As they mounted and turned their horses’ heads to the sun in the east, which seemed to hang larger and redder than usual in the pale blue sky, they had to squint from the already painful glare off the snow. Baldwin rode alongside the trail he had seen the evening before. In the bright sunlight the tracks still stood out, and they led the men along the lane a short way. But then the marks were obliterated under a fall of snow from the branches of the trees overhead. Taking their time, they set a slow pace, between a trot and a walk, as they went under the trees, casting about for a continuation of the tracks, but they saw nothing.
“We’ll have to get Tanner, of course,” said Baldwin after a few minutes.
Looking across at him, Simon sighed as he turned back to the road ahead. “Yes. And raise a search party; see if we can hunt him quickly.”
Another manhunt, the knight mused sadly. He enjoyed the chase for an animal. After all, that was only right, to hunt and kill for food and sport was natural. But tracking a man was different, demeaning for the man and his hunters as well.
It would be different, the knight knew, if he felt that there had been any justifiable reason for the murders, but there did not seem to be. He frowned and bit his lip in his annoyance at one thought: if he had kept this boy Greencliff in gaol, or put him back when they had heard from Stephen de la Forte that the two of them had not been together all the time when Agatha Kyteler had died, maybe Alan Trevellyn would not have died. That meant that a little of the guilt for the murder, he felt, now lay with him for making the wrong decision at the time. As his eyes rose to the road ahead, they held a frown as he swore to himself that he would catch the criminal and avenge Trevellyn’s death.
Jogging along quietly beside him, Simon was not so convinced of Harold Greencliff’s guilt. Why? That was the question that plagued him: why? Why kill the merchant? Or the witch, for that matter. The boy had made comments about her at the inn that night, but nobody could explain why he hated her. And there seemed no reason why he should kill Trevellyn either.
Then his eyes took on a more pensive look and his head sank on his shoulders. Mrs. Trevellyn was very beautiful, he admitted to himself. Was it possible that she was the mysterious lover? That Jennie Miller was right? Could the boy have killed her husband to win her? But if he had, why run away afterwards? It made no sense!
The admission of what she had done at the witch’s cottage had launched Harold Greencliff into a nightmare that would not stop. All he had ever wanted was to be able to live out his life like his father before him, a farmer. To be able to earn his living honestly. He knew he would never be rich, but that did not matter when none of his friends and neighbours were. Money and cattle were pleasant to dream of, but he felt it was more important to be satisfied and content, to work hard and earn a place in heaven, like the priests promised.
But since the death of Agatha Kyteler last Tuesday, there had been no peace for him. Maybe if he had managed to run away then, he would have left all this behind. If he had got to Gascony, perhaps then he might have been able to forget the whole affair, but it was too late now. He was marked by his guilt.
At first, when he got back home from the Trevellyns’ hall, he had sat down as if in a dream, his mind empty. It felt impossible to move, and he stayed there on his bench, sitting and occasionally shivering in the lonely cold of his house, not even bothering to stoke his little fire so deep was his misery. But soon the despair returned, and the disgust, and he stood and walked around his room, sobbing. Ever since that witch had ruined everything, his life had been wrecked. It was all her fault: she had deserved her end.
It was like a dream, the way that he had made his decision and started taking up his meagre essentials, stuffing them into his old satchel. He had picked up his ballock knife, the long dagger with the single sharp edge, from where it had fallen on the floor. He might need it, and it was good in a fight, with the two large round lobes at the base of the solid wooden grip to protect the hand.
For food, he took some fruit and dried and salted ham, which he dropped into the bag, followed by a loaf of bread as an afterthought. Then the satchel was full. He pulled a thick woollen tunic over his head, draped his blanket over his shoulders, took his staff, and left. He would never return. The shame would be too painful.
At first he had wandered in the darkness without any firm direction in mind, aimlessly following where his feet led him, and he had found himself heading south. Soon he was in among the woods. Usually he would stride through there, knowing each trunk and fallen bough like the furniture in his hall, but in the bitter cold and his despair he had meandered witlessly.
Now he knew it was a wonder that he had managed to survive and had not succumbed to the freezing temperatures. He had been lucky. The woods appeared to go on for ever, leading him up gentle hills and down the other sides, through lighter snow which the winds had not been able to pile into deep drifts, heading away from his home and his past life.
Only when he had begun to smell woodsmoke did he realise he had almost arrived at Crediton, and he stopped. Almost without consciously making a choice, he had found himself starting to walk again, following the line of trees to circumnavigate the town, always keeping to the shelter of the thick boughs. When he had passed by the town, he had discovered a strange lightening of his spirit, as if he had truly left his old life behind. He had only rarely been this far from home before.
All that day he had continued, ignoring calls from other travellers, concentrating solely on the steady trudge of his feet, careless of his direction, neither knowing nor caring where he was heading, until he had realised that the snow was falling again.
It forced him to waken from his mindless, daydreaming tramping, and he stopped dead, staring around with no idea where he was. He had arrived at a flat area, an open space fringed by trees, and now, as the first few flakes began to fall, he could see that there appeared to be no houses nearby.
