The birds had been there when they had first entered the chamber earlier in the day. And had he not felt, even then, something malevolent in the way these crows, blackbirds, woodpigeons looked down on them from the rafters? Or was it just that his memory had become coloured by subsequent events?

For all his tiredness, Axl was finding sleep elusive. The monks had provided them with a room on the upper storey, and while it was a relief not to have to contend with the cold seeping up from the soil, he had never slept easily above ground. Even when sheltering in barns or stables, he had often climbed ladders to a restless night troubled by the cavernous space beneath him. Or perhaps his restlessness tonight had to do with the presence of the birds in the dark above. They were now largely silent, but every so often would come a small rustle, or a beating of wings, and he would feel the urge to fling his arms over Beatrice's sleeping form to protect her from the foul feathers drifting down through the air.

Or perhaps the sleeplessness was on account of the sounds, even now echoing across the monastery grounds, of Wistan chopping firewood. The noise had not prevented Beatrice from sinking easily into sleep, and on the other side of the room, beyond the dark shape he knew to be the table on which they had earlier eaten, Edwin had settled to a gentle snoring. But Wistan, as far as Axl knew, had not slept at all. The warrior had remained sitting over in the far corner, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, then gone out into the night. And now here he was again -- and despite Father Jonus's warning -- cutting more firewood.

Earlier, with the afternoon sun filling the chamber, Axl had looked out of the window to see what appeared to be the entire community -- more than forty monks -- waiting in clusters all around the courtyard. There was a furtive mood among them, as if they were keen their words were not overheard even by those in their own ranks, and Axl could see hostile glances exchanged. Their habits were all of the same brown cloth, sometimes missing a hood or a sleeve. They seemed anxious to go into the large stone building opposite, but there had been a delay and their impatience was palpable.

The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Several times Axl had come close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear. There had been no voices now for some time, and yet as he drifted again towards slumber, Axl could not shake the feeling there were still monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight, listening to Wistan's blows resounding across the grounds.

Axl went to the door to relieve the man of the tray, but the monk -- Father Brian, as they were soon to learn he was called -- insisted on carrying it to the table himself, saying: "You are our guests, so let me serve you as such."

Axl had been gazing down on the courtyard for several moments when a noise made him lean further out of the window and look directly beneath him. He had seen then the outer wall of the building, its pale stone revealing yellow hues in the sun, and the staircase cut into it rising from the ground towards him. Midway up these stairs was a monk -- Axl could see the top of his head -- holding a tray laden with food and a jug of milk. The man was pausing to rebalance the tray, and Axl watched the manoeuvre with alarm, knowing how these steps were worn unevenly, and that with no rail on the outside, one had always to keep pressed to the wall to be sure not to plunge down onto the hard cobbles. On top of it all, the monk now ascending appeared to have a limp, yet he kept coming, slowly and steadily.

Wistan and the boy had left by then, and perhaps the sound of their woodcutting was already ringing through the air. So it had been just he and Beatrice who had sat down, side by side, at the wooden table and devoured gratefully the bread, fruit and milk. As they did so, Father Brian had chatted happily, sometimes dreamily, about past visitors, the fish to be caught in nearby streams, a stray dog that had lived with them until its death the previous winter. Sometimes Father Brian, an elderly but sprightly man, got up from the table and shuffled about the room dragging about his bad leg, talking all the while, every now and then going to the window to check on his colleagues below.

Meanwhile, above their heads, the birds had been criss-crossing the underside of the roof, their feathers occasionally drifting down to blemish the surface of the milk. Axl had been tempted to chase off these birds, but had refrained in case the monks regarded them with affection. He was taken aback then when rapid footsteps came up the stairs outside, and a large monk with a dark beard and a flushed face burst into the room.

"Demons! Demons!" he shouted, glaring up at the rafters. "I'll see them soak in blood!"

The birds by now were screeching and flying in all directions, and the bearded monk shouted over the commotion: "I know them! I know them!"

The newcomer was carrying a straw bag, and he now reached into it, brought out a stone and hurled it up at the birds. "Demons! Foul demons, demons, demons!"

"Don't you stop me, father! They're agents of the devil!"

"They may yet be agents of God, Irasmus. We don't yet know."

"Calm yourself, brother!"

As the first stone ricocheted down to the ground, he threw a second and then a third. The stones were landing away from the table, but Beatrice had covered her head with both arms, and Axl, rising, began to move towards the bearded man. But Father Brian had reached him first, and clutching both the man's arms, said: "Brother Irasmus, I beg you! Stop this and calm yourself!"

"I know them to be of the devil! Look at their eyes! How can they be of God and gaze at us with such eyes?"

"Irasmus, calm yourself. We have guests present."

"They're just good people travelling by, brother, and we're happy to give them hospitality as is ever our custom."

At these words, the bearded monk became aware of Axl and Beatrice. He stared angrily at them, then said to Father Brian: "Why bring guests into the house at a time like this? Why do they come here?"

"Father Brian, you're a fool to tell strangers of our affairs! Look, they spy on us!"

