The priest and abbess of Hanbury, riding stocky mares, led a score of grim-faced men through a wychwood. The men trudged along in silence armed with bows and staves; at the rear of the band four men pushed a large wooden handcart. Where the sky overhead could be seen through the canopy of leaves, it held a ghostly twilight dwindling into gloom. The wan light cast the wood in such murkiness that the beaten track could scarce be seen ten paces ahead. The trees seemed huge columns of darkness, yet darkness was the key to their plan.
Jake followed them, by now he was used to night-time Dark Age forests.
Even a strong man like blacksmith, Ryce Redknapp, was cowed into silence. He felt tightness between his shoulder blades and a prickling on his scalp at a sound from among the trees. Hereabout
