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alive.’
    ‘You have no guarantee. We could both die looking for him. Where is the professional responsibility in that? Fitz wants every man out to the north as soon as possible. The Bastard wants to
know where Harold is; what would he say if he found out that two of his best scouts were wasting their time looking for a lost dog-boy?’
    Ralph’s eyes twitched. ‘You do not understand. Gilbert is—’
    ‘Gilbert is not Michael. And Michael is dead.’
    Ralph turned away, sighed, and hiccuped.
    ‘Go on, boy! Find him! Find him!’
    Quite what Edwin hoped his dog would find he had no clear idea, but he was so overjoyed at seeing it return that he was prepared to indulge almost any whim.
    The dog paused and looked back, making sure that his delighted master was following.
    ‘Go on, Berry. Seek! Seek!’
    Perhaps it was fresh game caught in one of Sweyn’s traps. Edwin had noticed at once the livid mark on Berry’s leg, and knew what had caused it. While he bathed and bound it, he
cursed Sweyn for setting his traps on this near edge of the forest. If he had told the fat little oaf once he had told him a score of times not to set traps across the line of his exercise runs
with the hounds. There was enough woodland and waste in which to set a whole wilderness of traps; all the idle toad had to do was walk a few hundred paces further.
    Sweyn was too lazy, too stupid and too spoiled. The more Edwin scolded, the more he whined, until in the end he went running to his father. Gorm always took his son’s side. It was useless
to argue; Gorm was narrow-minded, bad-tempered and blind to his son’s faults. He had sired him too late in life, after his suffering wife had presented him with three daughters.
    Edwin gave up in disgust, and let his annoyance be overridden by his joy in finding the hound he had been worrying about nearly all day.
    When it became clear that Berry wanted to show him something up on the hill, he was happy to follow. However, it was late, so he took Godric with him. He checked the knife blade, and made sure
that the weapon slid easily in and out of the sheath. He picked up a spare axe handle, and nodded towards a pitchfork. Godric picked it up without a word.
    Everyone knew that the Normans had landed. There had been a steady trickle of fugitives through the valley, each with his own garbled version of events. There was talk of fires and killings, of
fighting patrols and foraging parties, of near misses and narrow escapes.
    Edwin had kept his eyes open, but had so far seen no enemy. That was no proof, he knew, that nobody had ridden this far from Pevensey, though the indications were against it. All were agreed
that the Bastard had landed at Pevensey, but he would make for London, and so would have little cause to be diverted so far westwards. Still, it would pay to be prudent.
    Motioning to Godric to follow, Edwin set off after the eager hound.
    Berry ranged restlessly up a narrow sheep track, and paused at the top near the edge of the trees.
    Edwin was about to shout encouragement again when an earthy hand closed firmly over his mouth from behind. Another hand pinned his knife arm to his side. He felt an instant of panic, which
vanished as quickly when he smelled Godric’s familiar odour.
    He relaxed, and nodded. Godric released his grip, put a hand on his shoulder and pointed with the other.
    Edwin knew a Norman horse when he saw one. A riderless Norman horse could mean several things. He glanced at Godric, who nodded ahead towards the dog. It was circling something in the long grass
behind a thicket of ferns. Without a word, they separated, spread out, and came towards the dog from opposite directions.
    A young Norman soldier lay on his back. Edwin recognised the short, almost monkish haircut. Blood trickled past the soldier’s ear from a dirty graze and bump on his forehead. He was
moaning softly, and was shaking uncontrollably.
    The thrill of fear that passed through Edwin was not caused