"They spy on no one, nor do they have any interest in our problems, having plenty of their own, I don't doubt."

The bearded man shook off the older monk, and clutched his sack jealously to his chest. Father Brian, allowing Irasmus this small victory, ushered him to the doorway, and even as the latter turned to glare again at the roof, pushed him gently out onto the stairway.

Suddenly the bearded man drew out another stone and prepared to hurl it, but Father Brian managed to prevent him. "Go back down, Irasmus, and let go this bag. Here, leave it with me. It won't do, carrying it everywhere the way you do."

"Go back down, Irasmus. They miss you down there. Go back down and take care you don't fall."

Father Brian shook his head. "It's as I told you earlier, mistress. Jonus has been unwell, and the abbot's given strict orders no one will disturb him other than with permission given by the abbot himself. Knowing of your desire to meet with Jonus, and the pains you took to come here, I've been trying since your arrival to attract the abbot's ear. Yet as you see, you come at a busy time, and now there's a visitor of some importance arrived for the abbot, delaying our conference further. The abbot's even now gone back to his study to talk with the visitor while the rest of us wait for him."

When the man had finally gone, Father Brian came back into the room, waving his hand at the feathers floating in the air.

"And yet, father," Beatrice said, "that fellow may be right when he says we intrude on you at an uneasy time. We've no desire to increase your burdens here, and if you'll only let us quickly consult Father Jonus, whose wisdom's well known, we'll be on our way. Is there word yet if we might see him?"

"My apologies to you both. He's a good man, but this way of life no longer suits him. Please be seated again and finish your meal in peace."

Axl, coming to her side, saw a gaunt figure striding with authority into the centre of the courtyard. The monks, breaking from their conversations, were all moving towards him.

Beatrice had been standing at the window to watch the bearded monk's departure down the stone steps, and she now pointed, saying: "Good father, isn't that the abbot returning now?"

It was surely the case that then, as now, the warrior's axe blows had been ringing across the courtyard. In fact, Axl could distinctly recall asking himself, as he watched the monks filing into the building opposite, if he was hearing one woodcutter or two; for a second blow would follow so close behind the first it was hard to tell if it was a real sound or an echo. Thinking about it now, lying in the dark, Axl was sure Edwin had been chopping alongside Wistan, matching the warrior blow for blow. In all likelihood the boy was already an expert woodcutter. Earlier that day, before they had come to this monastery, he had astonished them by digging so rapidly with two flat stones he had happened to find nearby.

"Ah yes, there's the abbot returned. Now finish your meal in peace. And regarding Jonus, be patient, for I fear I'll not be able to bring you the abbot's decision till after this conference is over. Yet I'll not forget, I promise, and will petition well for you."

"I fear, Sir Gawain, Lord Brennus will not believe such a story."

"He'll believe it well enough, sir," Gawain had replied, continuing to dig. "There's a coolness between us, but he has me for an honest fool without the wit to invent devious tales. I may tell them how the soldier spoke of bandits even as he bled to death in my arms. Some will think it a grave sin to tell such a lie, yet I know God will look mercifully on it, for isn't it to stop further bloodshed? I'll make Brennus believe me, sir. Even so, you remain in danger and have good reason to hurry home."

Axl by then had ceased to dig, having been persuaded by the warrior to preserve his strength for the climb to the monastery. So he had stood beside the oozing body of the soldier, guarding it from the birds gathering in the branches. Wistan, Axl recalled, had been using the dead man's sword to dig the grave, remarking that he was reluctant to blunt his own on such a task. Sir Gawain, however, had said: "This soldier died honourably, no matter the schemes of his master, and a knight's sword is put to good use giving him a grave." Both men, though, had paused to watch in wonder the progress being made by Edwin with his rudimentary tools. Then, as they resumed their work, Wistan had said:

"A rare one indeed! My Horace, alas, no longer possesses such agility, yet he's come to me in many an hour of need, as your mare came to you just now. A rare horse, and one you'll be sad to lose. Even so, speed is crucial, so be on your way and never mind your errand. Horace and I will see to the she-dragon, so you've no cause to think further of her. In any case, now I've had time to dwell on it, I see Lord Brennus can never succeed in recruiting Querig into his army. She's the most wild and untameable of creatures and will as quickly spew fire on her own ranks as on Brennus's foes. The whole idea's outlandish, sir. Think no more of it and hurry home before your enemies corner you." Then when Wistan continued to dig without responding, Sir Gawain asked: "Do I have your word on it, Master Wistan?"

"I'll do so without delay, Sir Gawain, as soon as my errand here's finished. If my mare's foot isn't soon healed, I may even trade her for another, for that's a long ride to the fens. Yet I'll be sorry for she's a rare horse."

"That you'll think no more of the she-dragon and hurry home."

"On what, Sir Gawain?"

"You seem keen to hear me say so."

"I think not just of your safety, sir, but of those on whom Querig will turn should you arouse her. And what of these companions who travel with you?"

