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him. The priest made him feel whole, as if he wasn’t completely alone in the world.
    He heard steps, and caught his breath. There was no hole in which to hide here; the walls and hedges were solid. He cast about for an escape but there was nothing, not even a rabbit hole, and the noise of voices and laughter came more loudly on the calm air. He threw himself to the edge of the roadway, hoping that whoever it was would leave him alone if he withdrew from their path.
    It was three lads from the vill, all of them adults, at sixteen years or so. Spotting Sampson, they hurried to him with a whoop, one boy kicking at him, then grabbing a stick and thrashing him with it, while two others threw stones and mud at him with gay abandon, as though they were taunting a cock in the pit or a bear at the stake.
    ‘Leave me!’ Sampson screamed in terror. He covered his face – if he couldn’t see them, maybe they’d leave him alone. Pebbles stung him, balls of mud smacked into his upper arms and back, making him cry out and whimper. A larger lump of stone cracked his finger where it protected his temple, and he shrieked with the pain, but the missiles still flew, flung with the concentrated malice of men attacking another who was weaker than them.
    Trying to flee, he clambered to his feet and began to limp away, but a lump struck him above his ear and stunned him, setting his head ringing. He felt himself stumble and his bad leg snagged a rock, tripping him; he fell flat, both bony elbows striking the ground together. Winded, he burst into paroxysms of tears at the fresh pain, weeping with utter dejection. He hated his life – he hated himself.
    Gradually he became aware that the missiles had ceased. Then, to his amazement, he realised that a soft voice was speaking to him. Looking up, he saw that the three boys had gone, and that only Mary, the miller’s daughter, was with him. He was too astonished to speak as she crouched beside him. And then something burst inside him, and he was overwhelmed. All tears forgotten, he knew only that he adored this girl, he worshipped her.
    Even when she had helped him to his feet and continued on her way down the road, he stood gazing after her, occasionally sniffing, shoulders hunched like a child’s. It was the first time since his mother had died that anyone had shown him kindness.
    He would do anything for her, he thought, his heart swelling with love. If he had known then that she had only a year to live, he would have offered to die in her place, and done so gladly. But he didn’t know, and for the next few months his adoration grew.
    Until more than a year later, in early 1323, when he saw her corpse lying at the side of the road.

Chapter Two
     
    After his chance encounter with Sampson, Sir Ralph rode on up the hill. At the top, he continued south-east, making a circuit back towards his manor at Wonson.
    He felt out of sorts; at a time of hardship like this, a drooling idiot like Sampson was a luxury the vill could scarce afford. The Church always said that men must support those who were unable to support themselves. That was all very well for churchmen, who took food and money from others to fill their bellies and their purses, but it was different when you were responsible for keeping your people fed, like Sir Ralph.
    Entering the copse that bounded the stream, he jogged along, until something made him glance up. Looking through the trees, he saw Surval again. The old hermit was staring straight at him.
    Unsettled, Sir Ralph tried to put the man from his mind. His path led him back down the lower lane beneath the chapel. There was no sign of the priest when he glanced that way, but he noticed Mary entering the field above Mark’s home and heading towards the monk’s door. Sir Ralph ran his eyes over her figure with interest. She was a fine-looking girl –
very
fine. When she’d been younger, she’d looked a little ungainly with her long, coltish legs and clumsy gait, but she had