Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

An eyebrow rose, and he was sure he could see a sceptical smile form. “Really? And how is this?”

“After the death of Agatha Kyteler, we found some evidence that a local man might have been involved, and when we went to see him, he had disappeared. Harold Greencliff. We went to see him yesterday, but he has gone again. Run away. But we have found his trail, and…”

Her eyes had widened, as if in great surprise, and a hand raised to her throat. “Harold?” Her voice quavered, suddenly weak.

“It looks like he ran away almost immediately after the killing of your husband, lady. We have sent a search party after him. The men are following his tracks in the woods. My friend the bailiff is there, and he should soon bring the boy back to be tried for the murder. Lady? Are you all right?“

She had dropped her face into her hands, as if about to weep, and the knight leaned forward a little, his hand held out tentatively, longing to touch her and try to calm her, but he let his hand fall. He dared not.

After a minute or two, she cleared her throat and looked into the flames.

“Lady? Can I fetch you anything?”

Looking at her, he was struck by the fresh sadness in her eyes, and his heart went out to her for feeling sympathy for the young farmer, even if it was misplaced. But then her eyes returned to his, and he could plainly see the fear in their emerald depths. It was that which made him stiffen with a sudden cold doubt. This was not just womanly compassion for a hunted villein. She was scared for herself.

“Damn this snow!”

They had managed to follow the tracks all around the perimeter of Crediton, Mark Rush staying in among the trees, stumbling over the bracken and thin, straggling shrubs at the very edge so that he could follow the footprints while the others rode on happily in the clear area that bounded the town, listening with amusement to his muttered curses. Every time he passed too close to a tree and jogged its branches, more snow fell on him, causing another outburst.

It was not until they had passed round the town and were at the south that the trail began to turn away from the others. Rush was no fool, and he knew that if he was the fugitive he would try to confuse any pursuers. He might double back when it was not expected, or find a stream where he could travel without his prints being seen and where no hound could detect a scent, although it would be dangerous and painful to do that now with the waters frozen. What else could he do? Leave tracks and then make a trap?

These were the thoughts that kept forcing their way into his mind as he followed the prints slowly making their way south. “Bailiff?”

At the call, Simon left his horse with the last man and wandered into the trees. “Yes?”

Pointing, the hunter glowered at the ground. “He’s going south now. It’s late. We can try to carry on after him if you want, but I reckon we’d be better off finding somewhere to lie up for the night and get on after him in the morning.”

Simon nodded. Already the sky was darkening, and it would soon be difficult to see the prints. They had seen a farm not long before, in a new assart to the east, so they made their way to it, and were soon sitting before a fire, eating their cured meats and drinking wine. The farmer had been concerned to have three well-armed men appear at first, and had nervously fingered his dagger, until Simon explained who they were, and then he had agreed with alacrity to allow them to use his hall. As he said, if there was a killer on the loose, he would be safer with them in his house.

The house possessed a large hall, with the animals segregated by a fence, and there was plenty of space even when the constable arrived with two men. He had sent the other members of his party to their homes when he had received the message about the spoor. There seemed little point in having so many men to chase one.

They had arrived within an hour of Simon’s group finishing their meal, complaining bitterly at having to track not only the outlaw but also Simon’s troop to the farmhouse, and sat in front of the fire until the snow melted and steam began to rise from their clothes. The farmer bustled around enthusiastically, giving them pots of ale and cider from his buttery and providing extra blankets for those who needed them. In one corner was a table with a bench at either side, and here the constable, the hunter and the bailiff sat.

Tanner chewed meditatively at a loaf as he eyed the other two. “So you’re sure we’re on the right trail?”

Mark Rush and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Then the hunter nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. We picked up the tracks leading away from the lane by his house, like he was avoiding the roads. When it came to Crediton, like you saw, he avoided the town and kept going.”

“It doesn’t make much sense, though,” the constable mused.

“What doesn’t?” asked Simon.

“Well, he’s heading south like he’s thought it all out and decided to run away, but I didn’t see any sign of a fire. Did you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So I suppose he must be trying to cover as much ground as possible before resting. We’ve come at least twelve miles or so already. He could have gone another seven or eight before he needed to stop.”

“Yes,” the hunter agreed. “He’s all right. He can go at his own pace. We have to make sure we can follow his tracks, so we can only work with the sun.”

Nodding, Tanner glanced at the bailiff. “Where do you think he’ll be going?”

“I’ve no idea. I can only assume he’s heading for the coast, but he’s taking a great risk.”

“Yes. He’s heading for the moors. If he keeps going, he’ll end up as feed for the crows.”

Mark Rush glanced up from his pot. “Won’t take long. Way he’s going, he’ll be dead before he gets to the moors themselves if he’s not careful.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Simon.

“The way he’s going. His walking’s all stumbling and tripping, like he’s drunk. I think he’ll be lucky if he makes it to the moors. I don’t know, but I think tomorrow we may find his body.”

Greencliff was not dead, though he was frozen to the bone. He was sitting in a small depression in the ground, a tiny natural shelter, with a little fire cheerfully throwing small shadows. But it was not enough to warm him. There was an absence of tinder, and he had been forced to make do with some green branches snapped from a tree which cast little heat. Now he sat shivering, gloomily considering a dismal future, huddled under his blanket.

There was no doubt in his mind. If he did not find somewhere warm where he could rest and eat hot food, he would freeze. His teeth chattered like a sour reminder of his predicament. There must be somewhere here for him to beg a warm place to sit. And a bowl of soup.

Here he was just inside the edge of a forest, although he was not sure where. At either side of the depression the trees marched away into the distance, while in front, to the south, the land was bare and barren: Dartmoor. He had never been this far south before – there had never been reason to come here – and the view of the rolling hills ahead was awesome. There was no definition to them. One hillock merged into another, the series of flattened peaks seeming almost to be one great, flat plain. But when he strained his eyes, he could see variations in the greyness. There was a long patch of darker ground sweeping across from his left, leading on to the horizon, there was a series of whiter areas on the hill tops where the moon lighted them. And between them he could just make out the shading that showed where valleys lay.

Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes with fingers that were swiftly losing all feeling. He was tired out, completely exhausted, as if his very soul was drained. It had taken the last tiny sparks of defiance to light the fire, because all he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep. It would be so good to shut his eyes and drift off for a time, to let the drowsiness steal over him and give him some peace, some real peace, such as he had not known since he put the witch’s body in the hedge. If only he had immediately buried her. Why had he gone indoors to sleep and not hidden her away at once?