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made out the remains of some animal trap or other, half hidden in the long grass. The poor creature
had dragged the trap from its moorings in its efforts to free itself, but of course had tightened the twine round its paw, which was chafed almost raw, and bleeding. It had hidden itself when it
heard Gilbert blundering about, and had growled in fear and pain, not anger. There was no anger in its eyes – only entreaty.
    ‘The northern host is broken. Earls Edwin and Morcar in full flight.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Hardrada has wasted York. Twelve more cities too. The whole of Northumbria is in flames. The Archbishop himself – hanged.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘As I live and breathe.’
    Gilbert could not do it. It was against all reason, but he could not do it. He was ill; he was tired; he was several miles from camp; and it was getting late. He had to bring
back information, even if it was that there was no information. A dozen of Ralph’s remarks about the needs of scouting came into his head, but he ignored all of them. Crouched in front of
him, in this foreign land of empty farms and lonely furrows, was the first living thing that needed him. Besides, it was a dog. And it had not betrayed him. He was good at dogs. ‘Do what you
are good at.’ Even Ralph had said so.
    With the aid of the biscuit, and with more friendly noises, Gilbert soon insinuated some fingers behind the animal’s ears. Safer, he put both hands about its head, coaxing all the time. He
forgot his pain; authority took its place. The dog began to relax.
    Gilbert offered another precious biscuit. Then, without letting go of the fur at the back of the dog’s neck, he edged his other hand, slowly, very slowly, down the dog’s injured leg.
It whimpered again, and tried to lift it up. Working as gently as possible, Gilbert loosened the twine and eased it off. Tearing off several handfuls of soft green grass, he spat on them and washed
the dirt out of the wound as best he could. What he needed now was water, and a bandage of some kind. They were both with his horse.
    Still holding the dog’s neck, he shuffled on his knees to where the horse was tethered. He opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a spare worsted shirt. With his knife he cut into its tail and
tore off a strip. Making a pad of it in his hand, he soaked it with some water from his flask, and wiped the dog’s paw again. Then he unrolled the pad, and used it to bandage the wound. He
pulled out the leather lace at the neck of his shirt and twined it round to secure the bandage. It would not stay on long, but the coolness and softness would give the animal comfort for a
while.
    To his great joy, it whimpered again, this time clearly in gratitude.
    Suddenly he doubled up with yet another spasm in his stomach, and was forced to see to himself, almost too late. When he at last fastened his half-soiled leggings, he noticed that the dog was
still there.
    Now the face of Ralph appeared before him in all its wrath. He packed everything as fast as he could, and made vigorous gestures to make the dog go away – which it ignored. Indeed, it
wagged its tail.
    He went through the charade of mounting yet again, and made off eastwards. The lowering sun cast long shadows before him.
    He was swaying now in the saddle, his eyes half closed at times. Once he passed too close under the bough of a tree, and received a thump on the forehead that nearly knocked him to the ground.
The dog was now following him.
    Gilbert cursed trees and green apples and hidden ravines and scabbard straps and stale water and God and himself, and anything else he could think of. His bad ankle, constantly shaken by the
movement of the stirrup, shrieked at him. He had to pause for a while.
    He slid his feet out of the stirrups and stretched his legs. An early evening badger scurried across his path. The horse stirred. It was not a large movement, but Gilbert was totally unprepared.
He slipped and fell, his ankle twisting under him yet