obliterated by whiteness in the dark. Now and again Tanner would see a clump of higher snow, showing where a bush lay hidden, or the branch of a tree. Other than that there was nothing.
Shuddering, he kept his muscles clenched, trying to keep himself warm. His mouth ached, and the unprotected skin on his throat and face felt tight and crisp, as if it had become brittle and would snap if touched.
He came to the house without realising he had left the woods, it was so still all round. It was impossible to see the edge of the woods, or the hedge where they had ridden that morning – all was hidden. But here at the house, he was aware that the road was rising, and suddenly there was the grey mass on his left. He gave a sign of relief, kicking his horse into a trot to get to the front, but then a frown darkened his face. There was no welcoming glow of fire. No smell of wood smoke.
The small windows showed as rectangles of deeper black in the darkness of the walls. He would have expected to find at the least a glimmer from behind the tapestries and curtains, but there was nothing. With a feeling of anxiety, he realised that the house must be empty. Greencliff could not be there. To make sure, he dropped heavily from his old horse and thumped at the door.
After a few minutes, he tried the latch. Inside, all was silence, the fire a faint red apology in the hearth. He looked all round, then glanced behind him. The view decided him. Leading his horse inside, he took off the saddle and bridle, then groomed her before seeing to the fire.
It was when he had just managed to coax it back into life that the knock came at the door. Instantly alert, he grabbed his old sword, a heavy-bladed falchion. Drawing the single-bladed weapon, he walked quietly to the door and opened it with a jerk.
“Thank God, Harold, I… Who are you?”
Tanner stared grimly at his visitor, a young man with the red blush of fear colouring his face. “I’m the Constable. Who are you?”
Chapter Eight
“What will you call it?” asked Simon as they entered the house, the slim figure of the dog walking ahead of them as if it had been born at Furnshill.
Throwing a quick glance at him, Baldwin said, “I’m not so sure I’ll keep it. After all…”
“I think you’d better tell the dog that!” said Simon, “It’s already decided to stay, from the look of it, whatever you think. It’s not what I say that matters. I was thinking of Lionors.”
“Ah! Yes, I forgot. Your wife!”
Baldwin shot him a glare of irritation, but it slowly left his features, to be replaced with a self-deprecating grin.
Lionors was apparently no difficulty. As they walked through the screens, they saw that Lionors and their companion had already met, and the two were standing and cautiously sniffing at each other in front of the fire. As they watched, the mastiff obviously decided that the newcomer was no threat, and walked away to lie before the flames, and soon the black and brown dog joined her, snuggling up against her large frame like a puppy. The mastiff lifted her head once, grumbled twice, but then flopped back down again and ignored the stranger. “I’ll think of a name,” said Baldwin with resignation.
Later, when he walked into his hall, Baldwin was amused to see Simon still standing and defensively warming his back before the fire, Hugh beside him and tossing more wood on, while Margaret stood by, an expression of tight-lipped exasperation straining her features. From her face, and from the look of embarrassed self-justification on Simon’s, the knight knew his friend had been given sensible advice about not staying out too late in the dark when it snowed. In any case, Baldwin had heard the hissed fury in her voice – and the deference in her husband’s – through the wall.
When he saw the quick toss of Margaret’s head in his direction, the pained glance from Simon, and the straight back of the servant that seemed to imply that as far as he was concerned he would prefer to be anywhere other than with his master at the present, Baldwin smiled broadly.
“I suppose I could deny having heard your… Er, talk?” he said, looking from Simon to Margaret, catching sight of a fleeting wince on the bailiffs face.
She raised a cynical eyebrow as she turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t know how dangerous it can be? How bad it is to try to travel at night? You know what the lanes can be like when the snow is heavy: are you both mad?”
“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, walking to his chair in front of the fireplace. Before sitting he poured a tankard of warm wine from the jug on the hearth, then sat comfortably and sipped, his eyes fixed on her.
He looked like a bishop, sitting in his small chair as if it was a throne, she thought. Although he was not mocking her, she felt sure she could sense derision in his attitude, and drew in her breath to berate him in his turn, but before she could, he began speaking softly.
“Margaret, I’m sorry you were worried, but you must understand: there’s been a murder. We could not just stop and come home as soon as it became dark. We had to see if we could discover any more.”
“Of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But how would it profit your investigation for you both to die on a journey home?”
“Not at all, of course, but…”
“Exactly!” she said, cutting him off. “Not at all! Two merchants and a monk have already died this year on the way from Tavistock. All because they carried on with their journey after dark. I will not have you two doing the same.”
“But Margaret,” Simon began, but she whirled, glaring, and he subsided.
“No more: I will hear no more!”
Baldwin grinned and inclined his head. “Very well, lady. I will ensure that we are back in time in future.”
“Do so.” She walked to a bench and sat, arms crossed. “And now, tell me about this woman who has died.”
The knight and Simon exchanged a glance, then, at a brief shrug from his friend, the bailiff quickly told her of their day and what they had found about the dead woman. Tentatively sitting beside her, he told of their discovery of the body, their talk with the Oatways and their visit to the empty cottage. As he spoke, the mastiff rose and walked to Baldwin, closely followed by her black and brown shadow.
“Poor woman,” Margaret mused when he finished, and Simon nodded. “And these Oatways think she was a witch?”
“Yes,” said Baldwin. “They seem to believe she could make her dog do as she wished. As if a dog needed any prompting to do mischief! Anyway,” he took Kyteler’s dog by the head, holding it in both hands and peering into its eyes, “how could they think this one was evil?”
“That’s what they do, though,” said Hugh, and at his sudden interruption, they all glanced at him. Under their gaze he hunched his shoulders as if he wished he had not spoken, but then continued sulkily, “Well, it is. They get animals and make them do what they want. They can call on wild animals if they want.”
Baldwin grunted, “Nonsense!”
“It’s true! And if they want, some of them can change into animals, too! There’ve been witches all over here since men first got here,“ said Hugh, hotly defensive. ”Ever since men came here and fought the giants away there’s been witches.”
“No, Hugh. There’s no such thing as witches,” said the knight. “There’s only superstition and fear – sometimes jealousy. Never witchcraft.”
“Then how did this old woman get her dog to go and eat these chickens, then?” asked the servant triumphantly.
Looking up, Baldwin smiled at him, but then his face grew sombre. “Just because some old woman has a dog, and her neighbour thinks it was that dog that attacked her chickens, does not mean it really was. I think the dog deserves the chance to defend itself. Likewise, just because somebody thinks a woman is a witch does not necessarily mean she is, and she deserves the chance to defend herself.”
