I laugh too as his big horse lengthens its great pace to draw neck and neck with Merry, and we go a little faster, and then suddenly, there is a crashing noise and a tree plunges down, all its branches breaking together like a scream, over the road in front of us, and Merry rears in terror and I hear my husband bellow like a trumpet, ‘À Bedford! ’Ware ambush!’ but I am clinging to the mane and nearly out of the saddle, slipping backwards, as Merry plunges to the side, terrified by the noise, and bolts, madly bolts. I haul myself into the saddle, cling to her neck, and bend low as she dashes among the trees, flinging herself to right and left, fleeing where her own frightened senses prompt her. I cannot steer her, I have dropped the reins, I certainly cannot stop her, I can barely cling on, until finally she slows to a trot, and then a walk, and then blows out and stops.

Shakily, I slip from the saddle and collapse to the ground. My jacket has been torn by low-hanging branches, my bonnet knocked from my head and is flapping on its cord, my hair is falling down, tangled with twigs. I give a little sob of fear and shock, and Merry turns to one side and nibbles at a shrub, pulling at it nervously, her ears flicking in all directions.

I take hold of her reins so she cannot dash away again, and I look around me. The forest is cool and dark, absolutely silent but for birdsong from high in the upper branches, and the buzz of insects. There is no noise of marching men, creaking wagons; nothing. I cannot even tell where I have come from, nor how far I am from the road. Merry’s headlong flight seemed to last for a lifetime, but even if they were close at hand I would not know in which direction. Certainly, she didn’t go straight, we twisted and turned through the trees and there is no path for me to retrace.

‘Goddamn,’ I say quietly to myself like an Englishman. ‘Merry, we are completely lost.’

I know that Woodville will ride out to find me, and perhaps he can follow Merry’s little hoof prints. But if the falling tree was an ambush then perhaps he and my husband are fighting for their lives, and nobody yet has had time t think about me. Even worse, if the fight is going against them, then perhaps they will be captured or killed and there will be no-one to search for me at all, and then I am in danger indeed: alone and lost in a hostile country. Either way, I had better save myself if I can.

I know that we were travelling north to Calais, and I can remember enough of the great plan in my husband’s library to know that if I can get myself onto the north road again there will be many villages, churches, and religious houses where I can find hospitality and help. It is a road well travelled and I am certain to meet a party of English people and my title will command their assistance. But only if I can find the road. I look on the ground around us to see if I can trace Merry’s hoof prints and follow them back the way we came, and there is one hoof print in the mud, and then another, a little gap where the leaves cover the ground, but beyond it, the trail picks up again. I take the reins over her head and hold them in my right hand, and say in a voice I try to make sound confident, ‘Well, silly girl, we have to find our way home now,’ and I walk back the way we came with her following behind me, her head bent, as if she is sorry for the trouble she has caused.