"It's true, the safety of these friends gives me concern. I'll go beside them as far as the monastery, for I can hardly leave them defenceless on these wild roads. Thereafter, it may be best we part."

The smell rising from the dead man's innards had obliged Axl to take a few steps away, and when he did so, he found he had a better view of Sir Gawain. The knight was now waist deep in the ground, and the perspiration had drenched his forehead, so perhaps that was why his expression had lost its customary benevolence. He was regarding Wistan with intense hostility, while the latter, oblivious, carried on digging.

"So after the monastery, you'll make your way home."

Beatrice had been upset by the soldier's death. As the grave had grown deeper, she had walked slowly back to the great oak and seated herself again in its shade, her head bowed. Axl had wanted to go and sit with her, and but for the gathering crows, would have done so. Now, lying in the darkness, he too began to feel a sadness for the slain man. He remembered the soldier's courtesy towards them on the little bridge, and the gentle way he had spoken to Beatrice. Axl recalled too the precise way he had positioned his horse when first entering the clearing. Something in the way he had done so had tugged on his memory at the time, and now, in the night's stillness, Axl remembered the rise and fall of moorland, the brooding sky, and the flock of sheep coming through the heather.

"I'll set off home when I'm ready, sir knight."

He had been on horseback, and in front of him was mounted his companion, a man called Harvey, the smell of whose heavy body overpowered that of their horses. They had halted in the midst of the windswept wilderness because they had spotted movement in the distance, and once it was clear it signified no threat, Axl had stretched his arms -- they had been riding a long time -- and watched the tail of Harvey's horse swinging from side to side as though to prevent the flies settling on its rear. Although his companion's face was hidden from him at that moment, the shape of Harvey's back, indeed his whole posture, announced the malevolence aroused by the sight of the approaching party. Gazing past Harvey, Axl could now make out the dark dots that were the sheep's faces, and moving among them four men -- one on a donkey, the others on foot. There appeared to be no dogs. The shepherds, Axl supposed, must long ago have spotted them -- two riders clearly outlined against the sky -- but if they had felt apprehension there was no sign of it in their slow, relentless trudge forwards. There was, in any case, just the one long path across the moor, and Axl supposed the shepherds could avoid them only by turning back.

As the group came nearer, he could see that all four men, though far from old, were sickly and thin. This observation brought a sinking to his heart, for he knew the men's condition would only further provoke his companion's savagery. Axl waited until the party was almost within hailing distance, then nudged forward his horse, positioning it carefully to the side of Harvey where he knew the shepherds, and most of the flock, were bound to pass. He made sure to keep his own horse a nose behind, to allow his companion the illusion of seniority. Yet Axl was now in a position that would shield the shepherds from any sudden assault Harvey might launch with his whip, or with the club hooked to his saddle. All the while, the manoeuvre would have suggested on the surface only camaraderie, and in any case, Harvey did not possess the subtlety of mind even to suspect its real purpose. Indeed, Axl recalled his companion nodding absent-mindedly as he drew up, before turning back to stare moodily across the moor.

Axl had been especially anxious on behalf of the approaching shepherds because of something that had occurred a few days earlier in a Saxon village. It had been a sunny morning, and on that occasion Axl had been as startled as any of the villagers. Without warning, Harvey had heeled his horse forward and started to rain down blows on the people waiting to draw water from the well. Had Harvey used his whip or his club on that occasion? Axl had tried to recall this detail that day on the moor. If Harvey chose to assault the passing shepherds with his whip, the reach would be greater and require less leverage of the arm; he might even dare to swing it over the head of Axl's horse. If, however, he chose his club, with Axl positioned as he now was, Harvey would be obliged to push his horse beyond Axl's and rotate partially before attacking. Such a manoeuvre would appear too deliberate for his companion: Harvey was the type that liked his savagery to look impulsive and effortless.

He could not remember now if his careful actions had saved the shepherds. He had a vague recollection of sheep drifting innocently past them, but his memory of the shepherds themselves had become confusingly bound up with that attack on the villagers by the well. What had brought the pair of them to that village that morning? Axl remembered the cries of outrage, children crying, the looks of hatred, and his own fury, not so much at Harvey himself, but at those who had handicapped him with such a companion. Their mission, if accomplished, would surely be an achievement unique and new, one so supreme God himself would judge it a moment when men came a step closer to him. Yet how could Axl hope to do anything tethered to such a brute?

The grey-haired soldier came back into his thoughts, and the little half-gesture he had made on the bridge. As his stocky colleague had shouted and pulled on Wistan's hair, the grey-haired man had started to raise his arm, his fingers almost in a pointing gesture, a reprimand all but escaping his lips. Then he had let his arm fall. Axl had understood exactly what the grey-haired man had experienced during those moments. The soldier had then spoken with particular gentleness to Beatrice, and Axl had been grateful to him. He recalled Beatrice's expression as she had stood before the bridge, changing from grave and guarded to the softly smiling one so dear to him. The picture now seized his heart, and at the same time made him fearful. A stranger -- a potentially dangerous one at that -- had but to say a few kindly words and there she was, ready to trust the world again. The thought troubled him and he felt the urge to run his hand gently over the shoulder now beside him. But had she not always been thus? Was it not part of what made her so precious to him? And had she not survived these many years with no great harm coming to her?

