not slept properly for weeks. Now, as they trotted up the slight rise that led to the camp site, he felt the old anger again, the sheer rage that any man could do such things to his fellows. The last time he had been too young to catch the men responsible, too young to be able to help, and, as a stranger to the area, unwanted in the posse, but he had followed the men as they chased after the gang, purely to assuage his anger by watching the revenge of the local men.
They had not been able to find the gang. The posse had chased after the gang for days, but, at last, they had lost the trail deep in a forest and had been forced to return, the whole group dejected from their failure. That was part of the reason for his depression at losing the killers of the abbot. He, too, had been unavenged for his miserable end. This time Black was committed. They would not escape him; he would hunt them down and destroy them, not only for this attack, but for the abbot and for the poor dead men and women he had seen when he was twenty-two. He looked over at Simon. How would he cope with it, he wondered.
Simon’s anger was giving way to fear as they drew closer, fear of the sights hidden by the trees. He had been shocked and horrified to see what had happened to the abbot, but this attack seemed even worse already, after seeing the effect on the young woman and her brother, and he withdrew into himself as they rode, as if he could hide from the sights ahead.
When he glanced behind, Simon realised that he was not alone in his feelings of trepidation. The others, all sturdy men well-used to the sight of dead and injured men and animals, men ready and prepared to kill a wounded beast out of kindness to stop its misery, were riding bunched together in a group, no longer strung out along the road, as if they all felt the need for the mutual support and comfort that only their numbers could bring. They rode with the fixed expressions of men that were fearful, but who would continue with what they knew would be a deeply unpleasant task, as if they knew that only by their dedication could they prevent a repeat of the attack.
Simon turned back to face the road again and set his jaw. If the men could ride with that level of commitment, so could he. He glanced swiftly at Black, who was riding with the same fixed frown on his face, then stared at the road again with a small feeling of desperation. He felt as if he was alone in his feeling of fear, that the others were free of concern and that he alone was scared of what lay ahead.
As they came up to the trees, they slowed to a walking pace. The road led past the camp, and they had to turn off into a small lane to get to it. They meandered down the lane, all feeling their tension and apprehension growing. Simon felt that the men of the posse had a curious mood of estrangement in their unity, as if they were all grateful for the company of their friends, but were all absolutely alone with their thoughts, each standing isolated and apart from the other as he rode, as if they were retreating into themselves for the strength to carry on to the campsite.
The lane curved and wound its way to the camp, but through the occasional gaps in the trees Simon could see the dark and gloomy hills of the moors ahead, so they were heading south. He saw that Black was already trying to make sense of the mess of tracks in the trodden dirt of the lane. He seemed to feel Simon’s steady gaze on him and looked up for a minute, but there was no recognition in his eyes, only an angry glittering. He turned back to his quiet investigation.
It was the smell that Simon noticed first – not the bitter, musty tang of an old fire, but fresh smoke from a fire of cured wood, and the smell made him frown and glance at Black again. Surely they weren’t still there? The trail bastons would have left by now, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t wait and camp at the scene of their latest attack, would they?
The expression on Black’s face froze him. The hunter was staring with his face rigid, his jaw locked and clenched, and only his eyes moving. No other muscle worked. It was as if he had been bewitched, as if he was cursed by having all his limbs stilled and rendered immovable. With a feeling of horror, the bailiff realised that the man was stricken with disgust and revulsion, and he felt his own terror return as they rode into the camp.
At first all he could see was the burning wagons. They came into the camp through a small gap in the trees and were suddenly in a little clearing, bordered by a fringe of thin, young trees. Although the grass had long ago been trampled into mud, the first impression that the bailiff had was of a festive and peaceful site, with brightly coloured clothes on the people sleeping all round and the green of the trees reflecting off the little pool of water at the other side of the clearing. It was as if they had entered a small oasis of calm, and he felt that if they were to shout all of the people would wake and greet them. But then, as he looked all over the area, he saw that none in the camp would wake again. They were all dead.
Two wagons, parked close together, were smouldering, giving off thin grey smoke that rose and billowed in the clear air. Two others sat a little farther off, their contents strewn over the ground in a haphazard tapestry of colour. Slowly the sensation of unreality faded from him and he felt the tears warming his eyes as he saw that the nearest body was that of a woman, hacked to death and lying in her own gore. Then he saw that the next body, that of a man, lay with his arms outstretched as if reaching for her even in death, with a massive and bloody gash at the back of his head.
He felt as if he was not here, as if he was away from this scene and looking through another’s eyes, as he surveyed the bodies all over the clearing. It was as if his brain had become dissociated from his body, as if in horror of the sight before him, his mind had withdrawn to defend him from the reality of the view.
His eyes smarting, he had to turn away quickly. He looked up at the wagons again. As he saw the second of them, he felt the sensation of being elsewhere leave him, to be replaced by a rage, an anger so deep as to engulf him completely, a fury that this should have been done to peaceful travellers here, in this sheltered glade. It seemed so unjust that this should have been done, so wrong. Then, as he looked closer, his breath caught in his throat as he saw, hanging from the back of the smoking, open cart, two blackened arms that dangled from the smouldering ruins. He sat, as if incapable of movement, his eyes fixed in front of him at those two sad reminders of what had been a human.
Black dropped lightly from his horse and motioned to the posse to wait, then he quickly stalked over the ground, bending now and then at the bodies, gazing intently at the mess on the ground, checking the wagons’ contents, and kneeling occasionally to peer at some traces. Finished, he returned and took his horse’s bridle before standing by the bailiff.
“Sir,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “there was more than five here. It looks like they came in some hours ago from the tracks, and left some time ago – their marks are a little weathered.”
“What happened? Why did they kill all these people?” Simon’s voice was muted, almost awed by the immensity of the crime.
“They took all the money, took all the food.” Black shrugged. “They had no need for all these.” His hand waved, taking in all the bodies in a gesture of seeming indifference.
“Where did they go?”
“South. To the moors. The trail’s clear.”
“Let’s go after them, then.” Simon stared at the wagon again.
“Sir? We have to send word first, let the farmer know so that he can call the people over from Oakhampton.” Black was frowning as he spoke, trying to break through the cloud of anger that was smothering Simon’s thoughts.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Leave two men here and send one to the farm. The others will come with us.”
Quickly the hunter followed his orders, choosing the two oldest men to guard the camp, and the youngest to warn the farm, then he mounted his horse again and, after a quick glance at the bailiff, he kicked his mount into a brisk trot and led the way down past the pool of water and up the incline at the other side, steadily taking them toward the moors.
They went fairly slowly at first as the track took them between the trees. It seemed clear that the men who had violated the camp had not taken many precautions to make their trail hard to follow – it led through the trees where the trunks were thinnest, where the branches hardly made the riders duck, and soon they came to an open moor, where the tracks led straight as an arrow towards the blue-grey hills ahead.
As they went, the feeling of unreality left Simon, to be replaced by a sense of lightheadedness. He could not comprehend the ferocity of the attack: it seemed too vicious, too brutal. It seemed even worse than the attack on the abbot, somehow, the enormity of the crime being increased by the number of the victims, and he felt confused and troubled in the midst of his rage. More than ever, he felt the need for his wife now, for someone who could listen to him as he tried to explain the feelings that crowded his mind with the clamour of confusion. He felt as if his brain must break with the mad array of emotions that battered at him. The anger was still there, burning deep inside him with the flames of his need to avenge the attack, but he also wanted an explanation. He needed to
