the shot. Cursing, he ran forward shouting, and as he did, the wolfs teeth scraped a ragged tear in the horse’s neck. Shrieking, the horse rose once more, but now the smell of blood appeared to enrage the Bourc’s mount and made him lose his fear. Lifting his bulk up onto his hind legs as the wolf passed before him, he suddenly dropped, both hooves falling, legs stiff, the whole of his weight behind them. With a petrified screech, the wolf was crushed to the ground, forepaws scrabbling in the dirt, eyes wide in agony, as the horse rose again and again, only to bring his whole weight down on the wolfs back, not stopping until the hideous cries had ceased.
Before running to his horse’s side, the Bourc stared around his camp carefully, arrow still set on the bowstring, every sense straining. There was nothing: no noise to disturb him. He slowly rose, walking along the line of the great rocks until he came to the horses. Squatting, he put aside the bow, and drew his dagger to make sure the wolf was dead. It was unnecessary. A quick look at the ruined body was enough to show that.
The horse was still shivering, eyes rolling in horror, and the Bourc stroked it for a moment. A few yards away was the packhorse, and he stared at it anxiously. He could see the blood dripping steadily from the long gash, but he gave a sigh of relief as the fire spluttered and flared. The wound was not deep enough to kill the animal. Walking to it, he made sure, then patted the horse and spoke softly to him.
It was while he was there that he heard the panting. Turning slowly, his heart beating frantically, he saw the sharp features of the wolf crouched low, eyes fixed on him as it stalked forward. He glanced at his bow, lying useless only yards away. It was close, so close, but already nearer the approaching wolf than him: he would never be able to reach it. He showed his teeth in a snarl – though whether in fear or rage, he was not himself sure – and grasped his long-bladed dagger.
When Simon awoke, it was to a sense of mild surprise, wondering where he was. At least over the night he had not suffered from the dream again. It was as if it only wanted to seek him out while he was idle, not now, while he was searching for the witch’s killer. While he was employed on that task the nightmare would leave him alone, although its memory would stay with him as a spur to his commitment to the hunt.
It took them little time to saddle their horses, roll up their blankets and prepare to leave. The snow appeared not to have been so strongly blown by the wind this time, and lay evenly rather than drifting, so the three men felt that the journey to Wefford should not be too difficult. From the front of the house, they could look over to the east where the woods began and see where the lane made its way in among the trees, the hedges at either side standing out as two long ramparts. The trail itself looked like a ditch between them, like some sort of fortification, from the way that the land rose on their left to form the small hill.
As they mounted and turned their horses’ heads to the sun in the east, which seemed to hang larger and redder than usual in the pale blue sky, they had to squint from the already painful glare off the snow. Baldwin rode alongside the trail he had seen the evening before. In the bright sunlight the tracks still stood out, and they led the men along the lane a short way. But then the marks were obliterated under a fall of snow from the branches of the trees overhead. Taking their time, they set a slow pace, between a trot and a walk, as they went under the trees, casting about for a continuation of the tracks, but they saw nothing.
“We’ll have to get Tanner, of course,” said Baldwin after a few minutes.
Looking across at him, Simon sighed as he turned back to the road ahead. “Yes. And raise a search party; see if we can hunt him quickly.”
Another manhunt, the knight mused sadly. He enjoyed the chase for an animal. After all, that was only right, to hunt and kill for food and sport was natural. But tracking a man was different, demeaning for the man and his hunters as well.
It would be different, the knight knew, if he felt that there had been any justifiable reason for the murders, but there did not seem to be. He frowned and bit his lip in his annoyance at one thought: if he had kept this boy Greencliff in gaol, or put him back when they had heard from Stephen de la Forte that the two of them had not been together all the time when Agatha Kyteler had died, maybe Alan Trevellyn would not have died. That meant that a little of the guilt for the murder, he felt, now lay with him for making the wrong decision at the time. As his eyes rose to the road ahead, they held a frown as he swore to himself that he would catch the criminal and avenge Trevellyn’s death.
