Baldwin jerked his chin to point at the fire. “And left his fire to go out? In this weather? Come along, Simon. Nobody would let his fire die at this time of year. It could mean death.”

“Well…” Simon nodded slowly. ”If he’s gone, where has he gone to? We can’t follow now, not with the snow coming again, that would be too dangerous.“

“No, but I can take a look and see which direction he’s going in,” said the knight and stood. He walked outside, shutting the door behind him.

Already the weather had changed, and the small flakes were replaced by large petals falling at what looked like a ludicrously slow speed.

Peering, he narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out any marks in the snow. It was hard to see, the light was too diffuse behind the clouds, and with the failing light as day slipped towards night, he found that bending and looking for some differentiation in the contours was no help. All was uniformly white. There was not the relief of greys or blacks to mar the perfect apparent flatness. It was only when he stood again and stared farther away, wondering in which direction the youth would have gone, that he thought he could make out a depression left in the snow, like a shallow leat pointing arrow-straight to a mine. It led down the lane towards the trees, towards Wefford.

The wind began to build, whisking madly dancing flakes before his eyes, occasionally knocking them into his face. This was impossible, he thought. There was no way they could find out where the boy had gone in this: it was too heavy. He turned back to the door with a mixture of despondency and anger at being foiled.

The cry started as a low rumble on the Bourc’s right. He might easily have missed it, but his ears were too well attuned to sounds of danger, even after the punishment the wind had inflicted during the day, and he immediately stopped in his tracks and stared back the way he had come.

He could feel the shivering of the horses as the call began again. First low, then rising quickly to a loud howl before mournfully sliding down to a dismal wail of hunger: wolves!

Putting out his hand, he stroked his mount gently. There was no sign of them yet. They must be some distance away. He threw a quick glance at the hill ahead. The shelter it offered was a clear half-mile farther on. He gauged the remaining ground he must cover, then set his jaw and pulled at the reins, setting his face to the hill. It held the only possible cover here in this darkening land.

The howls came again, but their tone had changed. They must have found his trail, for he thought he could hear a note of fierce joy. The cries were no longer full of anguish and longing; now they were a paean of exultation. Desperation was replaced by harsh, cruel delight, as if the creatures could already taste the thick, hot blood in his veins.

When he peered at the hill again, he knew he could not survive on foot. Throwing an anxious glance behind, he could see the dog-like animals running towards him. It would be dangerous to ride, God only knew how many hazards lay just under the surface of the snow, waiting to break his horse’s legs, but to walk was suicide.

Clambering on to the horse, he whirled, checking the distance once more. They were only a few hundred feet away, seven of them running at a steady lope with their eyes fixed on him. The sight of their implacable approach sent a shiver of expectant fear down his back. He knew what would happen if they were to catch him. Turning, he spurred his horse into a gallop.

The two horses ran madly with their terror. There was no need to urge them on, both knew their danger. The calls of the wolves had seen to that. All he need do was hold on, clinging for dear life as his mount bolted, ears flat back, head low, pelting forwards. The Bourc let him have his head, occasionally twitching the reins a little to keep the great horse heading in the direction that would lead them, he hoped, to safety.

“Thanks be to God!”

The heartfelt prayer of gratitude sprang to his lips automatically as they stumbled into the ring, and he fell from the saddle just as the second of his horses galloped in.

Grabbing the packhorse’s leading rein, he managed to haul the horse round, and then he could tug the bow free. Calling softly to the petrified animal, trying to calm him, the Bourc grabbed the arrows from the top of his pack. Only when he had them in his hand did he set the point of the bow on the ground and pull down sharply to string it. Then, arrow ready and nocked, he moved forwards to the perimeter, a string of great stones that encircled his small encampment.

The howling had not stopped. Ahead the Bourc could see them approaching, not now with the mad enthusiasm of the hunting pack, but with the wary caution of dogs who have seen the boar to his lair and now watch carefully to see how to pull him down without danger.

Teeth showing in the dark, the Bourc waited while they approached, bow held firmly in hands that now felt clammy with anticipation.

Chapter Sixteen

Every now and again Simon or Edgar would stir from the fireside and peer out, but each time the view was the same: clouds of tiny swirling and pirouetting motes sweeping by in the breeze, a pageant in white and grey. The knight sat and stared morosely at the fire.

It was still early when they decided they must remain for the night. The snow was here to stay for some hours and they all recognised the need to keep warm. Once the horses were fed and watered, they opened the packs that Margaret had forced them to bring and sipped at the cool wineskins, then huddled in their blankets around the fire and began to talk desultorily until sleep took them.

Simon found himself nodding soon after sitting, and his voice dropped, his words coming slower and slower, until Baldwin and Edgar were aware of a rhythmical droning as he started snoring.

“Noise like that could waken the dead,” said Edgar, but not unkindly.

Baldwin nodded. It was many months since he and his servant had slept away from their new home. In the past, when they had travelled more, they had always tended to avoid other people on the road. Someone always snored, and they preferred their own sleep undisturbed.

“At least the snow’s not too heavy,” he said. “We should be able to get on tomorrow.”

“Yes. And then we’ll need to hunt for Greencliff.”

Nodding, the knight sighed. “So long as the snow stays like this, we should be able to follow him.”

“Yes, God forbid that it could get any worse – we could get snowed in here for ages. No one even knows we’re here.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry.” He peered at the bailiffs body and threw a quick smile at Edgar with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “There’s a good amount of meat on him! We’ll survive!”

His servant smiled, relaxing back and laughing silently. He was the only man Baldwin had ever met who did so, opening his mouth and letting the breath gasp out in that curious, inaudible exhalation. Baldwin had seen him laugh that way before battles, showing his teeth in a purely natural delight, taking pleasure while he might, even if were to die shortly thereafter.

“So if we’re snowed in for a while we can eat him?” Edgar said after a moment. “Ah, that would be good. There’re some good joints on him! Mind, he’ll be heavy to haul to the fire. How would you cook him? On a spit?”

Leaning back, the knight squinted at the recumbent figure. “I don’t know,” he said musingly. “He looks a bit heavy. Is there a spit strong enough in this place?”

Rolling on to an elbow, Edgar stared at him too, grinning. “I don’t know. No, you’re right, we’d need to paunch and joint him first. Maybe we could hang the rest of him in the open air outside? At least that way he’d keep well.”