As he walked down, pacing slowly and carefully as if hunting a deer, each step carefully measured to keep his noise to a minimum, he kept his attention on the bridge and the trees at either side. There was nothing obvious to warrant the trepidation he felt, but he had been a warrior too long to ignore his instincts. Only rarely had he known this sense of warning, but each time there had been good reason, and the feeling that this place was dangerous was not entirely due to its location. Somehow he knew that someone else was there.

He had covered almost half the distance when he heard a sniff and a low clearing of a throat from a few yards ahead: a man – and hidden to ambush a traveller.

Slowly, carefully, the Bourc laid his hand on his sword hilt and stepped forward softly, up to a thick oak bough with scrubby bushes at either side. Here he paused, putting out a hand to lean against the tree, listening.

“I reckon we’ve missed him. He’s gone some other way.”

He froze at the low, muttered words. They were closer than he had realised.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he’s just round that bend now, just about to come down.”

“Are you going to wait here all night just in case?”

“Trevellyn wanted him taught a lesson: not to insult an Englishman’s wife.”

“But we can’t wait here all night. We’ll freeze.”

“We have to try to get him – do you want to lose your place on the ship?”

“It won’t make much difference, will it? We never make any money on his ships now. Not since the pirates started attacking us every time we leave port.”

“Just give it ‘til dusk. When it’s dark we’ll get back to town.”

The Bourc grinned mirthlessly, then began to make his painstaking way back to his horses. He led them slowly back up the hill for a distance before turning eastward and walking parallel to the stream. The men were too close to the bubbling water to hear his progress. He would leave them there. They would be occupied, and they could take a message back to Trevellyn, seemingly their ship’s owner, although they had failed to teach their lesson, the Bourc did not seem to-have tried to return to Crediton. Trevellyn would think himself safe.

The ride home for Baldwin and Simon was quiet. Neither was in the mood to talk. The knight rode along scowling fixedly ahead while Simon tried desperately to keep warm, taking the long fold of his old cloak and tossing it over his hunched shoulder as he rode in miserable, frozen silence. Every time the slow jogging of the horse would soon shake it free again. The trip seemed at least twice as long in the quickening darkness, with the wind slowly freezing the sweat on his back and the thickening mist ahead. Then, to his disgust, it began to snow again.

“God!” he muttered, and saw Baldwin shoot a quick glance at him.

“Cold, my friend?” he asked sardonically.

“Cold? What do you think?” responded Simon, throwing his cloak once more over his left shoulder.

“I have no idea!” The knight looked upwards before taking his bearings. When he continued, there was a new note of seriousness. “We must hurry before we freeze, Simon. This snow is not going to stop.”

They were back at Furnshill before six o’clock, both pleased to see the welcoming orange glow of the sconces, candles and fire through the tapestry-covered windows. Their breath was steaming in the bitter cold, and they rode straight to the stableyard, the knight bellowing for grooms, before dismounting. Even when the men had taken the horses, he stood quietly watching as their mounts were rubbed down, and when he turned to Simon, he gave a quick grin. “I always watch. It’s a soldier’s habit, I know, but old habits stay with you, and once you’ve lived in a war you learn that it’s crucial that your horse is well fed and cared for. Hello! So you want food too, do you?”

This was to their visitor. As they had turned to walk to the manor house and the warm hall, they found the black and brown dog sitting inquiringly at the entrance to the stables, head on one side as if asking how much longer they must bear the cold.

The dog’s tail began to sweep slowly from side to side, clearing a small fan in the snow, then he stood and waited for them. “Looks like you’ve a new member of your household, Baldwin,” said Simon smiling. His only answer was a low grunt.

Tanner looked up sourly at the tree. His mouth twisted into a grimace of loathing as a small avalanche fell down his back and the wet trickle began its crawl towards his belt.

It was pitch black and freezing cold. The snow fell silently but inexorably. Hunching his shoulders, the constable peered ahead through slitted eyes, grunting in his misery.

After the knight and the bailiff had left, he had gone straight to the inn, drinking a couple of pints of mulled wine with the keeper. He had wanted to see if the man could add anything to his previous statement, and hoped that Greencliff might drop in, but the attempt was a failure. The landlord was happy to sell his wine, but denied knowing more than he had already told, and after morosely waiting for an hour or so, the constable decided to go and see whether he could find the youth at home. He obviously was not coming to the inn.

The track was miserable, though. Thick clumps of snow poured continually from the sky. There was nothing in his world but the cold and the snow. All creatures had fled the bitter chill and the trees at either side were invisible. In the absolute blackness there was no track, just a small patch of clear road ahead before sight was 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…”