The hunter shook his head again, grinned, then heeled about and sauntered back to the compound.

“Don’t move,” said the archer. He unsheathed his knife and warily moved in and around her, eyes narrow and glittering. He roughly cut the hood from the arrow, ripping the fabric in the process. Apparently the iron head of the arrow was more important, as he then carved away bark and pried it from the tree with the delicacy of a surgeon.

“I am Rædwulf,” he said, tossing the cloak to her feet. “What manner of person are you, and why do you speak Latin?”

“She is of the Bindings,” said a new voice, hollow and deep between the trees.

Cnán spun to discover that the older man had come upon them silently. He wore the robes of a Christian monk. His face was creased and rugged, counting at least threescore years, but age had not brought frailty. As he solemnly inspected her, he held his hand to his chest and drummed his sternum with his fingers. A chingle of mail suggested a hauberk under his travel-worn tunic.

All the activity had drawn the attention of the others in the clearing, even the younger ones busy hacking each other with sticks. They called a halt to the mock combat and took time to salute each other and shake hands before turning to amble in Cnán’s direction.

The horseman cantered past them and drew his horse up short, just at the edge of the woods, then sidled close behind the older man. He looked down on her, his huge mustache flicking in disgust, as if she were an engorged tick just plucked from his inner thigh.

“Mongol!” he proclaimed.

Without turning, the older man countered, “No, Istvan. She has the cheekbones, it’s true, but take a closer look at her eyes.”

“Bandit or corpse robber, then. Either way, kill her.” The horseman, Istvan, spat on the ground near her feet, expertly swung the stallion around, and cantered away.