The North

Spring 1091

'I hate this fucking place!' Bayard's brooding grumble broke the silence. The big man sniffed, wiping at his reddened, skin cracked nose, 'I really fucking hate it'.

'I'm sure it fucking hates you too, Bayard,' Hadrian retorted calmly. Bayard just grumbled as he scowled at the darkening sky. Grey clouds loomed thunderously over them, unleashing persistent showers of rain which had plagued them since their arrival. Godric, his scarlet cloak drenched, would have smiled if the weather hadn't been so miserable. However, the squire shared some of Bayard's sentiments about this forsaken place.

Experiencing his first taste of the outside world since coming to Avalon, Godric had been filled with wide-eyed wonder at the start of the campaign. The north was a wild place. A rugged and barren world of heather and moorland, for the north was a harsh and unforgiving place. It was a landscape dominated by dark hills, dissected by meandering river valleys and inhabited by hardy people. Once, the land had been cultivated, but the wilds had reclaimed some of it in recent years. As they followed Alain north, Godric had noticed the distinct lack of villages, although they passed enough skeletal remains of old homesteads long since reduced to barren shells to hint at a once thriving heritage. The locals kept to themselves or actively sought to avoid the presence of armed soldiers.

Godric had his suspicions that it wasn't just their presence or the nearby war waging to the north that put the locals on edge. Yet, when Godric had inquired further, he had been confronted with a stony silence from Alain's retainers that could not be breached. The three young squires had concluded that it had something to do with the Harrying, the wizarding war which had waged in the north over a score of years before. Godric still knew little of the Harrying, but understood that it had been a brutal year which had ravaged the northern shires. It had also scarred his uncle deeply, although clearly not as deeply as it had marked the northern landscape and its dower inhabitants.

'Fucking place,' Bayard muttered again before sneezing loudly. He received sympathetic glances from many of the company, as he wasn't the only one who had suffered during the campaign. Half of Alain's retinue had similar afflictions, for Gilbert's bowls had kept him up for much of the previous night. Whilst magic had kept the worst of the weather at bay, it could only do so much. They were at war after all.

In early spring, Rufus had received the news that Malcolm Canmore, the opportunist King of the Scots, had invaded the north, an act of aggression that the King was ready for due to Alain's network of spies. Rufus had been quarrelling with his elder brother in Normandy but had immediately rushed back to England when the news had reached him and demanding that his Grand Sorcerer attend him. With the coming of spring, an embittered war of raiding and pillaging descended on the north and Alain was needed to counter any support that the warlocks of Scotland may have offered their own King.

They had taken a portal to the borders of Yorkshire, appearing in a small glade within a heavily wooded river valley which ran beneath a looming rocky scar in the hillside. A local forester in Alain's employ greeted them. He led them to his nearby homestead, where fresh horses and supplies for all of Alain's retinue waited. The woodsman was a cheerful fellow, who had no qualms about helping wizards. He had shaken his head in amusement at Godric's enthusiasm and Hamon's boasts about the upcoming campaign, before passing on what news he had learned of the war through local gossip. His daughter, a cherub-like girl of twelve, had darted about the retinue, passing over bundles of nuts, wild berries and woodland creatures. To Godric's amusement, her eyes had repeatedly glanced at a darkly handsome young man. Salazar, equally amused by her behaviour, winked at the girl, causing her to blush and his companions to chuckle until Salazar received a hard clout about the head by an unimpressed Hugh. They had set off shortly after, following the long roads to the north as Salazar grumbled and cursed Hugh's name.

However, whilst muggle soldiers fought it out in the hilly countryside, Alain's company had seen no martial action. Instead, they found themselves on a windswept and rain drenched hillside, waiting patiently for the arrival of a delegation of Scottish warlocks to discuss the war unfolding around them. These wizards had been sent by their leader, Cinead of the Hallow-Hills, who sat upon the Great Council alongside Alain. The Lord of Avalon assured his retainers that Cinead had no reason to quarrel with him and would sue for peace, unless the young firebrands in his coterie were poisoning his ear with falsehoods and old hurts. This didn't reassure the retinue and weapons remained close at hand if the Scots broke the truce.

From their barren hillside, they could see the great Roman Wall in the far distance. An ancient fortification which had once marked the boundaries between wizards on either side of the border, it now lay crumbled and robbed of its former might. But the enchantments of the Roman mages were slow to die and the magic within the Wall would last for many more lifetimes. When Godric and his companions had investigated the ancient landmark, he could still sense the dormant magic radiating from the stone and had marvelled at the might of Rome.

