The Owl Killers.

by Karen Maitland.

prologue

gILES KNEW THEY'D COME FOR HIM, sooner or later. He didn't know where or when, he didn't know what his punishment would be, but he knew that there would be one. A dead owl had been left in front of his door in the middle of the night. He hadn't heard them leave it; you never did. But at daybreak when he left his cottage to work in the Manor's fields, he had found it there, sodden from the night's rain. It was their sign, their warning.

He had buried the owl quickly, before his mother could see it. He didn't want her to know what was coming. She was too old and frail, had seen too many tragedies in her life to bear the strain of yet another. But from then on he had waited, waited for a hood to be thrown over him from behind as he pissed against a tree, waited for a quarterstaff to crack down on the back of his head as he walked down the track, waited to be dragged from his bed in the night. They might take him from the forest or from the tavern or from the church. They might take him in the early morning or in the evening or in the middle of the day. However much you stayed on your guard, somewhere, at some hour, the Owl Masters would find you. All you could do was wait.

He had thought about running; of course he had. He'd come close to doing it more than once. But a serf could not leave without his lord's consent. And even if, by some miracle, he did make it safely to a town where he could lie low for a year until he was declared a free man, he knew they would take revenge on his mother. And if they didn't, Lord D'Acaster surely would.

But it had been weeks now since the dead owl had been left at Giles's door, and when the sun was shining, he was able to convince himself that the Owl Masters wouldn't come after all. He knew he had been a fool to bed the maid after D'Acaster had given his permission for her to wed another. But the girl was married now and they had not been near each other since. Wasn't their separation punishment enough? He tried to tell himself the Owl Masters would be satisfied with that, but in the long dark hours of night, as he lay awake tensing at every sound, he knew in his guts they would not.

And now, tonight, they were finally here, crowded into the tiny room, their faces hidden behind their feathered owl masks, their clothes concealed beneath long brown cloaks. For an instant he was almost relieved, almost wanted them to get it over with, but then blind fear seized him and it was all he could do to stop himself falling to his knees and howling for mercy.

His mother was standing in front of him trying to shield him, as she had often stood between him and his bellowing father when he was a small boy. Then he had cowered behind her skirts, but now he moved her gently aside. Better he push her away than them. He could do it tenderly; they would not, and he didn't want to hear her old bones crack. Listening to her sobs was torture enough.

"Please, Sirs, please don't take him. He's all I've got. I'll starve without him. Merciful heaven have pity ... Take me instead. I don't care what you do to me, but don't hurt my boy, I beg you." Her swollen twisted fingers gripped Giles's sleeve as if she could physically wrest him from their grasp.

"Don't fret yourself, old woman. We've just got a small task we want him to perform, something that'll make his dear old mother proud."

The old woman stared frantically from one to the other of the men towering over her, trying to make out which of them was speaking, but it was impossible to tell for their mouths were hidden and their voices distorted by the masks. With all her strength she tried to force herself between Giles and the Owl Master who restrained him, but the man lashed out with the back of his hand, striking the old woman across the mouth and sending her crashing against the wattle wall of the cottage.

Giles, twisting free, ran to kneel over her, his hand braced against the wall as he tried to shield her with his own body.

"Is this your ancient code of justice?" he demanded. "Beating defenceless women?"

Too late, he glimpsed a flash of metal. A sharp iron talon stabbed into his hand, impaling it to the wall. Giles screamed. Blood streamed down his wrist and dripped into his mother's lap. Four pairs of eyes buried deep within the feathers of the owl masks watched impassively as he writhed and sobbed.

Finally, one of the Owl Masters wrenched the spike out and dragged Giles to his feet. "Next time, boy, it will be your eyes. And after that you'll not be able to see where we are about to strike."

Trembling with pain, Giles allowed himself to be led to the low door.

"You'll see your son tomorrow, old woman, at the May Day Fair. In fact, he'll have the place of honour. Now you go on back to your bed. See you keep your door shut and your mouth too."

