But what had made the noise? As he turned here and there looking for the source, a slow realisation had come to him: it was the noise of cattle, and it came from nearby.

As soon as he had recognised the sounds, he had started off towards them. There, hidden behind a line of oaks, was an old barn. The walls were red-brown cob, not limewashed, and if he had not heard the animals inside, he would not have seen the place. After carefully looking to see that there were no people nearby, he had entered. Inside there was a store of hay, and he fashioned a rough cot from it, sitting and preparing to wait for the snow to stop.

The sudden lack of movement freed his mind from the shackles of exercise and he had found his thoughts returning to her. To his pain at leaving her behind. He had wept tears for her last evening as he had sat alone and miserable at his house, he could now remember. Hot, scalding tears that seared his soul. He had loved her. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to her again. To know that he could never see her again, never feel the smooth softness of her body, never hold the thick, blue-black tresses of her braids in his hands like silken ropes, never kiss her again, hold her, feel the warmth of her breasts and the flat sweep of her belly, was maddening. He had once thought that he had loved Sarah, but this was much more: this was almost a religious loss. It felt as if, after the horror of her face in the dark only two nights before, a part of him had died. When she saw him there, and spoke with such loathing, a spark of his soul had weakened and finally faded to dullness. There was nothing there any longer.

He sighed at the memory. Now, in the morning, he could accept that he could never see her again. Picking up his satchel, he swung it on to his back and made his way to the entrance, carefully peering out. There was no one there, so he walked out. He could break his fast later. For now the main thing was to get away, as far away as possible from this area. Could he get on a ship? Would it be possible to find one to take him away?

Pausing, he considered. There were docks at Exeter, he knew, but last time Tanner had found him there. It was further, but would they expect him to head down to the south? To Dartmouth or Plymouth? Weighing the satchel in his hand, he debated the two options. He would need more food on the way if he was going that far. It was a great deal further, but if he could make it, they would never think of searching for him there, would they?

Making his choice, he set his shoulders and set his face to the south. He must go to the coast, then on to Gascony and to freedom.

The village looked like a slumbering animal, as if the area had chosen hibernation in preference to the freezing misery of the winter weather, and Baldwin gazed around sourly as they rode along the street. “God! Why aren’t these people up and working yet?” “It is very early, Baldwin. And I have no doubt that some are up. They will be out tending to their sheep and cattle,” said Simon calmly. “Especially after the snow last night.”

Baldwin grunted, and maintained a disapproving silence for the rest of their journey. It was not far. They stopped outside the inn, and at a curt nod of Baldwin’s head, Edgar dropped from his horse and walked leisurely to the door. Watching, Simon saw him casually glance up at the sky, trying to assess the time. The bailiff nodded to himself. It was very early to waken the innkeeper. But then he realised his error.

After looking up to reassure himself as to the earliness of the hour, the servant grinned back at him quickly, then beat on the door in a shockingly loud tattoo before retreating a few yards. It was a sensible precaution, from the bellow of rage that issued from inside. Simon heard rapid steps, the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the door was yanked open and the unshaven and furious features of the publican appeared, mouth wide to roar at whoever had woken him. At the sight of the knight with his servant and friend, his mouth snapped shut as if on a spring.

“Sir Baldwin,” he managed at last, with a snarl that appeared to be his best approximation to a smile. “How can I serve you?”

The knight grunted. “You can fetch hot drinks for three, prepare cooked eggs and bread for our breakfast, and start to organise a search party. Then you can send word to my house that we are all well, find Tanner, and tell him to come here immediately. Prepare provisions for three days for three men.”

“I… Er…”

“And you can do it all now. We must hunt a man.”

Chapter Seventeen

It seemed to the bailiff that no sooner had they sat to watch the innkeeper’s wife cooking their eggs on her old cast-iron griddle over the embers of last night’s fire than the men from the village began to arrive. Farmers and peasants walked in, strolling casually as if the matter was nothing to do with them, or cautiously and reluctantly sidling through the curtain as though expecting to be arrested themselves. Each was told by Edgar to go and arm himself and return as quickly as possible, with food for at least three days.

It was not until Tanner arrived, covered in snow almost up to his knees and dripping, that Baldwin looked up and began to take an interest. The old constable walked straight to him. There was no need, he knew, for subservience with this knight. Glancing up as his bulk approached, Baldwin gave him a slow grin and waved a hand to the fire. “Have you eaten? Would you like to have some eggs?”

Glancing carelessly at the griddle. Tanner shook his head. “What’s the matter, sir? The innkeeper’s boy told me to come here straight away. Said we had to hunt a man.”

“That’s right. Greencliff has run away again.”

“Harry’s gone? Oh, the daft bugger!” He shook his head as if in tired annoyance, then said, “But so what? If he wasn’t there for the death of the witch, because he was with de la…”

“It’s not that easy. He was not with de la Forte,” the bailiff broke in, and explained about the change in Stephen de la Forte’s evidence. When he spoke of the murder of Trevellyn, there was a sudden hush in the room, as the men all around realised why they were being asked to chase Greencliff. When Simon had finished, he found he was immediately bombarded by questions from all sides, and after a moment Baldwin stood with a hand raised for silence.

“Quiet!” he thundered, and gradually the noise died down. “That’s better. Now, Harold Greencliff was not at his house last night. The fire was cold, so it’s likely that he left the night before. Otherwise it would at least have been warm when we got there. So, where has he gone?”

The room was quiet as the men thought, then one said, “He could’ve gone to Exeter, to the docks again. ”That’s where he went after the witch was killed.“

Baldwin nodded. It was certainly possible. “He could, but was there anywhere else he might go? Did he have any family or friends he could have gone to stay with? Anybody outside the area with whom he could rest?”

All round the room heads slowly shook. “In that case, we have no choice: we must try to search for him on all of the roads.” Baldwin sighed. The only result of this would be long hours in the saddle. To think that he had felt sympathy for the lad when he had been in gaol! He sat, glowering.

Simon stirred thoughtfully. “We saw the footprints in front of the house,” he said. “Were they going to it or leading from it?”

“What do you mean?”

“We thought he was going home from Trevellyn’s house, but we could have been wrong. He might have gone to Trevellyn’s house, killed him, then carried on towards the west on the road. Or he could have done the murder, then headed home and carried on from there. We can’t be sure which.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “So those are the directions we should concentrate on. Beyond Trevellyn’s place, and back this way.”