'Does it do anything other than fucking rain here,' Bayard complained mulishly,

'If it saves us from your stink, Bayard, then we shall all be thankful,' Salazar commented dryly, fed up with the older man's constant grumbling. Bayard glowered at Salazar, but any reply was interrupted by a fierce fit of sneezing. Salazar laughed at him and was going to comment further until he caught Hugh's eye and fell silent at the wordless command.

'How much longer do we have to wait?' moaned Hamon, his patience running out. Godric shared his restlessness. In the eyes of Alain's squires, the absence of any fighting and the combined efforts of the dismal weather with the retinue's determination to test their mettle meant that campaigning had been an exhausting disappointment thus far.

'Patience, Hamon,' Alain responded with a calm smile, 'I doubt we'll have to wait too long.'

'We won't have to wait at all,' interjected Hugh, 'they're here.'

He nodded towards an ancient standing stone a little further down the hillside. Half consumed by a thick fog which clogged the valley floor, many didn't see what Hugh was indicating. With a faint crack, a group of hooded and cloaked figures popped into existence. They huddled together for a moment before one man pointed out Alain's retinue waiting at the hill's summit and the haggard group began to hurriedly make their way up the stony path. It didn't take long to realise that the recently arrived group were armed. Alain's retainers momentarily tensed, hand's reaching for weapons until Alain held up a hand.

'Peace, my friends,' he ordered them clearly, 'there will be no need for that.'

'How can you be sure?'

'They're not here for a fight,' Hugh indicated, 'they've brought youngsters with them.'

'That's a promising start,' Alain chuckled as he watched young boys darting between their elders. As the new arrivals reached the summit, Godric was given the opportunity to assess them. They were a haggard looking group, with their beards hanging loose and covered in leaves and bones. Their robes were garish and distinct blue tattoos marked their weathered skin. They eyed Alain's retinue with both suspicion and curiosity as Alain greeted them courteously. If any of these wild mages noticed the Lord of Avalon's pronounced limp, they didn't draw attention to it.

Over an hour passed as they exchanged pleasantries and gossip. Unlike Salazar, who eagerly absorbed every detail of the conversation, Godric soon grew bored. He wasn't the only one and he soon found himself in the company of an amiable young wizard called Edwin. He turned out to be of Saxon descent, whose father had been disinherited following the conquest and had fled to Scotland when the Harrying ravaged their homeland. Edwin had a sunny disposition and shared a friendly conversation with Godric,

'You're Saxon?' he asked, pleased at the surprising news,

'Half,' admitted Godric, 'I have a Saxon father and my mother was Norman.'

'No one's perfect,' Edwin said good-humouredly, 'I'm surprised to find a Saxon in the Lord of Avalon's retinue.'

'I'm his nephew,' Godric explained, noticing Edwin's brief grimace at the mention of Alain. Obliviously the events of the Harrying still rankled deeply with his family. Before Edwin could reply, his attentions were diverted by the antics of his younger brother, a small boy called Edgar, who was playing an over-excitable game of chase with the other children, leaving Godric to return to the negotiations being discussed.

Eventually, the talks stalled, and Alain generously persuaded the Scottish warlocks to share a meal with him. Godric was glad that he was surrounded by many wizards, although he avoided much of the unappealing cuisine that the Scottish mages dined upon. Even Hamon declined to try it and he was famed for his vast appetite.

As Godric sat and talked more with Edwin, he soon discovered that he had unwittingly gained the attention of a peculiar man who had accompanied the Scottish warlocks. He was short and wiry, with close-cropped dark hair and a jittery, excitable disposition. At first glance, his garments seemed to be expensively tailored, although closer scrutiny revealed how well-worn and frayed the night-blue cloak was along its edges. He greeted Godric with a charming smile as he scurried to meet him.

'Ah, one of the esteemed squires of Avalon we have heard so many rumours about,' the strange man said, beaming, 'I've heard you're the boy who put Bellême on his arse?'

'Urm…' Godric responded, unsure about how to respond to the man's genial, if excitable, demeanour. He eventually nodded reluctantly. The man's laughter boomed out, disturbing those close to them and causing Edwin to roll his eyes. The warlocks glared at their companions, before sharing exasperated looks. If the man noticed, he ignored it and clapped Godric on the shoulder,

'Good,' he laughed, 'the brutes a devil. I bet he hasn't forgiven you for that.'

