“Well, then, a mile or two down to the port should do you. Come on, here’s your cloak. It’ll be pitch black in the forest; have a bit of sense.”

“The forest,” I said obstinately, turning my head while he fastened the pin. “And don’t argue with me, Cadal. If you ask me, Belasius has the right ideas. His servant doesn’t even dare to speak, let alone argue. I ought to treat you the same way—in fact I’ll start straight away . . . What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing. All right, I know when to give in. The forest it is, and if we lose ourselves and never get back alive, at least I’ll have died with you, and won’t have to face the Count.”

“I really can’t see that he’d care overmuch.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t,” said Cadal, holding the door for me to go through. “It was only a manner of speaking. I doubt if he’d even notice, myself.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

ONCE outside, it was not as dark as it had seemed, and it was warm, one of those heavy, dull days fraught with mists, and a small rain that lay on the heavy wool of our cloaks like frost.

About a mile to the north of the town the flattish salt-bitten turf began to give way to woodland, thin at first, with trees sticking up here and there solitary, with veils of white mist haunting their lower boughs or lying over the turf like pools, which now and then broke and swirled as a deer fled through.

The road north was an old one, paved, and the men who had built it had cleared the trees and scrub back on either side for a hundred paces, but with time and neglect the open verge had grown thick with whin and heather and young trees, so that now the forest seemed to crowd round you as you rode, and the way was dark.

Near the town we had seen one or two peasants carrying home fuel on their donkeys, and once one of Ambrosius’ messengers spurred past us, with a stare, and what looked like a half-salute to me. But in the forest we met no one. It was the silent time between the thin birdsong of a March day and the hunting of the owls.

When we got among the big trees the rain had stopped, and the mist was thinning. Presently we came to a crossroads where a track—unpaved this time—crossed our own at right angles. The track was one used for hauling timber out of the forest, and also by the carts of charcoal burners, and, though rough and deeply rutted, it was clear and straight, and if you kept your horse to the edge, there was a gallop.

“Let’s turn down here, Cadal.”

“You know he said keep to the road.”