The Buried Giant

Chapter Six

For all his tiredness, Axl was finding sleep elusive. The monks had provided them with a room on the upper storey, and while it was a relief not to have to contend with the cold seeping up from the soil, he had never slept easily above ground. Even when sheltering in barns or stables, he had often climbed ladders to a restless night troubled by the cavernous space beneath him. Or perhaps his restlessness tonight had to do with the presence of the birds in the dark above. They were now largely silent, but every so often would come a small rustle, or a beating of wings, and he would feel the urge to fling his arms over Beatrice’s sleeping form to protect her from the foul feathers drifting down through the air.

The birds had been there when they had first entered the chamber earlier in the day. And had he not felt, even then, something malevolent in the way these crows, blackbirds, woodpigeons looked down on them from the rafters? Or was it just that his memory had become coloured by subsequent events?

Or perhaps the sleeplessness was on account of the sounds, even now echoing across the monastery grounds, of Wistan chopping firewood. The noise had not prevented Beatrice from sinking easily into sleep, and on the other side of the room, beyond the dark shape he knew to be the table on which they had earlier eaten, Edwin had settled to a gentle snoring. But Wistan, as far as Axl knew, had not slept at all. The warrior had remained sitting over in the far corner, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, then gone out into the night. And now here he was again — and despite Father Jonus’s warning — cutting more firewood.

The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Several times Axl had come close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear. There had been no voices now for some time, and yet as he drifted again towards slumber, Axl could not shake the feeling there were still monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight, listening to Wistan’s blows resounding across the grounds.

Earlier, with the afternoon sun filling the chamber, Axl had looked out of the window to see what appeared to be the entire community — more than forty monks — waiting in clusters all around the courtyard. There was a furtive mood among them, as if they were keen their words were not overheard even by those in their own ranks, and Axl could see hostile glances exchanged. Their habits were all of the same brown cloth, sometimes missing a hood or a sleeve. They seemed anxious to go into the large stone building opposite, but there had been a delay and their impatience was palpable.

Axl had been gazing down on the courtyard for several moments when a noise made him lean further out of the window and look directly beneath him. He had seen then the outer wall of the building, its pale stone revealing yellow hues in the sun, and the staircase cut into it rising from the ground towards him. Midway up these stairs was a monk — Axl could see the top of his head — holding a tray laden with food and a jug of milk. The man was pausing to rebalance the tray, and Axl watched the manoeuvre with alarm, knowing how these steps were worn unevenly, and that with no rail on the outside, one had always to keep pressed to the wall to be sure not to plunge down onto the hard cobbles. On top of it all, the monk now ascending appeared to have a limp, yet he kept coming, slowly and steadily.

Axl went to the door to relieve the man of the tray, but the monk — Father Brian, as they were soon to learn he was called — insisted on carrying it to the table himself, saying: “You are our guests, so let me serve you as such.”

Wistan and the boy had left by then, and perhaps the sound of their woodcutting was already ringing through the air. So it had been just he and Beatrice who had sat down, side by side, at the wooden table and devoured gratefully the bread, fruit and milk. As they did so, Father Brian had chatted happily, sometimes dreamily, about past visitors, the fish to be caught in nearby streams, a stray dog that had lived with them until its death the previous winter. Sometimes Father Brian, an elderly but sprightly man, got up from the table and shuffled about the room dragging about his bad leg, talking all the while, every now and then going to the window to check on his colleagues below.

Meanwhile, above their heads, the birds had been criss-crossing the underside of the roof, their feathers occasionally drifting down to blemish the surface of the milk. Axl had been tempted to chase off these birds, but had refrained in case the monks regarded them with affection. He was taken aback then when rapid footsteps came up the stairs outside, and a large monk with a dark beard and a flushed face burst into the room.

“Demons! Demons!” he shouted, glaring up at the rafters. “I’ll see them soak in blood!”

The newcomer was carrying a straw bag, and he now reached into it, brought out a stone and hurled it up at the birds. “Demons! Foul demons, demons, demons!”

As the first stone ricocheted down to the ground, he threw a second and then a third. The stones were landing away from the table, but Beatrice had covered her head with both arms, and Axl, rising, began to move towards the bearded man. But Father Brian had reached him first, and clutching both the man’s arms, said: “Brother Irasmus, I beg you! Stop this and calm yourself!”

The birds by now were screeching and flying in all directions, and the bearded monk shouted over the commotion: “I know them! I know them!”

“Calm yourself, brother!”

“Don’t you stop me, father! They’re agents of the devil!”

“They may yet be agents of God, Irasmus. We don’t yet know.”

“I know them to be of the devil! Look at their eyes! How can they be of God and gaze at us with such eyes?”

“Irasmus, calm yourself. We have guests present.”

At these words, the bearded monk became aware of Axl and Beatrice. He stared angrily at them, then said to Father Brian: “Why bring guests into the house at a time like this? Why do they come here?”

“They’re just good people travelling by, brother, and we’re happy to give them hospitality as is ever our custom.”

“Father Brian, you’re a fool to tell strangers of our affairs! Look, they spy on us!”

“They spy on no one, nor do they have any interest in our problems, having plenty of their own, I don’t doubt.”

Suddenly the bearded man drew out another stone and prepared to hurl it, but Father Brian managed to prevent him. “Go back down, Irasmus, and let go this bag. Here, leave it with me. It won’t do, carrying it everywhere the way you do.”

The bearded man shook off the older monk, and clutched his sack jealously to his chest. Father Brian, allowing Irasmus this small victory, ushered him to the doorway, and even as the latter turned to glare again at the roof, pushed him gently out onto the stairway.

“Go back down, Irasmus. They miss you down there. Go back down and take care you don’t fall.”

When the man had finally gone, Father Brian came back into the room, waving his hand at the feathers floating in the air.

“My apologies to you both. He’s a good man, but this way of life no longer suits him. Please be seated again and finish your meal in peace.”

“And yet, father,” Beatrice said, “that fellow may be right when he says we intrude on you at an uneasy time. We’ve no desire to increase your burdens here, and if you’ll only let us quickly consult Father Jonus, whose wisdom’s well known, we’ll be on our way. Is there word yet if we might see him?”

Father Brian shook his head. “It’s as I told you earlier, mistress. Jonus has been unwell, and the abbot’s given strict orders no one will disturb him other than with permission given by the abbot himself. Knowing of your desire to meet with Jonus, and the pains you took to come here, I’ve been trying since your arrival to attract the abbot’s ear. Yet as you see, you come at a busy time, and now there’s a visitor of some importance arrived for the abbot, delaying our conference further. The abbot’s even now gone back to his study to talk with the visitor while the rest of us wait for him.”

Beatrice had been standing at the window to watch the bearded monk’s departure down the stone steps, and she now pointed, saying: “Good father, isn’t that the abbot returning now?”

Axl, coming to her side, saw a gaunt figure striding with authority into the centre of the courtyard. The monks, breaking from their conversations, were all moving towards him.

“Ah yes, there’s the abbot returned. Now finish your meal in peace. And regarding Jonus, be patient, for I fear I’ll not be able to bring you the abbot’s decision till after this conference is over. Yet I’ll not forget, I promise, and will petition well for you.”

It was surely the case that then, as now, the warrior’s axe blows had been ringing across the courtyard. In fact, Axl could distinctly recall asking himself, as he watched the monks filing into the building opposite, if he was hearing one woodcutter or two; for a second blow would follow so close behind the first it was hard to tell if it was a real sound or an echo. Thinking about it now, lying in the dark, Axl was sure Edwin had been chopping alongside Wistan, matching the warrior blow for blow. In all likelihood the boy was already an expert woodcutter. Earlier that day, before they had come to this monastery, he had astonished them by digging so rapidly with two flat stones he had happened to find nearby.

Axl by then had ceased to dig, having been persuaded by the warrior to preserve his strength for the climb to the monastery. So he had stood beside the oozing body of the soldier, guarding it from the birds gathering in the branches. Wistan, Axl recalled, had been using the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, remarking that he was reluctant to blunt his own on such a task. Sir Gawain, however, had said: “This soldier died honourably, no matter the schemes of his master, and a knight’s sword is put to good use giving him a grave.” Both men, though, had paused to watch in wonder the progress being made by Edwin with his rudimentary tools. Then, as they resumed their work, Wistan had said:

“I fear, Sir Gawain, Lord Brennus will not believe such a story.”

“He’ll believe it well enough, sir,” Gawain had replied, continuing to dig. “There’s a coolness between us, but he has me for an honest fool without the wit to invent devious tales. I may tell them how the soldier spoke of bandits even as he bled to death in my arms. Some will think it a grave sin to tell such a lie, yet I know God will look mercifully on it, for isn’t it to stop further bloodshed? I’ll make Brennus believe me, sir. Even so, you remain in danger and have good reason to hurry home.”

“I’ll do so without delay, Sir Gawain, as soon as my errand here’s finished. If my mare’s foot isn’t soon healed, I may even trade her for another, for that’s a long ride to the fens. Yet I’ll be sorry for she’s a rare horse.”

“A rare one indeed! My Horace, alas, no longer possesses such agility, yet he’s come to me in many an hour of need, as your mare came to you just now. A rare horse, and one you’ll be sad to lose. Even so, speed is crucial, so be on your way and never mind your errand. Horace and I will see to the she-dragon, so you’ve no cause to think further of her. In any case, now I’ve had time to dwell on it, I see Lord Brennus can never succeed in recruiting Querig into his army. She’s the most wild and untameable of creatures and will as quickly spew fire on her own ranks as on Brennus’s foes. The whole idea’s outlandish, sir. Think no more of it and hurry home before your enemies corner you.” Then when Wistan continued to dig without responding, Sir Gawain asked: “Do I have your word on it, Master Wistan?”

“On what, Sir Gawain?”

“That you’ll think no more of the she-dragon and hurry home.”

“You seem keen to hear me say so.”

“I think not just of your safety, sir, but of those on whom Querig will turn should you arouse her. And what of these companions who travel with you?”

“It’s true, the safety of these friends gives me concern. I’ll go beside them as far as the monastery, for I can hardly leave them defenceless on these wild roads. Thereafter, it may be best we part.”

“So after the monastery, you’ll make your way home.”

“I’ll set off home when I’m ready, sir knight.”

The smell rising from the dead man’s innards had obliged Axl to take a few steps away, and when he did so, he found he had a better view of Sir Gawain. The knight was now waist deep in the ground, and the perspiration had drenched his forehead, so perhaps that was why his expression had lost its customary benevolence. He was regarding Wistan with intense hostility, while the latter, oblivious, carried on digging.

Beatrice had been upset by the soldier’s death. As the grave had grown deeper, she had walked slowly back to the great oak and seated herself again in its shade, her head bowed. Axl had wanted to go and sit with her, and but for the gathering crows, would have done so. Now, lying in the darkness, he too began to feel a sadness for the slain man. He remembered the soldier’s courtesy towards them on the little bridge, and the gentle way he had spoken to Beatrice. Axl recalled too the precise way he had positioned his horse when first entering the clearing. Something in the way he had done so had tugged on his memory at the time, and now, in the night’s stillness, Axl remembered the rise and fall of moorland, the brooding sky, and the flock of sheep coming through the heather.

He had been on horseback, and in front of him was mounted his companion, a man called Harvey, the smell of whose heavy body overpowered that of their horses. They had halted in the midst of the windswept wilderness because they had spotted movement in the distance, and once it was clear it signified no threat, Axl had stretched his arms — they had been riding a long time — and watched the tail of Harvey’s horse swinging from side to side as though to prevent the flies settling on its rear. Although his companion’s face was hidden from him at that moment, the shape of Harvey’s back, indeed his whole posture, announced the malevolence aroused by the sight of the approaching party. Gazing past Harvey, Axl could now make out the dark dots that were the sheep’s faces, and moving among them four men — one on a donkey, the others on foot. There appeared to be no dogs. The shepherds, Axl supposed, must long ago have spotted them — two riders clearly outlined against the sky — but if they had felt apprehension there was no sign of it in their slow, relentless trudge forwards. There was, in any case, just the one long path across the moor, and Axl supposed the shepherds could avoid them only by turning back.

As the group came nearer, he could see that all four men, though far from old, were sickly and thin. This observation brought a sinking to his heart, for he knew the men’s condition would only further provoke his companion’s savagery. Axl waited until the party was almost within hailing distance, then nudged forward his horse, positioning it carefully to the side of Harvey where he knew the shepherds, and most of the flock, were bound to pass. He made sure to keep his own horse a nose behind, to allow his companion the illusion of seniority. Yet Axl was now in a position that would shield the shepherds from any sudden assault Harvey might launch with his whip, or with the club hooked to his saddle. All the while, the manoeuvre would have suggested on the surface only camaraderie, and in any case, Harvey did not possess the subtlety of mind even to suspect its real purpose. Indeed, Axl recalled his companion nodding absent-mindedly as he drew up, before turning back to stare moodily across the moor.