'Aidan, you know what Bellême is like,' Alain interrupted evenly as he ate nearby. He absentmindedly scratched at the leg where Bellême's curse had savaged him, 'he's not a forgiving man'.

The Scot merely shrugged, his eyes never moving away from a squirming Godric,

'True enough. I was at Rufus's coronation; didn't see it mind, as I'd misplaced my invitation and the royal guards wouldn't let me into the cathedral. Also missed your little disagreement with Bellême. Shame, a great shame.' Godric didn't think his dealings with Bellême could really be described as a minor disagreement. After all, the infamous knight held a grudge to this day. However, before he could correct the stranger's assertion, the man was talking hurriedly again, 'though he is a powerful wizard from a very wealthy family. I tried to gain an audience with him once. Was going to suggest that he marries my Rowena, but alas, he'd only recently remarried.'

'You'd really sell your daughter to a man like Bellême?' Alain appeared astonished at the man's folly and revulsion dripped from his uncharacteristically unguarded tongue, 'Aidan, surely you have heard about the way he treats his wife?'

'Needs must,' Aidan defended himself, 'and besides, I'm sure the rumours are as embellished as rumours always are. He is a powerful and wealthy wizard from a proud and pure lineage.'

'Yet, one with evil vices,' Alain answered coolly, 'especially where women are concerned. I'd advise you to look elsewhere, for your daughter's sake'.

'Are you suggesting I look closer to your own hearth, Lord Alain,' Aidan said, his smile widening as he eyed Godric and Salazar keenly, not even bothering to grace Hamon with a glance. Godric was stunned. Was this man offering him a betrothal contract with his daughter? Sat beside Godric, Salazar visibly blanched at the talk of marriage and choked on a mouthful of his meal, paling considerably as he looked at Alain in wild desperation. Godric, although surprised by the man's audacity, remained unconcerned. Surely his uncle would deem them too young to be betrothed, as they were not yet at the age to face the Ritual and they hadn't been blooded in battle. To Godric's relief, Salazar and Hamon were both older and more likely to be settled with wives long before he was.

'Again, I'd advise you to look elsewhere,' Alain answered firmly, easing his squire's fears and Salazar sighed in relief. Aidan didn't appear displeased by Alain's firm rebuttal, remaining unabashedly persistent.

'Your squires are of marriageable age, Lord Alain,' the Scot pointed out, 'mine can't be the only offer you'll receive, especially with Lugnasadh looming?'

'You're the first,' Alain admitted dismissively, 'there's more than enough time for talk of marriage in the years to come. I'll let my squires enjoy their youth in peace; after all, we live in a harsh world where young men are forced to grow up quickly.'

'You can't hide them in Avalon forever, especially one related by blood,' Aidan gave Godric an eager look which caused the squire to shift uneasily, 'and my Rowena is a beautiful and very promising witch. A little too strident and wilful maybe, but with a firm hand, she would make a good and obedient wife.'

'She sounds spirited,' Godric suddenly said. Alain shot him a warning look, silently ordering him to hold his tongue and not to encourage Aidan's nonsensical wishful thinking. Aidan shook his head,

'Every mare has a few blemishes,'

'I didn't mean it as a criticism,' Godric muttered seriously.

'Not at all, not at all,' the Scottish warlock nodded, discarding his previous opinions easily and eager to agree as he sensed an opportunity.

'Aidan,' Alain interjected, drawing the man's attention back to the Lord of Avalon, 'your daughter sounds like a jewel and I'm sure in time all my boys will make worthy husbands. However, it is too early for such talk.'

This time, Alain's tone disparaged all arguments. Again, this didn't seem to bother Aidan. The excitable warlock waved off Alain's discouragement, the ever-present smile still on his lips.

'Another time perhaps,' Aidan suggested before returning to his meal, although he carried on casting thoughtful looks at Godric and Salazar. However, he couldn't stay silent for long.

'I've heard that Gofanon the Wise has been taken ill again?' Alain simply shrugged,

'Even the best amongst us sometimes fall ill.'

'Considering his age,' Aidan continued nonchalantly, 'it is a little more concerning.'

'Hardly,' Alain scoffed and Godric could tell that he was beginning to lose his patience with the irritating warlock, 'he's still a very powerful wizard.'