Here he was quite high up, his view unimpaired, and to the left he could see over the top of some trees to a hilltop some miles away which wore a circle of trees at its summit like a crown. Before him he could see along a small cleft in the land, which appeared to forge ahead like a track, with both sides hidden under a light scattering of trees. Narrowing his eyes against the thin mist of snow, he had set his face to the valley and determinedly carried on.
But it had been no good. The snow had begun to take hold, the air becoming colder, and each fresh gust of wind felt as if it blew a little harder than the last, making the snow swoop and dive like millions of tiny, white swallows.
The random movement of the white dust held an almost hypnotic fascination, and he found himself beginning to stumble more often as he fell under the spell of the all-encompassing whiteness that now appeared to form an impermeable barrier around him. It was as if the dance of the snow motes before his eyes was an invitation to sit and sleep. He had the impression that they were soothing, calming, as if asking him to rest.
And then he had fallen.
Possibly it was a gnarled tree root hidden from sight, maybe a fallen branch, but suddenly he had discovered he was not walking any more. He had tripped, and was now lying headlong, his face resting against what had felt like a warm soft pillow of the smoothest down. Rolling, he could not help a sigh of relief. He stretched and groaned in happiness. At last he could relax: he had come far enough. Now he could sleep.
It was not until much later that he could be grateful for the interruption. At first it had seemed to be a growling, then a moaning as of pain, low and persistent. Just at the edge of his hearing, it had penetrated his thoughts and dreams like a saw cutting through bark. He had mumbled to himself and rolled, trying to sleep and lose the insistent noise, but it had continued, and as his mind grew angry at the interruption, the anger started to make him waken. It was sufficient.
The snow had strengthened, and as he lurched unwillingly back to consciousness, he realised that he was smothered in a film of light powder. Recognising his dan
ger, he stood quickly, his heart beating madly, while his breath sobbed in his throat, and he gazed around wildly, a feral creature recognising the sound of a hunter. The snow had cocooned him, swaddling him under its gentle grip of death. If he had not heard that noise, he would soon surely have died, sleeping under the soothing influence of the murderous cold.
But what had made the noise? As he turned here and there looking for the source, a slow realisation had come to him: it was the noise of cattle, and it came from nearby.
As soon as he had recognised the sounds, he had started off towards them. There, hidden behind a line of oaks, was an old barn. The walls were red-brown cob, not limewashed, and if he had not heard the animals inside, he would not have seen the place. After carefully looking to see that there were no people nearby, he had entered. Inside there was a store of hay, and he fashioned a rough cot from it, sitting and preparing to wait for the snow to stop.
The sudden lack of movement freed his mind from the shackles of exercise and he had found his thoughts returning to her. To his pain at leaving her behind. He had wept tears for her last evening as he had sat alone and miserable at his house, he could now remember. Hot, scalding tears that seared his soul. He had loved her. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to her again. To know that he could never see her again, never feel the smooth softness of her body, never hold the thick, blue-black tresses of her braids in his hands like silken ropes, never kiss her again, hold her, feel the warmth of her breasts and the flat sweep of her belly, was maddening. He had once thought that he had loved Sarah, but this was much more: this was almost a religious loss. It felt as if, after the horror of her face in the dark only two nights before, a part of him had died. When she saw him there, and spoke with such loathing, a spark of his soul had weakened and finally faded to dullness. There was nothing there any longer.
He sighed at the memory. Now, in the morning, he could accept that he could never see her again. Picking up his satchel, he swung it on to his back and made his way to the entrance, carefully peering out. There was no one there, so he walked out. He could break his fast later. For now the main thing was to get away, as far away as possible from this area. Could he get on a ship? Would it be possible to find one to take him away?
Pausing, he considered. There were docks at Exeter, he knew, but last time Tanner had found him there. It was further, but would they expect him to head down to the south? To Dartmouth or Plymouth? Weighing the satchel in his hand, he debated the two options. He would need more food on the way if he was going that far. It was a great deal further, but if he could make it, they would never think of searching for him there, would they?
Making his choice, he set his shoulders and set his face to the south. He must go to the coast, then on to Gascony and to freedom.
The village looked like a slumbering animal, as if the area had chosen hibernation in preference to the freezing misery of the winter weather, and Baldwin gazed around sourly as they rode along the street. “God! Why aren’t these people up and working yet?” “It is very early, Baldwin. And I have no doubt that some are up. They will be out tending to their sheep and cattle,” said Simon calmly. “Especially after the snow last night.”
Baldwin grunted, and maintained a disapproving silence for the rest of their journey. It was not far. They stopped outside the inn, and at a curt nod of Baldwin’s head, Edgar dropped from his horse and walked leisurely to the door. Watching, Simon saw him casually glance up at the sky, trying to assess the time. The bailiff nodded to himself. It was very early to waken the innkeeper. But then he realised his error.
