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tracked his sister through a graveyard of windfallen giants along the edge of the ravine. Her trail stopped at a hole by the base of an old ash. For a moment he thought she might have fallen into an animal den. But when he peered down through the tangle of roots he saw water far below. Edith’s body floated into view, face down, turning in the current, her long blonde hair fanned about her. He climbed down and pulled her out, kissed her white face and held her tight against him. When he let go, he felt something wither and twist inside him. He removed her crucifix, threw back his head and howled at the gods or monsters that had inflicted such hideous cruelties.
    From that day on he never spoke a word.

VI
    It snowed again and then froze. For a week winter held the country in a deadlock. It froze so hard that shelves of ice formed on the river-banks and trees split at night with sharp cracks. Inside the great hall the garrison huddled around the hearth like corpses in a prehistoric burial chamber. Fresh food grew short. Men’s teeth wobbled in their gums. Every day Wayland and his dog went out to check traps and snares, traipsing through the ice-encased woods like figures in a woodcut. Sometimes Raul accompanied them, his crossbow slung over his back, a knife tucked into loops at the front of his fox fur hat.
    A week before Lent the wind shifted in the night and the garrison woke to find winter in retreat. Plates of ice spun down the river. By evening it had spilled over its banks and carried away one of the bridges. Next morning Hero saw an uprooted tree surging down the torrent, a hare clinging to one end of the trunk, a fox facing it at the other end.
    Three days later Hero entered the hut to find Vallon lying just as he’d left him, brooding over their confinement.
    Hero cleared his throat. ‘The waters are starting to subside. In a day or two conditions will be good enough for travel.’
    Vallon grunted.
    Hero tried again. ‘Olbec’s announced a hunt for the day after tomorrow.’
    ‘It isn’t the hunting season.’
    ‘We need the meat. There’ll be a feast in the evening. Drogo wanted you to take the field with him.’
    Vallon snorted. ‘We know what quarry he’s after.’
    ‘Have no fear. Lady Margaret insisted that you accompany her party.’
    Vallon’s eyes turned. ‘Will the Count be with her?’
    Hero shook his head. ‘His wounds make it too painful to ride. He’ll stay behind and organise the festivities.’
    Vallon stared off pensively for a moment, then swung his legs to the floor. ‘Tell the lady I’d be honoured to attend her.’
    Before cock’s crow Wayland, with two huntsmen and a forester, left the castle to quest for a stag with at least ten tines on his antlers. The huntsmen were accompanied by lymers – big, heavyset hounds with drooping jowls and doleful expressions. Their function was to locate the stag and track it in silence to its covert. The hunt breakfast was in full swing when one of the huntsmen returned to report that they’d harboured a hart of twelve in a wood beyond the Roman wall. Gravely he uncapped his horn and rolled fumets on to the table. Drogo and his comrades passed the deer droppings about, sniffed them, rolled them between their fingers, and agreed that they belonged to no rascal but a warrantable beast.
    Hero watched the hunting party sally out. Ahead went the huntsmen, leading hounds leashed in couples. Drogo led the field andbehind them rode the ladies, Margaret wrapped in furs and silks, Vallon at her side on a borrowed palfrey. His hair had been trimmed and fell in auburn waves to his shoulders. His bearing made Hero’s heart swell with pride. He waved and received a dignified acknowledgement. Last came the priest, borne along on an ox-drawn butcher’s cart, gripping the front rail like a mariner facing an oncoming storm.
    The horses cantered away over the turf, throwing up green divots. Clouds sailed across a gentian sky. Snow still lay rotting in the