Jogging along quietly beside him, Simon was not so convinced of Harold Greencliff’s guilt. Why? That was the question that plagued him: why? Why kill the merchant? Or the witch, for that matter. The boy had made comments about her at the inn that night, but nobody could explain why he hated her. And there seemed no reason why he should kill Trevellyn either.
Then his eyes took on a more pensive look and his head sank on his shoulders. Mrs. Trevellyn was very beautiful, he admitted to himself. Was it possible that she was the mysterious lover? That Jennie Miller was right? Could the boy have killed her husband to win her? But if he had, why run away afterwards? It made no sense!
The admission of what she had done at the witch’s cottage had launched Harold Greencliff into a nightmare that would not stop. All he had ever wanted was to be able to live out his life like his father before him, a farmer. To be able to earn his living honestly. He knew he would never be rich, but that did not matter when none of his friends and neighbours were. Money and cattle were pleasant to dream of, but he felt it was more important to be satisfied and content, to work hard and earn a place in heaven, like the priests promised.
But since the death of Agatha Kyteler last Tuesday, there had been no peace for him. Maybe if he had managed to run away then, he would have left all this behind. If he had got to Gascony, perhaps then he might have been able to forget the whole affair, but it was too late now. He was marked by his guilt.
At first, when he got back home from the Trevellyns’ hall, he had sat down as if in a dream, his mind empty. It felt impossible to move, and he stayed there on his bench, sitting and occasionally shivering in the lonely cold of his house, not even bothering to stoke his little fire so deep was his misery. But soon the despair returned, and the disgust, and he stood and walked around his room, sobbing. Ever since that witch had ruined everything, his life had been wrecked. It was all her fault: she had deserved her end.
It was like a dream, the way that he had made his decision and started taking up his meagre essentials, stuffing them into his old satchel. He had picked up his ballock knife, the long dagger with the single sharp edge, from where it had fallen on the floor. He might need it, and it was good in a fight, with the two large round lobes at the base of the solid wooden grip to protect the hand.
For food, he took some fruit and dried and salted ham, which he dropped into the bag, followed by a loaf of bread as an afterthought. Then the satchel was full. He pulled a thick woollen tunic over his head, draped his blanket over his shoulders, took his staff, and left. He would never return. The shame would be too painful.
At first he had wandered in the darkness without any firm direction in mind, aimlessly following where his feet led him, and he had found himself heading south. Soon he was in among the woods. Usually he would stride through there, knowing each trunk and fallen bough like the furniture in his hall, but in the bitter cold and his despair he had meandered witlessly.
Now he knew it was a wonder that he had managed to survive and had not succumbed to the freezing temperatures. He had been lucky. The woods appeared to go on for ever, leading him up gentle hills and down the other sides, through lighter snow which the winds had not been able to pile into deep drifts, heading away from his home and his past life.
Only when he had begun to smell woodsmoke did he realise he had almost arrived at Crediton, and he stopped. Almost without consciously making a choice, he had found himself starting to walk again, following the line of trees to circumnavigate the town, always keeping to the shelter of the thick boughs. When he had passed by the town, he had discovered a strange lightening of his spirit, as if he had truly left his old life behind. He had only rarely been this far from home before.
All that day he had continued, ignoring calls from other travellers, concentrating solely on the steady trudge of his feet, careless of his direction, neither knowing nor caring where he was heading, until he had realised that the snow was falling again.
It forced him to waken from his mindless, daydreaming tramping, and he stopped dead, staring around with no idea where he was. He had arrived at a flat area, an open space fringed by trees, and now, as the first few flakes began to fall, he could see that there appeared to be no houses nearby.
Here he was quite high up, his view unimpaired, and to the left he could see over the top of some trees to a hilltop some miles away which wore a circle of trees at its summit like a crown. Before him he could see along a small cleft in the land, which appeared to forge ahead like a track, with both sides hidden under a light scattering of
