Algar worked his shoulder. The wound was painful, but the bleeding had slowed. With some difficulty he shucked off his woolen jerkin. He took a deep breath, uttered a prayer and waded into the haelwaters. The cold was stunning, but he braced himself and went to the center of the pool. The boil of the falls fell fierce about him, the water roaring like a wild beast as it crashed down on his back and shoulders. Standing beneath the cascade, the horror of the morning still hard upon him. He and Father had been checking the snares when they came upon the trio of Normans astride great gray horses. The men wore gleaming armor and carried swords such as Algar had never seen. Father, not knowing their queer language, had offered them the brace of hares he carried. The horseman laughed and unsheathed his sword, slew Father without a word.