The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell

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  They had been hunting fowl near the edge of the forest, in the marshes of the Avon. Now they were about to head back to the cave, which they had recently refurbished with rough-hewn tables and chairs. Bork had gone on ahead to scout out the path into the deeper forest.

  Suddenly he came hurrying back into view.

  ‘What is it?’ Edwin asked urgently, shifting the two duck that he held over his shoulder.

  Bork urged him to silence. ‘Three men riding down the path ahead,’ he hissed. ‘In the direction of Watling Street.’

  ‘Robbers?’ Oswald asked. He had little faith in the notion of honour amongst thieves.

  Bork shook his head. ‘Too well-dressed,’ he replied. ‘And one is a churchman. He’s leading a well-laden packhorse.’

  Edwin frowned.

  ‘But what are they doing so deep in the woods?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t they know the dangers?’

  ‘Perhaps they need schooling,’ suggested Oswald.

  A grin crept over Edwin’s face.