Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Groundsel reined in his stallion at the top of the rise and gazed down in silent wonder at the Bridge of Chains, spanning the chasm. The bridge was constructed of huge rings of iron from which hung rods connected to more rings. To these were fastened wooden planks. The swaying structure began on the northern slopes of a wooded hill and stretched for almost a quarter of a mile to where it joined a stone promontory set beneath a portcullis gate. ‘How did they make it?’ asked Groundsel as Morrigan rode alongside him.

‘Some believe it was magic,’ she told him, ‘but my father explained that they first made a simple rope bridge and gradually strengthened it. He said it took over seven years to construct.’

Groundsel switched his attention to the Citadel itself. It was carved from the side of the mountain and reared above the chasm like a giant tooth. As far as he could see, the Citadel was inaccessible from the south or west; only the slender bridge linked it to the forest. The fortress was walled to the north and boasted two square towers above the portcullis. Groundsel could see no sentries, nor movement of any kind on the walls.

‘I do not like the thought of riding a horse across that bridge,’ he said. ‘I have never liked heights.’

‘You will find it will support you well enough,’ she told him, edging her mount forward. Together they rode down the hill and halted before the bridge, where Morrigan lifted her helm from her head and placed it over the pommel of her saddle.

‘Are you ready, Forest Lord?’ she asked, grinning.

Groundsel’s face was pale, his mouth set in a hard line. He did not answer, but spurred the stallion forward. As the horse moved out on to the bridge, he pulled down the visor of his helm and shut his eyes. Morrigan followed him, riding close to the right-hand side of the structure and gazing down over the iron rings. The chasm was deep, and she could just make out the bright ribbon of a stream running over the rocks below.

She transferred her gaze to Groundsel, who was sitting like a statue, looking neither left nor right. The horses’ hooves sounded like slow drum-beats on the wooden planks.

‘Enjoying the view, Groundsel?’ she called, but there was no reply. Smiling, she kicked her horse into a run. The bridge swayed alarmingly as Morrigan overtook Groundsel and cantered up to the portcullis gate, where she swung her mount and waited while her companion made his slow way forward. Once on solid ground, Groundsel slid from the saddle and sat down beside the gate. He removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his face.

‘You do not look well, my Lord,’ she said.

His muttered reply was short and brutal. Laughter burst from Morrigan.

‘My dear Groundsel, how could you use such language in front of a lady? A Knight of the Gabala should always be courteous. Shall we go inside?’

Groundsel stood and led his horse through the gateway. As they passed under the portcullis, he stopped and looked up. ‘Rusted solid,’ he said. ‘What sort of fool allows his defences to fall into such disrepair?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Perhaps the man is a peasant. He probably doesn’t understand knightly ways. You could instruct him, Groundsel.’

His eyes were cold as he approached her. ‘You seem intent on making me angry, bitch. That is not wise.’

‘Have I offended you? Oh, I am sorry, dear Groundsel. Perhaps we should kiss and become friends again?’

‘I would sooner kiss the rear end of my horse,’ he snapped.

‘Well, your experience is obviously greater than mine in such matters — but I pity the horse.’ She dragged on her reins and cantered into the Citadel. Nothing moved, the fortress seemed deserted.

She headed her mount towards the High Keep and halted before the steps to the double doors. Groundsel rode alongside her.

‘There’s nobody here,’ he said. ‘What in Hell’s name happened?’

‘They are inside,’ she told him.

‘How do you know?’

Morrigan shook her head and dismounted, wondering how he would react if she told him she could sense their blood, warm and promising. Mounting the steps, she banged her mailed fist against the door.

‘Bucklar!’ she called. ‘You have visitors.’

The left-hand door slid open, creaking on its hinges. ‘Don’t go in!’ called Groundsel, dragging his longsword clear. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Then stay outside,’ she advised. She stepped into the cool interior and smiled at the woman who stood holding the bent bow, the arrow aimed at Morrigan’s face. ‘Do not fear me,’ she said. ‘I am here with a message from Llaw Gyffes.’ Behind the woman were several children, one of whom held a curved dagger. Movement came from the shadows to left and right and Morrigan swung her head. There were some twenty women in the hall; their eyes were frightened, their manner tense and expectant. Then Groundsel entered, grinned and sheathed his blade.

‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘We’ve ridden for days to find a fortress of women and children. How many will want to join Llaw’s army, do you think?’

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman with the bow, easing the string forward and lowering her weapon. Morrigan noted that the arrow was still notched and could be loosed in an instant.

‘I am Morrigan. The ape in the armour is Groundsel. We are looking for Bucklar. The King’s army is about to attack us in the south and we were hoping Bucklar could send some men to aid us.’

‘No,’ the woman said, ‘he won’t do that. He can’t. We are already under attack. A force has invaded the forest from Pertia Port and wiped out two settlements. My husband — and almost all of the men — have gone after them.’

‘What a genius,’ said Groundsel. ‘Leaving his home base undefended. Come on, Morrigan, let’s go.’

‘You leave if you wish,’ said Morrigan, ‘but I have had enough of sleeping on the ground, with ants crawling inside my armour. I intend to stay here the night — and take a bath.’

Groundsel approached her. ‘I may not be a Knight by birth, Morrigan, but neither was I born a fool. This is not a fortress, it’s a tomb. There’s only one way out — over that bridge. And if the enemy gets here before Bucklar returns, everyone here will be slaughtered. Is a bath worth the risk?’

‘You worry too much,’ she told him.

‘Your insults are easier to bear than your stupidity,’ he retorted and, turning on his heel, he strode from the hall and mounted his stallion. His helm was hanging from the pommel and he eased it into place. What a useless mission, he thought, as he rode from the portcullis gate. Four days in the company of a harridan and nothing to show for it.

He swallowed hard as his horse walked out on to the gently swaying bridge and steeled himself to stare straight ahead. The boards beneath the horse creaked and groaned, the chains to left and right of him grating. Safely on the other side he angled his white stallion up the hill and into the trees, halting to stare back at the Citadel. Morrigan was right, he knew. He was a peasant — and worse, he was a murderer and a thief. How amusing he must seem to her and the other patricians. A movement came on the hillside opposite, and he saw a young boy walk out of the undergrowth with a small grey dog beside him. Now that was a good age to be, thought Groundsel, remembering the early years of his youth, when he had played with the master’s hounds, and all the summers were lifetime long and golden and the winters bright with cold magic. He grinned, thinking of the golden-haired child he had saved from the snow. It would be nice to watch her grow in Cithaeron, to see her dance and sing and play. Why waste time on this doomed war? Morrigan’s words lashed at him.

‘The ape in the armour is Groundsel…’

A month ago he would have killed her for those words, and thought nothing of it.

Suddenly the boy darted down the hillside and raced on to the bridge, the dog running beside him. Groundsel swung in the saddle. Back along the road w some thirty soldiers, marching two abreast towards the Citadel.

Groundsel chuckled. ‘Have a good bath, Morrigan, nxy sweet,’ he whispered. He could see movement on th walls of the Citadel; several women were gathering at the gate towers, armed with bows and quivers of arrrows. The soldiers marched to the bridge and halted. L their packs, they dropped them at the roadside and untied the small round shields that were bmickled to them. Finally the officer gathered his men atround him, giving instructions.

‘Be interested to see how you are going to handle this, Morrigan,’ murmured Groundsel.

The soldiers surged on to the bridge and ran forward, holding their shields before them. Groundsel could see that the few archers on the battlements would not stop them. Sunlight sparkled from Morrigan’s silver armour as she stepped into sight, sword in hand.

‘You’ve got pluck, at least,’ owned Groundsel.

Seeing her before them, the soldiers slowed their charge. Arrows thudded into their shields, or bounced from breastplates and helms. One man went down with a shaft in his thigh. But the rest ran on.

Morrigan sprang to meet them, her longsword slicing murderously through a wooden shield and half-severing the arm beneath. The warrior screamed and hurled himself away from the silver figure, tripping to fall in front of his comrades. Several men tumbled over him and the charge faltered. Morrigan’s sword rose and fell in the melee, cutting through armour, skin and bone. Several blades bounced from her own armour, but no blade touched her flesh. Five men were down before the attackers regained their composure and Morrigan was forced back, step by step, towards the wider portcullis gate, where they could get behind her and bear her down.

