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grinding my hip bones bloody against the rough bark. My ribs were cracking under the millstone of its chest. I grabbed wildly at earth and air and brambles, not comprehending what I tore, except that it wasn’t its skin, its wings, its eyes.
    Wild onion is always in the forest, a sleeping thing, a harmless thing, but now, crushed and bruised, the stench of onions choked the air. A sea wind roared inside my skull. Though every sinew of my body howled and sobbed, my mouth was silent. My mouth was filled, crammed, stuffed to overflowing with the corruption of the forest. My lungs were clawing for breath against my will, because I wanted to die. I wanted to crawl into the dirt and bury myself among the worms. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. My body wasn’t mine anymore.
    The monster wrenched my hair violently back as if it reined in a mare. It jerked my head back and forth as if it would snap my neck and make an end of it. But it made no end. Its iron flesh hammered my bones to the tree, again and again and again, until it had pierced me through. And then it was gone and I lay alone in the darkness.

may
rood een
    t he third and last of the beltane fire days and the eve of rood day.on this day, byres are covered with honeysuckle and rowan to protect the beasts from witches.

father ulfrid
    i POUNDED MY FIST ON THE TABLE. “God’s teeth, this time you’ve gone too far!”
    Phillip D’Acaster, by way of response, settled himself more comfortably in my favourite chair, an expression of disdainful amusement on his face.
    I struggled to keep my temper. “When I heard you’d taken Giles, I thought you were going to give him a beating. At worst, brand him. But as a priest I cannot be expected to countenance
murder.”
    “You’ll countenance whatever I say you will countenance, Father. Have you forgotten who gave you your living? And who can have you turned out again just like
that?”
Phillip rocked forward, snapping his fingers an inch from my nose.
    I did not need reminding. I knew only too well to whom I owed my living. All it would take would be one word from Phillip D’Acaster in his uncle’s ear and I’d not only be cast out of the Church, I’d be lucky to escape with my life, though I prayed to God that Phillip didn’t realise that.
    I felt an iron band tightening around my chest, making it hard to breathe. It seemed to happen more and more often now. I eased myself down onto a stool, trying not to let the pain show.
    Phillip leant forward and casually pulled a pitcher of my best Mass wine towards him, pouring himself such a generous measure that the wine spilled over onto the table as he raised the goblet. He tilted the goblet of wine to the candlelight to see the colour, sniffing it cautiously before he took a gulp. It was not yet noon, but I had closed and bolted the shutters and the door of my cottage. This was not a conversation I wanted one of my parishioners to walk in on.
    Phillip grinned. “You know, Father, what you did in Norwich may be a mortal sin, but I don’t blame a man for trying, priest or not. In fact, I admire you. Rumour has it the wench was a fair beauty. Mighthave tried it myself if I’d seen her, but then of course, I haven’t taken a vow of celibacy, not that I hold that against you. Not a natural state for any man.”
    He took another slow swig of wine, before setting his goblet down. “But you want to be careful, Father. Sowing your oats in another man’s field can lead to all kinds of trouble, as Giles could no doubt testify. If he still had a tongue, that is.” He wagged his finger in mock reproof. “And you should have known better than to pursue a nobleman’s wife. That hunt is far too dangerous for a man of the cloth. Husbands are apt to take violent offence at any bucks moving in on their hinds, the more so if the buck happens to be a priest, I trust you’ve given the quarry up for lost, Father.”
    I desperately searched Phillip’s face for signs