Axl had been especially anxious on behalf of the approaching shepherds because of something that had occurred a few days earlier in a Saxon village. It had been a sunny morning, and on that occasion Axl had been as startled as any of the villagers. Without warning, Harvey had heeled his horse forward and started to rain down blows on the people waiting to draw water from the well. Had Harvey used his whip or his club on that occasion? Axl had tried to recall this detail that day on the moor. If Harvey chose to assault the passing shepherds with his whip, the reach would be greater and require less leverage of the arm; he might even dare to swing it over the head of Axl’s horse. If, however, he chose his club, with Axl positioned as he now was, Harvey would be obliged to push his horse beyond Axl’s and rotate partially before attacking. Such a manoeuvre would appear too deliberate for his companion: Harvey was the type that liked his savagery to look impulsive and effortless.

He could not remember now if his careful actions had saved the shepherds. He had a vague recollection of sheep drifting innocently past them, but his memory of the shepherds themselves had become confusingly bound up with that attack on the villagers by the well. What had brought the pair of them to that village that morning? Axl remembered the cries of outrage, children crying, the looks of hatred, and his own fury, not so much at Harvey himself, but at those who had handicapped him with such a companion. Their mission, if accomplished, would surely be an achievement unique and new, one so supreme God himself would judge it a moment when men came a step closer to him. Yet how could Axl hope to do anything tethered to such a brute?

The grey-haired soldier came back into his thoughts, and the little half-gesture he had made on the bridge. As his stocky colleague had shouted and pulled on Wistan’s hair, the grey-haired man had started to raise his arm, his fingers almost in a pointing gesture, a reprimand all but escaping his lips. Then he had let his arm fall. Axl had understood exactly what the grey-haired man had experienced during those moments. The soldier had then spoken with particular gentleness to Beatrice, and Axl had been grateful to him. He recalled Beatrice’s expression as she had stood before the bridge, changing from grave and guarded to the softly smiling one so dear to him. The picture now seized his heart, and at the same time made him fearful. A stranger — a potentially dangerous one at that — had but to say a few kindly words and there she was, ready to trust the world again. The thought troubled him and he felt the urge to run his hand gently over the shoulder now beside him. But had she not always been thus? Was it not part of what made her so precious to him? And had she not survived these many years with no great harm coming to her?

“It can’t be rosemary, sir,” he remembered Beatrice saying to him, her voice tense with anxiety. He was crouching down, one knee pressed into the ground, for it was a fine day and the soil dry. Beatrice must have been standing behind him, for he could remember her shadow on the forest floor before him as he parted the undergrowth with his hands. “It can’t be rosemary, sir. Who ever saw rosemary with such yellow flowers on it?”

“Then I have its name wrong, maiden,” Axl had said. “But I know for certain it’s one commonly seen, and not one to bring you mischief.”

“But are you really one who knows his plants, sir? My mother taught me everything grows wild in this country, yet what’s before us now is strange to me.”

“Then it’s likely something foreign to these parts lately arrived. Why distress yourself so, maiden?”

“I distress myself, sir, because it’s likely this is a weed I’m brought up to fear.”

“Why fear a weed except that it’s poisonous, and then all’s needed is not to touch it. Yet there you were, reaching down with your hands, and now getting me to do the same!”

“Oh, it’s not poisonous, sir! At least not in the way you mean. Yet my mother once described closely a plant and warned that to see it in the heather was bad luck for any young girl.”

“What sort of bad luck, maiden?”

“I’m not bold enough to tell you, sir.”

But even as she said this, the young woman — for that was what Beatrice was that day — had crouched down beside him so that their elbows touched for a brief moment, and smiled trustingly into his gaze.

“If it’s such bad luck to see it,” Axl had said, “what kindness is it to bring me from the road just to place my gaze on it?”

“Oh, it’s not bad luck for you, sir! Only for unmarried girls. There’s another plant entirely brings bad luck to men like yourself.”

“You’d better tell me what this other looks like, so I may dread it as you do this one.”

“You may enjoy mocking me, sir. Yet one day you’ll take a tumble and find the weed next to your nose. You’ll see then if it’s a laughing matter or not.”

He could remember now the feel of the heather as he had passed his hand through it, the wind in the branches above, and the presence of the young woman beside him. Could that have been the first time they had conversed? Surely they had at least known one another by sight; surely it was inconceivable even Beatrice would have been so trusting of a total stranger.

The woodcutting noises, which had paused for a while, now started up again, and it occurred to Axl the warrior might remain outside the entire night. Wistan appeared calm and thoughtful, even in combat, yet it was possible the tensions of the day and previous night had mounted on his nerves, and he needed to work them off in this way. Even so, his behaviour was odd. Father Jonus had specifically warned against further woodcutting, yet here he was, back at it again and with night well fallen. Earlier, when they had first arrived, it had seemed a simple courtesy on the warrior’s part. And at that point, as Axl had discovered, Wistan had had his own reasons for cutting wood.

“The woodshed is well positioned,” the warrior had explained. “The boy and I were able to keep good watch on the comings and goings while we worked. Even better, when we delivered the wood where it was needed, we roamed at will to inspect the surroundings, even if a few doors stayed barred to us.”

The two of them had been talking up by the high monastery wall overlooking the surrounding forest. The monks had long gone into their meeting by then, and a hush had fallen over the grounds. Several moments before, with Beatrice dozing in the chamber, Axl had wandered out under the late afternoon sun, and climbed the worn stone steps to where Wistan was looking down on the dense foliage below.

“But why go to such trouble, Master Wistan?” Axl had asked. “Can it be you’re suspicious of these good monks here?”

The warrior, a hand raised to shield his eyes, said: “When we were climbing that path earlier, I wanted nothing but to curl in a corner adrift in my dreams. Yet now we’re here, I can’t keep away the feeling this place holds dangers for us.”

“It must be weariness makes your suspicions keen, Master Wistan. What can trouble you here?”

“Nothing yet I can point to with conviction. But consider this. When I returned to the stables earlier to see all was well with the mare, I heard sounds coming from the stall behind. I mean, sir, this other stall was separated by a wall, but I could hear another horse beyond, though no horse was there when we first arrived and I led in the mare. Then when I walked to the other side, I found there the stable door shut and a great lock hanging on it only a key would release.”

“There may be many innocent explanations, Master Wistan. The horse may have been at pasture and lately brought in.”

“I spoke to a monk on that very point, and learnt they keep no horses here from a wish not to ease their burdens unduly. It would seem since our own arrival some other visitor has come, and one anxious to keep his presence hidden.”

“Now you mention it, Master Wistan, I recall Father Brian made mention of an important visitor arriving for the abbot, and their great conference being delayed on account of his coming. We know nothing of what goes on here, and in all likelihood, none of it touches us.”

Wistan nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right, Master Axl. A little sleep would calm my suspicions. Even so, I sent the boy to wander further this place, supposing he’d be excused a natural curiosity more readily than a grown man. Not long ago he returned to report he’d heard a groaning from those quarters over there”—Wistan turned and pointed—“as of a man in pain. Creeping indoors after this sound, Master Edwin saw marks of blood both old and fresh outside a closed chamber.”

“Curious certainly. Yet there’d be no mystery in a monk meeting some unfortunate accident, perhaps tripping on these very steps.”

“I concede, sir, I’ve no hard reason to suppose anything amiss here. Perhaps it’s a warrior’s instinct makes me wish my sword was in my belt and I was done pretending to be a farmboy. Or maybe my fears derive simply from what these walls whisper to me of days gone by.”

“What can you mean, sir?”

“Only that not long ago, this place was surely no monastery, but a hillfort, and one well made to fight off foes. You recall the exhausting road we climbed? How the path turned back and forth as though eager to drain our strength? Look down there now, sir, see the battlements running above those same paths. It’s from there the defenders once showered their guests from above with arrows, rocks, boiling water. It would have been a feat merely to reach the gate.”

“I see it. It can’t have been an easy climb.”

“Further, Master Axl, I’d wager this fort was once in Saxon hands, for I see about it many signs of my kin perhaps invisible to you. Look there”—Wistan pointed down to a cobbled yard below hemmed in by walls—“I fancy just there stood a second gate, much stronger than the first, yet hidden to invaders climbing the road. They saw only the first and strained to storm it, but that gate would have been what we Saxons call a watergate, after those barriers that control a river’s flow. Through this watergate would be let past, quite deliberately, a measured number of the enemy. Then the watergate would close on those following. Now those isolated between the two gates, in that space just there, would find themselves outnumbered, and once again, attacked from above. They would be slaughtered before the next group let through. You see how it worked, sir. This is today a place of peace and prayer, yet you needn’t gaze so deep to find blood and terror.”

“You read it well, Master Wistan, and I shudder at what you show me.”

“I’d wager too there were Saxon families here, fled from far and wide seeking protection in this fort. Women, children, wounded, old, sick. See over there, the yard where the monks gathered earlier. All but the weakest would have come out and stood there, all the better to witness the invaders squeal like trapped mice between the two gates.”

“That I can’t believe, sir. They would surely have hidden themselves below and prayed for deliverance.”

“Only the most cowardly of them. Most would have stood there in that yard, or even come up here where we now stand, happy to risk an arrow or spear to enjoy the agonies below.”

Axl shook his head. “Surely the sort of people you speak of would take no pleasure in bloodshed, even of the enemy.”

“On the contrary, sir. I speak of people at the end of a brutal road, having seen their children and kin mutilated and ravished. They’ve reached this, their sanctuary, only after long torment, death chasing at their heels. And now comes an invading army of overwhelming size. The fort may hold several days, perhaps even a week or two. But they know in the end they will face their own slaughter. They know the infants they circle in their arms will before long be bloodied toys kicked about these cobbles. They know because they’ve seen it already, from whence they fled. They’ve seen the enemy burn and cut, take turns to rape young girls even as they lie dying of their wounds. They know this is to come, and so must cherish the earlier days of the siege, when the enemy first pay the price for what they will later do. In other words, Master Axl, it’s vengeance to be relished in advance by those not able to take it in its proper place. That’s why I say, sir, my Saxon cousins would have stood here to cheer and clap, and the more cruel the death, the more merry they would have been.”

“I won’t believe it, sir. How is it possible to hate so deeply for deeds not yet done? The good people who once took shelter here would have kept alive their hopes to the end, and surely watched all suffering, of friend and foe, with pity and horror.”

“You’re much the senior in years, Master Axl, but in matters of blood, it may be I’m the elder and you the youth. I’ve seen dark hatred as bottomless as the sea on the faces of old women and tender children, and some days felt such hatred myself.”

“I won’t have it, sir, and besides, we talk of a barbarous past hopefully gone for ever. Our argument need never be put to the test, thank God.”

The warrior looked strangely at Axl. He appeared about to say something, then to change his mind. Then he turned to survey the stone buildings behind them saying: “Wandering these grounds earlier, my arms heavy with firewood, I spotted at every turn fascinating traces of that past. The fact is, sir, even with the second gate breached, this fort would have held many more traps for the enemy, some devilishly cunning. The monks here hardly know what they pass each day. But enough of this. While we share this quiet moment, let me ask your forgiveness, Master Axl, for the discomfort I caused you earlier. I refer to my questioning that good knight about you.”

“Think no more of it, sir. There’s no offence, even if you did surprise me, and my wife also. You mistook me for another, an easy error.”

“I thank you for your understanding. I took you for one whose face I can never forget, even though I was a small boy when I saw it last.”

“In the west country then.”

“That’s right, sir, in the time before I was taken. The man I speak of was no warrior, yet wore a sword and rode a fine stallion. He came often to our village, and to us boys who knew only farmers and boatmen, was a thing of wonder.”

“Yes. I see how he might be.”

“I recall we followed him all about the village, though always at a shy distance. Some days he’d move with urgency, talking with elders or calling a crowd to gather in the square. Other days he’d wander at leisure, talking to one and all as if to pass the day. He knew little of our tongue, but our village being on the river, the boats coming and going, many spoke his language, so he never lacked for companions. He’d sometimes turn to us with a smile, but we being young would scatter and hide.”

“And was it in this village you learnt our tongue so well?”

“No, that came later. When I was taken.”

“Taken, Master Wistan?”

“I was taken from that village by soldiers and trained from a tender age to be the warrior I am today. It was Britons took me, so I soon learnt to speak and fight in their manner. It’s long ago and things take strange shapes in the mind. When I first saw you today in that village, perhaps a trick of the morning light, I felt I was that boy again, shyly peeking at that great man with his flowing cloak, moving through our village like a lion amongst pigs and cows. I fancy it was a small corner of your smile, or something about your way of greeting a stranger, head bowed a little. Yet now I see I was mistaken, since you could not have been that man. No more of this. How is your good wife, sir? Not exhausted, I hope?”