"But are you really one who knows his plants, sir? My mother taught me everything grows wild in this country, yet what's before us now is strange to me."

"It can't be rosemary, sir," he remembered Beatrice saying to him, her voice tense with anxiety. He was crouching down, one knee pressed into the ground, for it was a fine day and the soil dry. Beatrice must have been standing behind him, for he could remember her shadow on the forest floor before him as he parted the undergrowth with his hands. "It can't be rosemary, sir. Who ever saw rosemary with such yellow flowers on it?"

"Then it's likely something foreign to these parts lately arrived. Why distress yourself so, maiden?"

"Then I have its name wrong, maiden," Axl had said. "But I know for certain it's one commonly seen, and not one to bring you mischief."

"I distress myself, sir, because it's likely this is a weed I'm brought up to fear."

"Why fear a weed except that it's poisonous, and then all's needed is not to touch it. Yet there you were, reaching down with your hands, and now getting me to do the same!"

"Oh, it's not poisonous, sir! At least not in the way you mean. Yet my mother once described closely a plant and warned that to see it in the heather was bad luck for any young girl."

"What sort of bad luck, maiden?"

"You'd better tell me what this other looks like, so I may dread it as you do this one."

But even as she said this, the young woman -- for that was what Beatrice was that day -- had crouched down beside him so that their elbows touched for a brief moment, and smiled trustingly into his gaze.

"If it's such bad luck to see it," Axl had said, "what kindness is it to bring me from the road just to place my gaze on it?"

"Oh, it's not bad luck for you, sir! Only for unmarried girls. There's another plant entirely brings bad luck to men like yourself."

"I'm not bold enough to tell you, sir."

"You may enjoy mocking me, sir. Yet one day you'll take a tumble and find the weed next to your nose. You'll see then if it's a laughing matter or not."

He could remember now the feel of the heather as he had passed his hand through it, the wind in the branches above, and the presence of the young woman beside him. Could that have been the first time they had conversed? Surely they had at least known one another by sight; surely it was inconceivable even Beatrice would have been so trusting of a total stranger.

The woodcutting noises, which had paused for a while, now started up again, and it occurred to Axl the warrior might remain outside the entire night. Wistan appeared calm and thoughtful, even in combat, yet it was possible the tensions of the day and previous night had mounted on his nerves, and he needed to work them off in this way. Even so, his behaviour was odd. Father Jonus had specifically warned against further woodcutting, yet here he was, back at it again and with night well fallen. Earlier, when they had first arrived, it had seemed a simple courtesy on the warrior's part. And at that point, as Axl had discovered, Wistan had had his own reasons for cutting wood.

"The woodshed is well positioned," the warrior had explained. "The boy and I were able to keep good watch on the comings and goings while we worked. Even better, when we delivered the wood where it was needed, we roamed at will to inspect the surroundings, even if a few doors stayed barred to us."

The two of them had been talking up by the high monastery wall overlooking the surrounding forest. The monks had long gone into their meeting by then, and a hush had fallen over the grounds. Several moments before, with Beatrice dozing in the chamber, Axl had wandered out under the late afternoon sun, and climbed the worn stone steps to where Wistan was looking down on the dense foliage below.

The warrior, a hand raised to shield his eyes, said: "When we were climbing that path earlier, I wanted nothing but to curl in a corner adrift in my dreams. Yet now we're here, I can't keep away the feeling this place holds dangers for us."

"It must be weariness makes your suspicions keen, Master Wistan. What can trouble you here?"

"But why go to such trouble, Master Wistan?" Axl had asked. "Can it be you're suspicious of these good monks here?"

"There may be many innocent explanations, Master Wistan. The horse may have been at pasture and lately brought in."

"Nothing yet I can point to with conviction. But consider this. When I returned to the stables earlier to see all was well with the mare, I heard sounds coming from the stall behind. I mean, sir, this other stall was separated by a wall, but I could hear another horse beyond, though no horse was there when we first arrived and I led in the mare. Then when I walked to the other side, I found there the stable door shut and a great lock hanging on it only a key would release."

"Curious certainly. Yet there'd be no mystery in a monk meeting some unfortunate accident, perhaps tripping on these very steps."

"Now you mention it, Master Wistan, I recall Father Brian made mention of an important visitor arriving for the abbot, and their great conference being delayed on account of his coming. We know nothing of what goes on here, and in all likelihood, none of it touches us."

"I spoke to a monk on that very point, and learnt they keep no horses here from a wish not to ease their burdens unduly. It would seem since our own arrival some other visitor has come, and one anxious to keep his presence hidden."

