He forgot about the breakfasts and his busy day, and he would have probably stayed on that spot, mid-bridge, until evening, had not Old Fox, walking up the road to visit a friend for elevenses, came across him, realised something was terribly wrong and gently helped him home.

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The Mink couldn't move. He stood there transfixed, unable to even begin to think about what had happened, what he had seen.

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They crossed the bridge and as they passed he could smell their bodies and the horses' sweat and a faint odour of wine and fish. Then they were swallowed up in the thick grey rouk and were gone and all was silence once again.

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A few moments later, they came. First, the horses, grand and gleaming, ridden by figures in shining armour with golden helmets plumed with scarlet, then a long trail of men looking cold and tired, but resolute.

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He turned around, but something deep within him told him to stand back, to press himself as far as he could into the weathered stones of the bridge away from the centre of the road.

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