But she was naked. Her body was covered from neck to knees in an intricate tracery of blue tattoos. Her nipples stood to attention in the chill air. Her long hair whipped in the wind, and she caught a strand on the fingers of her left hand and looked at it: bronze-coloured, just like in life. That was how she knew this was just a dream.But it was no comfort. This was no lucid dream, she could not control it. And it was one of the bad ones. She’d had it before. She held a rude cudgel in her right hand, caked with blood and brains. Her intricately-inked flesh was splashed with gore. Looking out on the field, she could see Queen Budugg’s mighty host scattering, broken. The merciless legions were shoving their way through great stacks of corpses, starting to advance down from the ridge to press their advantage.She had to run. She knew it. She looked back behind her at the wagon train, drawn up to survey the battle in expectation of a victory. After all, they had outnumbered the enemy. Numb — as mourners filed past me at the graveside, mumbling those inadequate condolences and unable to look me in the eye. I don't recall who was there – even I wasn't there — but in a place where the fire hadn't happened and my family, my lovely loving family, were by my side.I sat in the study of a silent Ashford House after the mourners left; the servants had been dismissed and the only person on the estate apart from me was Rob Crawshay. He had not left my side since we rode into that shocking sight of a burning Hungerford Hall. He kept watch over me but did not attempt to talk to me – he knew I wasn't really here. I would only return to the reality of life when the knowledge of what had happened flooded my body, brain and soul.That night the painful knowledge arrived, biting with the ferocity of a sabre toothed tiger. I howled in agony, screamed in rage, shrieked in madness. Deranged with grief, I cursed God, Jesus, Joseph and Mary. I cursed all the saints, all the angels and.
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