Wistan nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps you're right, Master Axl. A little sleep would calm my suspicions. Even so, I sent the boy to wander further this place, supposing he'd be excused a natural curiosity more readily than a grown man. Not long ago he returned to report he'd heard a groaning from those quarters over there"-- Wistan turned and pointed --"as of a man in pain. Creeping indoors after this sound, Master Edwin saw marks of blood both old and fresh outside a closed chamber."

"What can you mean, sir?"

"I concede, sir, I've no hard reason to suppose anything amiss here. Perhaps it's a warrior's instinct makes me wish my sword was in my belt and I was done pretending to be a farmboy. Or maybe my fears derive simply from what these walls whisper to me of days gone by."

"I see it. It can't have been an easy climb."

"Further, Master Axl, I'd wager this fort was once in Saxon hands, for I see about it many signs of my kin perhaps invisible to you. Look there"-- Wistan pointed down to a cobbled yard below hemmed in by walls --"I fancy just there stood a second gate, much stronger than the first, yet hidden to invaders climbing the road. They saw only the first and strained to storm it, but that gate would have been what we Saxons call a watergate, after those barriers that control a river's flow. Through this watergate would be let past, quite deliberately, a measured number of the enemy. Then the watergate would close on those following. Now those isolated between the two gates, in that space just there, would find themselves outnumbered, and once again, attacked from above. They would be slaughtered before the next group let through. You see how it worked, sir. This is today a place of peace and prayer, yet you needn't gaze so deep to find blood and terror."

"Only that not long ago, this place was surely no monastery, but a hillfort, and one well made to fight off foes. You recall the exhausting road we climbed? How the path turned back and forth as though eager to drain our strength? Look down there now, sir, see the battlements running above those same paths. It's from there the defenders once showered their guests from above with arrows, rocks, boiling water. It would have been a feat merely to reach the gate."

"That I can't believe, sir. They would surely have hidden themselves below and prayed for deliverance."

"I'd wager too there were Saxon families here, fled from far and wide seeking protection in this fort. Women, children, wounded, old, sick. See over there, the yard where the monks gathered earlier. All but the weakest would have come out and stood there, all the better to witness the invaders squeal like trapped mice between the two gates."

"Only the most cowardly of them. Most would have stood there in that yard, or even come up here where we now stand, happy to risk an arrow or spear to enjoy the agonies below."

"On the contrary, sir. I speak of people at the end of a brutal road, having seen their children and kin mutilated and ravished. They've reached this, their sanctuary, only after long torment, death chasing at their heels. And now comes an invading army of overwhelming size. The fort may hold several days, perhaps even a week or two. But they know in the end they will face their own slaughter. They know the infants they circle in their arms will before long be bloodied toys kicked about these cobbles. They know because they've seen it already, from whence they fled. They've seen the enemy burn and cut, take turns to rape young girls even as they lie dying of their wounds. They know this is to come, and so must cherish the earlier days of the siege, when the enemy first pay the price for what they will later do. In other words, Master Axl, it's vengeance to be relished in advance by those not able to take it in its proper place. That's why I say, sir, my Saxon cousins would have stood here to cheer and clap, and the more cruel the death, the more merry they would have been."

"You read it well, Master Wistan, and I shudder at what you show me."

Axl shook his head. "Surely the sort of people you speak of would take no pleasure in bloodshed, even of the enemy."

The warrior looked strangely at Axl. He appeared about to say something, then to change his mind. Then he turned to survey the stone buildings behind them saying: "Wandering these grounds earlier, my arms heavy with firewood, I spotted at every turn fascinating traces of that past. The fact is, sir, even with the second gate breached, this fort would have held many more traps for the enemy, some devilishly cunning. The monks here hardly know what they pass each day. But enough of this. While we share this quiet moment, let me ask your forgiveness, Master Axl, for the discomfort I caused you earlier. I refer to my questioning that good knight about you."

"I won't believe it, sir. How is it possible to hate so deeply for deeds not yet done? The good people who once took shelter here would have kept alive their hopes to the end, and surely watched all suffering, of friend and foe, with pity and horror."

"I won't have it, sir, and besides, we talk of a barbarous past hopefully gone for ever. Our argument need never be put to the test, thank God."

"You're much the senior in years, Master Axl, but in matters of blood, it may be I'm the elder and you the youth. I've seen dark hatred as bottomless as the sea on the faces of old women and tender children, and some days felt such hatred myself."

"Yes. I see how he might be."

"In the west country then."

"I thank you for your understanding. I took you for one whose face I can never forget, even though I was a small boy when I saw it last."

"Think no more of it, sir. There's no offence, even if you did surprise me, and my wife also. You mistook me for another, an easy error."

"That's right, sir, in the time before I was taken. The man I speak of was no warrior, yet wore a sword and rode a fine stallion. He came often to our village, and to us boys who knew only farmers and boatmen, was a thing of wonder."

"I recall we followed him all about the village, though always at a shy distance. Some days he'd move with urgency, talking with elders or calling a crowd to gather in the square. Other days he'd wander at leisure, talking to one and all as if to pass the day. He knew little of our tongue, but our village being on the river, the boats coming and going, many spoke his language, so he never lacked for companions. He'd sometimes turn to us with a smile, but we being young would scatter and hide."

