Where our horses stood the way was narrow, the centre of the ride having sunk into deep mud where water faintly reflected the night sky. Cadal reined his mare back into the thicket that edged the ride, while I forced Aster—who would not wet his feet unless compelled—past the mare. As the brown’s big quarters pressed back into the tangle of oak and chestnut there was suddenly a crash just behind her, and a breaking of twigs, and some animal burst from the undergrowth almost under the mare’s belly, and hurtled across the ride in front of my pony’s nose.

Both animals reacted violently. The mare, with a snort of fear, plunged forward hard against the rein. At the same moment Aster shied wildly, throwing me half out of the saddle. Then the plunging mare crashed into his shoulder, and the pony staggered, whirled, lashed out, and threw me.

I missed the water by inches, landing heavily on the soft stuff at the edge of the ride, right up against a broken stump of pine which could have hurt me badly if I had been thrown on it. As it was I escaped with scratches and a minor bruise or two, and a wrenched ankle that, when I rolled over and tried to put it to the ground, stabbed me with pain momentarily so acute as to make the black woods swim.

Even before the mare had stopped circling Cadal was off her back, had flung the reins over a bough, and was stooping over me.

“Merlin—Master Merlin—are you hurt?”

I unclamped my teeth from my lip, and started gingerly with both hands to straighten my leg. “No, only my ankle, a bit.”

“Let me see . . . No, hold still. By the dog, Ambrosius will have my skin for this.”

“What was it?”

“A boar, I think. Too small for a deer, too big for a fox.”

“I thought it was a boar, I smelt it. My pony?”

“Halfway home by now, I expect. Of course you had to let the rein go, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry. Is it broken?”

His hands had been moving over my ankle, prodding, feeling. “I don’t think so . . . No, I’m sure it’s not. You’re all right otherwise? Here, come on, try if you can stand on it. The mare’ll take us both, and I want to get back, if I can, before that pony of yours goes in with an empty saddle. I’ll be for the lampreys, for sure, if Ambrosius sees him.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Is he so unjust?”

“He’ll reckon it was, and he wouldn’t be far wrong. Come on now, try it.”

“No, give me a moment. And don’t worry about Ambrosius, the pony hasn’t gone home, he’s stopped a little way up the ride. You’d better go and get him.”