There was nothing for it at the moment but to go on to Glastonbury and hope to locate Emma through more inquiries.

It was a winding road leading them there, and as darkness fell, it was empty of traffic.

The law ordering that verges be cleared of trees by the length of a bow shot so that travelers were not vulnerable to a surprise attack had been ignored here. And ignored for some years-the cavalcade rode through avenues that branched overhead, hiding the moon.

Torches and lanterns were lit, swords were drawn, silence demanded, the mounts slowed to walking pace-it had been known for robbers to bring down cantering horses by putting a wire across the road. Gyltha and Adelia, with a sleeping, panniered Allie, found themselves hemmed in by their escorts as they rode-and were glad of it. Rhys nudged his horse between theirs; the only weapon he had was his harp.

Michael, the trumpeter, muttered, “Most dangerous bit o’ road in England this, so I heard.”

“Why?” Adelia whispered back.

“Wolf. Outlaw. They call him Wolf acause he’s a animal though he runs on two legs, and a pack with him. They say…”

But Captain Bolt hushed them. He was listening to the hundred rustles that came from among trunks turned ghastly by the glare of the torches, his sword twitching toward the reflected green of animals’ eyes that peered out at them from the undergrowth.

At one point, Adelia heard the sound of a cough from somewhere among the trees, but whether it came from a human throat or not she couldn’t tell.

Wolf.

Because she was tired and scared, she became angry. Bolt should have taken them back to sleep over at Wells so that they could have made this ride in the daytime. Damn the man for refusing another delay. Always wanting to gallop back to his damn king, damn him.

And damn that female back there. Had she sent Emma and little Pippy out into another such dangerous night? She’d said she hadn’t. Mansur didn’t think she had. But there’d been a sense of suffocation in that pretty house and in its kitchen, a truth being choked.

Oh, God, suppose the hag was keeping them imprisoned? Worse than imprisoned?

No, this was the thinking of fatigue.

But there’d been something… She kept remembering the eyes of the man at the bread oven when he’d turned to look at her. Something…

Damn it, how long before they reached Glastonbury? It was supposed to be only a few miles from Wells, but there was no sign of habitation ahead.

The only indication that they’d reached it was the sudden clatter of their horses’ hooves on stone. No signpost, but there was a gap in the forest to their right. The men’s torches showed a steep, cobbled hill that leveled out at the bottom, where moonlight shone on water.

“That’s it,” Bolt said. “Must be. That’ll be the River Brue down there-comes right up to the abbey, I was told-but where is the abbey?”

Where, indeed? As one of the biggest, busiest, richest foundations in England, owning a good deal of Somerset and beyond, it should have shown some sign of activity even at this time of night, however much the fire had damaged it.

It wasn’t until they began to go down the hill that Adelia fully realized the extent of the catastrophe that had overwhelmed the place. On the left, they were following what had been the monastery’s great boundary wall, now a blackened, tumbled collection of stones with silence beyond it.

As pitiable-and nobody had mentioned this-flames had also leaped the wall to consume the little town that lay outside it. For on the right as they rode, torchlight fell on naked spars that had been the thatched shops and cottages belonging to laypeople serving both the abbey and the pilgrims who had come to worship at its shrines.

Here had once been a busy high street; now the smitch of ash hung acrid on its air; apart from the moon, there was no light anywhere, no activity, only silence. Adelia heard Captain Bolt say incredulously, making a sign of the cross, “God have mercy, it’s dead. Glastonbury ’s dead.”

Toward the bottom of the hill, where it met the river to flatten into a wide, paved market square and quay, the abbey wall remained intact and so, opposite, did a three-story building-proximity to water and the fact that it was built of stone had preserved it to be all that was left of a thriving town. Again, there was no sign of occupation; the frontage, with its stout door leading out onto the street, was dark, but Captain Bolt’s lamp shone on a wide, high entrance arch to the right and, above it, carved into the lintel, was the unmistakable figure of a man in a brimmed hat carrying a scrip.

They had found the Pilgrim Inn.

Wheeling to go under the arch, the cavalcade entered a large, deserted courtyard formed by outbuildings and, on the left, the inn itself-from which the light of a single candle shone through the boards of one of the windows’ shutters.

“God be thanked,” Captain Bolt said. He dismounted and began hammering on the Pilgrim’s side door.

Inside, a dog began barking. The candle above was snuffed out. There was a creak, as if somebody had opened the shutter the tiniest crack-other than that, nothing happened.

Adelia and Gyltha were lifted from the saddles, and their horses were led to drink along with the others at a trough standing by the head of a well. Two soldiers began investigating the stables and a barn.

“Open up there. Open in the name of the king.” Captain Bolt was losing his temper.

A quavering voice came from the window, just audible over the barking. “I’ll set the dogs on you. I warn ye, we’m armed in here.”

“So are we out here,” the captain yelled. “Open this door before I take a bloody ram to it.”

Somewhat late in the day, Michael the trumpeter remembered his office and blew a call that sent stately notes echoing around the walls, though their only effect was to set the dog barking again and startle a barn owl into clattering flight from its perch in the stables.

“All right, then,” Captain Bolt said, looking around. “Find something to break this bloody door down.”

At that the door opened an inch and the same voice asked, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Godwyn, sir. Landlord of this inn.”

“We’re king’s men,” the captain told him. He snapped his fingers at Adelia, who began searching through her saddlebag for the royal warrant. “You’ve received an order from King Henry saying as he was billeting guests on you, and don’t say as you didn’t, acause the messenger came back to say he’d delivered it.”

The door opened wider, allowing Bolt’s lamp to illuminate a short, rotund, barefoot man in his nightshirt, holding back a single slavering dog by its collar. “That was a month ago,” he said. “No guests has come. No guests.” He was trembling.

“They have now.” The captain took the warrant from Adelia’s hand and waved it under the man’s nose. “The lord Mansur-he’s that Saracen gentleman over there, like it says on this scroll. Come to”-Bolt shifted his lantern so that he could read the writing on the warrant-“‘make inquiry into the recent findings at Glastonbury Abbey by permission of Henry, King of England, and his right beloved Abbot Sigward.’ This lady here’s Mistress Adelia, as is also mentioned, and likewise her companion, Mistress Gyltha, and there’s… Hello, what’s wrong with him, then?”

Godwyn the landlord had fainted.