Afterwards Alexander could never remember just what happened. The big fellow on the roan beat at his guard, forcing him back, pace by pace, his horse plunging and skidding on the stones, towards the ditch and bank at the side of the road. The fight with Kynon in the river had not been like this; here there was no room for fear or exhilaration: time seemed endless, and at the same time flying. Beside him was a crash and a cry, and a loose horse blundered into his opponent’s side, and in that moment he felt his sword slip past the man’s guard. It was beaten aside, but came out bloodied at the tip.

Alexander was gasping for breath now, dragging air into his lungs with snorting gulps past teeth bared in the grin of extreme effort. He spurred his horse savagely, driving it forward against the roan, just as the Cornishman, recovering, knocked the prince’s sword high and wide, driving in below it for the final, killing stroke.

It missed by a hair’s breadth; by the breadth of the armoured strap on the prince’s shoulder, which it severed. Then Brand’s horse hurtled against Alexander’s, and Brand’s sword, metal screaming along metal, forced the Cornishman’s weapon aside and sliced past the armoured gorget and into the fellow’s throat. He fell with a crash to the gravel of the road, and his horse, whinnying with terror, whirled round and bolted into the woods, splashing the stones with blood as it went.

“You’re hurt, sir?”

Alexander, still caught up in the aftermath of the fighting, shook his head dazedly, while with unsteady hands he tried to slide the sword back into its sheath. “It’s his blood. It splashed. I owe you thanks, Brand. I believe he had me there. He’s dead, is he?”

“Yes, sir. They both are. There was no time for anything else.”

“I know. It can’t be helped. Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir, but Uwain’s hurt.”

“Badly?” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of a blood-smeared hand. The sun, just clear of the hilltops, blazed straight into his eyes, level and brilliant, blinding him. So few moments had passed in that desperate encounter. He swung himself out of the saddle, threw his bridle to Brand, and ran to where Uwain was lying.

The fallen man had a cut in his side across the hip-bone. When they had washed the worst of the blood off – there was a trickle of spring water in the bank nearby – the wound looked clean, but it was deep and jagged, and after they had dressed and bound it as best they could, still bled sluggishly.

“The ferry,” said Alexander urgently. He was kneeling at Uwain’s side, holding a cup of water to the wounded man’s lips. “If we can get him down to the ferry, and across as far as the tavern you spoke of –”

“Look there,” said Brand, pointing.

Alexander stood up. The estuary stretched gleaming and bright, the mist clearing in the sun. The brown sail was still there, but it was almost at the farther shore.