His years of fighting and trust in his instincts strengthened him. He concentrated on the wind rustling across the treetops, the same whispers that brought the hawk’s call. Turning his head, he closed his eyes and let his mind’s eye travel along the swirling breeze. Splashing water faded, the hawk’s cry diminished. He stood motionless, waiting for the forest to yield its secrets. Like a man being swept out to sea on a rip tide, he surrendered to wind and water that bore him on their journey until he heard a sound that did not belong to nature. The slightest almost imperceptible resonance as metal clanged against rock. He opened his eyes. He was facing downstream. De Hayle was using the river to guide him to freedom. The routier had no skill at living in the forest, did not trust the ageless instincts of animals using a track to find their way. All that Blackstone understood. He ran into the trees. To follow de Hayle along the stream would expose him against the skyline. De Hayle would have left a crossbowman in ambush and the rocky terrain meant Blackstone would be unlikely to see him.

He pushed hard through the bracken, going deeper into the trees, instinct guiding him towards the bend in the river where he could cut off his quarry. The forest’s gloom yielded to sunlight dancing this way and that as the treetops swayed, letting through the rays. His eyes went from tree to tree, penetrating ever deeper into the forest, searching for any sign of where the forest ended and the open ground began. He needed to be close to de Hayle and the temptress so he could kill them quickly. His lungs burned, but his mind forced him on. Every fifty paces he stopped, leaned against a tree and drew deep breaths, sucking air into failing lungs. He willed himself to beat back whatever the unknown weakness was that suddenly ailed him. To fight it and use his anger at the killings to put strength into his sword arm.

The forest’s half-light caught the speckled camouflage of a deer’s white tail as it ran from view. Had it been his presence that alerted it or something else? Bears would be hunting and if he stumbled on one grubbing in the high undergrowth, he would have little chance of surviving a sudden attack. He rested again. Sweat stung his eyes. Nausea rose up. His throat stung from its acid.

In that moment he saw the haunted face of the High Steward making the sign of the cross. And he knew the man had poisoned him. He hurled the wineskin away, forced his fingers down his throat and vomited. The more of the poison he could spew out the more chance he had of keeping death at bay.