Groundsel decided to watch until she was overpowered. The sound of advancing hoofbeats came to him. Back along the road was a rider… a rider in crimson armour. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed.

‘Poor Morrigan,’ he thought, and was about to swing his horse and ride away when a series of images flashed into his mind: the child on the hillside; Morrigan in her silver armour, her white horse behind her in the gateway; and now the Red Knight. The words of the Dagda cut into him like hot knives.

‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse. And a rider in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not see it.’

This was the day then. And the rider would kill him.

Don’t be a fool, he told himself; you are clear. The Dagda is wrong. Ride away and cheat your fate.

But then he recalled the look in Manannan’s eyes, and the promise he had asked of all the Knights.

‘Damn you all!’ shouted Groundsel. Slapping the stallion’s rump, he galloped down the hill. The stallion thundered on to the bridge and raced at the startled soldiers. Groundsel’s sword hacked down at the first to come within range and then he was among them, cutting left and right. Morrigan, blood flowing from a wound in her temple where her helm had been dashed from her head, forced her way into the fray, swinging her sword double-handed. In the confined space the soldiers found it difficult to hit out, for fear of injuring their fellows. But Groundsel and Morrigan were in no way so impaired. Groundsel’s blade crashed through the officer’s helm, dashing his brains to the wooden boards.

‘Back!’ yelled one of the soldiers — and they fled. Groundsel stepped from the saddle and looked around him. Twelve soldiers were down. Three were still alive, but bleeding heavily; he killed them.

‘We are dead,’ said Morrigan, her voice flat and cold. Groundsel glanced back to see the Red Knight riding slowly across the Bridge of Chains, a dark sword in his mailed fist.

‘Speak for yourself,’ returned the former outlaw. ‘I never met the man I couldn’t kill.’ Morrigan said nothing but she backed away, her sword falling from her hand. The Red Knight advanced with terrifying lack of speed, the undead stallion plodding forward. Groundsel rode to meet him, halting his mount in the Knight’s path.

A dry metallic chuckle came from within the red helm. ‘It takes more than armour to make a warrior, Knight,’ said a voice. ‘I shall kill you slowly for your effrontery… I shall dismember you.’

‘You all want to talk first, don’t you?’ hissed Groundsel. ‘Well, I’ve heard your boasts, Scumbucket — now let’s see how you fight!’ He spurred his stallion and aimed a wicked blow at the crimson helm, but the Red Knight swayed in the saddle and Groundsel’s sword swept harmlessly by. A thundering cut hammered into Groundsel’s neck-plates. Stars exploded before his eyes and he tried to crash his own blade at the crimson figure, but again and again the dark sword clanged against the Gabala armour. His shoulder-plate was ripped from him, then his helm was struck, the visor spinning away. His stallion reared, saving Groundsel from a thrust that would have speared his eye. The horse backed away and Groundsel dragged in a shuddering breath. The Red Knight advanced, and in that moment Groundsel knew the end had come. He could not lay a sword on the man.

The Red Knight began to laugh. ‘What a sorry day for the Gabala! You really are the worst Knight in history. I hope there are others better than you. And now, peasant, it is time to send you to Hell.’

Groundsel said nothing — but as the Red Knight moved in, he kicked his feet from the stirrups and dived at him. It was the one move Bersis had not anticipated. With lightning reflexes the Red Knight swung his sword to slice deep into Groundsel’s shoulder, smashing through the collar-bone and down deep into the lungs. Ignoring the pain, Groundsel’s powerful arms circled the Knight, driving him from the saddle. They landed across the huge rings that held the bridge and swayed there for a second. Groundsel’s face was pressed close to the Red Knight’s helm, and the former outlaw could see the fear in his enemy’s eyes.

‘Not talking now, are you, pig breath?’ he spat, blood

bubbling down his beard. ‘Send me to Hell, will you? Well, you can join me on the journey.’

‘No!’ screamed Bersis. But Groundsel, with the last of his strength, dragged his opponent over the edge and the two figures toppled out into space.

Morrigan ran to the precipice and stared down. The Red and Silver figures were still locked in a deadly embrace, but now they looked like children’s toys sparkling in the sunlight. Smaller and smaller they became, until at last they were dashed against the jagged rocks below.