“She’s recovered her breath well, I thank you for asking, though I’ve told her to rest further just now. We’re forced, in any case, to wait till the monks return from their meeting and the abbot gives permission to visit the wise physician Jonus.”

“A resolute lady, sir. I admired how she made her way here giving no complaint. Ah, here’s the boy back again.”

“See how he holds his injury, Master Wistan. We must take him also to Father Jonus.”

Wistan seemed not to hear this. Leaving the wall, he went down the little steps to meet Edwin, and for a few moments the two conferred in low voices, heads close together. The boy’s manner was animated, and the warrior listened with a frown, nodding occasionally. As Axl came down the steps to their level, Wistan said quietly:

“Master Edwin reports a curious discovery we may do well to see with our own eyes. Let’s follow him, but walk as we’ve no clear purpose, in case that old monk there is left on purpose to spy on us.”

Indeed, a solitary monk was sweeping the courtyard and as they came closer, Axl noticed he was mouthing words silently to himself, lost in his world. He barely glanced their way as Edwin led them across the courtyard and into a gap between two buildings. They emerged where thin grass covered uneven sloping ground, and a row of withered trees, hardly taller than a man, marked a path leading away from the monastery. As they followed Edwin under a setting sky, Wistan said softly:

“I’m much taken by this boy. Master Axl, we may yet revise our plan to leave him at your son’s village. It would suit me well to keep him by me a while longer.”

“I’m troubled to hear you say so, sir.”

“Why so? He hardly longs for a life feeding pigs and digging the cold soil.”

“Yet what will become of him at your side?”

“Once my mission’s complete, I’ll take him back to the fens.”

“And what will you have him do there, sir? Fight Norsemen all his days?”

“You frown, sir, but the boy has an unusual temperament. He’ll make a fine warrior. But hush, let’s see what he has for us.”

They had come to where three wooden shacks stood at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Edwin paused to point these out. Then he led them into the furthest of the three shacks.

There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As they came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Axl saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart — perhaps the work of the monks themselves — its two wheels sunk into the mud. What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Axl noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth. The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Edwin pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge. He was again speaking excited words, to which Wistan, throwing searching glances around the shed, returned the occasional nod.

“It’s curious,” Axl said, “these monks should have need of such an object as this. No doubt to aid some pious ritual.”

The warrior started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. “I saw something like this once before,” he said. “You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren’t feasted on.”

“There may yet be some more gentle purpose,” Axl said, but Edwin had started to talk again, and Wistan turned and looked out of the shed.

“The boy says he followed these tracks out to a spot nearby on the cliff’s edge,” the warrior said, eventually. “He says the ground’s well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart’s been wheeled out just lately.”

“I don’t know what it means, Master Wistan, but I admit I now begin to share your uneasiness. This object sends a chill through me and makes me want to return to my wife’s side.”

“It’s as well we do, sir. Let’s stay no longer.”

But as they came out of the shack, Edwin, who again was leading, stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Axl could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.

“I’d say it’s the monk lately sweeping the yard,” the warrior said to Axl.

“Does he see us?”

“I’d say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let’s go to him.”

The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.

“You observe us, sir,” Wistan said, stopping, “and you know what we’ve just discovered. So perhaps you’d tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device.”

Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.

“It may be he’s vowed to silence,” Axl said. “Or else as mute as you lately pretended, Master Wistan.”

The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.

The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks’ conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice — perhaps that of the abbot — called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.

As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Axl whispered to him:

“Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I’d ask you to let me go fetch my wife, for I’m uneasy leaving her alone.”

The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Axl in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did Axl spot Beatrice standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, he gave a wave, and as the party moved towards her, there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks’ meeting.

“How is it with you, princess?” he asked, reaching to take her outstretched hands.

“Peacefully taking my rest, Axl, when this silent monk appeared before me, the way I took him for a phantom. But he’s keen to lead us somewhere and we’d best follow.”

The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Beatrice across the threshold where she had been waiting.

The corridors now became as tunnel-like as those of their warren at home, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Axl, with Beatrice holding his arm, kept a hand held out before him. For a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said: “Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you’re welcome.”

As he waited for sleep to come to him, Axl recalled once again how the four of them, together with the silent monk, had squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and he had felt Beatrice recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. Then she had taken a breath and moved further into the room. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, the warrior and the boy in the corner furthest away. Axl’s back was pressed against the chilly stone wall, but Beatrice, standing just in front and leaning into him as if for reassurance, was almost up to the sickbed. There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position.

Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Beatrice to shrink back was the man’s neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man’s inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.

“Welcome, welcome. I’m Jonus, whom I know you came a long way to see. My dear guests, don’t look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did.”

“We see now, Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “why your good abbot’s so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We’d have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you.”

“Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he’s vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He’s watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it.”

“But what can have caused you such injuries, father?” Beatrice asked. “And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom.”

“Let’s leave the topic, mistress, for my feeble strength won’t allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and this brave boy, seek my advice. Let me see the boy first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear lad.”

The monk’s voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Edwin started to move towards him. But immediately Wistan reached forward and gripped the boy by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior’s trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Axl that for an instant Wistan’s eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred. The warrior drew the boy back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield his charge.

“What’s wrong, shepherd?” asked Father Jonus. “Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to your brother? Then my hand needn’t touch him. Let him step closer and my eyes alone will test his injury.”

“The boy’s wound is clean,” Wistan said. “It’s just this good woman now seeks your help.”

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “how can you say such a thing? You must know well how a wound clean one moment turns fevered the next. The boy must seek this wise monk’s guidance.”

Wistan seemed not to hear Beatrice, and continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said:

“You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd.”

“It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night.”

“No doubt that’s so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well.”

“Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We’re a cautious breed, and what’s more, sir, I’ve just now seen with my own eyes the device in your barn.”

“Ah. I thought you’d come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?”

“It angers me.”

“Angers you?” Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. “Why does it anger you?”

“Tell me if I’m wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?”

“Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It’s no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god’s mercy is boundless.”

“What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.”

“It’s true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god’s mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God’s anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We’ve lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs.”

Wistan’s manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of the boy. “Are you saying,” he asked, “I have friends here in this monastery?”

“In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it’s time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what’s been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this boy’s wound?”

For a moment Wistan remained still. Then he moved aside, signalling to Edwin to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position — both monks had become suddenly quite animated — then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Edwin closer, impatiently raising the boy’s shirt for Father Jonus to see. Then, for what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at the boy’s wound — Ninian moving the light one way then the other — as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Axl looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Edwin slipped back into the shadows to stand beside Wistan.

“Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “now you’ve seen the boy’s wound, tell us if it’s clean and will heal on its own.”

Father Jonus’s eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly: “I believe it will heal if he takes good care. Father Ninian will prepare an ointment for him before he leaves this place.”

“Father,” Beatrice went on, “your present conversation with Master Wistan isn’t entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly.”

“Is that so, mistress?” Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Last night in a village below,” Beatrice said, “I spoke with a woman wise with medicines. She had much to tell about my sickness, but when I asked her about this mist, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past, she confessed she had no idea what or whose work it was. Yet she said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. So my husband and I made our way here, even though it’s a harder road to our son’s village where we’re impatiently awaited. It was my hope you’d tell us something of this mist and how Axl and I might be free of it. It may be I’m a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Master Wistan were speaking of this same mist, and much bothered by what’s been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Master Wistan too. Do the both of you know what causes this mist to fall over us?”

Father Jonus and Wistan exchanged looks. Then Wistan said quietly:

“It’s the dragon Querig, Mistress Beatrice, that roams these peaks. She’s the cause of the mist you speak of. Yet these monks here protect her, and have done so for years. I’d wager even now, if they’re wise to my identity, they’ll have sent for men to destroy me.”

“Father Jonus, can this be true?” Beatrice asked. “The mist is the work of this she-dragon?”

The monk, who for an instant had seemed far away, turned to Beatrice. “The shepherd tells the truth, mistress. It’s Querig’s breath which fills this land and robs us of memories.”

“Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon’s the cause of the mist! If Master Wistan, or anyone else, even that old knight met on the road, can slay the creature, our memories will be restored to us! Axl, why so quiet?”

Indeed, Axl had been lost in thought, and although he had heard his wife’s words, and noticed her excitement, it was all he could do simply to reach out a hand to her. Before he could find any words, Father Jonus said to Wistan:

“Shepherd, if you know your danger, why do you dally here? Why not take this boy and be on your way?”

“The boy needs rest, as I do.”

“But you don’t rest, shepherd. You cut firewood and wander like a hungry wolf.”

“When we arrived your log pile was low. And the nights are cold in these mountains.”

“There’s something else puzzles me, shepherd. Why does Lord Brennus hunt you as he does? For many days now, his soldiers have searched the country for you. Even last year, when another man came from the east to hunt Querig, Brennus believed it might be you and sent men out to search for you. They came up here asking for you. Shepherd, who are you to Brennus?”

“We knew one another as young lads, even before the age of this boy here.”

“You’ve come to this country on an errand, shepherd. Why jeopardise it to settle old scores? I say to you, take this boy and be on your way, even before the monks come out of their meeting.”

“If Lord Brennus does me the courtesy to come here after me this night, I’m obliged then to stand and face him.”

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “I don’t know what’s between you and Lord Brennus. But if it’s your mission to slay the great dragon Querig, I beg you, don’t be distracted from it. There’ll be time to settle scores later.”

“The mistress is right, shepherd. I fear I know too the purpose of all this woodcutting. Listen to what we say, sir. This boy gives you a unique chance the like of which may not come your way again. Take him and be on your way.”

Wistan looked thoughtfully at Father Jonus, then bowed his head politely. “I’m happy to have met you, father. And I apologise if earlier I addressed you discourteously. But now let me and this boy take our leave of you. I know Mistress Beatrice still wishes for advice, and she’s a brave and good woman. I beg you preserve some strength to attend to her. Now I’ll thank you for your counsel, and bid you farewell.”

Lying in the darkness, still hopeful sleep would overtake him, Axl tried to remember why he had been so oddly silent for much of his time in Father Jonus’s cell. There had been some reason, and even when Beatrice, triumphant to discover the origin of the mist, had turned to him and exclaimed, he had been able only to reach out his hand to her, still not speaking. He had been in the throes of some powerful and strange emotion, one that had all but put him in a dream, though every word being spoken around him still reached his ears with perfect clarity. He had felt as one standing in a boat on a wintry river, looking out into dense fog, knowing it would at any moment part to reveal vivid glimpses of the land ahead. And he had been caught in a kind of terror, yet at the same time had felt a curiosity — or something stronger and darker — and he had told himself firmly, “Whatever it may be, let me see it, let me see it.”

Had he actually spoken these words out loud? Perhaps he had done so, and just at the instant Beatrice had turned to him in excitement, exclaiming, “Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon’s the cause of the mist!”

He could not remember clearly what had happened once Wistan and the boy had departed Father Jonus’s chamber. The silent monk, Ninian, must have left with them, probably to provide the ointment for the boy’s wound, or simply to lead them back unobserved. In any case, he and Beatrice had been left alone with Father Jonus, and the latter, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, had examined his wife thoroughly. The monk had not asked her to remove any clothing — Axl had been relieved — and though here too his recollection was hazy, an image came to him of Jonus pressing an ear to Beatrice’s side, eyes closed in concentration as though some faint message might be heard coming from within. Axl remembered too the monk, with blinking eyes, putting to Beatrice a series of questions. Did she feel sick after drinking water? Did she ever feel pain at the back of her neck? There were other questions Axl could now no longer remember, but Beatrice had replied in the negative to one after the next, and the more she did so, the more pleased Axl had become. Only once, when Jonus asked if she had noticed blood in her urine, and she replied that yes, she sometimes had, did Axl feel unease. But the monk had nodded, as though this was normal and to be expected, and gone straight on to the next question. How then had this examination ended? He remembered Father Jonus smiling and saying, “So you can go to your son with nothing to fear,” and Axl himself saying, “You see, princess, I always knew it was nothing.” Then the monk had eased himself carefully back down in his bed and lain there, recovering his breath. In Ninian’s absence, Axl had hurried to fill the monk’s drinking cup from the jug, and as he had placed it to the sick man’s mouth, had seen tiny droplets of blood slide from the lower lip and spread in the water. Then Father Jonus had looked up at Beatrice and said:

“Mistress, you seem happy to know the truth about this thing you call the mist.”

“Happy indeed, father, for now there’s a way forward for us.”

“Take care, for it’s a secret guarded jealously by some, though it’s maybe for the best it remains so no longer.”

“It’s not for me to care if it’s a secret or not, father, but I’m glad Axl and I know it and can now act on it.”

“Yet are you so certain, good mistress, you wish to be free of this mist? Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?”

“It may be so for some, father, but not for us. Axl and I wish to have again the happy moments we shared together. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what’s most precious from us.”

“Yet the mist covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn’t that so, mistress?”

“We’ll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn’t it the life we’ve shared?”

“You’ve no fear, then, of bad memories, mistress?”

