She stared at him, and Simon felt instinctively that this was no play-acting. Her shock had every appearance of honesty. “What do you mean, the same?” she said at last.
The knight shrugged. “Exactly the same. It was just how she died, with a single cut across the throat.”
“I… I need to think. Gentlemen, I am sorry, but this is very hard. Would you mind leaving me now? I must… Please go!” There was no refusing that last desperate plea. Leaving their wine, Simon and Baldwin stood, bowed, and walked out.
They found their horses in the yard and were soon mounted. At the gate, Baldwin turned back to glance at Simon. “Where to now, do you think?”
“There’s only one thing I want to know right now, and that is, where was Harold Greencliff last night,” said Simon shortly. When he looked up, he thought the knight was still looking back at him, but then he realised his friend was peering over his shoulder. When he glanced round, he saw that Angelina Trevellyn was standing in her doorway, watching them leave. He sighed as he turned forward again and saw Baldwin’s face. It held a small, far-off smile.
As the light faded, the land was covered in a uniform dull greyness as if there was no distinction between heaven and earth. The snow took on a sombre shade that seemed reflected by the sky. There was no shadow to help him, and the Bourc tripped and stumbled as he carried on, leading the horses by the reins.
At least the wind had died now, and the ground glimmered palely under the soft cloak. On all sides were gently undulating hills, and here and there he could see a craggy outcrop of stone at the highest points.
He dared not ride in case he took his horses on to dangerous ground. Better by far that he should lead them, testing his steps all the way. But soon he must stop, find a place to rest and recover from the toil of the day. Stopping, he wearily drew a hand over his brow and gazed around. His eyes flitted over a number of hillsides before they rested on one.
It stood a mile away – maybe two – a hill with what looked like a scattering of rocks on the summit, as if a house had been left to collapse there. A tall spike pointed to the sky like the jagged reminder of a corner, while there appeared to be the tumbled remains of other walls, and even the hint of an enclosure.
Sighing, he let his head drop for a moment, then dragged at the reins in his hand. He must get there before the exhaustion overtook him.
The snow had not dissipated in the least. As they trotted down the hillside towards the lane, it became clear to Simon that they would have as slow a struggle as they had endured earlier.
At first it looked like their worst fears were unwarranted. The lane that wound round before the house appeared relatively clear, and even as they rode farther up on to the top of the hill, it was still reasonably easy going. It was only when they began to descend once more that they found that the drifts had accumulated, and all at once they were bogged in snow which at times was over their feet as they sat on their horses. At one point Edgar showed his horsemanship, keeping his seat as his mount reared, whinnying in fear and disgust at the depth of the powder and trying to avoid the deepest drifts, and the servant was forced to tug the reins and pull the head round, to turn away from the obstacle. Standing and gentling the great creature, he glanced over at Baldwin.
“I think I’ll have to walk this one.”
He dropped from his saddle and, strolling ahead, spoke calmly to the horse as he led it forward, keeping a firm and steady pressure on the reins. Once it stopped and tried to refuse to carry on, shivering like a stunned rabbit, but then it accepted Edgar’s soft words of encouragement and continued.
That was the worst of it. Now the land opened up and the snow was less thick. There was hardly enough to rise more than a couple of inches above their horses’ hooves, and they all felt more confident, breaking into a steady, loping trot.
The house was soon visible. Simon could see it, a welcoming slab of grey in the whiteness all round, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to make a comment, turning to look at Baldwin, when he saw a troubled frown on the knight’s face. He appeared to be staring at the ground near their feet.
“Baldwin? What’s the matter?”
“Look!” When Simon followed the direction of the pointing finger, he saw them. They were unmistakable, and his mind swiftly returned to the hunched figure of the dead merchant. The blood had been laid over the top of the snow, as if a geyser had spouted it up, and over the body the snow had been piled up into a makeshift hide-out. There had been little fresh powder over the body or the bloodstains. Trevellyn had died after the snowstorm had stopped.
And here were the clear marks, slightly marred by drifting, rounded and worn by the strong winds but still recognisable, of a pair of feet and the hoofprints of a horse, leading the way they were going. Back to the door of Harold Greencliff’s farm. Exchanging a look, the two men trotted on.
There was no doubt, the marks clearly led straight to the trodden mess in the ground before the door, the tracks of a horse and a man. Shaking his head, Baldwin tossed his reins to Edgar and sprang down. Simon followed, unconsciously testing the dagger at his waist, making sure that the blade would come free if needed. Noticing his movement, Baldwin smiled suddenly, and Simon saw that he had been doing the same with his sword. Leaving Edgar on his horse, they strode to the door, and Baldwin pounded heavily on the timbers with a gloved fist.
“Harold Greencliff! I want to speak with you. Come out!”
There was no answer. He thumped the door again, calling, but there was still no reply, and Simon suddenly found himself struck with a feeling of nervousness. He felt an extreme trepidation for what they might find inside. Involuntarily he stepped backwards.
“What is it?” snapped Baldwin, angry at being left outside. “God!” The sky was again starting to fill with tiny feathers of purest down, light specks of glistening beauty. But these minute granules were composed of pure coldness, and they could kill. Baldwin swore, then slammed his fist a last time on the door. ‘Greencliff!“
But there was no response. Glancing at Simon, he shrugged, then reached for the handle.
Inside it was almost as cold as out. Calling to Edgar to bring the horses in, Baldwin crossed the threshold and strode immediately for the hearth. Crouching, he studied the ash for a moment, then tugged off his glove and held his hand over it, swearing again. “Damn! We’ll need to light a fresh one!”
Simon busied himself gathering tinder and straw, then set to work relighting the fire. As he blew gently but firmly at the glowing sparks, carefully adding straw and twigs as the flames started to creep upwards, he was aware of Baldwin noisily clumping around the room, peering into dark corners and searching under blankets and boards. Meanwhile, Edgar unperturbably saw to the horses, removing their saddles and bringing their packs to the fire. Tossing them down, he gave Simon a quick grin before returning to the mounts.
The fire starting to shed a little light, he carefully piled smaller pieces of wood on top, then balanced logs above, and soon the house was beginning to fill with the homely smoke, catching in their throats, making them cough and rub at their eyes to clear away unshed tears. But as the fire caught hold the smoke rose to sit heavily in thick swathes in the rafters, and the air below cleared.
“He’s not here, that’s for certain,” Baldwin grumbled, crouching nearby.
“The footmarks seem to show that he was here last night,” said Simon calmly as he watched the flames. “Maybe he’s out to look after his sheep.”