"She's recovered her breath well, I thank you for asking, though I've told her to rest further just now. We're forced, in any case, to wait till the monks return from their meeting and the abbot gives permission to visit the wise physician Jonus."

"No, that came later. When I was taken."

"And was it in this village you learnt our tongue so well?"

"I was taken from that village by soldiers and trained from a tender age to be the warrior I am today. It was Britons took me, so I soon learnt to speak and fight in their manner. It's long ago and things take strange shapes in the mind. When I first saw you today in that village, perhaps a trick of the morning light, I felt I was that boy again, shyly peeking at that great man with his flowing cloak, moving through our village like a lion amongst pigs and cows. I fancy it was a small corner of your smile, or something about your way of greeting a stranger, head bowed a little. Yet now I see I was mistaken, since you could not have been that man. No more of this. How is your good wife, sir? Not exhausted, I hope?"

"Taken, Master Wistan?"

"See how he holds his injury, Master Wistan. We must take him also to Father Jonus."

"A resolute lady, sir. I admired how she made her way here giving no complaint. Ah, here's the boy back again."

Indeed, a solitary monk was sweeping the courtyard and as they came closer, Axl noticed he was mouthing words silently to himself, lost in his world. He barely glanced their way as Edwin led them across the courtyard and into a gap between two buildings. They emerged where thin grass covered uneven sloping ground, and a row of withered trees, hardly taller than a man, marked a path leading away from the monastery. As they followed Edwin under a setting sky, Wistan said softly:

Wistan seemed not to hear this. Leaving the wall, he went down the little steps to meet Edwin, and for a few moments the two conferred in low voices, heads close together. The boy's manner was animated, and the warrior listened with a frown, nodding occasionally. As Axl came down the steps to their level, Wistan said quietly:

"Master Edwin reports a curious discovery we may do well to see with our own eyes. Let's follow him, but walk as we've no clear purpose, in case that old monk there is left on purpose to spy on us."

"Why so? He hardly longs for a life feeding pigs and digging the cold soil."

"And what will you have him do there, sir? Fight Norsemen all his days?"

"I'm troubled to hear you say so, sir."

"You frown, sir, but the boy has an unusual temperament. He'll make a fine warrior. But hush, let's see what he has for us."

"I'm much taken by this boy. Master Axl, we may yet revise our plan to leave him at your son's village. It would suit me well to keep him by me a while longer."

They had come to where three wooden shacks stood at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Edwin paused to point these out. Then he led them into the furthest of the three shacks.

"Yet what will become of him at your side?"

"Once my mission's complete, I'll take him back to the fens."

There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As they came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Axl saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart -- perhaps the work of the monks themselves -- its two wheels sunk into the mud. What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Axl noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth. The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Edwin pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge. He was again speaking excited words, to which Wistan, throwing searching glances around the shed, returned the occasional nod.

The warrior started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. "I saw something like this once before," he said. "You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren't feasted on."

"There may yet be some more gentle purpose," Axl said, but Edwin had started to talk again, and Wistan turned and looked out of the shed.

"It's curious," Axl said, "these monks should have need of such an object as this. No doubt to aid some pious ritual."

"The boy says he followed these tracks out to a spot nearby on the cliff's edge," the warrior said, eventually. "He says the ground's well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart's been wheeled out just lately."

"I'd say it's the monk lately sweeping the yard," the warrior said to Axl.

"I don't know what it means, Master Wistan, but I admit I now begin to share your uneasiness. This object sends a chill through me and makes me want to return to my wife's side."

"It's as well we do, sir. Let's stay no longer."

But as they came out of the shack, Edwin, who again was leading, stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Axl could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.

"Does he see us?"

"I'd say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let's go to him."

The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.

"You observe us, sir," Wistan said, stopping, "and you know what we've just discovered. So perhaps you'd tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device."

The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.

Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.

The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks' conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice -- perhaps that of the abbot -- called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.

"It may be he's vowed to silence," Axl said. "Or else as mute as you lately pretended, Master Wistan."

"Peacefully taking my rest, Axl, when this silent monk appeared before me, the way I took him for a phantom. But he's keen to lead us somewhere and we'd best follow."

As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Axl whispered to him:

"Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I'd ask you to let me go fetch my wife, for I'm uneasy leaving her alone."

The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Axl in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did Axl spot Beatrice standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, he gave a wave, and as the party moved towards her, there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks' meeting.

"How is it with you, princess?" he asked, reaching to take her outstretched hands.

The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Beatrice across the threshold where she had been waiting.

The corridors now became as tunnel-like as those of their warren at home, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Axl, with Beatrice holding his arm, kept a hand held out before him. For a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said: "Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you're welcome."