“What’s to fear, father? What Axl and I feel today in our hearts for each other tells us the path taken here can hold no danger for us, no matter that the mist hides it now. It’s like a tale with a happy end, when even a child knows not to fear the twists and turns before. Axl and I would remember our life together, whatever its shape, for it’s been a thing dear to us.”

A bird must have flown across the ceiling above him. The sound had startled him, and then Axl realised that for a moment or two he had actually been asleep. He realised too there were no more woodcutting noises, and the grounds were silent. Had the warrior returned to their chamber? Axl had heard nothing, and there were no signs, beyond the dark shape of the table, of anyone else asleep on Edwin’s side of the room. What had Father Jonus said after examining Beatrice and concluding with his questions? Yes, she had said, she had noticed blood in her urine, but he had smiled and asked something else. You see, princess, Axl had said, I always told you it was nothing. And Father Jonus had smiled, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, and said, you can go to your son with nothing to fear. But these had never been the questions Beatrice had feared. Beatrice, he knew, feared the boatman’s questions, harder to answer than Father Jonus’s, and that was why she had been so pleased to learn the cause of the mist. Axl, do you hear that? She had been triumphant. Axl, do you hear that? she had said, her face radiant.

Chapter Seven

A hand had been shaking him, but by the time Axl sat up the figure was already on the other side of the room, bending over Edwin and whispering, “Quickly, boy, quickly! And not a sound!” Beatrice was awake beside him, and Axl rose unsteadily to his feet, the cold air startling him, then reached down to grasp his wife’s outstretched hands.

It was still the depths of night, but voices were calling outside and surely torches had been lit in the courtyard below, for there were now illuminated patches on the wall facing the window. The monk who had awoken them was dragging the boy, still half asleep, over to their side, and Axl recognised Father Brian’s limping gait before his face emerged from the dark.

“I’ll try and save you, friends,” Father Brian said, his voice still a whisper, “but you must be quick and do as I say. There are soldiers arrived, twenty, even thirty, with a will to hunt you down. They already have the older Saxon brother trapped, but he’s a lively one and keeps them occupied, giving you a chance of escape. Be still, boy, stay with me!” Edwin was moving to the window, but Father Brian had reached out and clasped his arm. “I mean to lead you to safety, but we must first leave this chamber unseen. Soldiers cross the square below, but their eyes are on the tower where the Saxon still holds out. With God’s help they won’t notice us go down the steps outside, and then the worst will be behind us. But cause no sound to make their gazes turn, and take care not to trip on the steps. I’ll descend first, then signal your moment to follow. No, mistress, you must leave your bundle here. Let it be enough to keep your lives!”

They crouched near the door and listened to Father Brian’s footsteps descend with agonising slowness. Eventually, when Axl peered cautiously through the doorway, he saw torches moving at the far end of the courtyard; but before he could discern clearly what was going on, his attention was drawn by Father Brian, standing directly below and signalling frantically.

The staircase, running diagonally down the side of the wall, was mostly in shadow except for one patch, quite near the ground, lit up brightly by the nearly full moon.

“Follow close behind me, princess,” Axl said. “Don’t look across the yard, but keep your eyes on where your foot may find the next step, or it’ll be a hard fall and only enemies to come to our aid. Tell the boy what I’ve just said, and let’s have this behind us.”

Despite his own instructions, Axl could not help glancing across the courtyard as he went down. On the far side, soldiers had gathered around a cylindrical stone tower overlooking the building in which the monks had earlier had their meeting. Blazing torches were being waved, and there appeared to be disorder in their ranks. When Axl was halfway down the steps, two soldiers broke away and came running across the square, and he was sure they would be spotted. But the men vanished into a doorway, and before long Axl was gratefully ushering both Beatrice and Edwin into the shadows of the cloisters where Father Brian was waiting.

They followed the monk along narrow corridors, some of which may have been the same as those taken earlier with the silent Father Ninian. Often they moved through complete darkness, following the rhythmic hiss of their guide’s dragged foot. Then they came into a chamber whose ceiling had partly fallen away. Moonlight was pouring in, revealing piles of wooden boxes and broken furniture. Axl could smell mould and stagnant water.

“Take heart, friends,” Father Brian said, no longer whispering. He had gone into a corner and was moving objects aside. “You’re nearly safe.”

“Father,” Axl said, “we’re grateful to you for this rescue, but please tell us what’s occurred.”

Father Brian continued clearing the corner, and did not look up as he said: “A mystery to us, sir. They came this night without invitation, pouring through the gates and through our home as if it were their own. They demanded the two young Saxons lately arrived here, and though they made no mention of you or your wife, I wouldn’t trust them to treat you gently. This boy here, they would clearly wish to murder, as they do even now his brother. You must save yourselves and there’ll be time later to ponder the soldiers’ ways.”

“Master Wistan was a stranger to us only this morning,” Beatrice said, “yet we’re uneasy making our escape while a terrible fate threatens him.”

“The soldiers may yet come on our heels, mistress, for we left no barred doors behind us. And if that fellow bravely buys your escape, even with his own life, you must grasp it gratefully. Under this trap-door is a tunnel dug in ancient times. It will take you underground into the forest, where you’ll emerge far from your pursuers. Now help me raise it, sir, for it’s too heavy for my hands alone.”

Even for the two of them, it took some effort to raise the door till it stood up at a steep angle before them, revealing a square of deeper blackness.

“Let the boy go down first,” the monk said, “for it’s years since any of us used this passage and who knows if the steps haven’t crumbled. He’s nimble-footed and could take a fall better.”

But Edwin was saying something to Beatrice, and she now said: “Master Edwin would go to Master Wistan’s aid.”

“Tell him, princess, we might help Wistan yet by making our escape through this tunnel. Tell the boy what you must, but persuade him to come quickly.”

As Beatrice spoke to him, a change seemed to come over the boy. He kept staring at the hole in the floor, and his eyes, caught in the moonlight, seemed to Axl at that moment to have something strange about them, as though he were steadily coming under a spell. Then even as Beatrice was speaking, Edwin walked towards the trap-door and without looking back at them, stepped into the blackness and vanished. As his footsteps grew fainter, Axl took Beatrice’s hand and said:

“Let’s go too, princess. Stay close to me.”

The steps leading underground were shallow — flat stones sunk into earth — and felt solid enough. They could see something of the way ahead by the light from the open trap-door above them, but just as Axl turned to speak to Father Brian, the door closed with what seemed a thunderous crash.

They all three stopped and for a while remained quite still. The air did not feel as stale as Axl had expected; in fact he thought he could feel a faint breeze. Somewhere in front of them, Edwin started to speak, and Beatrice answered him in a whisper. Then she said softly:

“The boy asks why Father Brian closed the door on us as he did. I told him he was most likely anxious to hide the tunnel from the soldiers maybe even now entering the room. All the same, Axl, it struck me a little queer too. And isn’t that him now, surely, moving objects over the door? If we find the way ahead obstructed by earth or water, the father himself saying it’s years since anyone came this way, how will we return and open that door, the way it’s so heavy and now with objects above it?”

“Queer right enough. But there’s no doubting there’s soldiers in the monastery, for didn’t we see them ourselves just now? I don’t see what choice we have but to go on and pray this tunnel brings us safely to the forest. Tell the boy to keep moving forward, but slowly and always a hand to this mossy wall, for I fear this passage will only grow darker.”

Yet as they went forward they found there was a feeble light, so that at times they could even make out each other’s outlines. There were sudden puddles that surprised their feet, and more than once during this phase of their journey, Axl thought he heard a noise up ahead, but since neither Edwin nor Beatrice reacted he put it down to his overwrought imagination. But then Edwin suddenly halted, almost causing Axl to collide into him. He felt Beatrice behind him squeeze his hand, and for a moment they stood there very still in the dark. Then Beatrice moved even closer to him, and her breath felt warm on his neck as she said in the softest of whispers: “Do you hear it, Axl?”

“Hear what, princess?”

Edwin’s hand touched him warningly, and they were silent again. Eventually Beatrice said in his ear: “There’s something here with us, Axl.”

“Perhaps a bat, princess. Or a rat.”

“No, Axl. I hear it now. It’s a man’s breathing.”

Axl listened again. Then there came a sharp noise, a striking sound repeating three times, four times, just beyond where they were standing. There were bright flashes, then a tiny flame which grew momentarily to reveal the shape of a seated man, then all was darkness again.

“Fear not, friends,” a voice said. “It’s only Gawain, Arthur’s knight. And as soon as this tinder lights we’ll see each other better.”

There were more noises of flints, then eventually a candle flamed and began to burn steadily.

Sir Gawain was sitting on a dark mound. It evidently did not make an ideal seat for he was at an odd angle, like a giant doll about to topple. The candle in his hand illuminated his face and upper torso with wobbling shadows, and he was breathing heavily. As before, he was in tunic and armour; his sword, unsheathed, had been thrust at an angle into the ground near the foot of the mound. He stared at them balefully, moving the candle from one face to the next.

“So you’re all here,” he said finally. “I’m relieved.”

“You surprise us, Sir Gawain,” Axl said. “What do you mean by hiding yourself here?”

“I’ve been down here a while and walking before you, friends. Yet with this sword and armour, and my great height which forces me to stumble and go with bowed head, I can’t walk quickly and now you discover me.”

“You hardly explain yourself, sir. Why do you walk before us?”

“To defend you, sir! The melancholy truth is the monks have deceived you. There’s a beast dwells down here and they mean you to perish by it. Happily, not every monk thinks alike. Ninian, the silent one, brought me down here unseen and I’ll guide you to safety yet.”

“Your news overwhelms us, Sir Gawain,” said Axl. “But first tell us of this beast you speak of. What is its nature and does it threaten us even as we stand here?”

“Assume it does, sir. The monks wouldn’t have sent you down here if they didn’t mean you to meet the beast. It’s always their way. As men of Christ, it’s beyond them to use a sword or even poison. So they send down here those they wish dead, and in a day or two they’ll have forgotten they ever did so. Oh yes, that’s their way, especially the abbot’s. By Sunday he may even have convinced himself he saved you from those soldiers. And the work of whatever prowls this tunnel, should it cross his mind, he’ll disown, or even call God’s will. Well, let’s see what God wills tonight now a knight of Arthur walks before you!”

“You’re saying, Sir Gawain,” Beatrice asked, “the monks wish us dead?”

“They certainly wish this boy dead, mistress. I tried to make them see it wasn’t necessary, even made a solemn promise to take him far away from this country, but no, they don’t listen to me! They won’t risk this boy loose, even with Master Wistan captured or killed, for who’s to say there won’t come some other fellow one day to find this boy. I’ll take him far away, I said, but they fear what may happen and wish him dead. You and your good husband they might have spared but that you’d inevitably be witnesses to their deeds. Had I seen all this in advance, would I have travelled here to this monastery? Who knows? It seemed my duty then, did it not? But their plans for the boy, and for an innocent Christian couple, I could not allow it! Luckily not all the monks think alike, you know, and Ninian, the silent one, led me down here unwatched. It was my intention to go before you much further, but this armour and my stumbling height — how many times over the years have I cursed this height! What advantage does it bring a man to be so tall? For every high-dangling pear I reached there’s been an arrow threatened me would have flown over a smaller man!”

“Sir Gawain,” Axl said, “what kind of beast is it, this one you say dwells down here?”

“I never saw it, sir, only know those the monks send this way perish by it.”

“Is it one can be killed by an ordinary sword held by a mortal man?”

“What do you say, sir? I’m a mortal man, I don’t deny it, but I’m a knight well trained and nurtured for long years of my youth by the great Arthur, who taught me to face all manner of challenge with gladness, even when fear seeps to the marrow, for if we’re mortal let us at least shine handsomely in God’s eyes while we walk this earth! Like all who stood with Arthur, sir, I’ve faced beelzebubs and monsters as well as the darkest intents of men, and always upheld my great king’s example even in the midst of ferocious conflict. What is it you suggest, sir? How dare you? Were you there? I was there, sir, and saw all with these same eyes that fix you now! But what of it, what of it, friends, this is a discussion for some other time. Forgive me, we have other matters to attend to, of course we have. What is it you asked, sir? Ah yes, this beast, yes, I understand it’s monstrous fierce but no demon or spirit and this sword is good enough to slay it.”

“But Sir Gawain,” Beatrice said, “do you really propose we walk further down this tunnel knowing what we now do?”

“What choice have we, mistress? If I’m not mistaken, the way back to the monastery is locked to us, and yet that same door may open any time to pour forth soldiers into this tunnel. There’s nothing for it but to go on, and but for this one beast in our way, we may soon find ourselves in the forest far from your pursuers, for Ninian assures me this is a true tunnel and well maintained. So let’s be on our way before this candle burns down, it’s the only one I have.”

“Do we trust him, Axl?” Beatrice asked, making no effort to prevent Sir Gawain hearing. “My mind’s giddy now and loath to believe our kind Father Brian’s betrayed us. Yet what this knight says has the ring of truth to it.”

