge that we forgot our very purpose being there. Only now, my post relieved and riding to our camp, it all suddenly returns to me. Then I thought of you, uncle, and your party slipping past, and turned my horse to hurry after you. Boy! Don’t wander, I say! Remain beside your idiot brother!”

Edwin sulkily returned to Wistan’s side and looked enquiringly at the warrior. The latter was still giggling quietly, a line of saliva spilling from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were roaming wildly, but Axl guessed the warrior was in fact taking careful measure of the distance to his own horse, and the proximity of his opponent, and in all probability coming to the same conclusions as Axl’s.

“Sir Gawain,” Axl whispered. “If there’s to be trouble now, I beg you assist me to defend my good wife here.”

“I’ll do so on my honour, sir. Rest assured of it.”

Axl nodded gratefully, but now the grey-haired soldier was dismounting. Again Axl found himself admiring the skilful way he did this, so that when finally he stood to face Wistan and the boy, he was once more at exactly the correct distance and angle to them; his sword, moreover, was carried so as not to exhaust his arm, while his horse shielded him from any unexpected assault from the rear.

“I’ll tell you what slipped our mind when we last met, uncle. We’d just received word of a Saxon warrior left a nearby village bringing with him a wounded lad.” The soldier nodded at Edwin. “A lad the age of that one there. Now, uncle, I don’t know what you and the good woman here are to this matter. I seek only this Saxon and his lad. Speak frankly and no harm will visit you.”

“There’s no warrior here, sir. And we’ve no quarrel with you, nor with Lord Brennus who I suppose to be your master.”

“Do you know what you speak of, uncle? Lend a mask to our enemies and you’ll answer to us, whatever your years. Who are these you travel with, this mute and this lad?”

“As I said before, sir, they’re given to us by debtors, in place of corn and tin. They’ll work a year to pay their family’s debt.”

“Sure you’re not mistaken, uncle?”

“I know not whom you seek, sir, but it wouldn’t be these poor Saxons. And while you spend your time with us, your enemies move freely elsewhere.”

The soldier gave this consideration — Axl’s voice had carried unexpected authority — uncertainty entering his manner. “Sir Gawain,” he asked. “What do you know of these people?”

“They chanced on us as Horace and I rested here. I believe them to be simple creatures.”

The soldier once more scrutinised Wistan’s features. “A mute fool, is it?” He took two steps forward and raised the sword so the point was aimed at Wistan’s throat. “But he surely fears death like the rest of us.”

Axl saw that for the first time the soldier had made an error. He had come too close to his opponent, and although it would be a hideous risk, it was now conceivable for Wistan to move very suddenly and seize the arm holding the sword before it could strike. Wistan, however, went on giggling, then smiled foolishly at Edwin beside him. This latest action, however, seemed to arouse Sir Gawain’s anger.

“They may be strangers to me only an hour ago, sir,” he boomed. “But I’ll not see them treated with rudeness.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Sir Gawain. I would ask you to remain silent.”

“Do you dare speak to a knight of Arthur that way, sir?”

“Can it be possible,” the soldier said, completely ignoring Sir Gawain, “this idiot here is a warrior disguised? With no weapon about him, it makes little difference. Mine’s a blade sharp enough whichever he may be.”

“How dare he!” Sir Gawain muttered to himself.

The grey-haired soldier, perhaps suddenly realising his error, took two paces back till he was exactly where he had been before, and lowered the sword to waist height. “Boy,” he said. “Step forward to me.”

“He speaks only the Saxon tongue, sir, and a shy boy too,” Axl said.

“He needn’t speak, uncle. Only raise his shirt and we’ll know if he’s the one left the village with the warrior. Boy, a step closer to me.”

As Edwin came nearer the soldier reached out with his free hand. A tussle ensued as Edwin tried to fight him off, but the shirt was soon dragged up the boy’s torso, and Axl saw, a little way below the ribs, a swollen patch of skin encircled by tiny dots of dried blood. On either side of him, Beatrice and Gawain were now leaning forward to see better, but the soldier himself, reluctant to take his gaze off Wistan, did not glance at the wound for some time. When finally he did so, he was obliged to make a swift turn of his head, and at that very moment, Edwin produced a piercing, high-pitched noise — not a scream exactly, but something that reminded Axl of a forlorn fox. The soldier was for an instant distracted by it, and Edwin seized the chance to break from his grasp. Only then did Axl realise the noise was coming not from the boy, but from Wistan; and that in response, the warrior’s mare, until then languidly munching the ground, had suddenly turned and was charging straight for them.

