Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

As they set off again, leaving at last the line of trees and beginning to make their way on to the moors, he found himself reflecting sadly on the last Greencliff. Tanner had known him since he was a boy.

Good-looking since he was a child, he had always been able to win apples from the women in the village while young. As he had grown, he had kept his innocent charm, and then he had taken other gifts – or so it was rumoured. Why, even Sarah Cottey was supposed to have carried on with him recently, and she was only the last in a long series. The boy was lucky to have lived so long without getting a thrashing from an enraged father or brother!

Murder was a long way from enjoying a woman’s embrace, though, he mused. Just because a man was popular with the local girls did not make him a killer. It was different, as the constable knew, with soldiers. He had witnessed enough rapings and people having their lives taken quickly or slowly to know the difference between the brutal and the gentle taking of a woman. Harold had only ever been kind with his women, which was why none had ever denounced him to their families. All still liked him. Even Sarah Cottey – she was infatuated with him.

But love was possessive, and perhaps that was why the boy had found the courage to kill, stabbing Trevellyn in a jealous fit so that he could have the woman he wanted. If so, that did not answer why the youth should have killed the witch, though. The reason behind that was still a mystery. Tanner dawdled behind the others as the thoughts drifted through his mind, making him scowl darkly as he stared with unseeing eyes at the ground.

At a sudden gasp from the hunter in front, he kicked his horse and rode forward to where Simon and Mark Rush stood pensively gazing down at a mess of confused prints.

“Looks like he walked to here, then fell,” said the hunter. He peered up the shallow slope to a small group of tors huddled together as if for warmth on the top of the hill. “Wolves were about, but he managed to get up there.”

“Let’s see if he’s still there, then,” said the bailiff, and they began to make their way up the slight incline.

Tanner stayed at the back again at first, but then he shrugged and put the thoughts from his mind. If he was alive, they would be sure to find out as soon as they caught him. There was no point in speculating.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

The call made them all stop and cautiously glare at the rocks before them. Then Simon tentatively rode forward a couple of yards. “Is that you, Greencliff?”

“No.” There was a dry chuckle. Then there was a movement above them, and they saw what had appeared to be a boulder detach itself from the tor and spring lightly to the ground before them.

For a moment they contemplated him in silence, then Simon rode forward a pace or two. The man held himself alert and had the look of a fighting man, but did not look as though he was dangerous. Merely wary at the sight of three strangers out here in the wild.

Glancing to his side, Simon saw that Rush had come up alongside.

“I know this man,” the hunter muttered, “I saw him trotting away from Wefford the day the witch was killed.“

Simon nodded, then looked back to the Gascon. “Good morning, friend. I am a bailiff. We are hunting an outlaw, a man who is running from justice. His feet led us here – have you seen him?” He gave a brief description.

“He is not here now,” said the Bourc.

“What do you mean? Have you seen him?” Simon asked eagerly.

The Bourc put his head to one side thoughtfully as he peered up at the bailiff. “I have, but he did not seem to be an outlaw. I gave him a place to sleep last night. He was here with me, but he left some time ago. Come to my camp, I will show you the path he took and you can warm yourselves by my fire for a while,” he said quietly, and, turning, led the way to the ring of old stones that stood at the summit, just under the tor.

To Simon it looked like an enclosure. It was about fifteen paces across and roughly circular, lined with boulders of the local grey granite, with here and there a patch of orange or brown lichen peeping out from under a thatch of snow. At one side was a pile of the Gascon’s tools and belongings, with, beside them, his pony and a small packhorse. To the right, beyond a fire of fresh kindling, was a low gap in the rocks of the tor. Near the fire were the carcasses of two wolves, freshly skinned, the flesh clean and glistening with silver where the membranes held the muscles. The pelts were stretched on wooden frames nearby. Simon walked to them and kicked one corpse thoughtfully while their host strode to the fire and crouched contemplatively in front of it.

“So he was here. Where did he go?” he asked.

Looking up, he saw the Bourc grin. “Oh, yes. He was here.” With a jerk of his chin, he pointed towards the middle of the moors. “He left about an hour ago, just as you all appeared through the trees. Made an excuse and ran for it. He won’t have gone far.”

“Right!” Mark Rush tugged his horse’s reins, pulling it over to the far side of the enclosure. Tanner following, while Simon stood and looked out in the direction John had shown. There, clear against the white background, were the footsteps. Now they were more purposeful, each step defined as an individual print without the dragging lines where the feet seemed too heavy to lift above the crust of snow. As he looked, he became aware of the man at his side.

“What are you after him for?”

“Murder. He’s killed two people.”

“Really?” The note of sadness made Simon turn to him with an eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, Bailiff. It just seems so unlikely, he is a pleasant enough lad.”

“It seems he’s killed a man and a woman. Both over the last week.”

There was a brief pause, then the black eyes met Simon’s in a frown. “How did he kill them?”

“He cut their throats.”

The Bourc sighed, then told him of the blood-stained ballock dagger. When he had finished, the bailiff stared after the men on their horses, now riding slowly away after the fugitive. “That more or less proves it, doesn’t it?” he said musingly.

These were the steps of a rested man. His prints showed deep at the toe, light at the heel, and Tanner saw that the boy had been running. He sighed. It was sad to think of the youth, only just an adult, bolting in fear of his life, trying to escape his death.

Because that was what the outcome would be if he was found guilty of the murders, and the boy must know that.

There was only one penalty to avenge the murder of a man or woman: hanging.

There was a small gasp of excitement at his side, and when he looked over, Mark Rush’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. Following his gaze, Tanner saw a tiny figure in the distance, a slender, stick-like shape, seeming to pelt across the snow.

“Come on!” cried the hunter, and both whipped their mounts.

Tanner stuck rigidly to the footprints. It was possible that the boy had thought of taking any pursuers over rough or broken ground to try to throw them off. If he had led them towards a mire, they could get stuck. The constable kept his eyes down, but saw no sign of any obstacles. Jolting and lurching, they rode up one slope, then down the other side. Now they could see him, some distance off in the distance, making for a copse in a valley. “Bugger!” he thought. “Must stop him before that, it’ll take hours to find him if he reaches it.” But he need not have feared.

As they pelted forward, he saw the shape take a tumble, tripping and falling, roiling, to lie for a moment as if winded. Then he got up again, and set off once more, but this time he was slower, and looked as though he was limping. His speed was gone, and the two men chasing felt confident enough to slow to an easy canter, taking the pursuit more carefully to protect their horses.