Giles knew his mother did not need to be told to hold her tongue. No one in these parts needed to be told that. As they dragged him out into the darkness, he glanced back at her. She stood in the dim yellow light of the solitary rush candle, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks, her hands clenched against her mouth. Even grieving must be done in silence. And as Giles prayed more fervently than he had ever done in his life for a miracle that would save him, a despairing voice inside him told him that miracles did not happen, not for him, not in Ulewic.

may eve 1321 first night of beltane first kindling of the bel-fire, the fire of light.[image] on this night the ancient blue ice goddess, cailleach bhear, the old woman of darkness, who reigns from samhain to beltane, throws her staff under a holly bush and is turned to stone. on this night the ancient blue ice goddess, cailleach bhear, the old woman of darkness, who reigns from samhain to beltane, throws her staff under a holly bush and is turned to stone.

beatrice

i THOUGHT I HEARD A MAN DYING THOUGHT I HEARD A MAN DYING in the great forest tonight, but now I'm not so certain; maybe what I heard was a corpse rising to life. He was shrieking and pleading, but he wasn't begging for mercy. He'd challenged Death to wrestle with him. He'd thrown back his head and demanded to suffer, as if he wanted the demons to do their worst and drag him down into the pit of Hell. If he was human, then he must have been mad. Staring at the moon can make you run mad, did you know that? And tonight the moon was round as a woman's belly swollen with child. That's when men should fear it most. in the great forest tonight, but now I'm not so certain; maybe what I heard was a corpse rising to life. He was shrieking and pleading, but he wasn't begging for mercy. He'd challenged Death to wrestle with him. He'd thrown back his head and demanded to suffer, as if he wanted the demons to do their worst and drag him down into the pit of Hell. If he was human, then he must have been mad. Staring at the moon can make you run mad, did you know that? And tonight the moon was round as a woman's belly swollen with child. That's when men should fear it most.

I can't ever tell the other women what I saw, not even Pega. How could I explain to them what I was doing out there alone in the forest at midnight? I'm not a lunatic, if that's what you're thinking, not like that madman. I hadn't gone into the woods trying to get myself killed, though I knew the dangers only too well. God alone knows how many deadly creatures slither and prowl through those ancient groves. Venomous adders, wild boar, savaging wolves-even a stag in rut could kill you. And if the beasts are not terrible enough, there are the cutpurses and the outlaws who prey on any stranger wandering into their domain.

Pega, though she's taller than any man alive, won't set foot in the forest after dark. None of the village women will. They say the hungry ghosts, slipping like mist between the trees, will devour you if you should chance to step upon the spot where someone once died. And over the centuries, hundreds of people must have died in these forests and left no mark.

So do you really believe I wasn't afraid to go into those woods that night? I tell you I'd had to gather up every shard of courage I had, but what else could I do? Jack-in-the-green must be gathered when the moon is fully ripe, for only then does the herb have the strength to bring back a woman's fertility. I dared not ask for any from the infirmary. We are celibate, that is the rule, and why should a celibate woman want to restore her childbearing years? But I do; I must.

The moon floated yellow and round above the treetops, pouring light down over the branches, petrifying leaf and branch to bleached bone. I trembled violently at every squeak and cry, forcing myself to keep walking deeper and deeper into the trees. I could not turn back empty-handed. Jack-in-the-green is always hard to find by sunlight or moonlight. Devil's prick Devil's prick, Pega calls it. The herb loves the dark, damp places among the tree roots and its spotted leaves easily conceal themselves.

I knew I must be near the river. I could hear the water thundering over the rocks. I turned away, knowing that the herb would not be growing near the water's edge, preferring the deep forest shade. Then, as if the moon herself had parted the bush with her white fingers and revealed the pale sheath, I saw it. I knelt in the damp earth, and was reaching for my knife to dig at the roots, when I heard a new sound. This was not an animal grunt. It was a man's voice.

