the tapestries behind, and the door was almost in the middle, giving the place a feeling of symmetrical stability. When they reined in at the front there was no sign of the owner, and Mark allowed his horse to skitter restlessly as he peered at the holding. Watching him, Godwen sighed. Mark radiated sulkiness, his black eyebrows fixed in a thick line above the glaring brown eyes, his thin mouth set hard and resolute below the narrow, broken nose. Even his hair, thick and luxuriant as a hedge in spring, seemed to be sprung and taut with his emotion.
“No one here, from the look of it,” said Mark, glancing over at him. Godwen grunted. “Knock at the door.”
“No need, my loves. I’m here.”
Spinning, Godwen saw a short but heavyset man standing behind Mark, who, taken unawares, jerked round in a spasm of fear. Smiling, Godwen kicked his horse forward.
“Afternoon.”
“Ah, afternoon to you. What can I do for you?”
He seemed amused by their arrival, watching them from under his bushy brows, the grey hair seeming to fit him like lichen on an old log it was so grizzled and rough-looking. His clothes were almost exclusively leather, from the tunic to the kilt and down to his light boots, and he carried a rusted pike in his hand. Mark seemed to be at a momentary loss for words as he gazed at the man, so it was Godwen who introduced them and explained their visit while the man listened, ducking his head now and again to show he understood.
Cutting the explanation short, Mark snapped, “If you heard nothing, then just say so and we’ll be gone. Did you hear anyone? Or see anything?”
Perhaps it was Mark’s curt sharpness, but Godwen could almost feel the little man withdraw from them at this. He seemed to almost shrink in front of them, as if he could hide in his coat.
“Oh, no, no, sir. I didn’t hear him, I’m sure,” he said softly, as if afraid, but Godwen was convinced he could see a little gleam in his narrow, dark eyes.
“Good. That’s that then. Come on, Godwen,” said Mark.
He whirled his horse around, trotting off as if expecting Godwen to follow like a dog now that he had been given the command.
The woodman watched him go, then turned his gaze to Godwen, where he sat musingly on his horse. “Aren’t you going with him?”
Godwen shrugged and gazed at Mark’s back as he rode into the trees again, a bland expression on his face. He had no desire to listen to Mark’s moaning all the way home. “He’ll not need me to help him find his way,” he said mildly and turned back to glance at the leathery little man.
His eyes fixed on Godwen’s face, the man seemed to consider for a moment before nodding seriously. “I think you’re right. He seems to know what he wants. Only trouble is, he’s in too much of a hurry.”
“Yes. I’m not, though. Can I ask you a couple of things?”
“Course!” said the man. “What do you want to know?”
Godwen looked over at the lane, to where it passed through the woods some fifty yards away. “You didn’t hear the man as he died, but did you hear or see anything else?”
“Not on that night, no. Nobody came past then.”
“Has someone come past since then? A man who could have been a knight on a great horse? He probably had a squire or someone with him on a smaller horse?”
“No, no pair of men, just the one.”
“One?”
“Yes, there was a knight came past two days ago, my love. Big man he was. But he was all alone.”
“Was he on a war horse?”
“Oh no, no. No, he was on a lovely little grey mare.”
Chapter Fourteen
Simon and Hugh finally arrived home again in the middle of the afternoon, both tired and waspish after their journey, and the bailiff marginally the worse-tempered of the two. He was angry with himself, annoyed, and felt no need to hide it. It came from a feeling of failure, as if he had forgotten or missed a vital hint that could have solved the mystery and led him to the murderer of the abbot. His conversation with the monk, which had left him more confused than ever, had done nothing to improve his temper, and his curtness with his servant was reciprocated in full by the time they returned home.
Both sour and tense, they rode up to the old house in a strained silence, each deep in his own thoughts. Hugh had tried to interrupt the bailiff’s contemplation a couple of times, but when his conversation had been rejected he went into a sulk and maintained an aloof taciturnity for the rest of their journey, wondering whether he had taken the right job when he had joined Simon’s household.
There was a horse outside the house when they reined in, and Simon felt a thrill of excitement when he recognised it as Black’s. He jumped down, threw the reins over to Hugh, and hurried indoors to see what he had to report.
Black was sitting in front of the fire and watching Margaret stirring at a pot as Simon entered. The bailiff walked quickly to his wife and kissed her perfunctorily before eagerly turning to Black and nodding to him as he walked over and sat down on a bench close by. “Any news?” he asked, trying to control his excitement and keep the hope out of his voice.
“Not much, I’m feared,” Black said slowly, taking a long pull at the jug of ale Margaret had given him. “We’ve been all over from Crediton to Half Moon and nobody on the road remembers anyone on a war horse, or anyone in armour. There were several farm horses went by, but none with a man like a knight riding. We did that this morning, and then I sent some of the men down south to ask at some of the bartons down that way while I took the rest up around here. Same thing, so far, though I’ve yet to hear from a couple of the lads I sent down near the moors. I’ve been keeping my eyes open for any sign of a man going into the woods by the side of the roads, but there’s no signs at all, not as far as I can see. Trouble is, the roads’re so messed up since the rains, and we’ve had so many travellers using them, it’s next to impossible to see any tracks at all in the general traffic. They seem to’ve just disappeared. Have you heard any news from Tanner yet?”
“No. No, nothing. I… Thanks, my love.” Simon gratefully took a jug of beer from his wife and took a deep draught as she sat beside him to listen. “I hope we’ll hear something soon, but God only knows how long it’ll take to check all the roads to the west.”
“Aye. Trouble is, with the time and everything, they may’ve finished him off at night. They could’ve made off in the dark. Maybe no one did see them,” said the hunter gloomily.
Simon nodded slowly. “I know. And if we find no trace to follow, we might never find out what really happened and who did it.”
“What do we do if we hear nothing from Tanner’s search?”
“Keep searching. Tell people farther afield. There’s not much else we can do, is there? If we can’t find any trace of them, we’ll have to assume they’ve gone somewhere else and won’t attack anyone round here again.”
“Aye.” And with that monosyllabic response, Margaret felt that Black allowed himself to sink into a brooding melancholy. He seemed downcast by his inability to track the killers and by the thought that there was little more he could do unless Tanner brought fresh news from his search. She was repelled by this depression, it seemed ridiculous to her that he should be so despondent when there was still hope. Simon sat quietly, glaring at the mug in his hand.
After waiting in silence for some minutes she had to try to lessen the strain of the silence. She broke into their meditation with a voice that sounded a little high and unnatural even to her own ears. “Did the monks help?”
Simon nodded slowly and pensively, and Black said, “I heard you’d been over to Clanton Barton again to speak to them. What did they have to say?”
“Not much, really,” said Simon with a small frown as he thought again about his conversation with the monk. He quickly told them what he had learned. “At least we know the abbot’s name now. He was called Oliver de
