Three men riding horses along the ancient forest track came upon a miller carrying grain and milk in his oxcart. Dunheld, son of eoldorman Odred and leader of the three ordered the man to stop and tell him his business. The miller was afraid. He knew nothing, he said, the monk Ecceard having rewarded his silence. But the miller had children too, and when Dunheld drew his knife and the blade flashed, his resolve weakened. His sacks contained milled wheat, and with it was a pitcher of goats’ milk for the hermit girl who lived in the woods. He had brought them from his mill which was in the direction of Mapesbury.

“The hermit girl who lives in the woods?” Dunheld looking at his companions who grinned back at him. ”Tell me more about this angel.”

Sensing bad intent, the miller babbled, his sentences a confused fog. He did not know where she was, she moved about. Who knew where she’d be one day to the next? Dunheld dismounting and the man taking a step or two backwards. The ealdorman’s son measuring out his words.

“Where will you leave the grain and the milk today?”

Dunheld’s companions Uthred and Edgar now also dismounting. All three taller, broader and younger than the miller who struggled to speak. Dunheld grabbed him by the course cloth of his shirt, his mouth inches away from the man’s face.

“Lead me to her.”

The miller, who also had a wife and aged parents to feed, had no need of heroics. Mumbling a prayer, he walked slowly back along the track, Dunheld and his cousins now back on their horses, following the miller’s ox. Their leader stopped and turned to face his companions.

“I think I had best go alone.”

Uthred and Edgar fell back, despondent. Pulling a mouse carcass from a leather pouch, Dunheld whistled. A hawk flew down from the high branches and settled on his master’s arm, tearing at the mouseflesh.

“There you go my beauty. There you go.”