Jehan was sure of it. The road had widened; he and Alf could ride side by side for short stretches with Thea running ahead. Like Fara, she seemed tireless, taking joy in her own swift strength. By noon a grey drizzle had begun to fall. They pressed on as hard as they might, following the white shape of the elf-hound. At last they surmounted a hill, and the trees dwindled away before them. Jehan whooped for delight, for there below them in a wide circle of fields stood a village. It was splendid to ride under the sky again, with no dark ranks of trees to hem them in and the wind blowing free upon their faces. Jehan’s gelding moved of its own accord into a heavy canter; the grey mare fretted against the bit. Alf let her have her head. They did not run far. A few furlongs down the road, Alf eased Fara into a walk. He smiled as Jehan came up, and stroked the mare’s damp neck. “We’ll sleep warm tonight,” he said. o0o The village was called Woodby Cross: a gathering of houses about an ancient church.
