There are six of them. Two, those of the hottest blood and lowest belief in themselves, urge their horses on and approach me at the gallop. The first is easy to dispatch, for his horse is a knot of fear and fatigue. I catch its eye and send it a sudden vision of slavering wolves that causes it to swerve at such speed that it falls, landing heavily upon its rider, who does not move again. The second soldier presses on. I wait until he is close, his broad iron sword raised, murder glinting from behind the face piece of his helm. I fight my instinct to move and instead hold my place, only ducking at the last second, using my blade to slice through the cinch of his saddle as I slide beneath his horse’s hooves. The animal’s first thought is to save itself from a fall, so although its ironclad feet flash about me, none strikes me. As the rider leans on the reins to turn his mount and shifts his weight, the girth gives way under the cut I made and his saddle swings around, throwing the soldier into the reed bed, where he lies yelling, clutching his shoulder. He is no threat to me now. I turn back to the others. Three more come at me, though with more caution and guile than their fallen brethren. There are shouts of ‘Take the witch alive! Rope her!’ and ‘She will make a fine gift for Our Lady!’ They have made a dangerous decision to try to capture me. If they truly knew me, they would be content to try to kill me only. They circle, then charge, seeking to knock me down. But I am more nimble than any they have encountered before, stepping this way and that, evading their charges. Enraged, one of my attackers swings his sword, aiming at my knife hand. He is rewarded with my blade in his thigh and retreats screaming, his life blood gushing from him, his hopes of home going with it.

On seeing their fellows so stricken the others change their minds.

‘Kill the evil creature!’ one yells, and the rest roar in agreement.