One group he watched with a particularly sour eye. He took no delight in gossip, even if it was a stock currency here in the ‘Moon’. He especially disliked malicious rumours that could hurt or offend, and the Miller family had an effective monopoly of them today.

Seeing a man lift his tankard in a silent plea, the innkeeper wove his way through the groups of people. As he stood pouring, he could hear the Millers.

“But how do they know it was Mrs. Trevellyn as was carryin‘ on with young Harry?” he heard one man ask.

Jennie leaned forward, her face serious. “Who else could it’ve been?” she said. “It was her who went to Greencliff and tempted him. And then they went to Agatha. You know what that means. And then they went back, after killing her.”

“So you sayin‘ as it was both of them did it? They both killed Agatha?”

The innkeeper walked away sighing. It was bad hearing such talk, ruining people’s characters to fill a boring evening. There was one thing for certain: it was bound to get someone into trouble. He glanced back at the little huddle, his eyes looking for empty pots, but always they were drawn back to the group. Was it worth telling them to shut up? No, they would carry on. Throw them all out? They would just hold court outside, and he would lose business at the same time. He shrugged. May as well let them continue, he thought, and went out to refill the jug again.

There was another man who was not amused by the talk. Stephen de la Forte sat near the screens, his back to the room, his face twisted as if his ale was vinegar.

His mug was empty. Turning, he tried to catch the eye of the innkeeper, but instead found himself being fixed by the gaze of the Miller girl, the oldest one, who stood and subjected him to a close scrutiny before tugging at her mother’s tunic.

Jennie saw the white-faced youth staring and her voice failed. Following the direction of her gaze, the group saw Stephen, and their chattering died, as if the sluice that fed their conversation had been shut, and suddenly all talking in the hall stopped.

Now Stephen found himself the focus of all attention. He stood and walked to the table where the Millers sat, the woman staring at him with large bold eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he said deliberately. “You’re all saying it was those two, when there’s nothing to prove it, apart from her,” he pointed to Jennie, “saying he was in the road that day. There’s nothing else says they had anything to do with it. Nothing.”

“Come on, Stephen,” came a voice. “Nothing wrong with wondering. That’s all we’re doing, just wondering who might have done it.”

He spun to face the talker, an older man with round, jowled face and grizzled hair. “Nothing wrong? You’ve all set your mind to it that they’re guilty, haven’t you? Eh?” He looked around the table, staring into their eyes, until he met those of Jennie Miller. Only then did his lip curl into a sneer. Shaking his head with contempt, he spun on his heel and left, yanking so hard at the curtain as he left that he nearly pulled it from its fixings.

The wind had built again, and was whipping the snow into mad, whirling smoke before him, obliterating the view and making it hard to see the ground under his horse’s feet. It was with a curse of sheer fury that the Bourc dropped from the saddle, wincing as the movement pulled the fresh scabs on his back, and led his horses on, trying to keep his head to the south. This was worse than anything he had experienced before.

Here, this far into the moors, it was hard to maintain any course. All sense of direction had left him, and now he found it almost impossible to guess which direction was south. But he was tenacious and determined. He had never before failed to find his way, even when high in the mountains, and he was confident that he would win through, even if occasionally he would curse the thought of the easy lanes and roadways to the north which he had forsaken in favour of this bitter route.

At first he had managed to make good time. He had collected more wood, storing it as faggots on the pack-horse. The sky had been clear over to the south where the moors lay. Only to the north did clouds darken the sky. But that had changed as soon as he rode on to the rolling hills. Immediately the wind had begun to gust and blow, bringing the salty taint of the sea at first, but by late morning it was full of bitter coldness.

A flurry of snow blew at him, and he tugged his cowl over his face. Here, high on the moors, the wind could change direction and dart around at will like a well-trained knife-fighter. It was impossible to find his way.

He turned and stared back the way he had come. Now he could not even see his own trail. As soon as his feet lifted, his prints were filled. Cursing again, he hauled his horse’s head round and began to search for any protection: a wall, even a tree, anything that could give some relief from the elements.

Leaning on the front of his saddle, Simon stared down the hill towards the square, grey house and sighed. “I’m still not sure I’m ready for this,” he admitted.

Baldwin blew out his cheeks and peered ahead. “No, neither am I,” he said.

They had set off just before light, this time with Edgar again. Their packs filled, their wineskins sloshing merrily in case they became stranded, they had ridden through thick drifts to get here.

At points the drifts were so bad that they were forced to leave the lane and move into the woods at either side where the snow did not drift. Using sheep and deer trails, they had managed to continue, occasionally returning to the lane for short periods before moving aside to circumnavigate drifts. Whenever they left the shelter of the trees, they saw that the fine powder had taken possession of the land outside.

Finally they had been forced to leave the tracks completely. Where the lane opened out below Greencliff’s house, the snow had completely blocked their path. They had chosen a diversion to the north, taking a path Baldwin vaguely recalled, which led them up the side of one hill under the cover of the woods until they had passed over a mile beyond the field where they had found Kyteler’s body. At last, when they left the trees behind, they found themselves on a smooth and rounded hillside, and it seemed that here the snow could not drift. It had been blown away before the strong overnight winds.

At the top of the hill overlooking the house, they could see that the master and his wife must be inside. Smoke rose calmly from the chimneys. There were some tracks leaving the property by the road, but they only went a short distance, up as far as the first drift, before returning to the house.

While Baldwin stared, he could see no signs of movement. Sighing, he watched his breath dissipate on the freezing air, then glanced at Simon. “At least there should be something hot to drink down there.”

“Yes, thanks to God! I’m so cold my hair will snap off at the scalp if I touch it,” said the bailiff through teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering. “God! Come on, let’s get to sit before a fire again before we die!”

At the bottom of the hill they had to ride well to their right to find a passage through another thick drift that lay deep and impassable. Once round it, they were in among the trees again and here the snow was thin. But then they could not see any route through the snow on the farther side, and after some minutes of trying, Simon heard Baldwin muttering and Edgar cursing.

In the end it was Simon who lost both temper and patience together, and with his jaw fixed, his head down, he forced a path for them, whipping his horse on. The snow was over his heavily built rounsey’s chest, but the horse was strong, and barged on, whinnying slightly, taking short bounds in an effort to leap the freezing obstacle.