“Perhaps. But then you might say the Goddess herself is old-fashioned, and likes to be worshipped in the ways she knows. And our way is almost as old as she is, older than men can remember, even in songs or stones. Long before the bulls were killed in Persia, long before they came to Crete, long before even the sky-gods came out of Africa and these stones were raised to them, the Goddess was here in the sacred grove. Now the forest is closed to us, and we worship where we can, but wherever the Goddess is, be it stone or tree or cave, there is the grove called Nemet, and there we make the offering.—I see you understand me.”

“Very well. I was taught these things in Wales. But it’s a few hundred years since they made the kind of offering you made tonight.”

His voice was smooth as oil. “He was killed for sacrilege. Did they not teach you—?” He stopped dead, and his hand dropped to his hip. His tone changed. “That’s Cadal’s horse.” His head went round like a hunting dog’s.

“I brought it,” I said. “I told you my pony went lame. Cadal will have gone home. I suppose he took one of yours.”

I unhitched the mare and brought her out into the moonlight of the open path. He was settling the dagger back in its sheath. We walked on, the mare following, her nose at my shoulder. My foot had almost ceased to hurt.

I said: “So, death for Cadal, too? This isn’t just a question of sacrilege, then? Your ceremonies are so very secret? Is this a matter of a mystery, Belasius, or is what you do illegal?”

“It is both secret and illegal. We meet where we can. Tonight we had to use the island; it’s safe enough—normally there’s not a soul would come near it on the night of the equinox. But if word came to Budec there would be trouble. The man we killed tonight was a King’s man; he’s been held here for eight days now, and Budec’s scouts have been searching for him. But he had to die.”

“Will they find him now?”

“Oh, yes, a long way from here, in the forest. They will think a wild boar ripped him.” Again that slanting glance. “You could say he died easily, in the end. In the old days he would have had his navel cut out, and would have been whipped round and round the sacred tree until his guts were wrapped round it like wool on a spindle.”

“And does Ambrosius know?”

“Ambrosius is a King’s man, too.”

We walked for a few paces in silence. “Well, and what comes to me, Belasius?”

“Nothing.”

“Isn’t it sacrilege to spy on your secrets?”

“You’re safe enough,” he said drily. “Ambrosius has a long arm. Why do you look like that?”