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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?

"Father Jonus says not. There's none wiser."

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.

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.

"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.

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 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.

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?"

"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."

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.

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.

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

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.

"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."

"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."

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

"Maybe so, boy. But test there too. Just there."

"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."

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

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

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.

"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.

"You're just a child."

"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."

"I could help," Edwin said. "I'm good with knots."

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'm not. I'm nearly twelve."

"Are they grown-ups?"

"They'll come back soon. If they find you've untied me, they'll beat you."

"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."

"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."

"Why did they tie you?"

"Where's she gone?"

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

"Who do you travel with?"

"I don't know. She was taken. I live with my aunt now."

"I always free myself." She twisted again.

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

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

"I'm not afraid. I could free you if you like."

"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 can usually do it," she said. "If you weren't here, I'd have done it by now."

"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?"

"Do they tie you to stop you running away?"

"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."

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.

"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.

"Shall I untie you? I'm not afraid of them, and I'm good with knots."

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"I'm not afraid of them."

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 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.

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 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.

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:

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."

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."

"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?"

"What do you make of it?"

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."

"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?"

"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."

"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?"

"Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps."

"Nothing, sir."

"Only the steps, warrior."

"Nothing?"

"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?"

"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."

"Our cousins throw the torches down."

"What, onto the heads of the enemy?"

"Think again, boy."

"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."

"Good. And what do you suppose hides there?"

"When did you last meet a lion, boy?"

"Well said, lad! And how's the trap made?"

"A fierce bear, then, warrior. Or a lion."

"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."

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?"

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

"The moat? Filled with water?"

"No, warrior. Down into the moat."

"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."

"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."

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

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.

"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."

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?"

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.

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."

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.

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.