As he waited for sleep to come to him, Axl recalled once again how the four of them, together with the silent monk, had squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and he had felt Beatrice recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. Then she had taken a breath and moved further into the room. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, the warrior and the boy in the corner furthest away. Axl's back was pressed against the chilly stone wall, but Beatrice, standing just in front and leaning into him as if for reassurance, was almost up to the sickbed. There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position.

Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Beatrice to shrink back was the man's neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man's inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.

"Welcome, welcome. I'm Jonus, whom I know you came a long way to see. My dear guests, don't look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did."

"But what can have caused you such injuries, father?" Beatrice asked. "And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom."

"Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he's vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He's watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it."

"We see now, Father Jonus," Beatrice said, "why your good abbot's so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We'd have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you."

"Let's leave the topic, mistress, for my feeble strength won't allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and this brave boy, seek my advice. Let me see the boy first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear lad."

The monk's voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Edwin started to move towards him. But immediately Wistan reached forward and gripped the boy by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior's trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Axl that for an instant Wistan's eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred. The warrior drew the boy back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield his charge.

"The boy's wound is clean," Wistan said. "It's just this good woman now seeks your help."

"Master Wistan," Beatrice said, "how can you say such a thing? You must know well how a wound clean one moment turns fevered the next. The boy must seek this wise monk's guidance."

Wistan seemed not to hear Beatrice, and continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said:

"No doubt that's so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well."

"What's wrong, shepherd?" asked Father Jonus. "Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to your brother? Then my hand needn't touch him. Let him step closer and my eyes alone will test his injury."

"You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd."

"It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night."

"It angers me."

"Ah. I thought you'd come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?"

"Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We're a cautious breed, and what's more, sir, I've just now seen with my own eyes the device in your barn."

"Angers you?" Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. "Why does it anger you?"

"Tell me if I'm wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?"

"Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It's no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god's mercy is boundless."

"What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing."

"It's true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god's mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God's anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We've lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs."

"In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it's time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what's been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this boy's wound?"

Wistan's manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of the boy. "Are you saying," he asked, "I have friends here in this monastery?"

For a moment Wistan remained still. Then he moved aside, signalling to Edwin to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position -- both monks had become suddenly quite animated -- then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Edwin closer, impatiently raising the boy's shirt for Father Jonus to see. Then, for what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at the boy's wound -- Ninian moving the light one way then the other -- as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Axl looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Edwin slipped back into the shadows to stand beside Wistan.

"Father," Beatrice went on, "your present conversation with Master Wistan isn't entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly."

"Father Jonus," Beatrice said, "now you've seen the boy's wound, tell us if it's clean and will heal on its own."

Father Jonus's eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly: "I believe it will heal if he takes good care. Father Ninian will prepare an ointment for him before he leaves this place."

"Is that so, mistress?" Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Last night in a village below," Beatrice said, "I spoke with a woman wise with medicines. She had much to tell about my sickness, but when I asked her about this mist, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past, she confessed she had no idea what or whose work it was. Yet she said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. So my husband and I made our way here, even though it's a harder road to our son's village where we're impatiently awaited. It was my hope you'd tell us something of this mist and how Axl and I might be free of it. It may be I'm a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Master Wistan were speaking of this same mist, and much bothered by what's been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Master Wistan too. Do the both of you know what causes this mist to fall over us?"

Father Jonus and Wistan exchanged looks. Then Wistan said quietly:

"It's the dragon Querig, Mistress Beatrice, that roams these peaks. She's the cause of the mist you speak of. Yet these monks here protect her, and have done so for years. I'd wager even now, if they're wise to my identity, they'll have sent for men to destroy me."

"Father Jonus, can this be true?" Beatrice asked. "The mist is the work of this she-dragon?"

"Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon's the cause of the mist! If Master Wistan, or anyone else, even that old knight met on the road, can slay the creature, our memories will be restored to us! Axl, why so quiet?"

The monk, who for an instant had seemed far away, turned to Beatrice. "The shepherd tells the truth, mistress. It's Querig's breath which fills this land and robs us of memories."

Indeed, Axl had been lost in thought, and although he had heard his wife's words, and noticed her excitement, it was all he could do simply to reach out a hand to her. Before he could find any words, Father Jonus said to Wistan:

"Shepherd, if you know your danger, why do you dally here? Why not take this boy and be on your way?"

"The boy needs rest, as I do."

"We knew one another as young lads, even before the age of this boy here."

"But you don't rest, shepherd. You cut firewood and wander like a hungry wolf."

"When we arrived your log pile was low. And the nights are cold in these mountains."

"You've come to this country on an errand, shepherd. Why jeopardise it to settle old scores? I say to you, take this boy and be on your way, even before the monks come out of their meeting."

"There's something else puzzles me, shepherd. Why does Lord Brennus hunt you as he does? For many days now, his soldiers have searched the country for you. Even last year, when another man came from the east to hunt Querig, Brennus believed it might be you and sent men out to search for you. They came up here asking for you. Shepherd, who are you to Brennus?"

"If Lord Brennus does me the courtesy to come here after me this night, I'm obliged then to stand and face him."