At the moment of impact Morrigan averted her eyes. The undead stallion fell to the boards, its flesh stripping away, and a terrible stench was borne to Morrigan on the breeze.

At the far end of the bridge the soldiers were gathering for another rush. But suddenly a horn sounded and the hillside was alive with forest men who charged into the startled troops. Morrigan did not watch the slaughter; she moved to the edge of the chasm and looked down at the tiny figures.

‘You were a man, Groundsel,’ she said.

Sheera watched as the Duke of Mactha led his fifty riders from the village. For ten days she had observed their training, or joined with other groups practising archery or sword work. Of Errin she had seen little, and her patience was wearing thin. She had spurned the safety of Cithaeron in order to avenge her sister’s death, but now she felt useless — and worse, ignored. She had seen Llaw Gyffes walking the hills with Arian, but only twice had Errin sought her out — once to see that she was comfortably ensconced in a primitive cabin, and a second time when she received a nick in her upper arm after an over-enthusiastic practice session with longswords.

‘Why must you put yourself in danger?’ he had asked her as he examined the shallow cut.

‘What sort of question is that?’ she responded. ‘Am I not also a part of Llaw’s army?’

‘You are a woman,’ he stated, as if that answered the question.

‘Is Morrigan not a woman? Or Arian?’

‘That is different. Morrigan is… strange. Arian has been raised in the forest. Anyway, I have no say over the others.’

‘You have no say over me,’ she stormed. ‘The only connection we have is that you killed my sister.’

Now he avoided her completely — which was galling. Several of the forest men had approached her, but these she sent packing with strong words. She had asked the Duke of Mactha if she could ride with him and raid the supply lines, but he had politely refused her request. He had dismounted from the grey stallion and placed his hand on her shoulders.

‘I say this to you in confidence,’ he whispered. ‘We Will not be coming back. There is no hope that we can evade pursuit for long. Most of the men with me nderstand this. I do not want to see you… in peril, Sheera. It was bad enough being part of your lister’s… trial. You understand?’

‘You are going out to die.’

‘I think so — though I will strive to delay the dreadful ay.’

Now he was gone — as Llaw, Elodan and Manannan were gone. The King’s army had reached the southern border and most of the Knights had travelled south to prepare the defences and ready the men. Already word had come back that Elodan had ambushed some of the King’s scouts and destroyed them in a short battle. Of Manannan and Llaw there was no word.

Sheera joined a group of women for the midday meal of venison and dried fruit, then took her bow and quiver and wandered to the hills. It was she who first glimpsed Morrigan riding slowly along a game trail, followed by scores of warriors. She ran down to meet them.

‘Where is Groundsel?’ she called up to the silver rider.

‘Dead,’ answered Morrigan, touching spurs to her mount and riding on.

Sheera joined the column as it wound its way down to the settlement. There were more than two hundred and fifty men, and she soon gathered that they were from a Citadel to the north, they had already fought one battle, routing troops from Pertia Port, and now were pledged to Llaw Gyffes. It seemed that Groundsel and Morrigan had saved many of their wives and children and the leader, Bucklar, had promised to aid the rebellion.

Sheera sat with the Citadel men as Bucklar, Errin and Lamfhada discussed strategy in the cave. Towards dusk the Citadel leader — a tall, stout warrior with greying hair and a trident beard — led his men south.

Sheera gathered her bow and joined them.

Nuada awoke to the sound of bird-song. Opening his eyes, he saw the dawn breaking over the mountains, the sky ablaze with colour, pink banners streaming into the virgin blue, white clouds running before the sun like sheep before a golden lion.

Kartia’s head was resting on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest. He snuggled down into the blanket, feeling the warmth of her body against him.

This was contentment. This was joy.

Far from the front line of battle, an eternity away from the killing and slaying, Nuada was at peace. Kartia mumbled something in her sleep and Nuada’s hand slid over her hips. Her eyes opened.

‘Dawn already?’ she whispered.

‘It is a beautiful day,’ he told her. ‘A veritable prince of days.’ Pulling her to him, he kissed her softly.

