He gripped his sword-hilt tightly and slowly continued on his way, looking down every now and then to make sure that the tracks still led in the same direction, breathing shallowly as he listened out for any sign, any hint, that he might be close.
There it was again! A yapping. His brow wrinkled as he considered: it came from ahead, from the direction of the trail. If there were foxes there, there were not likely to be any men around – those shy creatures would avoid men wherever possible. Why, he found himself wondering, do foxes make that noise? He felt the tension return, the prickle of excitement, as he edged on farther, slowly checking each step before he put his feet down, looking at the ground and avoiding twigs and other undergrowth that could give him away. At each pace he paused and stared ahead grimly, half expecting a crossbow bolt or arrow to strike him, almost as if he was daring someone to try to hit him as he surveyed the tree trunks in front. He tried to follow the spoor while walking in the shadows of the trees, trying to maintain some cover as he went, trying to use them as protection from the men that had captured the abbot.
It took him another half hour before he could see the clearing – half an hour of slow and careful pacing, with each step measured and checked, with each step taking all his concentration, with all his senses screaming at every sound, with his ears straining as he tried to distinguish any noises that could have been made by a human; but there was nothing. This deep in the woods it seemed as though even the animals had run away. There was nothing, no sound, not even a squeak or a rustle to betray a nearby beast apart from the occasional excited yapping. It was as if the whole forest was dead and he and the fox alone breathed the dank and thick air.
With the gloom growing, the hairs on his head began to rise, and he felt the breath straining in his throat. It was not the fear of humans, that he could cope with. No, it was as if with each minute, as the dark crept on towards night-time, his superstitions grew in strength. Here he was nearer the bleak moors, nearer the centre of Crockern’s power, and as if there was an affinity between the ancient trees here and the primeval stones so close, he seemed to feel his own presence as an abomination, as if he was loathed by the very earth under his feet for his trespass. It was with a physical effort that he forced himself on.
At last he could see an opening in the trees. He began to move even more slowly, inch by inch, with the infinite patience of a lizard hunting a fly, until he came into the lee of a massive oak and could stand silently watching from under its protection.
There was a sudden rustling as if two kittens were playing on the leafy floor. Simon concentrated. He could discern nothing in the gloom ahead, too much was obscured by the boles of the trees. Gradually he relaxed his grip on his sword-hilt and flexed his hand as he listened, feeling the sweat break out cold and chilling. But there was still nothing. He wiped the sweat from his palm and gripped his sword again, then crept forward, carefully moving from tree to tree as he made a wide circle around the clearing.
As he moved forward he could catch brief, frustrating glimpses: now a great oak, now a towering elm. It was as if there was a tapestry that had been roughly cut into pieces and he was trying to put it together in his mind, arranging the various parts and trying to associate them although the threads around each section were badly frayed, making it impossible to be sure which connected with which. All he could do was attempt to build the picture.
At last, when he had almost half-circled the empty area, he felt he could not continue, and began to edge his way in towards it. The blood was pounding in his ears with the tenseness of his fear and excitement as he moved forward at a crawling pace until he was at the very edge of the trees.
In the dim light he could see the ground clearly. His eyes flitted over the space, looking for any signs of humans or animals, but there seemed to be nothing. No sign of man, no blackened remains of a fire, no parcels or packs lying on the ground, no gleam of metal where a sword lay. Suddenly he felt his fear return, concentrated and almost overpowering in its intensity. There, just a few yards in front of him, lay a small pyramid of horse’s dung. For a horse to have created so perfect a shape, it must have been stationary. It must have been tethered there, surely. Had the robbers been here? And if they had been, where were they now? He paused and considered. There had been a horse in the clearing, at least one. Either it was the abbot’s or it was one of the robbers’. Could the abbot have escaped? If he had, could this be from his horse? But then, what if this horse belonged to a robber? He could be close by. His eyes quickly flitted all over the ground again, but even as he gazed all round, he started wondering. If it was the abbot’s, where was he? And what if it was a robber’s horse? Had they rested here last night and then ridden on? Or were they even now waiting, watching him, preparing to attack?