My heart thumping, I scrambled up as silently as I could. With my back pressed against the rough tree trunk for protection and my knife grasped tightly in my hand, I peered round trying to see where the voice came from, but I could see no one. Did the hungry ghosts speak before they pounced?

Treading lightly, I tried to edge away from where I'd heard the sound. I listened, holding my breath, but no footsteps followed me. Perhaps the voice had just been in my head. I crept softly on, praying my footfall would not crack a twig and I wouldn't stumble, betraying my presence.

I had come to the edge of a clearing. A lake of quicksilver seemed to spread out at my feet. It lapped around the base of a great hollow oak tree in the centre of the glade. The oak's trunk was so massive that it would have taken half a dozen men to encircle it. The hollow inside the oak was as dark as a crypt, for even though it must have been open to the sky above, not a single ray of moonlight appeared to penetrate it.

Suddenly I heard the voice again. It was coming from somewhere in front of me. Instead of escaping from the danger, I had stumbled straight towards it.

"The blood of the white stag I pour out to Yandil, lord of the underworld. Let it be as my blood. Drink."

The voice rang out no more than a few yards from me, but the clearing was deserted. Despite the chill of the night, my hands were sticky with sweat and my heart began to pound so violently that I feared it would burst through my chest. I wanted to run, but I was too scared to move in case I was seen.

"The flesh of the white stag I lay bare for Taranis, lord of this forest. Let it be as my flesh. Eat."

I clung to the trunk of a tree and stood shaking, certain that if I let go, my legs would give way beneath me. Then I saw something moving; a black shadow was creeping across the silvered ground towards me, and it wasn't human. A long narrow snout and a pair of branched horns grew out from its chest, and four or five long tails swung from its back. It seemed to be slithering straight towards the spot where I stood. It was lengthening and reaching out towards me. I shut my eyes tightly, trying not to scream.

"The spirit of the white stag I offer up to Rantipole, lord of the air. Let it be as my spirit. Devour it."

I opened my eyes, too terrified to run. The creature stood facing the open hollow of the tree. It had its back to me. Now, as the moonlight fell full upon it, I could make sense of the nightmare I saw. It was no monster. It was a man, tall and powerfully built. Over his shoulder swung the hide of a stag with the horned head still attached. The beast was freshly slaughtered and the heat from the skin was still rising into the cold night air. I could see blood glistening wetly in the starlight. I could smell it.

"I am come to the doorway of the three realms. Give me leave to enter. Ka!"

The man pulled off his hood and tossed it aside. Then he lifted the stag's head and placed it on top of his own head. The blood dripped down over his hair and skin. Gripping the two sides of the hide, he wrapped the steaming skin around himself, like a cloak. As he raised his head, the antlers reared upwards as if he was challenging the moon.

"Hear me, Taranis, lord of destruction, a great wrong has been done to you and to us your servants. Once your creature, your creation of despair and darkness, ruled this place. This valley was named for him. Your demon brought to all who defied you death in this world and torment in the world beyond. Every man learned to fear him and in their fear they turned to you and to us, your servants. But a century ago, on the eve of Samhain, the women came to this doorway. The women could not kill your demon, but they sent him into the twilight time, the place of the shadows, where the days pass unnumbered and the years pass unmarked.

"This night I enter the doorway to seek the knowledge that will call the demon forth again. Others have dared to brave the stag's hide before me, but they perished before cockcrow, for they were not strong enough to bear your test and you destroyed them for their weakness.

"This night the hag Cailleach dies. This night Cernunnos, lord of fertility, is born. I have hunted. I have slain. I have taken his sign and his strength. As he is reborn this night, so shall I be."

The man raised his great arms, fists clenched and bellowed up at the stars.

"Taranis, lord of the night, grant me the knowledge to summon your creation, the power to call him forth, and the strength to control what is raised from the darkness! Ka!"

The man bowed his head and in one swift movement ducked into the black hollow of the bull oak.