For an hour they made love without haste, then lay together in comfortable silence. Finally Nuada stretched and sat up. The fire was dead, and Brion was nowhere to be seen. Usually at this time he would be broiling rabbit meat for their breakfast — or pigeon, or lamb. Nuada rose and strolled to the waterfall, wading in to stand beneath the showering water; it was cool, and wondrously refreshing.

Sunlight bathed the pool at the fall’s base and rainbows danced through the curtain of water. Paradise could not contain more beauty, Nuada thought, as he towelled himself down with his shirt. Kartia moved to a tall rock and dived into the pool. Nuada envied her the ability to swim; it was something he would have to learn. As he sat back and watched her glide through the water, his thoughts moved to his mission. So far they had visited a dozen villages, and at each settlement his words had inspired a following. More than three hundred men had pledged themselves to the cause, but it should have been more. Many more.

He must have spoken to more than two thousand warriors, he reflected, glancing back at the armour laid on a blanket beneath an overhanging pine.

The Knight without a sword. He felt a pang of guilt. Not because he did not fight, but because he was so glad that he did not. It made him feel like a hypocrite.

Go out and join Llaw, all you young men — but not me. No. I am a poet, you see. I just fill your heads with glory, and skim past the maggots and the worms and the pain.

He had tried to paint a picture of the war as a Holy cause: good versus evil, light against dark. But here in the forest all was shade.

‘Nuada! Nuada!’ called Brion. Nuada rose and saw the burly blond forester running towards the pool.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked, climbing down from his rock to meet the running man.

‘The King’s men have surrounded the village; they have herded all the people into the hall.’

‘Slow down. Tell me all.’

‘I went back just before dawn. I couldn’t catch anything for breakfast, so I thought they would let us have some food. When I got close, I saw the horses, so I hid. They gathered in Ramath and all his people. I don’t know what they plan, but we must get away from here. We’re too close.’

‘Why so frightened? We have horses; we can outrun them, surely.’

‘There is a Red Knight with them and they have dark magic. You have said this many times, that they are the Evil Ones. We must get away.’

‘A Red Knight? Here? Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Brion. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’

Kartia swam to the shore and rose from the water. ‘What is for breakfast, sir Knight?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, I am afraid. We have to leave. Ramath’s village was attacked this morning; it is not safe here.’

‘Poor Ramath,’ she said. ‘I really liked him.’

‘So did I. Now get your things together.’

They gathered their packs and tied them to the saddles. Nuada climbed into his armour, which Brion helped him to buckle.

A man stepped into the clearing and Brion’s dagger flashed out.

‘Ramath!’ greeted Nuada, grinning. ‘You escaped! Well done.’

The newcomer was tall and lean, dressed in dark skins of polished leather. He approached Nuada and bowed.

‘I did not escape, sir, they let me go.’ Ramath swallowed hard and looked away. ‘It is you they want. I must return with you within the hour, or all my people die. The Red Knight, Sir Edrin, has promised that we will be freed the moment you surrender yourself.’

‘You can’t!’ cried Kartia. ‘They will kill you.’ She swung on Ramath. ‘How dare you come here and ask this of him? How dare you?’

Nuada pulled her back. ‘How… how can you be sure he will keep his word, Ramath?’ he asked.

‘I cannot be, sir. But what else can I do?’

Nuada’s mouth was dry. He lifted a canteen from his saddle and drank deeply. ‘I have a mission, you see,’ he said at last. ‘I must raise an army to fight these… evil men. You understand? I cannot…’ His voice faded to silence as he saw the look of despair in Ramath’s eyes.

‘I have three sons, sir. None has yet reached five years. They are sitting with their mother, waiting for the knives to open their throats.’

Nuada turned away. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Kartia pleaded. ‘Please Nuada. Think of us. Think…’

Nuada stooped and lifted his helm, handing it to Brion. ‘Keep this. I will not need it. Take Kartia back to Llaw and the others. Tell them I’m sorry; I don’t have the strength to refuse.’

Kartia grabbed at his arm. ‘They’ll kill you,’ she said, tears spilling to her cheeks. ‘Sweet Heaven, they’ll kill you!’

