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normal ears, that too disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a perfectly round patch of bare earth.
    Errol spent a further three days in the company of Lord and Lady Gremmil, and every one of those days was torment. His head injury began to heal, the agony subsiding to a dull ache with time, but he still had to be careful about sudden movements. Every so often he would turn to answer a question, and the whole world would darken, his knees go weak. If he was lucky, he caught himself, but more than once he had ended up sprawled on the floor.
    A physician had examined him that first day, not long after he had woken. A thin sombre man dressed in flowing black robes and carrying a heavy leather case which he never opened, he had prodded Errol, peered into his eyes, felt his pulse and temperature and declared him a lucky young man. Apparently the blow had bruised his brain,
causing it to swell within his skull. Whoever had inflicted it had intended to kill. The physician offered to drill a hole and let some of the accumulated fluid out, but Errol declined. He had heard tales of trepanning from his mother and wanted nothing of it. Rest would be sufficient, as long as he could contain his eagerness to get away.
    Lord and Lady Gremmil had a son, Evan, who was a little older than Errol but much the same size and build. Some months earlier he had ridden to Tynhelyg with a troop of men, the town’s contribution to the war effort. Poul was obviously delighted that his boy was a captain, fully involved in the fight against the madmen from the south, but when Isobel brought Errol a selection of clothes far grander than anything he had ever owned before, he could see that she was worried about her only child. He felt terrible offering her sympathy and saying that he would look out for the young man when he returned to Tynhelyg. They were genuinely kind people, and he hated abusing their trust.
    Gremmil was a grey town. On the edge of the northlands, it had none of the gold to be found around Cerdys, but it had prospered well enough supplying food and equipment to the endless stream of prospectors who ventured north on the king’s road. Errol didn’t see much of it, keeping himself to the castle, but on the third day, when his balance was much better, Poul insisted on taking him down to the stables to pick out a horse.
    ‘I couldn’t possibly take a horse. I’ve no money to pay.’ Errol looked at the line of stables, a long face peering from the open top of each double door. He knew nothing about horses except that one end bit and the other kicked.
    ‘Nonsense, Errol. You’re the king’s man on the king’s business. It’s my duty to assist you in any way possible. And besides, you were attacked on my land. What kind of a lord would I be if I didn’t compensate you for what happened?’
    ‘Well, I suppose I could always send the animal back with your son when he next returns home.’
    ‘I’ll hear none of that. Come. I’ll pick out a fine gelding and we can ride out a way so you can see if you think it suitable.’
    That offer at least freed Errol from the dilemma of trying to choose a good mount. He had to hope that his meagre riding skills wouldn’t show him up as the fraud he truly was. As it happened, the ride was not as traumatic as it could have been. Lord Gremmil was happy enough just to pass slowly through the streets of his town, exchanging pleasantries with the people and showing off some of its more substantial buildings.
    ‘My father built up the town to what it is today. He saw the potential in supplying the miners, and the big cities for that matter. The land here’s not as fertile as down in the south, but we produce perfect barley for malting. Something in the soil, I suspect. Most of it gets shipped down to Tynhelyg. Turned into beer and whisky.’
    Errol nodded, unsure quite what to say as they rode out through the town gates and along the road for a while. He didn’t really need to talk; Poul was happy