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again. As he lay on his back to recover, the nausea rose in his throat once more, and he knew he was going to be sick.
    He struggled to a kneeling position, propped himself on his hands, and vomited copiously. All the strength seemed to go from his limbs. He could not move. He found himself gazing at the backs of
his hands as if they did not belong to him. For a moment he panicked, but no matter how urgent his thoughts, his body would not respond. He – could – not – move.
    Then he felt pins and needles in his arms and legs. He had heard stories from old soldiers about sickness and seizures and creeping death. There was no pain, they said; you just slipped quietly
away.
    His panic was replaced by a mixture of curiosity and surprise. So this was it. This was what it was like. He had often wondered. He had sometimes imagined that it might come suddenly, though he
could have wished it had not come quite so early. Pity.
    It struck him that it would be undignified to die, actually to pass away, on all fours like an animal. His limbs would not respond, but now he felt no worry or fear. It was simply a practical
matter of how to get himself into a better position in which to end his life, a more becoming posture in which to be found.
    He tried to lean so that extra weight was put on his left arm. Sure enough, it buckled, and he rolled over on to his side and then his back. The hilt of his sword dug into his hip, but it was
not so painful now. There was no point in moving into a more comfortable position, because the end could not be far off. Blades of grass rustled round his ears and swayed over his eyes.
    Would they steal his hauberk, as Ralph had cut it from the dead Breton soldier with the spear in his stomach?
    He put his hand inside his jerkin and fumbled anxiously. He sighed in relief as his fingers closed over Adele’s crucifix. Suddenly he wanted to gaze on it. Unable to reach the clasp, he
tugged sharply. With his weakened arm it took two or three attempts before it finally came away.
    He held it in both hands above his face, and took comfort from what he saw. His arms could not hold the position, and he soon let them flop on to the ground.
    He stared straight up. He thought of his father and mother, his gruff brother Robert, his sister Mahaut (who would of course cry). Baby Hugh smiled at him, and Adele held his hand . . .
    The sky looked more sombre now. Or was it his eyes darkening? Those old soldiers talked of the eyes of dying men clouding over. He sighed quietly. He would shut his eyes for a moment. Just for a
moment. Then he would open them when he felt the time coming. Men did that too, said the soldiers, immediately before the end.
    Ralph peered blearily in the bad light. ‘Does friendship mean nothing to you?’
    Bruno sighed. ‘Friendship is not the point. The point is professional skill. I told you when you were sober, and I tell you again now: if you want him to be a scout, he learns to take his
chance. If you do not want him to be a scout, you nurse him – and next time you leave him behind.’
    Ralph stretched his hand out into the night. ‘If it were you out there, I should look for you.’
    ‘I should do the same for you. I am your partner.’
    Ralph glowered. ‘And Gilbert is not, I suppose.’
    ‘He is not mine.’
    ‘Well, he is mine.’
    Bruno continued sharpening his knife. ‘He is not. He is not even a friend. He is a hope, a dream.’
    Ralph swore.
    Bruno pursued him. ‘He is a liability. You are too soft with him. You give him too many chances.’
    Ralph blustered. ‘I am hard on him. He says so.’
    ‘Which proves my point.’
    ‘Sandor says so. Taillefer says so.’
    ‘Taillefer is not a scout. I am. So are you. We are professionals.’
    ‘And Gilbert is not?’
    ‘No. And I do not think he ever will be. He will certainly not be if you have to chase across half Sussex looking for him in the dark. If you found him, he would not be
grateful.’
    ‘He would be