He drew her away from the others, his vision misting as he kissed her. ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘and I think that this morning’s joy was a gift. A last gift. I never saw a dawn like it.’ He pulled her close. ‘I don’t know what to say. There are no words, Kartia.’

‘Let me come with you. Please?’

‘No. Go with Brion. I will feel… stronger if I am alone.’

He strode to his horse and mounted. Then, taking a deep shuddering breath, he touched his spurs to the stallion. Kartia ran forward, but Brion pulled her away as Nuada rode from the glade, not daring to look back. Ramath walked beside him in silence until they reached the last hill; then he reached up and touched Nuada’s hand.

‘I will never be able to thank you enough,’ said the leader.

Nuada smiled, but his mouth was too dry for words and he was trembling. As he guided the horse down into the village, soldiers ran out, ringing him with their lances.

He was ordered to dismount and did so; his limbs were shaking with fear and he stumbled. The villagers flocked out to see him, lining the way ahead. Looking at their faces, he drew strength from their sympathy. One more performance, Nuada, he told himself. Surely you have the strength for that?

He was led beyond the main hall, where only the night before he had held the villagers spellbound with tales of heroism and courage. What he would not give now to see Llaw Gyffes and the other Knights thundering down the hillside to rescue him. Now, there would be a song!

They took him to a dead tree in a clearing and there was the Red Knight, Edrin.

‘So,’ he said, ‘the story-teller returns. Where is your sword, sir Knight, and your helm?’

‘I have no sword,’ said Nuada.

‘I will loan you one. Then, at least, you can fight for your life.’

Nuada shook his head. ‘No. If I were to kill you, these people would suffer for it. You made a bargain: me for them. Honour it.’ He could see the anger in the Knight’s eyes and knew that he had won. For if the Knight had killed him in combat, the word would have spread through the settlements that the new Knights of the Gabala were weaker than the Red Knights of the King. He smiled. ‘What now, sir Knight?’

‘If you are too cowardly to fight, then you will die like a villain.’

Soldiers surrounded Nuada and his armour was unbuckled and pulled from him. Then he was taken to the tree, his arms spread against the rough bark. Two soldiers came forward with hammers and long nails and Nuada gritted his teeth as the sharp points were placed against his wrists. The hammers struck. Blood spurted from his arms as the nails drove through flesh, sinew and bone to bite into the trunk beyond. Nuada sagged… the nails ripped at him. He groaned and tried to raise his head.

The Red Knight took up a bow and a quiver of arrows, carrying them to Ramath.

‘You shoot first,’ he said. ‘Prove yourself a loyal man of the King.’

The leader blinked. ‘I… can’t…’

‘Do it!’ yelled Nuada. ‘Or it is all for nothing. They will kill me anyway; you will not be killing me, they will. Do it. I forgive you.’

Ramath took the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Swiftly he drew and loosed and his arrow punched into Nuada’s chest. One by one the village men were called forward, and each sent a shaft into the lifeless body nailed to the tree.

At last the arrows were spent and the Red Knight’ strode to his stallion. The soldiers backed away and marched from the scene. Ramath ran forward and began to pull the arrows from Nuada’s body, weeping as he did so.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, over and over.

It was to this scene that Lamfhada’s spirit came. He had left the cave to scout the north, and had been drawn to the village by the overpowering outpouring of emotion. He hovered in the air over Nuada’s body and saw the terrible wounds it bore.

Remembering the stag, he thrust his golden hands into the corpse and poured his magic into the body. The wounds closed, but there was no life to be found.

Ramath and the other men, unable to see Lamfhada, watched as the wounds closed and stumbled back from the tree.

Knowing it was pointless, still Lamfhada would not stop. More and more power flowed into the corpse — and through it into the dead apple tree beyond. The branches trembled and buds grew in an instant from every twig and bough, opening into pink and white blossom which began to fall like snow around the scene.

At last Lamfhada surrendered to the inevitable: Nuada Silverhand was dead. The Armourer rose from the scene and fled, distraught, to the cave.

Then Ramath stepped forward and stooped to lift apple blossom from the ground. He turned to his people.

‘He said it was a Holy War. And you have all seen this sign from the Heavens. We will send a messenger to every settlement. Nuada will have his army. By all the Gods, I swear it!’