than he possessed, but he did not race to his horse. He even took time to accept a handful of bilberries from one shy woman and thank her. Then he led his troop at a trot along the wooded Burstock road, passing his hawk to one of his men as they rode.
Once out of sight of the village, he kicked the horse into a flat-out gallop.
Jehanne was running off to her lover.
He'd kill her.
No.
But this time he would beat her, and keep her in close confinement.
He'd kill Lowick, though. He'd spit him before her eyes. But even that might not quench the rage in him.
He charged around a bend in the road to see the party far ahead, out of the trees and onto the open moor. They, too, were riding flat out, doubtless having heard the beat of pursuing horses.
Galeran drew his sword.
Raoul raced up beside him. "Think, my friend!"
But Galeran just kicked his steaming horse into greater speed.
The crossbow bolt clipped his helmet, twisting his head back, jerking his rein hand so his horse reared, almost unseating him. The next thunked into his shield, passing a finger-length through the iron-reinforced wood.
His men immediately swung into a circle around him, shields high, but the assault stopped as abruptly as it had begun. An eerie stillness settled. No other projectile flew. No armed men charged out of the suddenly silent woods.
Galeran looked once at his distant, rapidly disappearing quarry, then broke the shield wall to drive through the scrub into the woodland.
Crashing noises marked his assailant, ahead and running for his life.
Galeran chased after, being careful only not to ride his horse into a bog or crevice. His hounds gave voice and flew with him. He bellowed for his party to fan out, to stop the man from sneaking off to one side.
The next bolt might have found its mark had not his horse tossed up its head. The quarrel pierced it in the eye, killing it instantly.
Galeran kicked clear, but landed sprawling in fallen leaves, almost slashing himself on his drawn sword. He scrambled to his feet, discarded his shield, and ran straight at the bowman, who was fending off snarling dogs with his two bows.
A swing of Galeran's sword took off the man's hands. Before the bowman had time to scream, Galeran ran him through. Then he dragged the corpse up by the hair and hacked off the head.
Blood poured from it onto blood-soaked ground . . .
... as it had in Jerusalem, where the streets had flowed blood and the same metallic stench had risen to sicken him. Where his sword had killed because it was kill or be killed. Where he 'd killed women and children because they, too, had fought. Where he'd charged a group of German knights.
Raoul had dragged him back ...
Raoul was dragging him back from the bloody mess, seizing his sword hand and twisting viciously.
Galeran dropped the sword, wondering why Raoul was doing such a thing.
He blinked to clear misty vision. His friend looked angry, as he had in Jerusalem. . . .
Were they in Jerusalem again?
He'd thought he was back in England, which was nice, but for some reason there was pleasure in the thought that he might be still overseas. . . .
Raoul had knocked him out in Jerusalem, knocked him out of his mind.
Was he still out of his mind . . . ?
"Galeran, give it up. You don't want it."
Raoul seemed to be trying to pull something from his left hand. But he'd dropped his shield. . . .
Galeran focused and saw he was holding a grimacing head by the hair, blood still trickling from the severed throat.
With a shudder he dropped it.
Raoul kicked it toward the corpse around which the hounds hovered uncertainly, drawn by blood, repelled by the human scent.
Taking in the mess that had been a man brief moments before, Galeran turned to retch. It was as if he spewed out madness, for when he straightened, he was sane. He knew he was in England, he knew about Jehanne, and he knew what he had just done.
Beginning to shiver, he wondered what would have happened if hell caught Jehanne in that mad rage. Would he have attacked her with the same mindless violence? Snatched the babe from her arms to spit it on his sword?
Now it seemed unthinkable, but now it seemed unthinkable that he had slaughtered someone he could have taken prisoner. It was even more unthinkable that he had decapitated a corpse and