‘Only a horse, Kit,’ Walter says. ‘Here, come on.’ He helps her unload her pack, yanking the leather straps from under the dead weight of the horse. ‘You’ll go with Thomas then?’ he asks. She nods, and he begins loading her pack on to the back of his saddle to spread the weight. Then they lead the four remaining horses back through the yew trees and over the ditch on to the road.

‘What shall we do?’ Dafydd asks. ‘Can’t ride all that way with five on four horses, can we? Even with Kit so skinny.’

‘We’ll have to do as the wool merchant suggested,’ Thomas says. ‘Take a boat down the river.’

‘Which river?’

They look around.

‘We can ask at the priory.’

But the Prior won’t open the beggars’ gate, and one of the brothers shouts instead that they should ride on three more leagues, through a ford and then, a little way downstream on the far bank, they will find a port.

Why had no one told her about the poisonous trees?

They ride up and over a hill and as they are coming down the far slope she hears something again. Owen stops and turns in his saddle.

This time even Walter hears it.

They all look at one another and then press on. It is getting darker, and the temperature is dropping. Whorls of ice are forming on the puddles. Katherine sits with her arms around Thomas’s waist, and when no one is looking she rests her head against his back. She closes her eyes. She could sleep if every time she tried she didn’t see her dead pony.

At length they find the river, marked by willow trees, and hard by the ford a small hamlet gathered around a siding in the river. Tied at both ends to a mud-slicked platform of logs are three flat-bottomed boats, the same as those that ply the Trent behind the hall in Marton, carrying God knows what where.

A man comes out from one of the cots. He is holding a rusted kindling cleaver. Behind him is a sad-eyed boy with a long stick.

‘What d’you want?’ he asks. His voice is cracked with fear and his eyes are perfect dark circles.

Walter dismounts.

‘The Prior sent us,’ he lies. ‘We mean no harm. Just want to hire your boat, if she’ll float.’

The man lets out a gust of relief.

‘She’ll float all right,’ he says. ‘But she might not be for hire. Depends where you want to go.’

Walter looks around for some guidance. No one knows.

‘Kidwelly,’ Dafydd says. ‘Know where that is? Wales.’

‘Wales? She’s not going to get you there, is she?’

They look at one another in consternation.

‘Why not?’ Walter asks.