“Let’s follow him, princess. Sir Gawain, we thank you for your trouble. Please lead us now to safety, and let’s hope this beast’s dozing or gone prowling the night.”

“I fear we have no such luck. But come, friends, we’ll go with courage.” The old knight rose slowly to his feet, then held out the candle at arm’s length. “Master Axl, perhaps you’ll carry for us this flame, for I’ll need both my hands to keep my sword at the ready.”

They went on into the tunnel, Sir Gawain leading, Axl following with the flame, Beatrice holding his arm from behind, and Edwin now at the rear. There was no option but to go in single file, the passage remaining narrow, and the ceiling of dangling moss and sinewy roots grew lower and lower until even Beatrice had to stoop. Axl did his best to hold the candle high, but the breeze in the tunnel was now stronger, and he was often obliged to lower it and cover the flame with his other hand. Sir Gawain though never complained, and his shape going before them, sword raised over his shoulder, seemed never to vary. Then Beatrice let out an exclamation and tugged Axl’s arm.

“What is it, princess?”

“Oh, Axl, stop! My foot touched something then, but your candle moved too quickly.”

“What of it, princess? We have to move on.”

“Axl, I thought it a child! My foot touched it and I saw it before your light passed. Oh, I believe it’s a small child long dead!”

“There, princess, don’t distress yourself. Where was it you saw it?”

“Come, come, friends,” Sir Gawain said from the dark. “Many things in this place are best left unseen.”

Beatrice seemed not to hear the knight. “It was over here, Axl. Bring the flame this way. Down there, Axl, shine it down there, though I dread to see its poor face again!”

Despite his counsel, Sir Gawain had doubled back, and Edwin too was now at Beatrice’s side. Axl crouched forward and moved the candle here and there, revealing damp earth, tree roots and stones. Then the flame illuminated a large bat lying on its back as though peacefully asleep, wings stretched right out. Its fur looked wet and sticky. The pig-like face was hairless, and little puddles had formed in the cavities of the outspread wings. The creature might indeed have been sleeping but for what was on the front of its torso. As Axl brought the flame even closer, they all stared at the circular hole extending from just below the bat’s breast down to its belly, taking in parts of the ribcage to either side. The wound was peculiarly clean, as though someone had taken a bite from a crisp apple.

“What could have done work like this?” Axl asked.

He must have moved the candle too swiftly, for at that moment the flame guttered and went out.

“Don’t worry, friends,” Sir Gawain said. “I’ll find my tinder again.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Axl?” Beatrice sounded close to tears. “I knew it was a baby the moment my foot touched it.”

“What are you saying, princess? It’s not a baby. What are you saying?”

“What could have happened to the poor child? And what of its parents?”

“Princess, it’s simply a bat, the like of which often haunts dark places.”

“Oh Axl, it was a baby, I’m sure of it!”

“I’m sorry this flame’s out, princess, or I’d show you again. A bat it is, nothing more, yet myself I’d look again at what it lies on. Sir Gawain, did you notice the creature’s bed?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“It seemed to me the creature lay on a bed of bones, for I thought I saw a skull or two that could only have belonged to men.”

“What do you suggest, sir?” Sir Gawain’s voice became carelessly loud. “What skulls? I saw no skulls, sir! Only a bat fallen on misfortune!”

Beatrice was now sobbing quietly, and Axl straightened to embrace her.

“It was no child, princess,” he said more gently. “Don’t upset yourself.”

“Such a lonely death. Where were its parents, Axl?”

“What are you suggesting, sir? Skulls? I saw no skulls! And what if there are a few old bones here? What of it, is that anything extraordinary? Aren’t we underground? But I saw no bed of bones, I don’t know what you suggest, Master Axl. Were you there, sir? Did you stand beside the great Arthur? I’m proud to say I did, sir, and he was a commander as merciful as he was gallant. Yes, indeed, it was I who came to the abbot to warn of Master Wistan’s identity and intentions, what choice had I? Was I to guess how dark the hearts of holy men could turn? Your suggestions are unwarranted, sir! An insult to all who ever stood alongside the great Arthur! There are no beds of bones here! And am I not here now to save you?”

“Sir Gawain, your voice booms too much and who knows where the soldiers are this moment.”

“What could I do, sir, knowing what I did? Yes, I rode here and spoke to the abbot, yet how was I to know the darkness of that man’s heart? And the better men, poor Jonus, his liver pecked and his days not long, while that abbot lives on with barely a scratch from those birds …”

Sir Gawain broke off, interrupted by a noise from further down the tunnel. It was hard to determine how distant or near it had been, but the sound was unmistakably the cry of a beast; it had resembled the howl of a wolf, though there had also been something of the deeper roar of a bear. The cry had not been prolonged, but it made Axl clasp Beatrice to him, and Sir Gawain snatched his sword from out of the ground. Then, for several moments, they remained standing in silence, listening for the sound to return. But nothing further came, and suddenly Sir Gawain began to laugh, quietly and breathlessly. As his laughter went on, Beatrice said into Axl’s ear: “Let’s leave this place, husband. I wish no more reminding of this lonely grave.”

Sir Gawain stopped laughing and said: “Perhaps we heard then the beast, but we have no choice but to go on. So, friends, let’s finish our quarrel. We’ll light the candle again before long, but let’s go a little way now without it in case it hastens the beast our way. See, here’s a pale light and enough to walk by. Come, friends, no more of this quarrel. My sword’s ready and let’s continue.”

The tunnel became more tortuous, and they moved with greater caution, fearing what each turn would reveal. But they encountered nothing, nor heard the cry again. Then the tunnel descended steeply for a good distance before coming out into a large underground chamber.

They all paused to recover their breaths and look around at their new surroundings. After the long walk with the earth brushing their heads, it was a relief to see the ceiling not only so high above them, but composed of more solid material. Once Sir Gawain had lit the candle again, Axl realised they were in some sort of mausoleum, surrounded by walls bearing traces of murals and Roman letters. Before them a pair of substantial pillars formed a gateway into a further chamber of comparable proportions, and falling across this threshold was an intense pool of moonlight. Its source was not obvious: perhaps somewhere behind the high arch crossing the two pillars there was an opening which at that moment, by sheer chance, was aligned to receive the moon. The light illuminated much of the moss and fungus on the pillars, as well as a section of the next chamber, whose floor appeared to be covered in rubble, but which Axl soon realised was comprised of a vast layer of bones. Only then did it occur to him that under his feet were more broken skeletons, and that this strange floor extended for the entirety of both chambers.

“This must be some ancient burial place,” he said aloud. “Yet there are so many buried here.”

“A burial place,” Sir Gawain muttered. “Yes, a burial place.” He had been moving slowly around the chamber, sword in one hand, candle in the other. Now he went towards the arch, but stopped short of the second chamber, as if suddenly daunted by the brilliant moonlight. He thrust his sword into the ground, and Axl watched his silhouette leaning on his weapon, moving the candle up and down with a weary air.

“We need not quarrel, Master Axl. Here are the skulls of men, I won’t deny it. There an arm, there a leg, but just bones now. An old burial ground. And so it may be. I dare say, sir, our whole country is this way. A fine green valley. A pleasant copse in the springtime. Dig its soil, and not far beneath the daisies and buttercups come the dead. And I don’t talk, sir, only of those who received Christian burial. Beneath our soil lie the remains of old slaughter. Horace and I, we’ve grown weary of it. Weary and we no longer young.”

“Sir Gawain,” Axl said, “we have but one sword between us. I ask you not to grow melancholic, nor forget the beast is near.”

“I don’t forget the beast, sir. I merely consider this gateway before us. Look up there, you see it?” Sir Gawain was holding up the candle to reveal along the lower edge of the arch what appeared to be a row of spearheads pointing down to the ground.

“A portcullis,” Axl said.

“Exactly, sir. This gate isn’t so ancient. Younger than either of us, I’d wager. Someone has raised it for us, wishing us to pass through. See there, the ropes that hold it. And there, the pulleys. Someone comes here often to make this gate rise and fall, and perhaps feed the beast.” Sir Gawain stepped towards one of the pillars, his feet crunching over bones. “If I cut this rope, the gate will surely come down, it will bar our way out. Yet if the beast’s beyond, we’ll be shielded from it. Is that the Saxon boy I hear or some pixie stolen in here?”

Indeed Edwin, back in the shadows, had started to sing; faintly at first so that Axl had thought the boy was simply soothing his nerves, but then his voice had become steadily more conspicuous. His song seemed to be a slow lullaby, and he was rendering it with his face to the wall, his body rocking gently.

“The boy behaves as one bewitched,” Sir Gawain said. “Never mind him, we must now decide, Master Axl. Do we walk on? Or do we cut this rope to give us at least a moment shielded from what lies beyond?”

“I say we cut the rope, sir. We can surely raise the gate again when we wish. Let’s first discover what we face while the gate’s down.”

“Wise counsel, sir. I’ll do as you say.”

Handing Axl the candle, Sir Gawain took a further step forward, raised his sword and swung at the pillar. There was the sound of metal striking stone, and the lower section of the gate shook, but remained suspended. Sir Gawain sighed with a hint of embarrassment. Then he repositioned himself, raised the sword again, and struck once more.

This time there was a snapping sound, and the gate crashed down raising a cloud of dust in the moonlight. The noise felt immense — Edwin abruptly stopped his singing — and Axl stared through the iron grid now fallen before them to see what it would summon. But there was no sign of the beast, and after a moment they all let go their breaths.

For all that they were now effectively trapped, the lowering of the portcullis brought a sense of relief, and they all four began to wander around the mausoleum. Sir Gawain, who had sheathed his sword, went up to the bars and touched them gingerly.

“Good iron,” he said. “It’ll do its work.”

Beatrice, who had been quiet for some time, came up to Axl and pressed her head against his chest. As he put an arm around her, he realised her cheek was wet with tears.

“Come, princess,” he said, “take heart. We’ll be out in the night air before long.”

“All these skulls, Axl. So many! Can this beast really have killed so many?”

She had spoken softly, but Sir Gawain turned to them. “What do you suggest, mistress? That I committed this slaughter?” He said this tiredly, with none of the anger he had shown earlier in the tunnel, but there was a peculiar intensity in his voice. “So many skulls, you say. Yet are we not underground? What is it you suggest? Can just one knight of Arthur have killed so many?” He turned back to the gate and ran a finger along one of the bars. “Once, years ago, in a dream, I watched myself killing the enemy. It was in my sleep and long ago. The enemy, in their hundreds, perhaps as many as this. I fought and I fought. Just a foolish dream, but still I recall it.” He sighed, then looked at Beatrice. “I hardly know how to answer you, mistress. I acted as I thought would please God. How was I to guess how dark had grown the hearts of these wretched monks? Horace and I came to this monastery while the sun was up, not long after you yourself arrived, for I supposed then I had need to speak urgently with the abbot. Then I discovered what he plotted against you, and I feigned complacence. I bade him farewell, and they all believed me gone, but I left Horace in the forest and returned up here on foot hidden by the night. Not all the monks think alike, thank God. I knew the good Jonus would receive me. And learning from him the abbot’s schemes, I had Ninian bring me unseen down to this place to await you. Curse it, the boy starts again!”

Sure enough, Edwin was singing once more, not as loudly as before, but now in a curious posture. He had bent forward, a fist to each temple, and was moving slowly about in the shadows like someone in a dance enacting the part of an animal.

“The recent events surely overwhelm him,” Axl said. “It’s a wonder he’s shown the fortitude he has, and we must attend to him well once we’re away from here. But Sir Gawain, tell us now, why do the monks seek to murder such an innocent lad?”

“No matter how I argued, sir, the abbot would have the boy destroyed. So I left Horace in the forest and retraced my steps …”

“Sir Gawain, please explain. Has this to do with his ogre’s wound? Yet these are men of Christian learning.”

“That’s no ogre’s bite the boy carries. It’s a dragon gave him that wound. I saw it right away when yesterday that soldier raised his shirt. Who knows how he met with a dragon, but a dragon’s bite it is, and now the desire will be rising in his blood to seek congress with a she-dragon. And in turn, any she-dragon near enough to scent him will come seeking him. This is why Master Wistan is so fond of his protégé, sir. He believes Master Edwin will lead him to Querig. And for this same reason, the monks and these soldiers would have him dead. Look, the boy grows ever wilder!”

“What are all these skulls, sir?” Beatrice suddenly asked the knight. “Why so many? Can they all have belonged to babies? Some are surely small enough to fit in your palm.”

“Princess, don’t distress yourself. This is a burial place, nothing more.”

“What is it you suggest, mistress? The skulls of babes? I’ve fought men, beelzebubs, dragons. But a slaughterer of infants? How dare you, mistress!”

Suddenly Edwin, still singing, pushed past them, and going up to the portcullis pressed himself against the bars.