"Master Wistan," Beatrice said, "I don't know what's between you and Lord Brennus. But if it's your mission to slay the great dragon Querig, I beg you, don't be distracted from it. There'll be time to settle scores later."

"The mistress is right, shepherd. I fear I know too the purpose of all this woodcutting. Listen to what we say, sir. This boy gives you a unique chance the like of which may not come your way again. Take him and be on your way."

Wistan looked thoughtfully at Father Jonus, then bowed his head politely. "I'm happy to have met you, father. And I apologise if earlier I addressed you discourteously. But now let me and this boy take our leave of you. I know Mistress Beatrice still wishes for advice, and she's a brave and good woman. I beg you preserve some strength to attend to her. Now I'll thank you for your counsel, and bid you farewell."

Lying in the darkness, still hopeful sleep would overtake him, Axl tried to remember why he had been so oddly silent for much of his time in Father Jonus's cell. There had been some reason, and even when Beatrice, triumphant to discover the origin of the mist, had turned to him and exclaimed, he had been able only to reach out his hand to her, still not speaking. He had been in the throes of some powerful and strange emotion, one that had all but put him in a dream, though every word being spoken around him still reached his ears with perfect clarity. He had felt as one standing in a boat on a wintry river, looking out into dense fog, knowing it would at any moment part to reveal vivid glimpses of the land ahead. And he had been caught in a kind of terror, yet at the same time had felt a curiosity -- or something stronger and darker -- and he had told himself firmly, "Whatever it may be, let me see it, let me see it."

Had he actually spoken these words out loud? Perhaps he had done so, and just at the instant Beatrice had turned to him in excitement, exclaiming, "Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon's the cause of the mist!"

He could not remember clearly what had happened once Wistan and the boy had departed Father Jonus's chamber. The silent monk, Ninian, must have left with them, probably to provide the ointment for the boy's wound, or simply to lead them back unobserved. In any case, he and Beatrice had been left alone with Father Jonus, and the latter, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, had examined his wife thoroughly. The monk had not asked her to remove any clothing -- Axl had been relieved -- and though here too his recollection was hazy, an image came to him of Jonus pressing an ear to Beatrice's side, eyes closed in concentration as though some faint message might be heard coming from within. Axl remembered too the monk, with blinking eyes, putting to Beatrice a series of questions. Did she feel sick after drinking water? Did she ever feel pain at the back of her neck? There were other questions Axl could now no longer remember, but Beatrice had replied in the negative to one after the next, and the more she did so, the more pleased Axl had become. Only once, when Jonus asked if she had noticed blood in her urine, and she replied that yes, she sometimes had, did Axl feel unease. But the monk had nodded, as though this was normal and to be expected, and gone straight on to the next question. How then had this examination ended? He remembered Father Jonus smiling and saying, "So you can go to your son with nothing to fear," and Axl himself saying, "You see, princess, I always knew it was nothing." Then the monk had eased himself carefully back down in his bed and lain there, recovering his breath. In Ninian's absence, Axl had hurried to fill the monk's drinking cup from the jug, and as he had placed it to the sick man's mouth, had seen tiny droplets of blood slide from the lower lip and spread in the water. Then Father Jonus had looked up at Beatrice and said:

"Yet are you so certain, good mistress, you wish to be free of this mist? Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?"

"Happy indeed, father, for now there's a way forward for us."

"Take care, for it's a secret guarded jealously by some, though it's maybe for the best it remains so no longer."

"Mistress, you seem happy to know the truth about this thing you call the mist."

"It's not for me to care if it's a secret or not, father, but I'm glad Axl and I know it and can now act on it."

"It may be so for some, father, but not for us. Axl and I wish to have again the happy moments we shared together. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what's most precious from us."

"Yet the mist covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn't that so, mistress?"

"We'll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn't it the life we've shared?"

"What's to fear, father? What Axl and I feel today in our hearts for each other tells us the path taken here can hold no danger for us, no matter that the mist hides it now. It's like a tale with a happy end, when even a child knows not to fear the twists and turns before. Axl and I would remember our life together, whatever its shape, for it's been a thing dear to us."

"You've no fear, then, of bad memories, mistress?"

A bird must have flown across the ceiling above him. The sound had startled him, and then Axl realised that for a moment or two he had actually been asleep. He realised too there were no more woodcutting noises, and the grounds were silent. Had the warrior returned to their chamber? Axl had heard nothing, and there were no signs, beyond the dark shape of the table, of anyone else asleep on Edwin's side of the room. What had Father Jonus said after examining Beatrice and concluding with his questions? Yes, she had said, she had noticed blood in her urine, but he had smiled and asked something else. You see, princess, Axl had said, I always told you it was nothing. And Father Jonus had smiled, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, and said, you can go to your son with nothing to fear. But these had never been the questions Beatrice had feared. Beatrice, he knew, feared the boatman's questions, harder to answer than Father Jonus's, and that was why she had been so pleased to learn the cause of the mist. Axl, do you hear that? She had been triumphant. Axl, do you hear that? she had said, her face radiant.