Men on horses. Run! ‘Wait.’ Isidore catches my arm. ‘You cannot outrun them,’ he says under his breath. ‘Don’t even try.’ ‘But—’ ‘Shh.’ He lifts a hand in greeting, while placing himself between me and the mounted men. There are six of them—no, eight. Their horses are big, powerful beasts, well caparisoned and hung about with all manner of things: rolled blankets, leather bags, halberds, maces, spiked mauls, even pot-helmets. They clank and jingle as they pick their way between the smooth river-rocks, laying their hoofs down with a delicacy that you wouldn’t expect in such huge, heavily laden animals. The men riding them are no less well equipped. Some even wear chain mail under their surcoats, and quilted hacquetons under their chain mail; their cloaks are stained and faded from long days in the sun. There’s a short sword on every belt, and a beard on every face. Slowly they fan out, as if to surround us—though I didn’t hear any order being given. The very young man on the sturdy chestnut, who has leather vambraces strapped to his forearms, says, ‘Who are you?’ Hooray!