“Get back, boy,” Sir Gawain said, grasping his shoulders. “There’s danger here, and that’s enough of your songs!”

Edwin gripped the bars with both hands, and for a moment he and the old knight tussled. Then they both broke off and stepped back from the gate. Beatrice, at Axl’s breast, let out a small gasp, but at that instant Axl’s view was obscured by Edwin and Sir Gawain. Then the beast came into the pool of moonlight, and he saw it more clearly.

“God protect us,” Beatrice said. “Here’s a creature escaped from the Great Plain itself, and the air grows colder.”

“Don’t worry, princess. It can’t breach those bars.”

Sir Gawain, who had immediately drawn his sword again, began to laugh quietly. “Not nearly as bad as I feared,” he said, then laughed a little more.

“Surely bad enough, sir,” Axl said. “It looks well able to devour each of us in turn.”

They might have been gazing at a large skinned animal: an opaque membrane, like the lining of a sheep’s stomach, was stretched tightly over the sinews and joints. Swathed as it was now in moonshadow, the beast appeared roughly the size and shape of a bull, but its head was distinctly wolf-like and of a darker hue — though even here the impression was of blackening by flames rather than of naturally dark fur or flesh. The jaws were massive, the eyes reptilian.

Sir Gawain was still laughing to himself. “Coming down that gloomy tunnel my wild imaginings had readied me for worse. Once, sir, on the marshes at Dumum, I faced wolves with the heads of hideous hags! And at Mount Culwich, double-headed ogres that spewed blood at you even as they roared their battlecry! Here’s little more than an angry dog.”

“Yet it bars our way to freedom, Sir Gawain.”

“It does that for sure. So we may stare at it for an hour until the soldiers come down the tunnel behind us. Or we may lift this gate and fight it.”

“I’m inclined to think it a foe darker than a fierce dog, Sir Gawain. I ask you not to grow complacent.”

“I’m an old man, sir, and it’s many a year since I swung this blade in anger. Yet I’m still a knight well trained, and if this be a beast of this earth, I’ll get the better of it.”

“See, Axl,” Beatrice said, “how its eyes follow Master Edwin.”

Edwin, now strangely calm, had been walking experimentally, first left, then to the right, always staring back at the beast whose gaze never left him.

“The dog hungers for the boy,” Sir Gawain said thoughtfully. “It may be there’s dragon spawn within this monster.”

“Whatever its nature,” Axl said, “it awaits our next move with strange patience.”

“Then let me propose this, friends,” said Sir Gawain. “I’m loath to use this Saxon boy like a young goat tied to trap a wolf. Yet he seems a brave lad, and in no less danger wandering here weaponless. Let him take the candle and go stand there at the back of the chamber. Then if you, Master Axl, can somehow raise this gate again, perhaps even with your good wife’s help, the beast will be free to come through. My fancy is it will make straight for the boy. Knowing the path of its charge, I’ll stand here and cut it down as it passes. Do you approve the scheme, sir?”

“It’s a desperate one. Yet I too fear the soldiers will soon discover this tunnel. So let’s try it, sir, and even with my wife and I hanging together on the rope, we’ll do our best to raise this gate. Princess, explain to Master Edwin our plan and let’s see if he’ll enter into it.”

But Edwin seemed to have grasped Sir Gawain’s strategy without a word being said to him. Taking the candle from the knight, the boy measured out ten good strides over the bones till he was back in the shadows. When he turned again, the candle below his face barely trembled, and revealed blazing eyes fixed on the creature beyond the bars.

“Quick then, princess,” Axl said. “Climb on my back and try to reach the rope’s end. See where it dangles there.”

At first they nearly toppled over. Then they used the pillar itself to support them, and after a little more groping, he heard her say: “I hold it, Axl. Release me and it’ll surely come down with me. Catch me so I don’t fall all at once.”

“Sir Gawain,” Axl called softly. “Are you ready, sir?”

“We’re ready.”

“If the beast passes you, then surely it’s the end of this brave boy.”

“I know it, sir. And it will not pass.”

“Let me down slowly, Axl. If I’m still in the air holding the rope, reach up and tug me down.”

Axl released Beatrice and for an instant she hung suspended in the air, her body weight insufficient to raise the gate. Then Axl managed to grip another portion of the rope close to her two hands, and they tugged together. At first nothing happened, then something yielded, and the gate rose with a shudder. Axl continued tugging, and unable to see the effect, called out: “Is it high yet, sir?”

There was a pause before Sir Gawain’s voice came back. “The dog stares our way and nothing now between us.”

Twisting, Axl looked around the pillar in time to see the beast leap forward. The old knight’s face, caught in moonlight, looked aghast as he swung his sword, but too late, and the creature was past him and moving unerringly towards Edwin.

The boy’s eyes grew large, but he did not drop the candle. Instead he moved aside, almost as if out of politeness, to let the beast pass. And to Axl’s surprise, the creature did just that, running on into the blackness of the tunnel out of which not long ago they had all emerged.

“I’ll hold it up yet,” Axl shouted. “Cross the threshold and save yourselves!”

But neither Beatrice beside him, nor Sir Gawain, who had lowered his sword, seemed to hear. Even Edwin appeared to have lost interest in the terrible creature that had just sped past him and would surely return any moment. The boy, candle held before him, came over to where the old knight was standing, and together they stared down at the ground.

“Let the gate fall, Master Axl,” Sir Gawain said without looking up. “We’ll raise it again soon enough.”

The old knight and the boy, Axl realised, were regarding with fascination something moving on the ground before them. He let the gate fall, and as he did so, Beatrice said:

“A fearsome thing, Axl, and I’ve no need to see it. But go and look if you will and tell me what you see.”

“Didn’t the beast run into the tunnel, princess?”

“Some of it did, and I heard its footsteps cease. Now, Axl, go and see the part of it lies at the knight’s feet.”

As Axl came towards them, Sir Gawain and Edwin both started as though shaken from a trance. Then they moved aside and Axl saw the beast’s head in the moonlight.

“The jaws will not cease,” Sir Gawain said in a perturbed tone. “I’ve a mind to take my sword to it again, yet fear that would be a desecration to bring more evil upon us. Yet I wish it would cease moving.”

Indeed it was hard to believe the severed head was not a living thing. It lay on its side, the one visible eye gleaming like a sea creature. The jaws moved rhythmically with a strange energy, so that the tongue, flopping amidst the teeth, appeared to stir with life.

“We’re beholden to you, Sir Gawain,” Axl said.

“A mere dog, sir, and I’d happily face worse. Yet this Saxon boy shows rare courage, and I’m glad to have done him some service. But now we must hurry on, and with caution too, for who knows what occurs above us, or even if a second beast awaits beyond that chamber.”

They now discovered a crank behind one of the pillars, and fastening the rope end to it, soon raised the gate without difficulty. Leaving the beast’s head where it had fallen, they passed under the portcullis, Sir Gawain once more leading, sword poised, and Edwin at the rear.

The second chamber of the mausoleum showed clear signs of having served as the beast’s lair: amidst the ancient bones were fresher carcasses of sheep and deer, as well as other dark, foul-smelling shapes they could not identify. Then they were once more walking stooped and short of breath along a winding passage. They encountered no more beasts, and eventually they heard birdsong. A patch of light appeared in the distance, and then they came out into the forest, the early dawn all around them.

In a kind of daze, Axl came upon a cluster of roots rising between two large trees, and taking Beatrice’s hand, helped her sit down on it. At first Beatrice was too short of breath to speak, but after a moment she looked up, saying:

“There’s room here beside me, husband. If we’re safe for now, let’s sit together and watch the stars fade. I’m thankful we’re both well and that evil tunnel’s behind us.” Then she said: “Where’s Master Edwin, Axl? I don’t see him.”

Looking about him in the half-light, Axl spotted Sir Gawain’s figure nearby, silhouetted against the dawn, head bowed, a hand on a tree trunk to steady him while he regained his breath. But there was no sign of the boy.

“Just now he was behind us,” Axl said. “I even heard him exclaim as we came into the fresh air.”

“I watched him hasten on, sir,” Sir Gawain said without turning, his breath still laboured. “Not being elderly as the rest of us, he’s no need to lean on oaks panting and gasping. I suppose he hurries back to the monastery to rescue Master Wistan.”

“Didn’t you think to delay him, sir? Surely he hurries to grave danger, and Master Wistan by now killed or captured.”

“What would you have me do, sir? I did all I could. Hid myself in that airless place. Overcame the beast though it had devoured many brave men before us. Then at the end of it all, the boy runs back to the monastery! Am I to give chase with this heavy armour and sword? I’m all done in, sir. All done in. What’s my duty now? I must pause and think it over. What would Arthur have me do?”

“Are we to understand, Sir Gawain,” Beatrice asked, “that it was you in the first place came to tell the abbot of Master Wistan’s real identity as a Saxon warrior from the east?”

“Why go through it again, mistress? Did I not lead you to safety? So many skulls we trod upon before coming out to this sweet dawn! So many. No need to look down, one hears their cackle with each tread. How many dead, sir? A hundred? A thousand? Did you count, Master Axl? Or were you not there, sir?” He was still a silhouette beside a tree, his words sometimes hard to catch now the birds had begun their early chorus.

“Whatever the history of this night,” Axl said, “we owe you much thanks, Sir Gawain. Clearly your courage and skill remain undiminished. Yet I too have a question to put to you.”

“Spare me, sir, enough. How can I chase a nimble youth up these wooded slopes? I’m drained, sir, and perhaps not just of breath.”

“Sir Gawain, were we not comrades once long ago?”

“Spare me, sir. I did my duty tonight. Is that not enough? Now I must go find my poor Horace, tied to a branch so he wouldn’t wander, yet what if a wolf or bear comes upon him?”

“The mist hangs heavily across my past,” Axl said. “Yet lately I find myself reminded of some task, and one of gravity, with which I was once entrusted. Was it a law, a great law to bring all men closer to God? Your presence, and your talk of Arthur, stirs long-faded thoughts, Sir Gawain.”

“My poor Horace, sir, so dislikes the forest at night. The hooting owl or the screech of a fox is enough to frighten him, no matter he’ll face a shower of arrows without flinching. I’ll go to him now, and let me urge you good people not to rest here too late. Forget the young Saxons, the pair of them. Think now of your own cherished son waiting for you at his village. Best go on your way quickly, I say, now you’re without your blankets and provisions. The river’s near and a fast tide on it flowing east. A friendly word with a bargeman may secure you a ride downstream. But don’t dally here, for who knows when soldiers will come this way? God protect you, friends.”

With a rustle and a few thumps, Sir Gawain’s form disappeared into the dark foliage. After a moment, Beatrice said:

“We didn’t bid him farewell, Axl, and I feel poorly for it. Yet that was a strange leave he took of us and a sudden one.”

“I thought so too, princess. But perhaps he gives us wise counsel. We should hurry on to our son and never mind our recent companions. I feel concern for poor Master Edwin, yet if he’ll hasten back to the monastery, what can we do for him?”

“Let’s rest just a moment longer, Axl. Soon we’ll be on our way, the two of us, and we’d do well to seek a barge to speed our journey. Our son must be wondering what keeps us.”

Chapter Eight

The young monk was a thin, sickly-looking Pict who spoke Edwin’s language well. No doubt he had been delighted to have in his company someone nearer his own age, and for the first part of the journey down through the dawn mists, he had talked with relish. But since entering the trees, the young monk had fallen silent and Edwin now wondered if he had in some way offended his guide. More likely the monk was simply anxious not to attract the attention of whatever lurked in these woods; amidst the pleasant birdsong, there had been some strange hissings and murmurs. When Edwin had asked once again, more from a wish to break the silence than for reassurance, “So my brother’s wounds seemed not to be mortal?” the reply had been almost curt.

“Father Jonus says not. There’s none wiser.”

Wistan, then, could not be so badly hurt. Indeed, he must have managed this same journey down the hill not long ago, and while it was still dark. Had he had to lean heavily on the arm of his guide? Or had he managed to go mounted on his mare, perhaps with a monk holding steady the bridle?

“Show this boy down to the cooper’s cottage. And take care no one sees you leave the monastery.” Such, according to the young monk, had been Father Jonus’s instruction to him. So Edwin would soon be reunited with the warrior, but what sort of welcome could he expect? He had let Wistan down at the first challenge. Instead of hurrying to his side at the first sign of battle, Edwin had run off into the long tunnel. But his mother had not been down there, and only when the tunnel’s end had finally appeared, distant and moon-like in the blackness, had he felt lifting from him the heavy clouds of dream and realised with horror what had occurred.

At least he had done his utmost once he had emerged into the chilly morning air. He had run almost the whole way back up to the monastery, slowing only for the steepest slopes. Sometimes, pushing through the woods, he had felt himself lost, but then the trees had thinned and the monastery had appeared against the pale sky. So he had gone on climbing and arrived at the big gate, breathless and with his legs aching.

