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The winter of that year was bitterly fierce, the young knight was met with biting, squally snow and wind as he stepped ashore. The look on his face spoke volumes: After three months of being tossed about in that leaky little cog, to be confronted with this, it said. He bundled his cloak closer about his shoulders, shaking some snow from his mane. He looked along the wharf, at the huddled row of higgledy-piggledy warehouses and merchants' shops that lined the dock, the snow and wind turning them from time to time into a vague blur of browns and greys. St-Michael's-Port was not showing its visitors its most alluring face.

Reluctantly, the lion stepped off the gangplank and onto the cold stone of the wharf. This cold place and this strange country seemed a world away from this knight's family's palazzo on the balmy shores of the Lupo Peninsula. Shivering he watched as the cog's crew and his retainers brought his luggage onto dry land. There was no sign of the promised wagon, the frown on the lion's face was turned somewhat bitter by the cold. He looked around as his private secretary came down the gangplank, his arms outstretched as if he feared toppling into the sludgy brown water below. The little monk threw back the cowl of his habit as he reached the dockside, his whiskers twitching as he scented the air and his ears turning from side to side.

'It is good to be home, well nearly home, my lord.' He said, the musical cadences of the far western Principality of Menefwy colouring his voice.

The knight looked at the hare with a frown.

'That's all well and good Father Siaffan, but where is the wagon? It was supposed to meet the ship, along with my mount. I will not walk all the way to Castlebridge.'

The hare ducked his head and then allowed it to bob back up again as the wagon rounded the corner of a warehouse. He had never been happy about the use of the so-called 'lower animals' as beasts of burden. Just because they cannot talk and go on all fours, he thought, does not mean that we should make use of them like this. The wagon rolled to a halt by the growing pile of luggage, and the cog's crew set to loading the trunks and cases onto the vehicle. The horse who was leading his dumb compatriots looked at the waiting group with a mournful expression on his face.

'My apologies, my lord,' He said, 'My master was unable to send me promptly to meet you, one of his beasts threw a shoe and it took both of us to have it reshod. He has sent his best destrier for your mount, by way of his apology.'

The monk looked at the heavy warhorse, which stared back at him with dumb, brown eyes. Perhaps, thought Siaffan, they are just dumb beasts, no better than tools to be used by us intelligent animals.

'Thank you.' Said Siaffan to the horse holding the reins, then to his master, 'Sir Henry, we should make haste if we wish to make it to Michaelstown before evening. I have sent word to my order's Abbey, St Sixtus' to have guest quarters for us. Furthermore, the royal court is in Michaelstown presently - it would be advantageous if King Benedict were to meet his new baron sooner rather than later.'

'Fine, fine, Father, if you insist. Come on then, for the love of the Saints let's get moving before I freeze to the spot.'

With that the lion mounted and the little monk followed suit, climbing onto the board that performed the function of a driver's seat and taking the reins from the attendant horse, who was shifting from hoof to hoof in the cold. Siaffan was joined by Sir Henry's valet, a stoat by the name of Innocent, who was, if the stories were true, anything but. With a quiet clicking noise, Siaffan set the cart moving.

After a while, the last houses of the port town dropped away and the little procession was moving at a steady pace across open country. The gently rolling hills of the southern Ironmont plain offered no protection from the cold and soon all three animals were huddling into their cloaks. After the third milestone had dropped away behind them, Sir Henry reined his mount back so that he was riding alongside the wagon.

'Innocent!' He shouted. 'See if you can't lay your paws on one of those flasks of Berean brandy, my ears are about frozen through.'

'Yes, lord Leonis.' Replied the stoat, who scrambled across the stacked trunks in search of the liquor. Presently, he climbed back onto the driver's board and passed a flask across to his master. Leonis pulled the cork from the neck of the flask with his teeth, leaving it dangling on a length of cord, and took a long draught. He let out a long, rumbling sigh of pleasure as the brandy warmed his stomach and passed the flask back to Innocent.

Some miles passed in cold silence. By Siaffan's reckoning it was around midday and he passed the reins over to Innocent. He fumbled with snow-numbed paws in his bag and drew out the one luxury that his order allowed him, a small illuminated breviary - a jewel-like book with the daily offices of the Church. He opened the volume to the ribbon placed in the page for midday prayers.

'Deus in adjutorium meum intende.' He began quietly. Next to him the stoat snorted in amusement, but Siaffan was not going to let a little derision keep him from the prayers that his vows required him to say. The next half a mile or so went by with the mumbling of the prayers and psalms as accompaniment.

'Fidelium animæ per misericordiam Dei requiescant in pace. Amen.'

Seconds after these final words of the office had left Siaffan's lips, a small tavern hove into view, a painted wooden sign hanging from the low eaves showing a crown with two small daggers through it. Siaffan quickly returned his breviary to his bag and took the reins back from Innocent.

'My lord!' He called. 'The Crown and Daggers is the only inn on this road, I suggest that we stop to eat and warm ourselves.'