I stared at the place where the man had disappeared, too horrified by what I'd heard to move. Silence flooded back across the clearing. The trees shivered, holding their breath. Suddenly, as panic seized me, my legs started move. They were trembling too much for me to run and I managed only to stagger a few paces when I heard a loud rustling behind me. It was as if a violent wind had sprung up and was whirling the dry leaves, except that there was no breeze. I couldn't help myself; I had to turn. I had to look back.

The clearing floor was still bathed in the ghost light, but it was no longer still and silent. Everywhere I looked, the ground was heaving. The leaf mould and newly sprouting plants were being pushed up as if a thousand moles were all trying to burrow their way to the surface at once. The mounds rose higher and higher, until suddenly they burst open, and insects began to pour out of them-beetles, worms, centipedes, engorged spiders, and great white maggots-all the creatures that feed upon the dead were crawling up from the dirt and into the moonlight.

It was impossible to see the ground, for every inch of it was writhing with the bloated insects and all of them were scuttling towards the great oak. The wings of the beetles clicked and rattled as they swarmed around the trunk towards the tree's black maw. From inside the hollow I heard the man gasp as creatures began to slither into the oak tree where he lay.

Then, as the vast tide of insects swarmed over the bark and crawled into the hollow, the man's moans gave way to a great cry of defiance and pain.

"I give my blood, Yandil, I give you my ... blood!"

And from inside the cavernous hollow, his cry rose to shriek upon shriek of agony as if all the creatures of the grave were feeding on him, stripping his living flesh to the bare bone.

may day

the second of the three beltane fire days and saint walburga's day[image] walburga was born in the kingdom of wessex, england, in the eighth century. walburga was born in the kingdom of wessex, england, in the eighth century.[image] she became the abbess in charge of the double monastery of heidenheim, germany, ruling over both monks and nuns. she became the abbess in charge of the double monastery of heidenheim, germany, ruling over both monks and nuns.

agatha

eXCITED BARKING JERKED ME AWAKE. Every hound in the Manor was yelping. And no wonder, for it sounded as if the hunt in full cry was thundering past our gates. I ran to the casement and looked down. Though it was barely light, the road beyond the Manor was crammed with outlanders jostling into Ulewic for the fair. Carts rumbled over stones. Tiny girls shooed great flocks of hissing geese. Old crones dragged bleating calves on long ropes, tangling them round the legs of the peddlers who struggled under the weight of their bulging packs. Every hound in the Manor was yelping. And no wonder, for it sounded as if the hunt in full cry was thundering past our gates. I ran to the casement and looked down. Though it was barely light, the road beyond the Manor was crammed with outlanders jostling into Ulewic for the fair. Carts rumbled over stones. Tiny girls shooed great flocks of hissing geese. Old crones dragged bleating calves on long ropes, tangling them round the legs of the peddlers who struggled under the weight of their bulging packs.

In the long, heavy ox-wagons, women squatted among kegs and bales, chattering and singing. Children ran alongside, hitching rides and squealing with laughter when the wagon juddered over ruts. Young men scrambled across the ditches to the banks where the primroses bloomed, tossing handfuls of flowers to the giggling girls in the carts and snatching kisses from them as they hung over the sides. I longed to be in one of those carts, longed to have a boy fill my lap with primroses. But I knew no one would ever try to snatch a kiss from me.

I was dressed hours before the rest of the family and paced impatiently up and down the great hall, desperate to be out there among the crowds. But my mother and sisters insisted on every pleat of their veils being pinned evenly. I think they did it on purpose to keep everyone waiting, knowing the May Fair could not begin without us, for my father, Lord Robert D'Acaster, owned the fair's charter.

And it was my father who finally led the procession of our family and servants through Ulewic towards the Green. He strutted ahead with his fat legs wide apart like a little boy who'd wet his breeches. Despite the chill of the day his fleshy face was already flushed and sweating with exertion. My mother dragged on his arm, walking with her eyes downcast as if she was afraid of what she might see. My twin sisters, Anne and Edith, followed her, clinging demurely hand in hand. No one would ever think we were related.