After looking up to reassure himself as to the earliness of the hour, the servant grinned back at him quickly, then beat on the door in a shockingly loud tattoo before retreating a few yards. It was a sensible precaution, from the bellow of rage that issued from inside. Simon heard rapid steps, the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the door was yanked open and the unshaven and furious features of the publican appeared, mouth wide to roar at whoever had woken him. At the sight of the knight with his servant and friend, his mouth snapped shut as if on a spring.
“Sir Baldwin,” he managed at last, with a snarl that appeared to be his best approximation to a smile. “How can I serve you?”
The knight grunted. “You can fetch hot drinks for three, prepare cooked eggs and bread for our breakfast, and start to organise a search party. Then you can send word to my house that we are all well, find Tanner, and tell him to come here immediately. Prepare provisions for three days for three men.”
“I… Er…”
“And you can do it all now. We must hunt a man.”
Chapter Seventeen
It seemed to the bailiff that no sooner had they sat to watch the innkeeper’s wife cooking their eggs on her old cast-iron griddle over the embers of last night’s fire than the men from the village began to arrive. Farmers and peasants walked in, strolling casually as if the matter was nothing to do with them, or cautiously and reluctantly sidling through the curtain as though expecting to be arrested themselves. Each was told by Edgar to go and arm himself and return as quickly as possible, with food for at least three days.
It was not until Tanner arrived, covered in snow almost up to his knees and dripping, that Baldwin looked up and began to take an interest. The old constable walked straight to him. There was no need, he knew, for subservience with this knight. Glancing up as his bulk approached, Baldwin gave him a slow grin and waved a hand to the fire. “Have you eaten? Would you like to have some eggs?”
Glancing carelessly at the griddle. Tanner shook his head. “What’s the matter, sir? The innkeeper’s boy told me to come here straight away. Said we had to hunt a man.”
“That’s right. Greencliff has run away again.”
“Harry’s gone? Oh, the daft bugger!” He shook his head as if in tired annoyance, then said, “But so what? If he wasn’t there for the death of the witch, because he was with de la…”
“It’s not that easy. He was not with de la Forte,” the bailiff broke in, and explained about the change in Stephen de la Forte’s evidence. When he spoke of the murder of Trevellyn, there was a sudden hush in the room, as the men all around realised why they were being asked to chase Greencliff. When Simon had finished, he found he was immediately bombarded by questions from all sides, and after a moment Baldwin stood with a hand raised for silence.
“Quiet!” he thundered, and gradually the noise died down. “That’s better. Now, Harold Greencliff was not at his house last night. The fire was cold, so it’s likely that he left the night before. Otherwise it would at least have been warm when we got there. So, where has he gone?”
The room was quiet as the men thought, then one said, “He could’ve gone to Exeter, to the docks again. ”That’s where he went after the witch was killed.“
Baldwin nodded. It was certainly possible. “He could, but was there anywhere else he might go? Did he have any family or friends he could have gone to stay with? Anybody outside the area with whom he could rest?”
All round the room heads slowly shook. “In that case, we have no choice: we must try to search for him on all of the roads.” Baldwin sighed. The only result of this would be long hours in the saddle. To think that he had felt sympathy for the lad when he had been in gaol! He sat, glowering.
Simon stirred thoughtfully. “We saw the footprints in front of the house,” he said. “Were they going to it or leading from it?”
“What do you mean?”
“We thought he was going home from Trevellyn’s house, but we could have been wrong. He might have gone to Trevellyn’s house, killed him, then carried on towards the west on the road. Or he could have done the murder, then headed home and carried on from there. We can’t be sure which.”
“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “So those are the directions we should concentrate on. Beyond Trevellyn’s place, and back this way.”
“He can’t have come this way,” said a stocky man in a tough jerkin of leather and skins
.
“Why not?” asked Simon, frowning.
“I’m a hunter. Mark Rush. I was up at the lane all last night between his house and here – there’s been a wolf or something attacking sheep in the pens over that way – and I was sheltered there all night. When it snowed, I went into my hut, but when it was clear enough I was out again. He never passed me.”
“Are you sure?” said Baldwin dubiously. He found that the man’s eyes moved and fixed on him, curiously light and unfeeling as he spoke.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure. Nothing living passed me that night I wasn’t aware of. Harry did not pass.”
Simon eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded. “In that case we should look in the woods to the north and south of the lane, especially near his house.” He thanked the woman, who passed him a platter with two eggs and a hunk of roughly torn bread. “I suggest we have three parties: one to ride to the west and look for signs, one to search for tracks in the woods north, the last to look in the southern woods. Whoever finds anything should return here with a message to be left with the innkeeper.”
They talked a little longer about the details, but agreed to this simple plan. Baldwin and Edgar would take the western road, Simon the southern woods, and Tanner the northern. Splitting the men into three groups of four, Baldwin and Simon quickly finished their breakfast, went out to their horses, and mounted.
Simon was pleased to have been able to enlist the light-eyed hunter for his search. The man looked capable and confident. Although quiet and soft-spoken, he moved with an alertness and graceful ease which spoke of his skill and strength. He was older than Simon, probably nearer Baldwin’s age of forty and odd, although whether he was older or younger than the knight was a different matter. The bailiff could not guess.
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