Lochlann did not respond to that, just creased his wrinkled face further in concentration at his task. Pocket went to stroke Backbone’s nose, wishing he had an apple to give him. It was hours before sundown and Pocket was worried the mule would have to stand with his burden for too long, but Sir Corc had instructed that everything be prepared lest they have to leave suddenly. The knight had taken Bantam Flyn into the city so they could visit the foundling houses and warn the matrons of the impending attack. Flyn had complained about the errand, calling it ‘noble and useless’, a phrase he had often uttered since being told of their departure. Actually, the squire was quite happy to leave Black Pool behind until he discovered that their flight was a response to the coming Red Cap attack. Now, he wanted to stay, and constantly urged Sir Corc that they would be of greater service in defense of the walls. As always, the knight remained immovable.

Pocket felt confused and a little ashamed. Sir Corc was running from a fight. Pocket had never heard of a knight fleeing before. Bantam Flyn was only a squire and he wanted to stay and fight the goblins, defend the people. No one could question his bravery. Pocket had seen him fight with his own eyes in the tourney where he had won Coalspur; a tourney that Sir Corc had not even entered. During his long days in the Roost, Pocket used to dream of Sir Corc’s visits, awaiting his return with barely contained excitement. Moragh used to tire of his asking when the knight would next appear at the castle. The day he left the Roost was the saddest of his life, until he realized he would be accompanying the knight on grand adventures in Airlann. Then his spirits soared, but thus far, nothing had been so grand. Pocket often found himself wishing he was with Bronze Wattle or Blood Yolk. Surely, they would not be skulking away from Black Pool in the middle of the night.