She drops back to the rear, but Owen’s nerves are contagious and she is frightened now, not wanting to drop too far back. She keeps up, touching the handle of the little sword. They ford one river, then another, and ride up the far bank, their horses scrabbling on the stones. Moments later she hears something and they both turn in their saddles. This time they are sure.

‘There’s someone there,’ she calls.

‘Christ,’ is all Walter says.

Again they stand up in their stirrups and force the horses to gallop. Katherine’s pony, cold and wet and hungry for so long, is blown. She sees a priory ahead and, beyond, a dark wood and some sour-looking yews.

‘Under them,’ Walter calls, gesturing. They ride harder still for a few hundred paces, past the priory, then jump from their saddles and pull the horses under the straggling spread of branches.

‘Keep going,’ Walter says. They push on through, weaving between the sweet-scented trunks until they are well off the road, sunk in the gloom. They hobble their horses and hurry back towards the road. Katherine leans against a rough-barked trunk and waits.

She tries to think who might be following them, and can only think of one name.

Beyond the priory is the long vista of dead straight road, deserted. The wind soughs through the branches. One of the horses snorts and they hear some movement. Katherine peers back but can see nothing in the gloom.

‘Are the horses all right?’ she asks.

‘Shhhh!’ Walter hisses.

She turns back and peers down the road. Her eyes begin conjuring shapes that cannot possibly be and after a while she has to pinch the bridge of her nose and shake her head. Around her the others are crouching behind the trees, pale faces tense, fingers clasping and unclasping their bows. Each has an arrow nocked. Time inches on.

There is nothing. And yet. So they wait. Still nothing. In the end they give up and gather themselves together and walk back to the horses.

Katherine’s pony lies on its side, its flanks unmoving. She cannot stop herself letting out a cry and running to him, but there is nothing to be done. Green-flecked drool coats his black lips and though his eyes are open they are sightless. She kneels and shakes her head. She cannot stop the tears.

‘These’re graveyard trees, aren’t they?’ Dafydd asks, looking up into the branches. ‘Supposed to be poisonous to cattle, like.’

They look at the remaining horses, out on the edge of the wood, pulling at the dead grasses under the hedge, then back at Katherine’s horse, lying under the yews.

She’d not even given it a name.