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shrieked a woman who landed almost on top of Magda, leaping into the ditch just as the soldiers passed. “They’ve crushed my toe!” she yelled.
    Magda rolled over and turned to her with concern. “Let me see.” She was used to treating crushed toes and feet.
    The woman ignored the young person trying to help her and continued to yell after the gang of soldiers fast disappearing into the distance in a cloud of dust. She screamed and held up two fingers. “Hell and damnation take them!” she cried. “The Witch of Barnsdale curse them!”
    “Witch of Barnsdale?” said Magda, puzzled, carefully taking the woman’s foot into her hands to massage the toes.
    “Aye,” said the woman, turning to her at last. “You must have heard of her, lad – the evil Witch of Barnsdale? The one they call the Forestwife? They say she’s enchanted the Hooded One and keeps him from the gallows with her spells!”
    “Why, of course!” said Philippa hastily. “Of course he’s heard such tales, but I dare say they’re all rubbish.”
    “Oh . . . yes!” said Magda quickly.
    Now the woman was staring down at her foot as Magda worked her fingers gently up and down. “Why, that feels better lad!,” she cried, soldiers and witches all forgotten. “Good as new! I thought they’d crippled me. Thank you – tha’s an angel sent from heaven. Where did tha learn to do that?”
    Philippa took hold of Magda by the arm, hurrying her away to where John and Tom waited anxiously. “He’s a grand lad,” she called back, “but we must be getting on or we’ll be late.”
    The woman stared after them. “Bless you both!” she cried.
    “Walk on, walk fast!” Philippa muttered. “Try not to cause a stir.”
    Magda obeyed, but as soon as they were on their way, she had to satisfy her curiosity. “Wicked Witch of Barnsdale?” she spluttered. “And who were those men? The ones they called the wolfpack?”
    “The King’s special guard,” John told her through gritted teeth. “Mercenaries every one; more feared than any. They’re no dutiful feudal gathering, but trained fighters who kill for money. They’ll do any filthy deed the King wishes so long as he pays enough.”
    Magda shivered and moved closer to her father.

5
The Potter of Mansfield

    It was after noon when they passed over the deep ditch and in through the northern gate of Nottingham Town. They walked past the Butter Cross and through the market place. The market was in full swing, rowdy with the shouts of pedlars and stallholders, but above all the bustle loomed the great stone towers of the castle, built upon a high rock.
    Magda was distracted by the market sights and sounds, her head muddled with the clamour and her nose twitching at the strange mixture of smells.
    “Spices from Araby! Cinnamon and ginger!” A woman wafted a pinch of sharp-smelling brown powder beneath her nose.
    “Fresh pies,” another shouted.
    “Sweet honey cakes!”
    “Fine roast pork! Fill your belly! Salted crackling!”
    Philippa grabbed Magda’s arm and led her boldly on towards the castle. “Not here,” she insisted. “Look out for a potter’s stall.”
    Magda wondered what on earth they could want with pots when Lady Matilda and Isabel were in danger, but she was so amazed by what she saw that she didn’t argue. John and Tom followed as she and Philippa went on through the stone-built gateway and into the castle’s outer bailey.
    Here there were more stalls and bustle, but Philippa took a quick look around and marched on over the next bridge and into the middle bailey.
    “There,” Tom spoke quietly. “I see him.”
    John swore under his breath. “Damn the man. Can he get no closer? Must he sit under the Sheriff’s nose? If he got any closer he’d be in the Sheriff’s kitchens.”
    Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “Best place to see what’s going on.”
    The middle bailey was alive with soldiers and horses and kitchen maids buying produce from stalls and pedlars. Magda