Leonis waved his paw and then guided his mount over to the tavern. Siaffan followed suit, bringing the wagon to a stop in the lee of the building. The monk attended to the beasts while Innocent scuttled inside to browbeat the publican into providing a table for his master. Leonis stood on the edge of the rutted road, and stretched his arms, easing the cramped muscles.

'Tell me, Father,' He said, 'What can I expect travelling through Ironmont?'

'Well, my lord, we must be on guard against bandits and outlaws, the shire-reeves and the crowners do their best to keep the roads safe, but I should not wish to be on the road after dark. Here the towns will keep their curfew strictly.'

'Very well. We will stop here for as short a time as possible.'

After their lunch break, Leonis' retinue set out on the second leg of their journey towards Michaelstown. Here, the road passed into woodland, the trees pressing in on either side of the road, the rattle of the wagon's wheels sounding unnaturally loud as they clonked and crashed over each stone and rut. They were brought to a halt by a tree trunk lying across the road. Leonis pulled his sword from its scabbard, his head scanning from side to side.

From the trees came a whiffling sound and an arrow buried itself in the wooden side of the wagon.

'Father, hide or fight!' Shouted the lion. 'Innocent, get that bow of yours out!'

Leonis sprang down from his destrier and loped into the wood to meet the outlaws who were swarming through the trees. A terrifying roar sprang from his throat and his sword described deadly silver arcs through the air. There came another whiffling sound, as Innocent picked out his first target. A wolf fell gurgling to the ground, an arrow through his neck. Despite the deadly accuracy of Innocent and the speed with which Leonis' sword flickered and cut through the air and his opponents, there were simply too many bandits for the two of them to hold off. Gradually, Leonis was being driven back to the wagon.

As the lion found his back almost against the rough wood of the cart, a dull brown and black blur came, seemingly, out of nowhere. There was a dull thump and a heavyset wolfhound was lying on the floor. Another thump and another bandit out cold. Leonis appeared to gain a second wind from this, and soon he was dancing forward, his sword a deadly flash of silver. With this new combatant in the fray, the tide began to turn and soon, the last bandits capable of doing so were fleeing through the trees.

Leonis slumped down onto the tree trunk, his chest heaving. Absently he wiped his bloodied blade on a clump of grass growing by the roadside and replaced it in its sheath. Innocent jumped down from the wagon and joined him.

'Where's that good-for-nothing priest?' He asked.

Leonis shrugged.

'Probably hiding. I only employed him because he knows this Godforsaken land.'

'My lord, I was not hiding.' Said Siaffan walking out of the woods, breathing heavily. 'I was ensuring that those outlaws were not intending to return. My order was founded by St Meinrad to protect pilgrims. We may not kill, but many of us are adept at fighting without spilling blood. If you will excuse me, I will bind these two before they regain their senses.'

Deftly, the monk bound the hand and foot paws of the wolfhound and the fox, both of whom were just starting to drift back to consciousness. The snow fell softly around the little hare as the bandits' stirring indicated that they were, indeed, awake. Their struggles increased as they pulled against the lengths of rope around their limbs.

'What the hell...?' Said the wolfhound. 'Thomas, can you move?'

His fellow did not answer, still unconscious. The wolfhound squinted at the figure standing over him. Siaffan knelt in the slushy snow.

'Be thankful that you attacked a wagon with me aboard, otherwise, my friend, you would be dead.' He looked up. 'My lord, me must carry on if we are to make Michaelstown before dark.'

The city of Michaelstown presented a more pleasing aspect than its port. Even through the increasing flurries of snow Leonis was presented with a vista of the high walls that protected the town, the turrets each with banners flying, the flags snapping back and forth in the wind. As his little group neared the southern gate, he could see a pair of city guards standing in a small stone shelter. This place still chooses its guards from the traditional species, said Siaffan to himself, both dogs, I would have thought that Ironmonters would have changed over the years.

One of the dogs, a heavy set mongrel, stamped out of his shelter into the centre of the roadway, holding his halberd horizontally to block the gate. The impression of military efficiency was lost as his helmet slowly slid down his face and came to rest on top of his muzzle. The dog grunted and pushed his helmet back into place.

'Halt!'

Leonis reined his mount in and heard as the wagon did the same, he glanced over his shoulder to Siaffan, his tail twitching impatiently at the hold up. The monk jumped lightly down from the cart and squelched through the churned up mud and snow to the guard. He fumbled in his bag and drew out a tightly rolled piece of parchment with a set of three waxy seals dangling from red ribbons attached to the free end. The guard glanced at the document in Siaffan's paw, then up at the lion and back to the monk. Siaffan unrolled the parchment and waved it at the guard.

'My Lord, Sir Henry Leonis, is a guest of the Abbey of St Sixtus; he also seeks an audience with the king. We have letters of introduction from the Lord Bishop of Aquila and letters patent attesting to my master's nobility.'

The guard looked blankly at the sheets of parchment, shrugged and then waved a paw to his comrade, who swung the gates open.