Every hoofbeat brought Begiloc closer to the act of retribution smouldering repressed for years. Christians, like Leoba, insisted vengeance belonged to God, but Milo thrived impenitent and the heart of the Briton ached for justice. Under no illusion about the fearsome retaliation the Bishop would mete unless he destroyed him utterly, he rode Doom into Treves.
In town, he reined in before a tavern. The Apple Press sign tallied with a youth outside pouring apples into a wooden press and the bustle of customers promised decent fare.
Lucky to find a seat in the tap-room, he partook of a jug of fermented juice lighter and sweeter than the scrump cider of Dumnonia. As soon as a place emptied opposite him, another filled it, one with the weather-beaten face of a man used to working outdoors. Th