I look like a boy, as my mother was always telling me, too short and too thin and too plain. I've my mother's brown hair except that mine is curly, and as usual that morning, my hair refused to stay in its bindings however much the maids tore at it with combs. They'd grumbled and cursed, for they were sure my mother would blame them, but they needn't have worried. She always blamed me for everything, why not that as well?

Anne's and Edith's hair, of course, lay smooth and obediently bound and coiled round their ears, just where the maids had pinned it. Both my sisters had inherited my father's sandy hair and the pasty moon-face of my mother. And she guarded the twins' virtue more closely than her own jewels. For my father was determined that neither should so much as raise her eyes to look at a man, before she was safely wed.

My father, resolved to keep his wealth in the family, had promised one of my sisters to his nephew Phillip. Which twin Phillip picked was immaterial to my father. But so far Phillip had resisted making his choice; he was having too much fun with their serving maids. At least I wasn't on offer. Though I was only a year younger than the twins, I would never be offered to anyone. As my sweet sisters never failed to remind me, I was born under the Demon star and not even old beggar Tom would dare to take me to bed. I suppose I should have been grateful for that.

My cousin Phillip had wandered away from our procession before we even reached the Green. I could see he was already bored and was searching for someone to play with, for he constantly looked around him, winking and leering at any half-passable woman, ignoring the greetings and bobs of all others.

People said Phillip looked exactly like my father when he was young, but there the similarity ended, for my father considered fornication the greatest of all the vices. The servants whispered that it was a wonder Lord Robert had ever sired any children for he had never been seen to touch my mother affectionately and indeed often stared at her as if she repulsed him. He was constantly ordering poor Father Ulfrid to preach that fornicators and adulterers would roast in the hottest pit of Hell, even though Father Ulfrid tried to protest this pit was reserved for greater sinners. But if the sermons were intended to curb my cousin Phillip's appetites, they had no effect, for he was rarely in church to hear them.

A great shout went up from the crowd. The prize ram, shorn and greased, had been set loose. Young single men, already stripped to the waist, shoved each other as they set off in pursuit, urged on by cheering girls. The ram, as if sensing what its fate would be, easily outmanoeuvred them at first, racing round the Green and through the carefully tended gardens, with the lads whooping after it, dodging the sticks and pots brandished by the shrieking housewives whose herbs ram and men were trampling. But eventually the animal tired and though, when cornered, it made a brave effort to charge its tormentors, the leader of the pack of youths grabbed its horns and wrestled it to the ground.

The beast, garlanded, was led into the churchyard. There, with one swift slash, its throat was cut, and steaming blood gushed out into a basin held beneath. The beaming victor's face and chest were painted scarlet with the blood. Then he mounted a ladder placed against the arch over the church door. Dipping both hands to the wrist in the proffered bowl, he smeared the ram's blood on the gaping pudendum of the naked old woman carved at the top of the arch, the one they call Black Anu.

"Ka!" the villagers yelled, cheering and whistling. And soon the ram was turning on a spit, sending sweet smoke into the damp air.

I turned to watch the acrobats. They had balanced a long pole on their shoulders and a little girl, dressed in scarlet with a tiny pair of wings fastened to her back, was stepping daintily along the pole as confident as a cat on a wall. She steadied herself, her twiggy arms outstretched. The tumblers began to bounce the pole on their shoulders. The girl jumped, flipped in a somersault, and landed, wobbling but safe, on the pole again. The villagers clapped heartily as she sprang down. Women stroked her golden hair and stuffed sweetmeats into her hands. Men pinched her cheek and tossed her a coin or two like doting uncles. Children gazed at her awestruck as if she was Queen Mab.

To screeches of raucous laughter, the mummers appeared, led by the Fool, who tripped over invisible objects with exaggerated tumbles, then feigned indignation at those who laughed at him, striking them with a pig's bladder, which only made them laugh the more.