'I know that,' Aiden chuckled, 'there's a reason he's been head of the Council for over forty years. Yet, all great things come to an end eventually.'

'What are you suggesting?' Alain said, bristling and clearly disgruntled.

Aidan paused, as did most of his companions. Alain's voice was sharp, and his eyes flashed with rising anger. The warlocks from Cinead's delegation cast furious looks at the foolish Aidan for seemingly angering the Lord of Avalon, who for once seemed to recognise his folly.

'Gofanon is a good friend,' Aiden spluttered placatingly, 'and he's famous for being a peacemaker on the Council and his Welsh kin will not falter in their loyalty to him. But he grows old; for years now, he has been a buffer to rival factions, a calming balm on heated quarrels. We fear that if he dies, then it could lead to chaos again...'

'I will not let that happen.' Alain spoke firmly, his eyes unflinching.

'Lord,' one of Aidan's fierce companions stumbled on before Alain's displeasure, 'forgive me, for you are a noble wizard. Yet, you are only one man. Most know that you would not throw our world into chaos and bloodshed in a bid for power. But more dishonourable wizards may seek to take advantage…' The man stuttered momentarily before falling silent beneath Alain's withering glare.

'So,' the Lord of Avalon finally concluded slowly, 'you had no intention of aiding Canmore when you summoned me here. This is what you really intended?'

The Scottish warlocks exchanged nervous glances and shifted uneasily. It was young Edwin who summoned the courage to answer, his head held high in defiance.

'You are mistaken,' the young man said proudly, 'there are those amongst us who are loyal to our King and would have gladly lent their wands to his ambitions. Especially those of Saxon blood whose families were disinherited and forced into exile by Norman butchers…'

'I am the Lord of Avalon,' Alain suddenly snapped, shocking everyone with his fierceness. His steely gaze never left Edwin, 'you would do well to remember who you are speaking to, boy!'

Edwin remained steadfast and looked ready to remain defiant, until one of his companions placed a placating hand on his shoulder and urged the young man to back down. For a moment, it appeared Edwin would not heed the advice. However, he finally nodded unhappily and offered a stilted apology. Alain accepted it, although Godric knew that his uncle's grim expression hinted at the anger which remained simmering close at hand. Alain's fist was clenching and unclenching repeatedly as if it itched to hold a wand.

'Lord Alain,' Aidan spoke up again, shaking his head at Edwin, 'forgive our young friend. He is young and we all know that the Saxons are a tenacious lot. We only wish to extend an offer to an admired member of the Council.'

Alain still looked angry, but he quickly overcame it. Sighing deeply and running a hand through his greying fair hair, he gestured for Aidan to continue,

'Speak your peace,' he muttered courteously, 'although I already suspect what you are going to tell me.'

'The Seidr,' Aidan began immediately, 'are growing restless. They are eager to recover the power and influence they lost during the Harrying. They continuously raid our lands in the far north. There isn't a wizard amongst us who hasn't lost a loved one, seen our riches pillaged, our homes burned, or our wives and daughters raped by those savages.'

For once, the warlock appeared to be speaking seriously and his companions clearly supported his opinion. They growled their agreement, their hatred obvious.

'In these very hills, Lord Alain, you once singlehandedly defeated two of the Seidr's greatest champions and drove their warbands into the far reaches of Britain. There is no one the Seidr fear or loath more than Alain of Avalon. An alliance between us may stall their bloodthirsty motives and your presence may dissuade further raids entirely.'

Godric stared at his uncle. He had long suspected that Alain had a darker past. A wizard certainly needed one to survive in the fractured world of magical politics. But to hear of Alain's infamous reputation from others, a reputation built on fear, hatred and violence, was unnerving and contradictory to the image of the softly spoken and fair man who had introduced Godric to the magical world.

It took Alain a long time to decide on a reply.

'No,' he said cordially, 'I will not intervene.'

'Lord,' many voices cried out, but Alain stilled them with a raised hand,

'Friends, please, let me speak my piece,' Alain directed his gaze to Aiden, 'I am no fool. I'm aware of the squabbles and feuds which are fought in the far north. I know that your warlocks raid Seidr land with as much frequency as they do yours. Do you forget that I am the Grand Sorcerer to the King of England, not the King of the Scots. I don't deny that I share a violent history with the Seidr. Anyone who survived the Harrying knows it. But I will not lead my retinue to war because of your feuds. If you require aid, then you must call on the Wizengamot.'

