instant lost all strength in his shield arm. De Mohun came in again like a wolf. His sword point lodged in the bend of Oliver's elbow and he began to prise the bones apart.
Through blinding pain, Oliver chopped across and down. De Mohun snatched his hand away to avoid losing his fingers, and once again Oliver turned Hero and dug in his heels. He had no coherent idea of where he was going. All that was left was the hazy instinct to flee.
Showering turf, Hero spun round the side of the church and galloped towards the graves beneath the yew trees. Oliver could not determine whether the roaring in his ears was the sound of de Mohun's pursuit or his own heartbeat. One was as close as the other. The gravestone flashed past and the stockade fence loomed. Oliver lashed the reins down on Hero's neck. The stallion took a short, choppy stride, bunched his muscles and, ears back, took a flying leap.
The horse sailed over the posts, landed on the slope of the bank with a jarring thud, and stumbled and pecked all the way down to the ditch at the bottom. But he kept his feet and, with a tremendous surge, lunged up and out on to the far side.
Barely conscious, Oliver clung to mane and bridle. Through blurring vision, he watched de Mohun's bay take the stockade, drag a hindleg and come down hard on the bank. Man and horse somersaulted over and over, finishing in a tangled heap in the ditch. The bay threshed to its feet but, in the act, rolled and trampled upon its rider, mashing the chain mail into his body. The horse stood trembling and shuddering, bloody froth blowing from one nostril.
'Jesu, Oliver whispered and, despite his agony, rode Hero over to look at de Mohun. He was face down in the ditch. If not dead, then he soon would be, for his nose and mouth were immersed in the churned, muddy water, but Oliver suspected that his soul was already on its way to hell.
Turning Hero, he headed towards the road and felt the wetness of blood sliding down his arm and webbing his hand.
The day that Godard passed at the alehouse was one of the most pleasant he could remember. It was not that he did anything out of the ordinary. He spent the morning hewing wood for Edith and, after a substantial midday meal of bacon stew and savoury griddle cakes, occupied the afternoon by mending her spade and her wooden rake. The delight was in living as he had lived before the war had torn the land apart; the delight was in looking at Edith as she went about her chores with quiet efficiency. She looked a good, buxom armful; a comfort when a man needed comfort, but she had strength too, and beautiful butter-coloured braids beneath her kerchief.
'Suppose you and your lord will be moving on tomorrow, she said, and looked at him from her eye corner while preparing a broth with chicken dumplings.
Godard sighed and rose from his stool. 'Like as not, he said, and went moodily to look out of the door, his arms folded, his massive frame propped against the opening. The light was shifting and slanting as the sun dipped westwards and a chill perked the air.
He heard the slosh of water as she stirred the cauldron. 'Tis a pity, she said after a moment. 'I did not realise how much I missed male company until I had one to myself again.
Godard unfolded his arms and looked round. 'What about your customers?
'Oh, them. She sniffed and waved her ladle. 'They all have wives waiting at home, and those that don't are only worth a skillet round the head to send them away before bedtime.
'I've never been married, Godard said. 'When you're the youngest of eight, you don't expect to.
Their eyes held for a moment longer. Then Edith made a show of bustle and Godard cleared his throat. 'Mind you, that's not saying I wouldn't like to be.
She was silent, but he was strongly aware of her presence. One more step, one more push was all it would take. Being a cautious man he held back. Equally cautious, she avoided his gaze and went studiously about her business until the moment had passed.
Godard resumed watching the road. A child came with a quart pitcher and a request from his mother that it be filled with ale. He was followed by two men, thirsty after a day's toil in the fields. Godard drank a mug with them, then went to check on his horse. Shadows lengthened and dusk began to soften the world with shades of blue. The moon rose, luminous and cream-silver. The smell of chicken broth floated on the air in delicious wafts. Godard gnawed his thumb knuckle and willed Oliver to appear on the road, but except for villagers beating a path to the alehouse, it remained empty.
The stars twinkled out and the final strands of sunset vanished over the horizon. Finally Godard strode inside and swept on his cloak and hood. It was one matter for Oliver to tell him to ride on and seek another master, a different one for him to do it.
'I am going in search of my lord, he said to Edith, who was busy ladling broth and dumplings into a bowl for a customer.
She nodded briskly, adding, 'Have a care, and gave him a quick look in which there was unspoken concern.
Godard smiled and plucked his quarterstaff from the corner. 'You need not worry about that, he said in a gruff voice, but he was pleased that she was anxious for his welfare.
Once on the road, he made such haste as the moonlight would allow. He did not want to risk foundering his horse, but neither did he want to waste time. Godard was not afraid of the dark, but he was not particularly fond of being out in it either. Beyond the village, the road dwindled to a rutted cart track with smaller tracks branching off into the fields. Silence descended, the only sounds to break it being the clop of his mount's hooves and the champ of its breath. Godard began to sing to himself, then changed his mind. The darkness was too vast, too wide and full of hidden, listening ears.
He came to a wooded stretch where the road dipped down into a black hollow. Godard drew rein and seriously contemplated turning back for the warmth and welcome of the alehouse. He imagined a steaming bowl of broth, feather-light dumplings and Edith's welcoming smile. The pity was that without discovering what had happened to Oliver, he would be unable to enjoy any of it. 'Hah, he said with irritation, and kicked the gelding's flanks.
Man and horse descended into darkness. There was a boggy stream at the foot of the hollow which Godard heard, rather than saw, as the horse splashed through it. Emerging on the other side into a lacing of darkness and moonlight, he did not see the dappled horse on the track in front until it nickered and came trotting to greet him. Breath steamed from its nostrils. The reins were knotted around the saddle pommel and there were dark stains on its pale coat.
'Steady lad, steady, Godard crooned and caught Hero's bridle. He secured the destrier to his gelding and wondered what in Christ's name had happened to Oliver. The stains on Hero's coat looked like blood, and probably Oliver's to judge from their position.
He clicked his tongue and urged the gelding forward, and almost immediately saw the flash of chain-mail near the place where the grey had been standing. Godard flung down from the saddle, tossed a loop of bridle over a tree branch to secure the horses and ran to the fallen man.
'Lord Oliver?
There was a groan and Oliver tried to raise his head. 'Godard, you purblind fool, I told you to go.
'My hearing's not what it used to be. Where are you hurt? With gentle hands for one so huge, Godard tried to make an examination.
'Everywhere. There's not a whole bone in my body. Let me die. Oliver closed his eyes.
Godard tapped the side of his master's face with rigid fingers. 'I've not made this journey just to bring back your corpse. Where there's life there's hope, he said sternly.
'Where there's life there's pain, Oliver responded, but opened his eyes.
Godard tightened his lips. He knew that unless he got Oliver back to the alehouse in short order, he would die. If his wounds did not kill him, the cold would.
'You have to mount up, sir, he said. 'I will ride behind you and hold you in the saddle.
Oliver laughed, the sound choking off on a wheeze of agony. 'You're gullible enough to believe in miracles, then, he gasped.
'Yes, sir, Godard said stoutly. 'It's no more than two miles to the village. Seems a pity to lie here in the frost, even if you are dying, he added in a practical tone. Rising to his feet, he fetched the horses. There was a flask of