The small door beside the main gate was unlocked, and he had managed to collect himself sufficiently to enter the grounds with stealthy care. He had been aware of smoke for the latter part of his climb, but now it tickled his chest, making it hard not to cough loudly. He knew then for sure it was too late to move the hay wagon, and felt a great emptiness opening within him. But he had pushed the feeling aside for another moment, and pressed on into the grounds.

For some time he came across neither monk nor soldier. But as he moved along the high wall, ducking his head so as not to be spotted from some far-off window, he had seen below the soldiers’ horses crowded together in the small yard inside the main gate. Bound on all sides by high walls, the animals, still saddled, were circling nervously, even though there was scarcely space to do so without colliding. Then as he came towards the monks’ quarters, where another of his age might well have rushed on to the central courtyard, he had had the presence of mind to recall the geography of the grounds and proceed by a roundabout route, utilising what he remembered of the back ways. Even on reaching his destination, he had placed himself behind a stone pillar and peered round cautiously.

The central courtyard was barely recognisable. Three robed figures were sweeping wearily, and as he watched, a fourth arrived with a pail and tossed water across the cobbles, setting to flight several lurking crows. The ground was strewn in places with straw and with sand, and his eyes were drawn to the several shapes covered over with sackcloth, which he supposed to be corpses. The old stone tower, where he knew Wistan had held out, loomed over the scene, but this too had changed: it was charred and blackened in many places, especially around its arched entryway and each of its narrow windows. To Edwin’s eyes the tower as a whole appeared to have shrunk. He had been craning his neck around the pillar to ascertain if the pools surrounding the covered shapes were of blood or of water, when the bony hands had grasped his shoulders from behind.

He had twisted around to find Father Ninian, the silent monk, staring into his eyes. Edwin had not cried out, but had said, in a low voice, pointing towards the bodies: “Master Wistan, my Saxon brother. Does he lie there?”

The silent monk appeared to understand, and shook his head emphatically. But even as he raised a finger to his lips in the familiar manner, he had stared warningly into Edwin’s face. Then, glancing furtively around him, Ninian had tugged Edwin away from the courtyard.

“Can we be certain, warrior,” he had asked Wistan the day before, “the soldiers will really come? Who’ll tell them we’re here? Surely these monks believe us but simple shepherds.”

“Who knows, boy. Perhaps we’ll be left in peace. But there’s one I fancy may betray our presence here, and even now the good Brennus may be issuing his orders. Test it well, young comrade. Britons have a way of dividing a bale from within with wooden slats. We need it pure hay all the way down.”

He and Wistan had been in the barn behind the old tower. Having for the moment done with woodcutting, the warrior had been seized by the urge to load the rickety wagon high with the hay stored at the back of the shed. As they had set about this task, Edwin had been required at regular intervals to clamber up onto the bales and prod into them with a stick. The warrior, observing carefully from the ground, would sometimes make him go over a section again, or order him to thrust a leg as far down as possible into a particular spot.

“These holy men are just the sort to get absent-minded,” Wistan had said by way of explanation. “They may have left a spade or pitchfork in the hay. If so, it would be a service to retrieve it for them, tools being scarce up here.”

Although at that point the warrior had given no hint as to the purpose of the hay, Edwin had known straight away it had to do with the confrontation ahead, and that was why, as the bales had piled up, he had asked his question about the soldiers.

“Who’ll betray us, warrior? The monks don’t suspect us. They’re so concerned with their holy quarrels, they hardly glance our way.”

“Maybe so, boy. But test there too. Just there.”

“Can it be, warrior, it’s the old couple will betray us? Surely they’re too foolish and honest.”

“They may be Britons, but I don’t fear their treachery. Yet you’d be wrong to suppose them foolish, boy. Master Axl, for one, is a deep fellow.”

“Warrior, why do we travel with them? They slow us at every turn.”

“They slow us, right enough, and we’ll part ways soon. Yet this morning as we set off, I felt eager for Master Axl’s company. And I may wish for more of it yet. As I say, he’s a deep one. He and I may have a little more to discuss. But just now let’s concentrate on what faces us here. We must load this wagon in a sure and steady way. We need pure hay. No wood or iron there. See how I depend on you, boy.”

But Edwin had let him down. How could he have gone on sleeping for so long? It had been a mistake to lie down at all. He should simply have sat upright in the corner, napping a few winks the way he had seen Wistan do, ready at the first noise to start to his feet. Instead, like an infant, he had accepted from the old woman a cup of milk, and fallen into a deep sleep in his corner of the chamber.

Had his real mother called him in his dreams? Perhaps that was why he had remained asleep for so long. And why, when he had been shaken awake by the crippled monk, instead of rushing to the warrior’s side, he had followed after the others down into the long, strange tunnel, for all the world as if he were still in the depths of dreaming.

It had been his mother’s voice without doubt, the same voice that had called to him in the barn. “Find the strength for me, Edwin. Find the strength and come rescue me. Come rescue me. Come rescue me.” There had been an urgency there he had not heard the previous morning. And there had been more: as he had stood at that open trap-door, staring down at the steps leading into the darkness, he had felt something pull at him with such force he had become giddy, almost sick.

The young monk was holding back blackthorn with a stick, waiting for Edwin to go ahead of him. Now at last he spoke, though in a hushed voice.

“A short cut. We’ll soon see the roof of the cooper’s cottage.”

As they came out of the woods to where the land swept down into the receding mist, Edwin could still hear movement and hissing in the nearby bracken. And he thought of the sunny evening towards the end of summer, when he had talked with the girl.

He had not at first seen the pond that day, for it had been small and well hidden by rushes. A cloud of brightly coloured insects had flown up before him, an event normally to draw his attention, but on this occasion he had been too preoccupied by the noise coming from the water’s edge. An animal in a trap? There it was again, behind the birdsong and the wind. The noise followed a pattern: an intense burst of rustling, as of a struggle, then silence. Then soon, more rustling. Approaching cautiously, he had heard laboured breathing. Then the girl had been before him.

She was lying on her back in the rough grass, her torso twisted to one side. She was a few years older than him — fifteen or sixteen — and her eyes were fixed on him without fear. It took a while to realise her odd posture had to do with her hands being tied under her body. The flattened grass around her marked the area where, by pushing with her legs, she had been sliding about in her struggles. Her cloth smock, tied at the waist, was discoloured — perhaps soaked — all along one side, and both her legs, unusually dark-skinned, bore fresh scratches from the thistles.

It occurred to him she was an apparition or a sprite, but when she spoke her voice had no echo to it.

“What do you want? Why have you come?”

Recovering himself, Edwin said: “If you like, I could help you.”

“These knots aren’t difficult. They just tied me more tightly than usual.”

Only now did he notice her face and neck were covered in perspiration. Even as she spoke, her hands, under her back, were busily struggling.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Not hurt. But a beetle landed on my knee just now. It clung on and bit me. There’ll be a swelling now. I can see you’re still too much of a child to help me. It doesn’t matter, I’ll manage myself.”

Her gaze remained fixed on him, even as her face tightened and she twisted and raised her torso a little way off the ground. He watched, transfixed, expecting at any moment to see the hands come out from under her. But she sagged down defeated and lay in the grass, breathing hard and staring angrily at him.

“I could help,” Edwin said. “I’m good with knots.”

“You’re just a child.”

“I’m not. I’m nearly twelve.”

“They’ll come back soon. If they find you’ve untied me, they’ll beat you.”

“Are they grown-ups?”

“They think they are, but they’re just boys. Older than you though and there’s three of them. They’d like nothing better than to beat you. They’ll force your head into that muddy water until you pass out. I’ve watched them do it before.”

“Are they from the village?”

“The village?” She looked at him with contempt. “Your village? We pass village after village every day. What do we care about your village? They may come back soon, then you’ll be in trouble.”

“I’m not afraid. I could free you if you like.”

“I always free myself.” She twisted again.

“Why did they tie you?”

“Why? I suppose so they could watch. Watch me try to get free. But they’re gone now, to steal food.” Then she said: “I thought you villagers worked all day. Why does your mother let you wander?”

“I’m allowed because I finished three corners by myself already today.” Then he added: “My real mother’s not in the village any more.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“I don’t know. She was taken. I live with my aunt now.”

“When I was a child like you,” she said, “I lived in a village. Now I travel.”

“Who do you travel with?”

“Oh … with them. We pass this way quite often. I remember them tying me and leaving me here once before, this very spot, last spring.”

“I’ll release you,” he said suddenly. “And if they come back, I won’t be frightened of them.”

Yet something still held him back. He had expected her eyes to shift away, or her body at least to accommodate the prospect of his approach. But she had gone on staring at him, while under her arched back her hands continued their struggle. Only when she let out a long sigh did he realise she had been holding her breath for some time.

“I can usually do it,” she said. “If you weren’t here, I’d have done it by now.”

“Do they tie you to stop you running away?”

“Run away? Where would I run away? I travel with them.” Then she said: “Why did you come to me? Why don’t you go help your mother instead?”

“My mother?” He was genuinely surprised. “Why should my mother want me to help her?”

“You said she was taken, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was long ago. She’s happy now.”

“How can she be happy? Don’t you think she wants someone to come and help her?”

“She’s just travelling. She wouldn’t want me to …”

“She didn’t want you to come before because you were a child. But you’re nearly a man now.” She fell silent, arching her back as she made another concerted effort. Then she sagged back down again. “Sometimes,” she said, “if they come back and I haven’t got myself free, they don’t untie me. They watch and don’t say a word until I manage by myself and my hands come loose. Until then they sit there watching and watching, their devil’s horns growing between their legs. I’d mind it less if they spoke. But they stare and stare and don’t say anything.” Then she said: “When I saw you, I thought you’d do the same. I thought you’d sit and stare and not say a thing.”

“Shall I untie you? I’m not afraid of them, and I’m good with knots.”

“You’re only a child.” Suddenly tears appeared. It happened so quickly, and because her face showed no other sign of emotion, Edwin thought at first he was watching perspiration. But then he realised they were tears, and because her face was half-upturned, the tears rolled oddly, past the bridge of her nose and down the opposite cheek. All the while she held her gaze on him. The tears confused him, making him stop in his tracks.

“Come on then,” she said, and for the first time moved onto her side, letting her gaze fall away towards the bulrushes in the water.

Edwin hurried forward, like a thief spying an opportunity, and crouching in the grass began to tug at the knots. The twine was thin and coarse, cutting cruelly into her wrists; the palms, in contrast, spread open one across the other, were small and tender. At first the knots did not yield, but he forced himself to be calm and studied carefully the path the coils took. Then when he tried again, the knot gave under his touch. Now he went about his work more confidently, glancing from time to time at the soft palms, waiting like a pair of docile creatures.

After he pulled the twine from her, she turned and sat facing him at what suddenly felt an uncomfortably close distance. She did not, he noticed, smell of stale excrement the way most people did: her odour was like that of a fire made from damp wood.

“If they come,” she said quietly, “they’ll drag you through the reeds then half-drown you. You’d better go. Go back to your village.” She reached out a hand experimentally, as though unsure if even now it was under her control, and pushed his chest. “Go. Hurry.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You’re not afraid. But they’ll still do all these things to you. You helped me, but you have to go away now. Go, hurry.”

When he returned just before sunset, the grass was still flattened where she had lain, but there was no other trace left of her. All the same, the spot felt almost uncannily tranquil, and he had sat down in the grass for some moments, watching the bulrushes waving in the wind.

He never told anyone about the girl — not his aunt, who would quickly have concluded she was a demon, nor any of the other boys. But in the weeks that followed, a vivid image of her had often returned to him unbidden; sometimes at night, within his dreams; often in broad daylight, as he was digging the ground or helping to mend a roof, and then the devil’s horn would grow between his legs. Eventually the horn would go away, leaving him with a feeling of shame, and then the girl’s words would return to him: “Why did you come to me? Why don’t you go help your mother instead?”

But how could he go to his mother? The girl herself had said he was “only a child.” Then again, as she had pointed out, he would soon be a man. Whenever he recalled those words, he would feel his shame anew, and yet he had been able to see no way forward.

But that had all changed the moment Wistan had thrown open the barn door, forcing in the dazzling light, and declared that it was he, Edwin, who had been chosen for the mission. And now here they were, Edwin and the warrior, travelling across the country, and surely it would not be long till they came upon her. Then the men travelling with her would tremble.

But had it really been her voice that had led him away? Had it not been sheer terror of the soldiers? Such questions drifted into his mind as he followed the young monk down a barely trodden path beside a descending stream. Was he sure he had not simply panicked when he had been awoken and seen from the window the soldiers running about the old tower? But now, when he considered it all carefully, he was certain he had felt no fear. And earlier, during the day, when the warrior had led him into that same tower and they had talked, Edwin had felt only an impatience to stand at Wistan’s side in the face of the oncoming enemy.

