On and on he padded, as the blazing disc of the sun rose higher. Feeling his pale skin begin to blister, Max scanned the horizon in desperation, but there was nothing – only the never-ending ocean of golden sand. Dropping the lamp, he fell to his knees, his chest heaving.
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A Norman arrow whistled through the air towards the king… a shriek of agony rang out, tearing through the night air and filling everyone’s hearts with dread.
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A good-looking man with curly black hair emerged from the crowd and swept into a low bow before them. ‘Lancelot, at your service.’ Beaming at the twins, he clapped his hands delightedly. ‘I am from Gaul, but you must be from ze British branch of my family.’
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