“I think so. We’ll head to Plymstock and see what we can find; if nothing, we can double back and test the road to Brentor, and the moors last.”
So saying, Baldwin called to the berner, and the cavalcade set off at a lively canter, the harriers moving like a solid mass. They reminded Baldwin of a swarm of bees; each was individual, but acted as a part of a whole. Tails up and wagging, they gave every appearance of delight at being released from their kennels and having a new quarry to chase.
The road led past the Abbey’s orchards and fishponds, and soon they were out of the town itself. At their left lay the midden reeking with the town’s waste, and townspeople were at its edge, hurling rubbish in and retreating swiftly. The noisome stench wafted over the road, and Simon was amused by the reaction of the riders. Some fell silent, a few covering their faces with their hoods, while others resorted to earthy humor, chortling at the disgust of their companions. Simon himself disliked the smell, but was used to it; Baldwin, he saw, curled his lip in disgust – the knight was from the country, and this putrefying stink was never so concentrated where he lived. There human waste was collected in ash to dry and lose its virulence until it could be spread on the fields to help the crops grow.
Baldwin was glad to be past the midden. The country air smelled sweeter beyond it, as if nature had put up an invisible barrier on the distance that man could pollute the atmosphere. Now instead of that malodorous reek, he smelled the fresh-cut grasses in the meadow, the sweet scent of herbs and occasionally the clean fragrance of wild garlic.
They rode on until they had travelled over a mile, and in all that distance the hounds picked up nothing. The berner worked them well and had them circling at either side of the road in case their prey had left it to avoid leaving a trace, but the harriers sniffed for a while, then returned to him, heads cocked on one side in enquiry, tails wagging slowly, and finally Simon had to admit defeat. “Let’s try the Brentor road,” he said.
The berner waved ahead. “There’s a track up there takes us back to Hurdwick. We can pick up the Brentor road there, rather than going all the way back to Tavistock and up.”
Simon nodded, and the berner spurred his horse on, calling to his harriers as he went. The rest of the posse trailed after.
After the events of the last couple of days, Baldwin was relieved to have some physical task to perform. It left his mind free to roam: at first over the things he had heard from the Venetians’ servant, but soon his thoughts turned back to Jeanne.
She was so beautiful, she was daunting. Baldwin was convinced she reciprocated his feelings, but it was hard to imagine why – he was not arrogant enough to lie to himself, and he knew that he was hardly the perfect suitor. He had only a small farm and estate, held under his duties of service to his lord, and even his manner of dress – and here he glanced down at his worn but comfortable tunic with a wry grimace – was an embarrassment, as Margaret had pointed out to him.
The berner led them off to the right at a fork, and they were on a smaller, grassy track that wound between thick hedges and ditches until they came to a crossroads where the berner took the harriers north. This trail soon turned back to the northeast, so that they were heading back almost parallel to their first route from the town. It passed by several small vills and bartons, and when they came to another crossed road, the berner let the dogs circle in case they might find a scent, but again they betrayed no excitement.
“Berner,” Simon called, “is this the Brentor road?”
“No, sir,” the berner called back calmly. “This is the road to Milton Abbot, but I wanted to make sure the buggers hadn’t come here instead of up to Brentor.”
Simon nodded. The berner obviously knew his business, and was checking all the roads which radiated from Tavistock. The abbey town sat in its valley with roads leading to north, east and west, though none south over the moors at the other side of the river, and the berner was working each trail as if it was the worn path of a deer in his search for the Venetians. They set off again to the next road. This was the one which led up the hill toward Brentor.
The berner set his harriers to test the road, egging them on with enthusiastic cries and whistles, and waited while they milled at the crossroads. Simon watched, the tip of his tongue protruding between his lips in his eagerness to see them take off, but then he sighed as dogs began to stop and sit and scratch. All around him, Simon could sense the men relaxing in their seats, letting lances fall a little from the vertical, slumping, one or two chatting. “Looks like we should have gone for the moors instead,” he said to Baldwin with resignation, but before the knight could comment, the berner edged closer.
“Look at her, sir.”
Following his pointing finger, Simon saw a bitch trotting slowly up and down a little distance away from the others. She paused, glancing back at the pack, her head set to one side with a comical expression of doubt, her brow wrinkled.
“She’s just found the trail of a fox or something,” the bailiff said dismissively, and turned to Baldwin.
To his surprise, the knight could barely control his excitement. Baldwin often hunted with his own hounds, and he recognized the signs. The bitch was dubious because of the strength of other scents, and he watched with bated breath. “Master berner?”
“Yes, sir, I reckon so. The bastards came this way,” the man said, after a scathing look at Simon.
The bailiff stared from one to the other. “You can tell from a dog doing that?”
“She’s the best, sir. She’s just making sure, you’ll soon hear.”
All at once there was a sharp yelping from her, which was taken up by the other hounds in the pack as they joined her, urgently setting their noses to the dirt of the road and sounding off as they caught the elusive scent. The barking and howling took on a persuasive quality, and the men all round began shifting in their saddles and gripping their arms more firmly as they saw that the hounds had the trail at last. Suddenly the pack moved.
