“Don’t fret yourself, old woman. We’ve just got a small task we want him to perform, something that’ll make his dear old mother proud.”

The old woman stared frantically from one to the other of the men towering over her, trying to make out which of them was speaking, but it was impossible to tell for their mouths were hidden and their voices distorted by the masks. With all her strength she tried to force herself between Giles and the Owl Master who restrained him, but the man lashed out with the back of his hand, striking the old woman across the mouth and sending her crashing against the wattle wall of the cottage.

Giles, twisting free, ran to kneel over her, his hand braced against the wall as he tried to shield her with his own body.

“Is this your ancient code of justice?” he demanded. “Beating defenceless women?”

Too late, he glimpsed a flash of metal. A sharp iron talon stabbed into his hand, impaling it to the wall. Giles screamed. Blood streamed down his wrist and dripped into his mother’s lap. Four pairs of eyes buried deep within the feathers of the owl masks watched impassively as he writhed and sobbed.

Finally, one of the Owl Masters wrenched the spike out and dragged Giles to his feet. “Next time, boy, it will be your eyes. And after that you’ll not be able to see where we are about to strike.”

Trembling with pain, Giles allowed himself to be led to the low door.

“You’ll see your son tomorrow, old woman, at the May Day Fair. In fact, he’ll have the place of honour. Now you go on back to your bed. See you keep your door shut and your mouth too.”

Giles knew his mother did not need to be told to hold her tongue. No one in these parts needed to be told that. As they dragged him out into the darkness, he glanced back at her. She stood in the dim yellow light of the solitary rush candle, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks, her hands clenched against her mouth. Even grieving must be done in silence. And as Giles prayed more fervently than he had ever done in his life for a miracle that would save him, a despairing voice inside him told him that miracles did not happen, not for him, not in Ulewic.

first kindling of the bel-fire, the fire of light. on this night the ancient blue ice goddess, cailleach bhear, the old woman of darkness, who reigns from samhain to beltane, throws her staff under a holly bush and is turned to stone.

i THOUGHT I HEARD A MAN DYING in the great forest tonight, but now I’m not so certain; maybe what I heard was a corpse rising to life. He was shrieking and pleading, but he wasn’t begging for mercy. He’d challenged Death to wrestle with him. He’d thrown back his head and demanded to suffer, as if he wanted the demons to do their worst and drag him down into the pit of Hell. If he was human, then he must have been mad. Staring at the moon can make you run mad, did you know that? And tonight the moon was round as a woman’s belly swollen with child. That’s when men should fear it most.

I can’t ever tell the other women what I saw, not even Pega. How could I explain to them what I was doing out there alone in the forest at midnight? I’m not a lunatic, if that’s what you’re thinking, not like that madman. I hadn’t gone into the woods trying to get myself killed, though I knew the dangers only too well. God alone knows how many deadly creatures slither and prowl through those ancient groves. Venomous adders, wild boar, savaging wolves-even a stag in rut could kill you. And if the beasts are not terrible enough, there are the cutpurses and the outlaws who prey on any stranger wandering into their domain.

Pega, though she’s taller than any man alive, won’t set foot in the forest after dark. None of the village women will. They say the hungry ghosts, slipping like mist between the trees, will devour you if you should chance to step upon the spot where someone once died. And over the centuries, hundreds of people must have died in these forests and left no mark.

So do you really believe I wasn’t afraid to go into those woods that night? I tell you I’d had to gather up every shard of courage I had, but what else could I do? Jack-in-the-green must be gathered when the moon is fully ripe, for only then does the herb have the strength to bring back a woman’s fertility. I dared not ask for any from the infirmary. We are celibate, that is the rule, and why should a celibate woman want to restore her childbearing years? But I do; I must.

The moon floated yellow and round above the treetops, pouring light down over the branches, petrifying leaf and branch to bleached bone. I trembled violently at every squeak and cry, forcing myself to keep walking deeper and deeper into the trees. I could not turn back empty-handed. Jack-in-the-green is always hard to find by sunlight or moonlight. Devil’s prick, Pega calls it. The herb loves the dark, damp places among the tree roots and its spotted leaves easily conceal themselves.

I knew I must be near the river. I could hear the water thundering over the rocks. I turned away, knowing that the herb would not be growing near the water’s edge, preferring the deep forest shade. Then, as if the moon herself had parted the bush with her white fingers and revealed the pale sheath, I saw it. I knelt in the damp earth, and was reaching for my knife to dig at the roots, when I heard a new sound. This was not an animal grunt. It was a man’s voice.

My heart thumping, I scrambled up as silently as I could. With my back pressed against the rough tree trunk for protection and my knife grasped tightly in my hand, I peered round trying to see where the voice came from, but I could see no one. Did the hungry ghosts speak before they pounced?

Treading lightly, I tried to edge away from where I’d heard the sound. I listened, holding my breath, but no footsteps followed me. Perhaps the voice had just been in my head. I crept softly on, praying my footfall would not crack a twig and I wouldn’t stumble, betraying my presence.

I had come to the edge of a clearing. A lake of quicksilver seemed to spread out at my feet. It lapped around the base of a great hollow oak tree in the centre of the glade. The oak’s trunk was so massive that it would have taken half a dozen men to encircle it. The hollow inside the oak was as dark as a crypt, for even though it must have been open to the sky above, not a single ray of moonlight appeared to penetrate it.

Suddenly I heard the voice again. It was coming from somewhere in front of me. Instead of escaping from the danger, I had stumbled straight towards it.

“The blood of the white stag I pour out to Yandil, lord of the underworld. Let it be as my blood. Drink.”

The voice rang out no more than a few yards from me, but the clearing was deserted. Despite the chill of the night, my hands were sticky with sweat and my heart began to pound so violently that I feared it would burst through my chest. I wanted to run, but I was too scared to move in case I was seen.

“The flesh of the white stag I lay bare for Taranis, lord of this forest. Let it be as my flesh. Eat.”

I clung to the trunk of a tree and stood shaking, certain that if I let go, my legs would give way beneath me. Then I saw something moving; a black shadow was creeping across the silvered ground towards me, and it wasn’t human. A long narrow snout and a pair of branched horns grew out from its chest, and four or five long tails swung from its back. It seemed to be slithering straight towards the spot where I stood. It was lengthening and reaching out towards me. I shut my eyes tightly, trying not to scream.