The soldier’s own horse had made a panicked motion behind him, causing him further confusion, and by the time he had recovered, Wistan had gone clear of the sword’s reach. The mare kept coming at daunting speed, and Wistan, feinting one way, then moving the other, produced another shrill call. The mare slowed to a canter, bringing herself between Wistan and his opponent, enabling the warrior, in an almost leisurely manner, to take up a position several strides from the oak. The mare turned again, moving smartly in pursuit of her master. Axl supposed Wistan’s intention was to mount the animal as she came past, for the warrior was now waiting, both arms poised in the air. Axl even saw him reach towards the saddle just before the mare momentarily obscured him from view. But then the horse cantered on riderless towards the spot where so recently she had been enjoying the grass. Wistan had remained standing quite still, but now with a sword in his hand.

A small exclamation escaped Beatrice, and Axl, placing an arm around her, drew her closer. On his other side, Gawain made a grunting noise which seemed to signify his appreciation of Wistan’s manoeuvre. The old knight had placed a foot up on one of the raised roots of the oak, and was watching with keen interest, a hand on his knee.

The grey-haired soldier’s back was now turned to them: in this, of course, he had had little choice, for he had now to face Wistan. Axl was surprised to see that this soldier, so controlled and expert only a moment ago, had become quite disorientated. He was looking towards his horse — which had trotted some way away in panic — as though for reassurance, then raised his sword, the tip just above the level of his shoulder, gripping tightly with both hands. This posture, Axl knew, was premature, and would only exhaust the arm muscles. Wistan, in contrast, looked calm, almost nonchalant, just as he had done the previous night when they had first glimpsed him setting off out of the village. He came slowly towards the soldier, stopping a few steps before him, sword held low in just one hand.

“Sir Gawain,” the soldier said, a new note in his voice, “I hear you move at my back. Do you stand with me against this foe?”

“I stand here to protect this good couple, sir. Otherwise, this dispute is not my concern, as you so lately reported. This warrior may be your foe, but he isn’t yet mine.”

“This fellow’s a Saxon warrior, Sir Gawain, and here to do us mischief. Help me face him, for though I’m keen to do my duty, if this is the man we seek he’s a fearful fellow by all accounts.”

“What reason have I to take arms against a man simply for being a stranger? It’s you, sir, came into this tranquil place with your rude manners.”

There was silence for a while. Then the soldier said to Wistan: “Do you stay mute, sir? Or will you reveal yourself now we face one another!”

“I’m Wistan, sir, a warrior from the east visiting this country. It seems your Lord Brennus would have me hurt, though for what reason I know not since I travel in peace on an errand for my king. And it’s my belief you mean to harm that innocent boy, and seeing this I must now frustrate you.”

“Sir Gawain,” the soldier cried, “will you come to the aid of a fellow Briton, I ask you once again. If this is Wistan, it’s said more than fifty Norsemen have fallen by his hand alone.”

“If fifty fierce Vikings fell to him, what difference can one old and weary knight make to the outcome now, sir?”

“I beg you, do not jest, Sir Gawain. This is a wild fellow, and he’ll strike at any moment. I see it in his eye. He’s here to do us all mischief, I tell you.”

“Name the mischief I bring,” Wistan said, “travelling peacefully through your country, a single sword in my pack to defend against wild creatures and bandits. If you can name my crime, do so now, for I’d hear the charge before I strike you.”

“I’m ignorant of the nature of your mischief, sir, but have faith enough in Lord Brennus’s desire to be free of you.”

“No charge to name, then, yet you hurry here to slay me.”

“Sir Gawain, I beg you help me! Fierce as he is, the two of us with careful strategy might overcome him.”

“Sir, let me remind you, I’m a knight of Arthur, no foot soldier of your Lord Brennus. I don’t take up arms against strangers on rumour or for their foreign blood. And it seems to me you’re unable to give good cause for taking against him.”

“You force me to speak then, sir, though these are confidences to which a man of my humble rank has no right, even if Lord Brennus himself let me hear them. This man is come to this country on a mission to slay the dragon Querig. This is what brings him here!”

“Slay Querig?” Sir Gawain sounded genuinely dumbfounded. He strode forward from the tree and stared at Wistan as if seeing him for the first time. “Is this true, sir?”

