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Denise went down through the beech wood towards Goldspur that morning, meaning to see whether Gaillard and his men had gone. The valley was full of sunlight, but over the village hung a thin dun-coloured mist, with pale smoke curling upwards into the blue. No live thing moved in the valley, and even her hope of the glimpse of a friend failed her. Still, her heart was glad that there were no riders there, and that the violence of the night seemed farther from her world.

Gaillard had gone. He and his men had passed the night, drinking and warming themselves before the burning house, none too pleased with the evening’s handiwork. Soon after dawn a rider had come galloping in, beaconed through the darkness by the glare of the burning manor, and Gaillard, when he had spoken with the fellow, had ordered his men to horse, after they had buried two comrades who had fallen beneath Grimbald’s axe. They had ridden away towards the sea, since my Lord of Savoy had called Gaillard back to Pevensey.

The night before, some thirty “spears” and a company of archers had marched in from Lewes, sent thence by John de Warenne, the Earl.