The Scottish warlocks tried to argue further, claiming that the Lord of Avalon's intervention was crucial. However, Alain remained steadfast and refused to budge from his position. Soon realising that their efforts to move Alain were in vain, the Scots stopped trying to persuade him, although it took Aidan far longer to come to term with this.

Once the warlocks realised the futility of their pleas, it didn't take long to conclude the meeting. Now that their real intentions had been discovered, the Scots didn't linger on the rain-drenched and windswept hillside. The heavily cloaked company of Scottish wizards soon left for their homes. However, before they left, Alain had managed to courteously extract a promise that they wouldn't join King Malcolm's efforts to destabilise Rufus's kingdom across the northern shires. Yet, Godric suspected that the young, hot-blooded men like Edwin, would soon be found amidst the ranks of their King's armies. One look at Alain told him that his uncle thought the same, but there was little Alain could do except counsel Rufus to be careful. Aidan was the last to leave, lingering long enough to say farewell to each member of Alain's retinue. His farewell to Godric and Salazar was especially prolonged, the possibility of securing a betrothal for his daughter, especially one with lucrative connections to the infamous riches of Avalon, was too tantalising for the warlock to ignore. But at last, even Aiden was persuaded to depart with his companions to the ancient standing stones. When the Scots had finally disappeared into the fog and vanished with a clamour, Godric turned to address his uncle,

'He was a strange man,' Godric commented lightly,

'He's a fool,' Salazar said rudely,

'I'd have to agree with Salazar,' Alain said tiredly, 'many call him Scatter-Brain and his foolishness is well known in magical circles. He's friendly and good-humoured enough, but also a fool of the most damning kind.'

'He seemed to like these two,' interjected Hamon, unable to resist smirking at his friends. He didn't seem at all bothered by Aidan's lack of interest in him, a mere Muggle, but rather amused with the warlock's bizarre antics.

'He would,' Alain acknowledged, 'they are apprenticed to the Lord of Avalon. Aidan has always been enamoured with the allure of prestige. He married into an ancient and very wealthy family. However, when his wife died young, he soon squandered his wealth on foolish ventures. He may dress in fine clothes, but magic can only go so far in masking his impoverishment and certainly can't forge real gold. I'm afraid he's obsessed with reclaiming the riches he lost.'

'He can look elsewhere,' Salazar shuddered, 'I'm not marrying his daughter.'

'Poor man,' Godric commented, then thought of the man's unfortunate daughter, 'and poor girl'.

'Mm,' Alain sighed sadly, 'she's a poor girl indeed to be lumbered with such a father; a man who measures her worth as nothing more than a bargaining piece and a means to reclaim his lost wealth. I fear she will suffer an unfulfilled life.'

With the talks were concluded, Alain saw little reason to linger in the north. He sent a messenger hawk to the King, informing the monarch that his mission had been successful and warning him that some of the younger firebrands may march against him. However, the King had enough wizards in his army to deal with them, so Alain would return to Avalon. Rufus didn't try to dissuade him. Already his forces were gaining the upper hand and he was already turning his ambitions across the sea to his brother's duchy.

The return to Avalon took days and was greeted with much pleasure by most of Alain's retinue. Even Alain's mood seemed to lighten the further south they journeyed. The North was a stark and hostile place and Godric knew that its untamed barrenness had been an unwanted reminder of Alain's days fighting in the Harrying. The Lord of Avalon had not been fond of returning there, the scene of his most infamous deeds.

However, Godric alone appeared to regret leaving the northern wilderness. He was oddly charmed by its rugged, untamed beauty. For three years he had been cooped up in Avalon and he longed to see more of the world. Worst of all, he couldn't deny the sense of bitter disappointment that threatened to overwhelm him. His first campaign had passed without a single battle in which to test his mettle like Hugh had promised. Whilst the usual cheerfulness of the retinue's fellowship slowly seeped back with every mile that took them away from the dreadful weather, Godric remained quiet and sullen.

They returned swiftly on magically enhanced horses, heading towards the same valley where they had arrived and aiming for the lonely homestead in the woods where the woodsman and his young daughter guarded the portkey in secrecy. As they entered the sleepy valley after days of travelling, they followed the small path which ran alongside the meandering river as it slipped past a tall scar cloaked in trees. Bright bluebells sprung from the bushes and thickets, granting the surrounding landscape an otherworldly aura.