Wistan had been preoccupied with the old tower from the time they had first arrived at the monastery. Edwin could remember him continually glancing up at it while they had been cutting logs in the woodshed. And when they had pushed the barrow around the grounds to deliver the firewood, they had twice made diversions just to go past it. So it had come as no surprise, once the monks had disappeared into their meeting and the courtyard was empty, that the warrior should lean the axe on the woodpile and say: “Come a moment, young comrade, and we’ll examine more closely this tall and ancient friend who stares down at us. It seems to me he watches where we go, and takes offence we’ve yet to pay him a visit.”

As they had entered under the low arch into the chilly dimness of the tower’s interior, the warrior had said to him: “Take care. You think you’re inside, but look to your feet.”

Glancing down, Edwin had seen in front of him a kind of moat which followed the circular wall all the way to form a ring. It was too wide for a man to leap, and the simple bridge of two planks was the only way to reach the central floor of trodden earth. As he stepped onto the planks, gazing down into the darkness below, he heard the warrior say behind him:

“Notice there’s no water there, young comrade. And even if you fell right in, I’d say you’d find it no deeper than your own height. Curious, don’t you think? Why a moat on the inside? Why a moat at all for a small tower like this? What good can it do?” Wistan came over the planks himself and tested with his heel the central floor. “Perhaps,” he went on, “the ancients built this tower to slaughter animals. Perhaps once this was their killing floor. What they didn’t wish to keep of an animal, they simply pushed over the side into the moat. What do you think, boy?”

“That’s possible, warrior,” Edwin said. “Yet it would have been no easy thing to lead a beast across narrow planks like that.”

“Perhaps in olden times there was a better bridge here,” Wistan said. “Sturdy enough to bear an ox or a bull. Once the beast had been led over, and it guessed its fate, or when the first blow failed to make it sink to its knees, this arrangement ensured it could not easily flee. Imagine the animal twisting, trying to charge, yet finding the moat wherever it turned. And the one small bridge so hard to locate in a frenzy. It’s no foolish notion, that this was once such a place of slaughter. Tell me, boy, what do you find when you look up?”

Edwin, seeing the circle of sky high above, said: “It’s open at the top, warrior. Like a chimney.”

“You say something interesting there. Let’s hear it again.”

“It’s like a chimney, warrior.”

“What do you make of it?”

“If the ancients used this place for their slaughter, warrior, they’d have been able to build a fire just where we now stand. They could have jointed the animal, roasted the meat, the smoke escaping up to the sky.”

“It’s likely, boy, just as you say. I wonder if these Christian monks have any inkling of what went on here once? These gentlemen, I fancy, come inside this tower for its quiet and seclusion. See how thick is this circling wall. Hardly a sound comes through it, though the crows were shrieking as we entered. And the way the light comes from on high. It must remind them of their god’s grace. What do you say, boy?”

“The gentlemen might come in here and pray, right enough, warrior. Though this ground’s too soiled to kneel on.”

“Perhaps they pray standing, guessing little how this was once a place of slaughter and burning. What else do you see looking up, boy?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“Only the steps, warrior.”

“Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps.”

“They first rise over the moat, then circle and circle, bending with the roundness of the wall. They rise till they reach the sky at the top.”

“That’s well observed. Now listen carefully.” Wistan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “This place, not just this old tower, but this entire place, all of what men today call this monastery, I’d wager was once a hillfort built by our Saxon forefathers in times of war. So it contains many cunning traps to welcome invading Britons.” The warrior moved away and slowly paced the perimeter of the floor, staring down into the moat. Eventually he looked up again and said: “Imagine this place a fort, boy. The siege broken after many days, the enemy pouring in. Fighting in every yard, on every wall. Now picture this. Two of our Saxon cousins, out there in the yard, hold back a large body of Britons. They fight bravely, but the enemy’s too great in number and our heroes must retreat. Let’s suppose they retreat here, into this very tower. They skip across the little bridge and turn to face their foes at this very spot. The Britons grow confident. They have our cousins cornered. They press in with their swords and axes, hurry over the bridge towards our heroes. Our brave kin bring down the first of them, but soon must retreat further. Look there, boy. They retreat up those winding stairs along the wall. Still more Britons cross the moat until this space where we stand is filled. Yet the Britons’ greater numbers can’t yet be turned to advantage. For our brave cousins fight two abreast on the stairs, and the invaders can but meet them two against two. Our heroes are skilled, and though they retreat higher and higher, the invaders cannot overwhelm them. As Britons fall, those following take their place, then fall in their turn. But surely our cousins grow weary. Higher and higher they retreat, the invaders pursue them stair by stair. But what’s this? What’s this, Edwin? Do our kin finally lose their nerve? They turn and run the remaining circles of steps, only now and then striking behind them. This is surely the end. The Britons are triumphant. Those watching from down here smile like hungry men before a banquet. But look carefully, boy. What do you see? What do you see as our Saxon cousins near that halo of sky above?” Grasping Edwin’s shoulders, Wistan repositioned him, pointing up to the opening. “Speak, boy. What do you see?”

“Our cousins spring a trap, sir. They retreat upwards only to draw in the Britons as ants to a honey pot.”

“Well said, lad! And how’s the trap made?”

Edwin considered for a moment, then said: “Just before the stairway reaches its highest point, warrior, I can see what looks from here to be an alcove. Or is it a doorway?”

“Good. And what do you suppose hides there?”

“Can it be a dozen of our greatest warriors? Then together with our two cousins, they can fight their way down again till they cut into the ranks of the Britons here below.”

“Think again, boy.”

“A fierce bear, then, warrior. Or a lion.”

“When did you last meet a lion, boy?”

“Fire, warrior. There’s fire behind that alcove.”

“Well said, boy. We can’t know for sure what happened so long ago. Yet I’d wager that’s what waited up there. In that little alcove, hardly glimpsed from down here, was a torch, or maybe two or three, blazing behind that wall. Tell me the rest, boy.”

“Our cousins throw the torches down.”

“What, onto the heads of the enemy?”

“No, warrior. Down into the moat.”

“The moat? Filled with water?”

“No, warrior. The moat’s filled with firewood. Just like the firewood we’ve sweated to cut.”

“Just so, boy. And we’ll cut more yet before the moon’s high. And we’ll find ourselves plenty of dry hay too. A chimney, you said, boy. You’re right. It’s a chimney we stand in now. Our forefathers built it for just such a purpose. Why else a tower here, when a man looking from the top has no better view than one at the wall outside? But imagine, boy, a torch dropping into this so-called moat. Then another. When we circled this place earlier, I saw at its back, close to the ground, openings in the stone. That means a strong wind from the east, such as we have tonight, will fan the flames ever higher. And how are the Britons to escape the inferno? A solid wall around them, only a single narrow bridge to freedom, and the moat itself ablaze. But let’s leave this place, boy. It may be this ancient tower grows displeased we should guess so many of his secrets.”

Wistan turned towards the planks, but Edwin was still gazing up to the top of the tower.

“But warrior,” he said. “Our two brave cousins. Must they burn in the flames with their foes?”

“If they did, wouldn’t it be a glorious bargain? Yet perhaps it needn’t come to that. Perhaps our two cousins, even as the scalding heat rises, race to the rim of the opening and leap from the top. Would they do that, boy? Even though they lack wings?”

“They have no wings,” Edwin said, “but their comrades may have brought a wagon behind the tower. A wagon loaded deep with hay.”

“It’s possible, boy. Who knows what went on here in ancient days? Now let’s finish with our dreaming and cut a little more wood. For surely these good monks face many chilly nights yet before the summer comes.”

In a battle, there was no time for elaborate exchanges of information. A swift look, a wave of a hand, a barked word over the noise: that was all true warriors needed to convey their wishes to one another. It had been in such a spirit Wistan had made his thoughts clear that afternoon in the tower, and Edwin had let him down utterly.

But had the warrior expected too much? Even old Steffa had only talked of Edwin’s great promise, what he would become once he had been taught the warrior’s ways. Wistan had yet to finish training him, so how was Edwin to respond with such understanding? And now, it seems, the warrior was wounded, but surely this could not be Edwin’s fault alone.

The young monk had paused by the edge of the stream to unfasten his shoes. “This is where we ford,” he said. “The bridge is much further down and the land there’s too open. We may be seen from even the next hilltop.” Then pointing to Edwin’s shoes, he said: “Those look skilfully crafted. Did you make them yourself?”

“Master Baldwin made them for me. The most skilled shoemaker in the village, even though he has fits every full moon.”

“Off with them. A soaking’s sure to wreck them. Can you see the stepping stones? Lower your head more, and try to gaze beneath the water’s surface. There, you see them? That’s our pathway. Keep them in your sight and you’ll stay dry.”

Again, the young monk’s tone had something curt about it. Could it be that since they had set off he had had time to piece together in his mind Edwin’s role in what had occurred? At the start of their journey, the young monk had not only been warmer in manner, he had hardly been able to stop talking.

They had met in the chilly corridor outside Father Jonus’s cell, where Edwin had been waiting while several voices, lowered but passionate, argued from within. The dread of what he might soon be told had mounted, and Edwin had been relieved when instead of being summoned inside, he had seen the young monk emerge, a cheerful smile on his face.

“I’ve been chosen to be your guide,” he had said triumphantly, in Edwin’s language. “Father Jonus says we’re to go at once and slip out unseen. Be brave, young cousin, you’ll be at your brother’s side before long.”

The young monk had an odd way of walking, clutching himself tightly like someone intensely cold, both arms lost within his robe, so that Edwin, following him down the mountain path, had wondered at first if he was one of those born with missing limbs. But as soon as the monastery was safely behind them, the young monk had fallen in step beside him, and producing a thin, long arm had placed it supportively around Edwin’s shoulders.

“It was foolish of you to come back as you did, and after you’d made good your escape. Father Jonus was angry to hear of it. But here you are, safely away again, and with luck no one’s the wiser about your return. But what an affair this is! Is your brother always so quarrelsome? Or is it one of the soldiers made some fierce insult to him in passing? Perhaps once you reach his bedside, young cousin, you’ll ask him how it all began, for none of us can make head or tail of it. If it was he who insulted the soldiers, then it must have been something strong indeed, for they as one forgot whatever purpose brought them to see the abbot, and turning into wild men, set about trying to extract payment for his boldness. I myself woke at the sounds of the shouting, even though my own chamber’s far from the courtyard. I ran there in alarm, only to stand helpless alongside my fellow monks, watching in horror all that unfolded. Your brother, they soon told me, had run into the ancient tower to escape the wrath of the soldiers, and though they rushed in after him with a mind to tear him limb from limb, it seems he began to fight them as best he knew. And a surprising match he seemed to be, even though they were thirty or more and he just one Saxon shepherd. We watched expecting any moment to see his bloody remains brought out, and instead it’s soldier after soldier running from that tower in panic, or staggering out carrying wounded comrades. We could hardly believe our eyes! We were praying for the quarrel soon to end, for whatever the original insult, such violence’s surely uncalled for. Yet it went on and on, and then, young cousin, the dreadful accident occurred. Who knows it wasn’t God himself, frowning on so black a quarrel within his holy buildings, pointed a finger and struck them with fire? More likely it was one of the soldiers running back and forth with torches tripped and made his great error. The horror of it! Suddenly the tower was ablaze! And who’d think an old damp tower could offer so much kindling? Yet blaze it did and Lord Brennus’s men together with your brother caught within. They’d have done better forgetting their quarrel at once and running out as fast as they could, but I fancy they thought instead to fight the flames, and saw only too late the fires engulfing them. An accident of true ghastliness, and the few who came out did so just to die twisting horribly on the ground. Yet miracle of miracles, young cousin, your brother it turns out escaped! Father Ninian found him wandering the darkness of the grounds, dazed and wounded, but still alive, even as the rest of us watched the blazing tower and prayed for the trapped men inside. Your brother lives, but Father Jonus, who himself treated his wounds, has counselled the few of us who know this news to keep it a solemn secret, even from the abbot himself. For he fears if the news gets further, Lord Brennus will send out more soldiers seeking vengeance, not caring that most died by accident and not by your brother’s hand. You’d do well not to whisper a word of it to anyone, at least not until you’re both far from this country. Father Jonus was angry you should risk yourself returning to the monastery, yet he’s contented he can the more easily reunite you with your brother. ‘They must travel together out of this country,’ he said. The best of men is Father Jonus, and still our wisest, even after what the birds have done to him. I dare say your brother owes him and Father Ninian his life.”

But that had been earlier. Now the young monk had become distant, and his arms were once again tucked firmly within his robe. As Edwin followed him across the stream, trying his best to see the rocks beneath the swiftly running water, the thought came to him that he should make a clean breast of it to the warrior; tell him about his mother and how she had called to him. If he explained it all from the start, honestly and frankly, it was possible Wistan would understand and give him another chance.

A shoe in each hand, Edwin sprang lightly towards the next rock, faintly cheered by this possibility.