“I’ve no wish to lie to a knight of Arthur, so let me declare it. Further to my duty reported earlier, I’ve been charged by my king to slay the she-dragon roams this country. But what objection could there be to such a task? A fierce dragon bringing danger to all alike. Tell me, soldier, why is it such a mission makes me your enemy?”

“Slay Querig?! You really mean to slay Querig?!” Sir Gawain was now shouting. “But sir, this is a mission entrusted to me! Do you not know this? A mission entrusted to me by Arthur himself!”

“A dispute for some other time, Sir Gawain. Let me first attend to this soldier who would make an enemy of me and my friends when we would go by in peace.”

“Sir Gawain, if you’ll not come to my aid, I fear this is my final hour! I implore you, sir, remember the affection Lord Brennus has for Arthur and his memory and take arms against this Saxon!”

“It is my duty to slay Querig, Master Wistan! Horace and I have laid careful plans to lure her out and we seek no assistance!”

“Lay down your sword, sir,” Wistan said to the soldier, “and I may spare you yet. Otherwise end your life on this ground.”

The soldier hesitated, but then said: “I see now I was foolish to suppose myself strong enough to take you alone, sir. I may be punished yet for my vanity. But I won’t now lay down my sword like a coward.”

“By what right,” Sir Gawain cried, “does your king order you to come from another country and usurp the duties given to a knight of Arthur?”

“Forgive me, Sir Gawain, but it’s many a year you’ve had to slay Querig, and small children have become grown men in the time. If I can do this country a service and rid it of this scourge, why be angry?”

“Why be angry, sir? You know not what you’re about! You think it an easy matter to slay Querig? She’s as wise as she’s fierce! You’ll only anger her with your foolishness, and this whole country will need suffer her wrath, where we’ve hardly heard a thing of her these past several years. It requires the most delicate handling, sir, or a calamity will befall the innocent right across this country! Why do you suppose Horace and I have so bided our time? One misstep will have grave consequences, sir!”

“Then help me, Sir Gawain,” the soldier shouted, now making no effort to hide his fear. “Let’s together put out this menace!”

Sir Gawain looked at the soldier with a puzzled air, as if he had forgotten for the moment who he was. Then he said in a calmer voice: “I’ll not aid you, sir. I’m no friend of your master, for I fear his dark motives. I fear too the harm you intend to these others here, who must be innocents in whatever intrigue enfolds us.”

“Sir Gawain, I hang here between life and death as a fly caught in a web. I make my last appeal to you, and though I don’t understand the full part of this matter, I beg you consider why he comes to our country if not to do us mischief!”

“He gives good account of his errand here, sir, and though he angers me with his careless plans, it’s hardly reason to join you in arms against him.”

“Fight now, soldier,” Wistan said, his tone almost conciliatory. “Fight and be done with it.”

“Will it do harm, Master Wistan,” Beatrice said suddenly, “to let this soldier surrender his sword and ride away? He spoke kindly to me before on the bridge and he’s perhaps not a bad man.”

“If I do as you ask, Mistress Beatrice, he’ll take news back of us and surely return before long with thirty or more soldiers. There’ll be little mercy shown then. And mark you, he means sinister harm to the boy.”

“Perhaps he would willingly swear an oath not to betray us.”

“Your kindness touches me, mistress,” the grey-haired soldier intervened, never taking his eyes off Wistan. “But I’m no scoundrel and won’t take rude advantage of it. What the Saxon says is true. Spare me and I’ll do just as he says, for duty allows me no other course. Yet I thank you for your gentle words, and if these are to be my last moments, then I’ll leave this world a little more peacefully for them.”

“What’s more, sir,” Beatrice said, “I’ve not forgotten your earlier request, concerning your mother and father. You made it then in jest, I know, and it’s not likely we’ll encounter them. But if ever we do so, they’ll know of how you waited with longing to see them again.”

“I thank you once more, mistress. But this is no time for me to soften my heart with such thoughts. Fortune may favour me yet in this contest, no matter this man’s reputation, and then you may regret you ever wished me kindness.”

“Most likely so,” Beatrice said and sighed. “Then Master Wistan, you must do your best for us. I’ll look away, for I take no pleasure in slaughter. And I bid you tell young Master Edwin do the same, for I’m sure he’ll only heed if you command it.”

