they were to hit such a patch, they would be hurt.
And it was not long before he was proved correct. He felt his horse’s hindquarters slip, and felt the great creature falter as if nervous, knowing that he was losing grip.
It was only with care that he managed to stay in the saddle. When he heard the high whinny and gasp from his side, above the whistle of the wind in his ears, he knew that Simon had fallen, and turning and throwing an anxious glance behind, he saw the bailiff sitting in a drift and rubbing his head with a grimace of angry pain.
It was then that Baldwin felt the anger rising. Now this young fool had caused his friend to be hurt as well. With his jaw set and his eyes staring, he set spurs to his mount’s flanks and raced on.
They had entered the cold shade of the woods now, and Baldwin felt that the dark trunks rising on either side and flashing past looked almost like disapproving spectators. He set his teeth at the thought. Why should they approve? This was a race to the death, after all. The boy would die, whether during his flight or later, and the knight must catch him or die in the attempt, now that there was only him left.
Then the trees seemed to pull back from the track as if in dismay, and Baldwin drew in his breath. They were coming into the village. The open space by the inn came towards them, then they had flashed past, leaving two surprised men trying to calm their horses at the entrance, startled by the speed of the two riders.
Leaving the village, Baldwin became aware that his mount was beginning to tire. He could feel the breathing becoming more laboured, the steps starting to lose their rhythmic pattern, and the head was straining as it stared forward. Biting his lip, the knight frowned ahead. Could the boy escape? No, he mustn’t. He must be caught and made to pay for the murders.
The horse ahead was a blur against the white of the road, the youth a darker smudge on its back. All Baldwin could see was the snow whipped up by the hooves and the wind, flying upwards into a cloud like a trail of feathers in their wake. It was already becoming colder and the breath felt like it was freezing his lungs as he inhaled. It smoked as he breathed out, the cold damp mist being snatched away from his mouth by the wind as he rode. Every now and then he would catch a whiff of the dank breath of his horse as the grey exhalation was drawn past his nostrils, but he kept his eyes fixed now on the figure ahead: his prey.
He was aware of the light fading. The sun was gradually sinking behind the protective covering of clouds, and there was a pink and orange glow in the west, flecked with purple and blue, which he could glimpse on his left. But then they were suddenly out of the trees and into a clearing. Here the youth sensed he had an advantage, and Baldwin saw his arm rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he beat his horse’s flank. “Fool!” the knight thought. “All you’ll do is lose his concentration if you keep hitting him. Leave him be.”
But it worked, and the boy reentered the woods at the far end of the clearing with a greater advantage. It was obvious that the knight would not be able to catch him. The youth was smaller in body, his horse faster, while the knight’s mount was larger and slower. The contest was too unequal. He was about to rein in, when he saw a larger splash of snow, and then, when it settled, the horse and rider seemed to have disappeared. Uttering a quick prayer, Baldwin slowed to a canter, then a trot, and went forward hopefully to investigate.
“Get up! Get up!” he heard as he approached, and then he saw the boy. Stephen was kneeling and struggling in desperation to make the horse rise, but the horse was lying dazedly, both forelimbs outstretched, and whinnying softly, clearly in great pain. When he was close, Baldwin saw that one leg was bent at an impossible angle from the forelock. It was broken.
“Shut up, Stephen,” he said as he dropped from his saddle, and the youth rose, to stand anxiously, eyes wandering from the knight to the woods. “Don’t even think it,” Baldwin continued evenly. “If you try to run, I’ll catch you. And if you were wondering about taking my horse, don’t bother. He doesn’t like other riders. He’d throw you within yards. Sit down over there, while I see to your horse.”