The hobby-horse pranced and cavorted through the villagers, dodging this way and that as children tried to snatch the cake impaled on the tip of his lance. He teased them, offering it, then sweeping it high out of their grasp. When a lucky child succeeded in grabbing the honey cake, the hobby-horse used his lance to lift the skirts of the giggling women or goose anyone foolish enough to turn their back on him.

Moll followed and the crowd roared. Moll was always a favourite. She was really John the blacksmith, who wore two grossly inflated bladders strapped to his chest under his kirtle. He simpered and minced through the crowd, pretending outrage as the lads tried to pinch his grotesquely padded backside. They'd not have dared that if he was at his forge.

Moll sidled up to my cousin Phillip, winking, waggling her hips and jiggling her massive breasts against his face.

"Here's a riddle for you, Master-I am a great gift to women. I am hairy below and I swell up in my bed. A pretty lass pulls me and rubs my red skin. I have no bone, though I squirt white milk for her. I am so strong that I bring tears to her eyes. Tell me, Master, what am I?"

Moll winked at the crowd and, without waiting for my cousin to reply, cried, "An onion, of course!" She wagged her finger at Phillip's crotch. "But Moll knows what you you were thinking, you naughty boy." were thinking, you naughty boy."

The crowd shrieked with laughter, but Phillip looked far from amused. Even on this day of licence the mummers knew not to push their luck too far: Seeing his face, they reeled away to find someone less powerful to torment.

The noise and laughter died rapidly. The villagers drew back as Saint Walburga was led in, a giant figure with a massive conical body topped by the painted wooden head of a crowned woman, which lolled from side to side as the figure swayed forward. The withy frame of the body was woven densely with May blossom and ears of last year's wheat and barley, so that no one could glimpse the person underneath the frame. Small children burst into tears, hiding behind their mothers, as the monstrous figure lurched towards them.

Six cloaked men held the ropes that fastened the saint. They pulled her forward and reined her back as if she was a wild bear that might lash out at the crowd. Each of the faces of her brown-cloaked jailors was concealed by the feathered mask of the great horned eagle owl. Their eyes glinted dark and dangerous, deep within the feathers, and their cruel bronze beaks flashed scythe-sharp in the pale sun. The village women clasped their children tight against their skirts as the Owl Masters went past.

The procession moved on until it reached the foot of the May Tree. There the saint was tethered, pinioned by the ropes. The Fool danced up to her, but the Owl Masters shooed him away. Urged on by the crowd, he dodged lightly round the Owl Masters to slap the saint resoundingly with his fool's bladder. The Owl Masters drew short swords from under their cloaks. Menacingly, they circled around the Fool, who spun in the middle, dodging the blades as they feinted high, then low. The crowd roared, cheering the Fool.

Suddenly the flashing swords froze, interlocked in a six-pointed sun above the Fool's head. The Owl Masters circled and the metallic sun rotated above the Fool as he sank to his knees. The crowd was hushed, holding its breath. Only the pleading of the Fool rang out, a lone wail across the Green. But the plea for mercy was ignored. The murderous sun descended and locked around his neck. The Fool lay dead. The six Owl Masters wordlessly turned, as one, to face the crowd around them, their swords pointing at the hearts of the villagers, their savage owl faces staring them down, challenging anyone else to approach. No one moved. No one dared to move.

Moll pushed her way through the Owl Masters. They let her pass. She bustled about the body on the ground, making great play of holding up his lifeless limbs and letting them flop to the ground. She slapped the Fool's cheeks, pulled his jaw open and poured the contents of an empty flagon into his mouth. When that had no effect, she forced one of her massive bladder breasts into his mouth. And with that, the Fool leapt to his feet and turned a couple of somersaults just to show he was in the rudest of health.

