Blackstone rummaged beneath his feet and found chunks of blackened, crisp charcoal. Perhaps the hawk was not the witch but a guardian angel who had made him turn towards the abandoned charcoal burners’ site. He bit into the charcoal, its crust clinging to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed and gagged, but, forcing spittle into his mouth, he ate more. The charcoal would help absorb the poison in his gut. He pushed a handful to sustain him beneath his jerkin and, clambering free, went back to the animal track that led towards the edge of the forest. He had gone thirty paces before realizing he had left his shield in the pit. Dizziness claimed him. He knelt, shook his head, felt his heart pounding.

The cloud-filtered sun had moved behind his right shoulder so he knew he had not travelled far before he smelled the chill of cold water and moss on the wind. The whooshing rhythm of water over rocks became more pronounced. He edged forward. The broken ground, pockmarked with boulders and rocks, embraced the stream. Thirst gripped him and he was a stride away from stumbling from the forest and gulping the clear mountain water, when the raptor’s faint cry made him turn instinctively towards it. Had Arianrhod summoned her own guardian spirit to protect him? Ahead he saw the crossbowman huddled behind boulders, back to Blackstone, watching the worn ground next to the stream. The track would have led Blackstone directly into view barely thirty yards away as he crested the skyline.

There was no one else in sight. It was too risky creeping towards the unsuspecting bowman. He strode towards him, archer’s knife in hand, the rushing water covering any footfall. The tall trees shifted in the wind, and as the low sun struck his back, his shadow loomed ahead of him. The man turned. Stiff from his cramped position, he moved slowly, but was quick enough to level the crossbow and loose a snap shot. The quarrel skimmed Blackstone’s side, but his jerkin and mail offered enough protection for its wayward trajectory to glance off him. The bowman was on his feet, knife in hand, unafraid, lunging. A veteran of war, a man used to closing with the enemy. Except that the enemy had never been this scar-faced Englishman. Blackstone parried the right-handed strike and turned his fist so that the knife’s pommel struck the bowman beneath his chin. His head snapped back and, legs buckling, he fell. Blackstone’s weakened grip was still enough to keep the archer under his knife. The man’s eyes blinked.

‘De Hayle and the woman. Where are they?’

The bowman shook his head. Blood seeped between his teeth.

‘Why would you be loyal to those who abandon you?’ said Blackstone.

‘I’m sworn to him. Death comes to us all,’ spat the routier. An Englishman.

‘Tell me and I won’t kill you. You have my word.’