If I kept up the pace I should be able to reach the rock wall before dusk. I emerged from under the trees to find myself on the edge of a broad grassy slope. On its other side the forest began again, tall oaks above sharp-leaved hollies, dark and dense. Somewhere in there was the place I sought. To reach it I must cross this open ground. The only alternative was to climb much higher and traverse a stony area at the top of the rise, almost impossible while carrying Becan and my bag. On the other hand, for the time it would take to run across the slope to that deeper cover I would be in full view of anyone who happened to be close by. I’d been cautious all day, keeping off the paths, staying under the trees when I could, dodging from one place of concealment to the next. I glanced up and down the hill and across to the oaks on the other side of the open area. Nothing was moving save the hovering shape of a bird of prey, perhaps a kestrel, waiting its moment to swoop and seize.

As I gathered myself for a sprint, a clamor came from down the hill behind me: the deep, arresting voices of Father’s wolfhounds. I froze. Gods, they sounded close. Now came the voices of men. “This way! Up under those oaks!” Then someone cursing, and a slipping, sliding sound further down the steep path.

I ran. Pure instinct drove me; my mind held only a will for flight. I jarred my right ankle halfway across the hillside, slipping on the wet grass, but I went on running. Ahead of me, in the shadow of the oaks on the far side, something moved. Behind me someone yelled, “Over there!” It sounded like Aidan. Becan was whimpering with distress as he was bounced up and down in the sling. I kept on going. Ten paces more, five, three . . .