“Pardon me, mistress,” Wistan said, “but I would the boy witness all that unfolds, just as I was often made to do at his age. I know he’ll not flinch or retch to witness the ways of warriors.” He now spoke several sentences in Saxon, and Edwin, who had been standing by himself a short way away, walked over to the tree and stood beside Axl and Beatrice. His eyes, watchful, seemed never to blink.

Axl could hear the grey-haired soldier’s breathing, more audible now because the man was releasing a low growl with each breath. When he charged forward he did so with his sword high above his head in what seemed an unsophisticated, even suicidal attack; but just before he reached Wistan, he abruptly altered his trajectory, and feinted to his left, his sword lowered to his hip. The grey-haired soldier, Axl understood with a twinge of pity, knowing he stood little chance should the combat mature, had wagered everything on this one desperate ploy. But Wistan had anticipated it, or perhaps it was that his instincts were enough. The Saxon side-stepped neatly, and drew his own sword across the oncoming man in a single simple movement. The soldier let out a sound such as a bucket makes when, dropped into a well, it first strikes the water; he then fell forward onto the ground. Sir Gawain muttered a prayer, and Beatrice asked: “Is it done now, Axl?”

“It’s done, princess.”

Edwin was staring at the fallen man, his expression barely changed from before. Following the boy’s gaze, Axl saw that a serpent, disturbed in the grass by the soldier’s fall, was now sliding out from under the body. Though dark, the creature was mottled with yellows and whites, and as it revealed more of itself, travelling swiftly across the ground, Axl caught the powerful odour of a man’s insides. He instinctively stepped to one side, moving Beatrice with him, in case the creature should come searching for their feet. Still it kept coming their way, parting in two around a clump of thistle, as a stream might part around a rock, before becoming one again and continuing ever closer.

“Come away, princess,” Axl said, leading her. “It’s done, and it’s as well. This man meant us harm, though the reason’s still not clear.”

“Let me enlighten you as far as I can, Master Axl,” Wistan said. He had been cleaning his sword on the ground, but now rose and came towards them. “It’s true our Saxon kin in this country live in good harmony with your people. But we’ve reports at home of Lord Brennus’s ambitions to conquer this land for himself and make war on all Saxons now living on it.”

“I hear the same reports, sir,” Sir Gawain said. “It was another reason I wouldn’t side with this wretch now gutted like a trout. I fear this Lord Brennus is one who would undo the great peace won by Arthur.”

“We at home hear more, sir,” said Wistan. “That Brennus entertains in his castle a dangerous guest. A Norseman said to possess the wisdom to tame dragons. It’s my king’s fear Lord Brennus means to capture Querig to fight in the ranks of his army. This she-dragon would make a fierce soldier indeed, and Brennus would then rightly harbour ambition. It’s for this I’m sent to destroy the dragon before her savagery turns on all who oppose Lord Brennus. Sir Gawain, you look aghast, but I speak sincerely.”

“If I’m aghast, sir, it’s because there’s a sound ring to your words. When I was a young man, I once faced a dragon in an opposing army, and a fearful thing it was. My comrades, hungry for victory the moment before, froze for fear at the sight, and this a creature not half the equal of Querig in might or cunning. If Querig is made a servant of Lord Brennus, it will surely tempt new wars. Yet it’s my hope she’s too wild to be tamed by any man.” He paused, looked towards the fallen soldier and shook his head.

Wistan strode over to where Edwin was standing, and grasping the boy by the arm, began gently to lead him towards the corpse. Then for a little while the two of them stood side by side over the soldier, Wistan talking quietly, pointing occasionally, and looking into Edwin’s face to check the response. At one stage, Axl saw Wistan’s finger trace a smooth line through the air, as perhaps he explained to the boy the journey made by his blade. All the while, Edwin went on gazing blankly at the fallen man.

Sir Gawain, appearing now at Axl’s side, said: “It’s a great sadness this tranquil spot, surely a gift from God to all weary travellers, is now polluted by blood. Let’s bury this man quickly, before anyone else comes this way, and I’ll take his horse to Lord Brennus’s camp, together with news of how I came upon him attacked by bandits, and where his friends may find his grave. Meanwhile, sir”—he turned to address Wistan—“I urge you return straight away east. Think no more of Querig, for you can be assured Horace and I, hearing all we have today, will redouble our efforts to slay her. Now come, friends, let’s put this man in the earth that he may return to his maker peacefully.”