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thought; the kind of child that either dies young or grows up to be the village idiot. Alfred was visibly uncomfortable under his stare.
    As Tom watched, the child snatched the saw from Alfred’s hand, without saying anything, and examined it as if it were something amazing. Alfred, offended by the discourtesy, snatched it back, and the child let it go with indifference. The mother said: “Jack! Behave yourself.” She seemed embarrassed.
    Tom looked at her. The boy did not resemble her at all. “Are you his mother?” Tom asked.
    “Yes. My name is Ellen.”
    “Where’s your husband?”
    “Dead.”
    Tom was surprised. “You’re traveling alone?” he said incredulously. The forest was dangerous enough for a man such as he: a woman alone could hardly hope to survive.
    “We’re not traveling,” said Ellen. “We live in the forest.”
    Tom was shocked. “You mean you’re—” He stopped, not wanting to offend her.
    “Outlaws,” she said. “Yes. Did you think that all outlaws were like Faramond Openmouth, who stole your pig?”
    “Yes,” said Tom, although what he wanted to say was I never thought an outlaw might be a beautiful woman .Unable to restrain his curiosity, he asked: “What was your crime?”
    “I cursed a priest,” she said, and looked away.
    It did not sound like much of a crime to Tom, but perhaps the priest had been very powerful, or very touchy; or perhaps Ellen just did not want to tell the truth.
    He looked at Martha. A moment later she opened her eyes. She was confused and a little frightened. Agnes knelt beside her. “You’re safe,” she said. “Everything’s all right.”
    Martha sat upright and vomited. Agnes hugged her until the spasms passed. Tom was impressed: Ellen’s prediction had come true. She had also said that Martha would be all right, and presumably that was reliable too. Relief washed over him, and he was a little surprised at the strength of his own emotion. I couldn’t bear to lose my little girl, he thought; and he had to fight back tears. He caught a look of sympathy from Ellen, and once again he felt that her pale gold eyes could see into his heart.
    He broke off an oak twig, stripped its leaves, and used them to wipe Martha’s face. She still looked pale.
    “She needs to rest,” said Ellen. “Let her lie down for as long as it takes a man to walk three miles.”
    Tom glanced at the sun. There was plenty of daylight left. He settled down to wait. Agnes rocked Martha gently in her arms. The boy Jack now switched his attention to Martha, and stared at her with the same idiot intensity. Tom wanted to know more about Ellen. He wondered whether she might be persuaded to tell her story. He did not want her to go away. “How did it all come about?” he asked her vaguely.
    She looked into his eyes again, and then she began to talk.
     
    Her father had been a knight, she told them; a big, strong, violent man who wanted sons with whom he could ride and hunt and wrestle, companions to drink and carouse into the night with him. In these matters he was as unlucky as a man could be, for he got Ellen, and then his wife died; and he married again, but his second wife was barren. He came to despise Ellen’s stepmother, and eventually sent her away. He must have been a cruel man, but he never seemed so to Ellen, who adored him and shared his scorn for his second wife. When the stepmother left, Ellen stayed, and grew up in what was almost an all-male household. She cut her hair short and carried a dagger, and learned not to play with kittens or care for blind old dogs. By the time she was Martha’s age she could spit on the ground and eat apple cores and kick a horse in the belly so hard that it would draw in its breath, allowing her to tighten its girth one more notch. She knew that all men who were not part of her father’s band were called cocksuckers and all women who would not go with them were called pigfuckers, although she was not quite sure—and did not much