quested in silence. When all seven riders had crossed, Wayland rose and massaged his aching calves. Since dawn he’d covered more than twenty miles. He yoked his bow across his shoulders and went into the trees, up through the childhood smells of violets and wood anemones. The dog remembered the forest and stuck close to heel, its tail drooping. Wayland entered the home clearing with the weary tread of a mourner. Ash and hazel had colonised the cultivated strips and the place where the house had stood was a riot of nettles.
Behind the house a byre had collapsed into a tangle of poles choked by ivy and brambles. He pushed between them. They weren’t stout enough to stop a charging horse, but the weeds grew dense enough to screen him from sight. He’d passed several spots where he could have ambushed the Normans without much risk to himself, but he wanted them to know why he’d led them here. Roussel and Drax had been members of the gang that had murdered his family; he wanted to see recognition flare before he killed them.
While he waited, he picked burrs from between the dog’s pads. He took six ash arrows from his quiver and planted them to hand. The sun sank into the trees. Blue dusk suffused the air. Rooks cawed on their nests. It was very peaceful.
A jay squawked in the wood and the rooks lifted from their nests. A wren scolded at the edge of the clearing. Wayland heard the ragged panting of the hounds and drew his knife. The greenery trembled and Ostine appeared in front of him. She stopped and threw back her head, but before she could utter a sound the dog smashed into her, bowling her over. The other hounds broke cover. When they saw the dog they whimpered and squirmed in submission. Wayland crouched in front of them and cradled their muzzles. He looked into their eyes and smiled.
Two riders came out of the trees. They stopped and surveyed the clearing, then one of them gestured and the other five emerged. All were armoured, wearing helmets. Two of them held loaded crossbows. Wayland’s mouth grew dry. He wiped his palms and raised his bow.
The encircling forest made the soldiers edgy. They advanced stirrup to stirrup, peering over their shields. Wayland bent his bow, sighting on Roussel’s chest.
Roussel dragged his forearm across his cheeks. ‘I’m being eaten alive.’
Drax’s head patrolled from side to side. Wayland watched his eyes. Shoot the moment he realises where he is. Shoot and then run.
‘Roussel.’
‘What?’ Roussel demanded, scratching his wrist on the edge of his shield.
‘I know this place. We both do.’
Roussel stopped scratching.
‘Don’t you remember? There was a cottage over there. You can still make out the fields.’
Roussel pulled back on his reins. ‘Jesus, you’re right.’
‘It must be a coincidence. We left no one alive.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Walter captured the falconer not far from here. He must have grown up in these woods.’ Roussel looked around the clearing. ‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘He could have lost us any time it pleased him. We’re not hunting him; he’s hunting us.’
Drax gave a nervous laugh. ‘One against seven. Are you serious?’
‘The odds might not be as good as that. The Frank must have fled south. We’ve been chasing the falconer in a circle. He could be leading us into an ambush.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I say we get out of here.’
‘Drogo will crucify us.’
‘We tell him we tracked the falconer until nightfall and found ourselves in a forest, with no food or shelter. What were we supposed to do?’ Roussel turned to the huntsman. ‘Call off the hounds.’
Relief was what Wayland felt. Standing only a few yards from seven armoured horse soldiers, he’d felt his resolve leaking away. At best he would have been able to release only one arrow, and he wasn’t confident that it would have hit the mark. The effort of holding his heavy bow at full draw was making his aim waver. He slackened off and let his breath go.
If only the huntsman had used his horn. Instead he took a bone whistle from around his neck and blew a thin note barely audible to the human ear. One of the hounds whimpered.
Roussel lifted his sword. ‘Straight ahead!’
Wayland drew and let fly. The arrow skewered Roussel’s mailed wrist, punched through his iron helmet and sliced through bone and brain. Wayland’s last sight of him was him leaning back, his hand pinned to his backthrown head as if scandalised.
‘Charge!’
Wayland turned and ran, clawing through the poles. He’d expected the Normans to scatter, but he’d underestimated their discipline, their confidence in their armour and horsepower.
‘There he goes!’
He was in the forest, breaking for the ravine, when he realised 4his second mistake. In the years since he’d left the wildwood, the familiar trails had become overgrown. Branches snagged him, thickets thwarted him. While he struggled to make distance, the horses battered their way through, gaining with every stride. They were so close that he didn’t have time to fit another arrow.
‘I see him. Spread out. Don’t let him get around our flanks.’
A fallen tree blocked Wayland’s path. The trunk was too high to hurdle, too long to run around. He vaulted up, and as he gathered himself to spring down the other side, a blow between his shoulders knocked him over.
‘Got him! Hit him fair and square!’
Wayland sprawled winded on the far side. He knew he’d been hard hit. The fact that he felt no pain meant nothing. He’d seen deer shot through the heart run a hundred yards before their legs folded. He spat dirt from his mouth and staggered on, his breath sawing in his throat. The ground fell steeply towards the edge of the ravine and he had to brake his descent by grabbing at trees. A dead birch snapped off in his hand. Arms flailing, he careered down the slope. The mouth of the ravine rushed up towards him. He threw himself on his side and tobogganed feet first through the mulch. His right knee hit a stump with a sickening wrench. He clawed his hands into the earth and managed to halt only a few feet from the drop. He turned and saw four Normans on foot slip-sliding down the slope. When he stood, the pain in his knee made his leg buckle. He abandoned his plan to climb down into the gorge and lie up until nightfall.
He limped right, downstream, towards the Pot. The cliffs upstream of the pool leaned close together and for as long as he could remember the gap had been bridged by a fallen ash. He remembered his mother’s fright when she’d found him and Edith playing dare in the middle of the bridge. That had been years ago. By now the tree might have rotted and collapsed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the mounted Normans keeping pace with him on the crest of the slope.
The tree was still there, carpeted with mosses and bracketed with fungi. Wayland looked back to see how much time he had left. Even wounded and lame, he’d outpaced the dismounted soldiers. He felt his back. The bolt had penetrated his pack. His hand came away sticky with blood. The wound must be fatal, but it seemed important that he use his remaining strength to drag himself out of his hunters’ reach. It was the instinct of a mortally wounded animal.
The shouts of the soldiers grew louder. The horsemen above were guiding them. One of them stopped and took aim with his crossbow. Wayland watched him as if trapped in a dream. The bolt leaped from the track. He dived headlong and heard it fizz past and splinter on the other side of the gorge. He hauled himself onto the trunk. The spongy wood came away in handfuls. Fifty feet below, the river spouted into the black waters of the Pot where he’d recovered his sister’s body.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he crossed the tree at a delicate run. As he jumped off, another bolt tugged at his sleeve. On this side of the gorge the forest understorey was choked with holly and hazel. He threw himself into cover and dragged himself up the slope until he reached the base of an alder. He sprawled against it, sobbing with exhaustion and pain. He felt sick and light-headed and guessed that he’d lost so much blood that he would soon