He studied the area again and tried to clear his mind, trying to decide what to do. It seemed impossible to make a clear choice, to know what was best. Go on or return to the road? Deferring the choice and frowning, he continued his slow progress.
It was only when he had almost managed to get all the way around it that he smelt the burned wood and cooked meat. Slowly he eased himself into a crouch, sniffing as quietly as he could. It was not the smell of a fresh fire, it seemed damp and dead. There was no acrid smoke, no sharp tang to the smell, just a dull, burned odour that was almost stale. It seemed to come from over to his right, just a little further on.
The bailiff offered up a quick prayer, his eyes closed, then peered all around again. He felt that he had been stalking for days – the fatigue was giving him cramps in his legs – and it seemed, now he was close to the end of the trail, that the tiredness was settling on him heavily, like a leaden cloak that smothered mind and muscles alike. He could not control a swift, hopeful glance over his shoulder, as if he half-expected to see the posse coming through the trees towards him, but there was no one there. He would have to go on alone. His teeth clenched, he dropped silently to crawl on his hands and knees towards the smell.
After only a short distance he came to another small clearing, a slight opening in the trees where the trunks were not so closely crowded together, and carefully looked in. From here he could smell the old fire: someone must have made camp here, far away from the nearest houses and any risk of discovery. There it was, just by a tree some twenty yards away that had been blackened by the heat. Even if the smoke had been seen, nobody would have come this deep into the woods to investigate. He could see little apart from the dark smudge of the blackened undergrowth between the trunks that stood between him and the clearing, so he began another slow and careful progress around the camp, crawling from tree to tree, stopping and watching, then moving on again. There was no sound, no movement. It was as if the camp had been abandoned years before and had been left, undisturbed and untouched by human or creature.
Then he heard the yap again and, even as he tensed at the unexpected noise, he saw two foxes gambolling around, near the old fire, springing and jumping as gleefully as kittens.
With a brief flare of impatience, now that it seemed that his careful tracking was all in vain and there was no reason to be afraid, he stood up carefully and scrutinised the clearing. It seemed absolutely deserted apart from the two creatures. Nothing else moved. The only noises were from the trees as, high above, a breeze caught the branches. Taken with a sudden fit of anger at the thought that his exertions had been unnecessary, he bellowed out, “Is anybody there?”
His only response was the sudden explosion of noise as the two foxes bolted in their terror, both leaping for the safety of the dark trees at the edge of the clearing. Then the silence returned. There was nothing to betray a human’s presence, not even the scuffle of a man woken by his shout trying to grab at a club or sword: nothing. Simon drew his sword and, steeling himself, slowly crept forward until he was at the edge of the trees. As soon as he reached the fringe, he rushed on, running to crouch in the middle of the open space, whirling and glaring around, his sword grasped in both hands and the hot blood hammering in his ears.
But there was nothing. No one sprang to attack him, no one ran away into the surrounding trees, there was not even the sound of a disturbed animal to break the all-embracing silence. Gradually, shrugging shamefacedly, he relaxed, and lowered the point of his sword, taking stock. The clearing was only some twenty yards across and there was nowhere for anyone to hide apart from in among the trees.
There was no sign that anybody had ever been here apart from the fire. He turned and looked for the blackened embers to see how long the clearing had been empty. It lay over at the other side of the clearing from him, a darker stain among the shadows.
He wandered over towards it, but as he drew near, his feet-started to falter, and he stumbled as he frowned at the tree. He had only covered half the distance when he stopped. Eyes wide in horror, he gagged and dropped to his knees, staring at the patch of burned grass and the tree in front of him.
With a high scream, he turned and ran, rushing away from the sight in a mad, panicked flight back to the road.
The smell of cooked meat came from the man who had been roasted, like a convicted witch, over the
