'Mike, remember that dog I shot at a while back— the one that was prowling in the yard?'
'What about it?'
'Hell of a thing that was ... Steady, lass, steady.'
'Why?' Michael asked, though he knew.
'It was damned big, for one thing. Big as a bloody calf. Like a St Bernard or a wolfhound or something. And I could have sworn I had the barrel lined straight up with it when I let rip.'
'From the hip,' Michael said off-handedly, though he thought his ears would visibly prick up if he paid any closer attention to what the old man was saying.
'From the hip, aye. But it was a matter of a few yards. I could have sworn I hit it straight on. It should have been blown to bits.'
'Would have been a hell of a mess,' Michael said.
'Mmm.' Mullan seemed lost in thought. 'Exactly. I'd have thought the spray would have got him with at' least a few pellets, but not a drop of blood was there. As if they had gone straight through the bastard ... Mike, you asked me a long time ago about dogs hanging round the sheep or in the woods. Have you been seeing anything out of the ordinary then?'
Michael almost laughed. Where should I begin? he wondered.
But no. It had gone too far for that. Once upon a time he might have told Mullan, but it was too late now. Rose was mixed up in this thing, he was sure, and he did not want to bring her name into anything, even though it would be easier with Mullan, he being a Protestant and not related. Strange, that.
'Nothing,' he said shortly.
'What about that skull you dug up? Your grandmother said it was a huge great thing."
'It was just a dog's skull. Probably one-of the old farm dogs that are buried down by the river.' He felt a chill rake his backbone as he wondered if what he was saying was close to the truth.
'I see.' Mullan seemed put out. He bared his teeth for a second around the stem of his pipe.
'I only ask, see, because it's been on my mind again lately. There's something in the woods is scaring the sheep. They keep to the southern edge of the bottom meadow and they've chewed the grass down to the roots. There's good grazing yet on the side of the field that borders on to the trees but they won't go near it. Your grandfather can't understand it. Him and me is thinking of waiting in the woods a few nights to see if we can't bag whatever is wandering about in there.'
'No, you can't.' The words were out before Michael could stop them.
'Why, Mike? You tell me why. You know something about this, it's plain.'
'I don't. I don't know anything. Wouldn't setting traps be better than sitting there all night?'
'You've a point there,' Mullan said. 'Need bloody big traps if we're to catch the dog that was in the yard that night. If it was a dog.'
Michael looked at him sharply, but the old man's eyes were narrowed, his thoughts elsewhere.
They reached a long, shining stretch of empty sand and there Mullan's pipe disappeared into a pocket. He kicked his mount in the ribs and shouted wordlessly. Immediately Fancy took off like a chestnut rocket, throwing up scuds of sand behind her. The old man bent low over her neck and hallooed back at Michael, who was bumping up and down on Felix as the carthorse lumbered into a trot, then a rolling canter, his back tilting like a ship in a heavy sea. The air whistled past Michael's ears as Felix picked up speed, an equine juggernaut that sprayed sand. He guided the horse over to the firmer footing nearer the sea, and there was water splashing under Felix's hoofs. Ahead Fancy was hock deep, a seahorse, neighing shrilly, Mullan yelling like a boy. The water exploded around them in a deep furrow as they galloped, ploughing the waves.
THEY RODE OUT of the river in a thrash of spray, the chestnut labouring up the steep bank. The land levelled off then fell to a long slope of hazy forest that stretched for miles into the afternoon sun. Immediately before them was a glade, barely a hundred yards wide, woodsmoke rising blue from thatched buildings shrouded in trees. A bell tolled in the quiet and dun-robed figures paused to watch the newcomers.
Michael slipped off the exhausted horse leaving Cat clinging to the saddle, yawning. Around him Ringbone and his men were sidling out of the river dip as silently as voles, the jet eyes of the fox masks catching the sun. They fingered their spear-throwers nervously, eyes wide and white in the paint and filth of their faces.
Ringbone set a hand on Michael's shoulder and looked at him, questioningly, asking in the forest patois if this place was safe.
His three companions hung back, murmuring. A Christian bell and men in robes. This was a Brothers' retreat all right.
Michael nodded and made encouraging gestures. It was maddening the way the language was leaving him the nearer the edge of the wood came. Ringbone felt the frustration, too. They had shared so many things together and now could no longer speak the same tongue, but must mime like lunatics. It was Cat who, exasperated, spoke quickly to the fox men in their own language. Michael glared at her. 'What did you tell them?'