All of the villagers were laughing, that kind of nervous laughter which explodes when tension is shattered. Children rolled on the ground, imitating the Fool with exaggerated death throes, finally reassured that it was only a play. The mummers cavorted about Harrow Green, while the Fool kissed Moll and she boxed his ears.

In all the commotion I didn't notice the Owl Masters disappear. Perhaps they simply vanished back into the forest or maybe they took off their masks and brown cloaks and mingled with the crowd. Some villagers looked around nervously as if expecting to see them at their backs. The Owl Masters had no faces and no names. They might be anyone in Ulewic. Who was missing from the crowd when the Owl Masters were here? There are some questions no one is allowed to ask.

The villagers drifted off to stuff themselves and drink and dance and drink some more. Saint Walburga alone did not move. The great straw frame squatted upon the grass. I knew there had to be someone inside. The saint couldn't move by itself, even though the village children were convinced it did.

THE GREEN WAS LITTERED with bones and dung, fragments of pastry and lost ribbons, crushed flowers and broken dishes. The shadows were lengthening fast and, overhead, birds began to wheel towards their night roosts. A cold breeze sprang up out of nowhere. I shivered. with bones and dung, fragments of pastry and lost ribbons, crushed flowers and broken dishes. The shadows were lengthening fast and, overhead, birds began to wheel towards their night roosts. A cold breeze sprang up out of nowhere. I shivered.

The Owl Masters returned as silently as they had departed. I didn't see where they came from, but when I looked up there they were as if they had always been there. Those villagers who were still sober enough to stand jerked nervously as they caught sight of them. The Owl Masters seized the saint's ropes and now stood motionless in a circle facing us. One by one the laughter and the arguments died away. Neighbour nudged neighbour until all attention was fixed upon the six masked figures.

A girl, her hair tumbling loose and her kirtle grass-stained, was shoved and pushed by her friends to the front of the crowd. She made a tipsy curtsy, then leant forward, the tip of her pink kitten-tongue sticking out in an effort of concentration. She tossed the May garland. It landed neatly upon the top of the saint's painted wooden crown. The girl's giggling attendants assured her that her lucky throw meant she would be wed before the year was out. She glanced towards the young men. They jeered and pummelled one of their number, who looked as if he'd been praying devoutly she'd miss the throw.

The Owl Masters tugged on the ropes and led the saint as she swayed unsteadily across Harrow Green towards the forest, followed at a safe distance by all the men of Ulewic, at least those who were not sow-drunk. The women watched, but made no attempt to follow. We women are not welcome in the forest.

My heart began pounding and the palms of my hands were sticky with excitement. For nearly a month I'd been planning what I'd do, but now that it was time, I wasn't sure if I could really do it. Suppose I was seen? Suppose my mother suddenly asked for me and discovered I was missing? But if I didn't try, I'd kick myself later, for it would be a whole year before I could try again.

With a long-suffering sigh, my mother signalled it was time for us to depart. She led the way, leaning on the arm of an old and trusted henchman, in the sure and certain knowledge we would all obediently follow her. My two sisters dutifully did, but I ducked down defiantly behind a cart. In all the bustle of packing up, no one noticed that I was not in the procession following my mother. That's the advantage of being the unwanted child; no one notices when you disappear.

I stayed down until everyone was occupied, then I picked up my skirts and ran, dodging between the cottages, in the direction of the trees. Night was closing in fast. Only the thinnest rind of the sun still glowed orange above the bare black branches. No good girl would be out at this late hour but, as my mother was forever telling me, I was not a good girl.

Darkness gathered early in the forest. It never really departed, but skulked among the ancient wrinkled trunks all day waiting to seep out into the meadows again. I couldn't see the path that the men were following, but they lit torches and it was easy to keep pace with the snake of yellow flame as it wound its way through the gloom. The men were too drunk to notice another shadow in the bushes. Ahead I saw the snake of flame begin to coil into a ball of fire. I had no idea where we were for I had never been this far into the forest and certainly never alone here, but I knew we must be somewhere near the river: I could hear the sound of rushing water.