Sometimes they rode side by side; sometimes the way was too narrow and Medina would fall behind a little. The trees were in their first true green. Birds darted to and fro across the track, dark against the green-shine of the new leaves.

The noise of rain on the leaves, an hour in the darkness of a passing storm. Then the light pouring in through a thousand openings, the men’s coats steaming, the horses spooked by the flicker of a shadow, by things the men could neither see nor hear.

They bought bread and cheese and cider from isolated farms. They did not steal, did not enter into conversation beyond what was necessary. Now and then they passed others on the road, skilled men with tools over their shoulders, labourers with nothing but a rolled blanket, a stick to walk with. They passed a camp of gypsies—men, women and animals lolling under the trees. A cautious nodding of heads. Some of the gypsies looked closely at Medina, looked as if they might address him.

At a place near nowhere, the woods thick and the track itself seeming to hesitate, they saw the figures of men and boys, slender as deer and as watchful. Calley unbuttoned his coat. They kept the horses going, picked their way through to where the track was plain again, glanced behind themselves.

“Runaways,” said Calley.

“Runaways?”

“’Prentice boys. Mill hands. Soldiers. All sorts.”

They slept that night in a dell by the edge of the woods. The night was mild. They slept on their backs, both men mostly silent in sleep, both gently flooded by the air they breathed. When they woke they found themselves observed by cattle. One of these they milked, swallowed down the blood-warm milk then walked the horses back into the woods, two men advancing, the war spooling from their backs like silk.

On the third day, coming out of the woods on to open ground and crossing towards the river—the river broad and brown and lined with reeds and bulrushes—they came upon a body, stripped and spread-eagled in the long grass. They looked down from their saddles, could see no wounds, and though the sound and shadow of their horses did not disturb the man it was clear that he was sleeping rather than dead.

Closer to the bank they found others. Pale men, peeled men, sprawled, delighted by sleep. Soft bodies softly breathing. Not the bodies of farm boys or runaways. Then, from the water beyond the reeds, came laughter, scraps of song. They climbed down from their horses and went to look. Four, five men, swimming and splashing.