Of all Alain's retainers, it was Hadrian, the kindest and most generous of all the soldiers under the Lord of Avalon's command, who decided to confront Godric about his recent gloom. It was rumoured that he came from the lands surrounding Constantinople, although his past and how he had come to England was shrouded in mystery. Only Bayard knew the full extent of it, for they had spent years fighting beside each other as mercenaries. Godric had always been astounded at how such a mild-mannered man could earn his keep as a soldier.

A small cough alerted Godric to Hadrian's presence and the squire turned to find the eastern wizard riding beside him with an amused smile,

'Don't be so eager to leap into battle,' the easterner said in his stilted French. Godric had the decency to look sheepish.

'I have dreamt of little else since I was a child!'

'It's not that long since you were one,' Hadrian chastised him gently, 'the young will always seek to enter a battle recklessly. It is why so many of them die.'

'Not if they're skilled enough with a blade,' Godric countered, remembering tales of heroic deeds and famous warrior fellowships, 'or have comrades who will stand at their shoulder until the last,'

'That is true,' Hadrian chuckled as he recognised Godric's use of one of Bayard's favoured lessons, 'and you're a born warrior, we all know that. However, luck is just as important. Any man can die in battle if their luck runs out,'

'Luck?' Godric scoffed disbelievingly, 'I'd rather put my trust in my own skills.'

'So would many others,' Hadrian advised, 'but a soldier will not reach their dotage if they're unlucky. Men like Bayard and me are old to war, are haunted by the near misses. The arrows which fell inches from our faces; the spells which exploded nearby, or the blades failed to pierce our flesh. If it hadn't been for luck, our lives could have been snatched away in an instant, regardless of our skill.'

Godric was surprised to discover that Hadrian was so old to war and he wandered how long the man had marched beside Bayard.

'Those of us who have served Lord Alain longest are glad this folly didn't come to war. We do not actively seek battle, or pursue the risky dance with death that all soldiers engage in, although lunatics like Bayard may. Do you think we dreamt of becoming soldiers? In my youth, I dreamt of being a sailor and exploring the great sea of my homeland. Isolde once wished to become a healer; Tancred a smith, whilst Gilbert and Gervais would have bred horses. Only dogs like Bayard dream of becoming soldiers…'

Bayard overheard his friend and howled like a hound, prompting laughter from his comrade.

'See,' Hadrian confirmed with a wide smile, 'we dream of hanging up our swords, or turning our wands to gentler uses.'

'Then why don't you?' Godric challenged, intrigued by Hadrian. He had assumed that most of Alain's retainers lived for the rush of battle, or were born fighters like Hugh and Bayard. To hear otherwise was almost sacrilege to his youthful beliefs.

'Because we love Alain,' Hadrian admitted honestly, as if it was obvious, 'when each of us had nothing, he found us and gave our lives a greater purpose. In return, we swore to protect him and when he marches to war, then so do we. There isn't one amongst us who wouldn't die for Lord Alain. One day, you will feel the same.'

'Then what will you do,' said Godric curiously, 'when Lord Alain hangs up his wand?'

The smile on Hadrian's face widened, although he shrugged unknowingly.

'I haven't given it much thought. Grow old in Avalon and find a good woman to share my bed. I may even return east to my homeland. I long to see the land of my birth again, to stand beneath the almond trees and watch the burning sun dancing on the Aegean.'

Hadrian's voice drifted off and he smiled wistfully as he looked up at the sky. Godric returned it as he visualised the exotic land Hadrian talked about. Who could deny feeling the desire to return to the place of their birth; to survive the hardships of life so that they could enjoy their remaining years in peace, surrounded by friends and loved ones as their life neared its inevitable end.

Godric gazed fondly at those around him. Salazar was laughing at a story Hamon was weaving and Bayard was busy promising an amused Isolde that he'd one day escape the awful British weather and retire to a brothel to enjoy the delights of wine and whores in the glaring sun of warmer lands. Even Hugh seemed to be unable to resist the comradery that flourished around him, judging by the contented smile on his face. Finally, Godric looked at Alain, who rode at the retinue's head. The Lord of Avalon smiled warmly as he eavesdropped on Godric's conversation, pleased to be returning home to an adoring wife in the company of loyal friends. Hadrian's wish was a romantic ideal, but one that fuelled the imaginations of all those who were listening.

From a nearby thicket, a crow squawked out a croaking cry, springing madly into flight in a flutter of feathers.

No one saw the arrow fly until it struck.