It was an awesome experience for Simon. He had never before joined a large hunt and seeing the magnificent creatures in full spate was a little like watching the torrent in full flood rushing down the Lydford Gorge. The leader of the pack set up a long baying howl, then went silent with a dread purpose as he began to trot northward, the rest taking up position behind until he was the point of an arrowhead of harriers making off. As younger hounds caught up with him, the leader snapped at them over his shoulder, and hurried his pace. Others increased their speed to keep up, and there was soon an inevitability to their onward rush, which was made menacing by its sudden silence. The harriers were reserving all their strength for the chase and would not sound out again until they had caught their prey and held it at bay.
The berner whipped his mount without another word, his face showing his excitement and when Simon glanced at Baldwin, he saw the same look on the knight’s face. “Come on!”
It was like starting a horse race. Clapping spurs to his rounsey’s flanks, Simon felt the power surge through his horse’s hindquarters as it sprang forward with a sudden explosion of energy, and he had to crouch and grip its flanks with his knees to keep his seat. From behind him he heard the clatter of horseshoes on stone, then a quick scattering of hoofbeats on the densely packed earth of the roadway as riders kicked their mounts and found their own position in the melee, each man thrusting others from his path to make a clear space in which his horse might be able to forge ahead. A horse reared at his side, but the rider remained in control, and forced the animal to twist in mid-air, forelegs flailing, until it was facing the right way, and then he gave it its head.
The discordant, stumbling sound of many horses falteringly finding their pace gradually settled into a rhythmic drumming as they all cantered in unison, and suddenly the sound became a solid thundering. To Simon it was as if the horses were copying the pack. The harriers had formed a solid wedge-shaped group, the leader out in front, while the men behind formed another behind the berner. Baldwin, he saw, wa
s restraining his Arab, which wanted to gallop off. She had the power and speed to overhaul any other mount in the group.
There was an awesome noise: leather squeaked and harnesses jangled as they rushed on, ever faster, the wind hissing and booming in Simon’s ears and all but deafening him, the clap and snap of cloaks as they billowed in the wind like sails, and over all the pounding, unified and terrible in its violent force, of the hooves hammering the ground beneath them. For a short second, the bailiff wondered what he would feel like seeing a chivalry of mounted knights charging toward him, but thrust the idea aside. His concentration was needed merely to stay on his beast.
They began to climb a hill, passing Forches Field where the Abbot kept his gallows, and rode over a short plain. At the far side, the hounds streamed around a loudly cursing farmer on a wagon, who struggled to keep his ox quiet as the harriers darted to either side of him, only to have the following riders gallop past. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Simon saw a man barge into another as they both tried to take the same route, and one fell, arms widespread, into a hedge, his horse continuing on alone, stirrups flying and bouncing by its side as it struggled, wild-eyed, to keep its place among the others.
Now they were on the great plain of Heath Field near Brentor, and the conical rock that gave the village its name stood stark on their right, the church at its summit a comforting sight in the bleak surroundings. Still they thundered on, the harriers as silent and daunting as the Devil’s own wish hounds in their implacable purpose.
Baldwin could not help a smile of contentment as he felt the urgent desire of his Arab to overtake all others in this race. He had been formed for just such exercise, he felt. The hunt was the only way of life for a man, with the blood rushing as fast in the veins as the air past the ears, the thrill of the search for the quarry, and the skill of holding the mount under control all combining to make it a uniquely exciting experience.
Yet the end of the chase would be the capture of two men, he knew. And their capture might shortly after be followed by their death, hanging from the rope at the Abbot’s gibbet. The thoughts circled in his brain, the glorious, hectic delight of the charge; the ghastly end for the quarry.
There were so many lives bound up in this affair: those of Peter and Torre, Avice and Pietro, Antonio, Elias and Jordan. Lybbe was likely to hang for his past offences, and if Pietro was found guilty, as Luke’s evidence suggested, of killing Torre and possibly Peter as well, he would die too.
But Baldwin was niggled by something. There was a clue he had missed, something vital that would shed light on all that he had heard today.
22
At last there was a ripple of music from the harriers.
“Listen to that!” the berner called excitedly. “We have them now. They can’t escape.”
Baldwin nodded agreement. He had rarely heard hunting hounds give voice so strongly, and when they did, it was a sure sign that their quarry was near at hand.
He looked about him as they raced on. They had taken the northwestern route after Brentor, and now they were passing on the old road under Lydford, toward the moors. The weather here was gloomy, with thick clouds gray and dull overhead. It was hard to believe that in Tavistock the weather was calm and bright with few clouds in a deep blue sky, looking up here and feeling the damp chill in the air.
Baldwin could recognize most of the countryside from his trips to see Simon, and this part was familiar. They were riding at an easy canter to save their horses, and he had time to study the land. Ahead, a little to the right, there was a low hill with small cairns on its summit which Baldwin recognized as White Hill. Just left was Doe Tor, with the great mound of Great Links Tor rising behind. The posse was chasing along a narrow valley with a stream trickling quietly at its base, with Sharp Tor rising before them. Even as he looked, he saw the faint smoke of hoofbeats in the dry dust ahead of them.