While the boy stumbled to the patch of ground Baldwin had indicated, the knight studied the horse. There was nothing he could do. The leg was broken, and it was easy to see why. Riding in among the trees, the horse had been unlucky enough to put his leg into a rabbit hole hidden by the snow. There was nothing else for it. Baldwin drew his dagger and cut the horse’s throat with a single, quick slash that opened the artery. Leaping back, he could not avoid the fine spray and then thick gouts of blood that gushed. The knight was liberally spattered. It was soon over, and when the creature’s shivering death throes were done, he cleaned his knife on the horse’s flank before he stowed it away. Stephen de la Forte was still seated where he had been told, resting with his hands on the ground behind him, although now his panting had reduced. Baldwin kept an eye on him while he mounted, then cocked an eye back the way they had come. “I think it’s time we started back, don’t you?” he said affably.
The youth slowly rose to his feet and glanced at the dead horse. Without moving, he said musingly, “I suppose you know how wealthy my father is? He would pay well for my freedom. All you have to do is let me go now.”
“You have a long walk ahead of you, Stephen. Save your breath for that.”
It would have been foolish for the boy to try to escape. Similarly, he seemed to realise that it would be impossible to try to deny his guilt. He strode along amenably enough, hands clutching his cloak tightly around his body as they made their way back. Their mad race had taken less than a half-hour, but it took them nearly that long to get to the village with Stephen on foot, and Baldwin’s better judgment might have persuaded him to stay and enjoy a drink, but he decided to continue. He wanted to see how Simon was after his fall.
It was almost another hour before they came to the track on the left that wound its way up to the house, and here for the first time the youth faltered.
“Do we have to go there? Can’t you take me straight to the gaol? I don’t want to see my parents like this.” There was a plaintive tone to his voice, the spoiled child who cannot have his own way.
Baldwin’s sympathy was limited. “Get a move on. At least you can get a warm drink inside you at the house.”
The last thing on the boy’s mind was an attempt to break away and make his escape, but he was reluctant to arrive at his home, and the knight cursed the youth’s slowness under his breath. Now he was nearly there, he wished to complete their journey as quickly as he could.
At the door they waited, and when it was pulled wide, it was Edgar who stood there to welcome them. Taking Stephen by the arm, he waited while his master dropped from his horse. When an hostler arrived and took the reins from him, they all passed inside.
“Simon! How are you?” Baldwin cried at the door, and crossed the floor to his friend, who sat swathed in cloak and blankets like a new-born child. The bailiff smiled, but his pleasure at seeing the knight could not hide the yellowish pallor of his features.
“I’m fine,” he admitted. “But I landed on my head, and it jarred me.” He stopped and stared. “My God, Baldwin! Are you all right? You’re covered in blood, did he stab you?”
“I’m fine. I had to kill his horse: broken leg.”
“Thank God! I…” He stopped, his mouth open in apparent revelation, and Baldwin heard him mutter, ”Of course! That was why he was cold! Why didn’t I realise before?“
Barging past the knight, Stephen stepped up to the fire and ignored the gaze of the others. His father was sitting with his mother on a bench by the hearth, his arm around her, and to Baldwin it looked as if they had both aged in his absence. She was sniffling and trying to hold back her weeping, while her husband sat stoically and expressionlessly, swallowing hard every few minutes as if trying to keep the tears at bay.
When the youth turned from the fire, Baldwin saw him glance at his parents for a moment. In that quick look, he saw only contempt and loathing, and he felt a cold chill at the sight of it. How long would it have been, he wondered, before this boy decided that his father was too weak or ineffectual to be his partner as well?
It was Walter de la Forte who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell us why?”
“Why, father? Why I killed them? You know the reasons why. And I did it then because I had the opportunity, I thought, of getting away with their deaths. After all, they both deserved their ends.”
He walked over to a small chair and sat, staring at his father with apparent surprise, as if he expected that he at least should understand. “She had been a threat for ages, and that was hardly right, especially now the business has been suffering. No, it was only right that she should die. She was a danger, and had been for many years.”
“But why Alan? He was our friend, your friend! Why kill him?”
“He was weak and a fool. He wanted us to keep on with the trading when it was clear we needed to change, to move into banking, beat the Genoese at their own game. That’s where the money is going to be in the future. But he wouldn’t see it. He couldn’t. He was going to ruin our business, Father. I couldn’t let him do that to my
