“What’s your opinion, young Benedict?” Richard tossed this remark over his shoulder, casually. He had, for all his offhand manner, been listening carefully to their discussion. “Think we can take that watch tower on the northern end of the bay before midsummer? Hold that, and you’ve got a strong enough footing, and safe landing for your men. That’s been one of our problems; that and their tricky sailing. Never quite worked out how they do it. Come up on you out of nowhere, looming out of the mist in their cunning little boats. Never know when to be ready for them.”

“They say it’s witchcraft.” This was one of Richard’s men, speaking with diffidence. “That each clan has a sorcerer, a magician, that can conjure up storms, and fogs, and winds, by invoking the power of the devil. They say whole troops of men have vanished in this way. Not that I believe it, of course. But there are stories.”

“Stories put about for the sole purpose of striking fear into your foe,” said Richard with some cynicism. “A well-tested ploy. The same trick as painting your body, or beating drums for the advance. Takes the enemy by surprise, makes him edgy, puts a fear into him. There’s no witchcraft. A bit of luck, that’s all it is, and a good knowledge of the local weather. These folk are no more magical than you or I.”

“Indeed,” said the other man. “For there are Christian priests among them, who surely would not tolerate such goings-on. Besides, who ever heard of hailstones as big as hens’ eggs, or a fog you could drown in? Who ever heard of a storm come up out of nowhere, or rain from a clear sky?”

At that moment I looked at Red, and Red looked at me, and I remembered the touch of his hand through a blinding torrent of rain, the hard, warm grip of the only real thing in that violent, druidic downpour. That rain had saved both our lives. I read in his eyes that his thoughts were the same.

“These tales go back a long way,” mused Richard, stretching out his elegant legs toward the fire. “It’s a strange place, with odd people. The more I learn about them, the harder I find them to understand. One day, of course, it will all be ours, and the remnant of these wild folk will simply be lost, through death or decay or interbreeding. They have a limited capacity to resist, with their superstitions and their irrational faith. They fight with such ferocity, it seems they hold their own lives cheap. They have lost their precious islands. That anchorage is ours. I hope to take the next step with my summer campaign.”

“How soon do you plan to return there?” asked John politely.

“Soon enough,” said Richard. “I hold my men in readiness at all times. I plan to take advantage of the first spell of good weather. So while you’re out in the fields, Hugh, playing the peasant, you can think of me and mine as we keep the place safe for you. As we rid our shores of this scourge, so you can run your cattle in peace.”