There were tiny figures on the beasts. It was hard to see while pounding along so steadily, but he was sure that there were three mounts – so Avice was with them, he noted. The sight gave him added enthusiasm for the chase. He glanced to left and right, and saw that the others too had seen their prey.
“Once they’re in among the rocks it’ll take ages to fetch them out,” Simon called, and Baldwin nodded grimly. If Antonio and his son were of a mood to fight, it would be the devil’s own job to dislodge them. Their only hope was that the three riders were more tired than the posse. But although the horses they pursued showed signs of exhaustion, it was clear that the Venetians would gain the security of the rocks before they could be headed off, and Baldwin swore under his breath.
But he had reckoned without the Abbot’s harriers. The berner called to them, whistling and singing to them in a curious, high-pitched voice, and the pack suddenly streaked away. The men had to whip their horses to try to keep up, but it was in vain. There was no way to catch the racing hounds. Baldwin saw the Venetians glaring over their shoulders, their faces showing both rage and fear as they assessed the distance between them and their pursuers, while beside them the girl lurched along on a mare. “No,” Baldwin said between gritted teeth, “it’s not like Bayonne, where you escaped because you had gone with time to rest your mounts before your pursuit could catch up with you. This time your horses are as tired as our own, and ours are the better bred. This time you won’t get away.”
They did have one last, desperate throw to make. Just as in Bayonne they had distracted the posse by releasing a packhorse, now, as Baldwin watched, he saw the girl’s horse sheer away and turn off to the north. The knight refused to be tempted to hare off after her, and bellowed over his shoulder to the two nearest men to follow her and bring her back. The others carried on.
The Venetians reached the rocks, and now found another obstacle to their escape. All around the tor was a clitter of small stones, on any one of which their horses might break a leg and fall. They could not keep up their mad, break-neck pace.
But the harriers could. With thickly padded paws they feared no stones or rocks, and they scrambled up and over the boulders with the eager enthusiasm of hounds who see their prey at last.
“Come on!” Simon roared, and the posse set itself at the hill.
Baldwin heard the tone of the baying change. While running with their quarry in sight, each dog had given urgent yelps calling the attention of the humans to the scent. Now they gave loud voice continually, and Baldwin, as a hunter, knew what that meant: the quarry was held at bay. He slowed his speed and gave his Arab time to pick her way. If the harriers had the men, there was no point in risking her life.
The bank of the hill was quite steep, and all the horses were forced to tread carefully. Still in front the berner egged his mount on, his face filled with anxiety for his hounds, and Baldwin knew what his thoughts would be. Would the men, now they were held by the pack, try to kill his hounds? It had happened before while trying to capture felons, when they had access to pikes or lances. It was easy enough to goad dogs into attacking, and spit them on a sword or long dagger like meat to be cooked over a fire. Like any good berner and master of harriers, the Abbot’s man was fearful only for his precious hounds. They were more to him than his own life, and Baldwin thought, Woe betide you if you have hurt this berner’s creatures!
At the top of the hill was a kind of rounded plain, and it was here they found the men in a small dead-end of rock. With high walls at each side and in front of them, the two had dismounted, and stood before their horses while the hounds circled, panting, eyeing the men with cautious expectancy.
Simon paused, resting his elbow on his mount’s withers, panting as if he had run the whole way himself. He cocked an eyebrow at Baldwin. “Looks like they’ll come along easy enough, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, I think so,” Baldwin agreed as the other members of the posse joined them.
The knight wasn’t sure the two Venetians had noticed they had company. Their eyes were firmly fixed on the hounds which barked and growled and ho
wled all round. Antonio’s horse was bucking while he cursed angrily, gripping its reins and flailing about him with his whip. Pietro’s looked close to death with its head hanging almost to the ground. As Baldwin watched, he patted its head. That simple act of solace made the knight feel some compassion. Any man who could honor his horse, even when it had failed in its race, must have some principles, although he had to admit that any thief or outlaw was likely to regard his mount as more important to him than a wife, companion, or man-at-arms – the horse would always be the method of escape and safety, and deserved the best food and water even when that meant the rider going thirsty or hungry.
The berner dropped from his horse, calling to his hounds and throwing them scraps from his satchel. Gradually the milling beasts withdrew, and Simon could study the two Venetians.
Antonio stood, panting with exertion, his whip still in his hand as he glowered at the men. Recognizing Baldwin and Simon, his features displayed shock. “Sir Baldwin, you as well?”
His son let himself fall to sit at his horse’s head. He patted its neck and refused to meet Simon’s eye.
The bailiff sprang down from his horse and motioned to the men to rest. “Who did you expect? The Abbot himself?”
“I won’t surrender!” Antonio declared, and drew his sword.
“Antonio,” Baldwin said resignedly, “what good will that do? It won’t help your son’s case.”
“What case?” Antonio asked reservedly, eyes narrowed.
“He’s under arrest. He’s been accused of murdering Torre and the monk Peter.”
“What? I thought you were with the rabble roused by that damned friar!”
“Me? Who accuses me of this!” Pietro demanded.
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance. His surprise seemed unfeigned. The bailiff said, “You accused yourself when you decided to depart from the town in such haste.”
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