Then suddenly the smile froze on his face as his thoughts carried on to the inevitable question: if she was clever enough, if she was capable, and if she had taken Greencliff as her lover, could she have persuaded him to kill her husband for her?

Deep in his musings, Simon nearly rode into the stationary horse of the hunter in front. Looking up, he was surprised to see that the man wore an amused grin. Thinking his humour was at his absent-mindedness, the bailiff was about to snap a quick retort when he saw that Mark Rush was pointing down at the ground.

“There he goes!”

Staring down in complete surprise – for he had not truly expected this troop to find anything – Simon saw the footprints. As the other two riders approached, he and Rush dropped down and studied them, crouching by the side of the spoor.

The hunter reached out with a tentative hand to softly trace the nearest print, then Simon saw his eyes narrow as he glanced back to their right, the direction where the man should have come from. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and gazed the opposite way, then ruminatively down at the prints once more.

“Well?” asked Simon.

Mark Rush sniffed hard, then snorted, hawked and spat. “This is too easy. He’s not trying to hide.” His brow wrinkled. “I wonder why not.”

Shrugging, Simon gave a gesture of indifference. “What does it matter? We’ll find out when we’ve caught him.”

“Yes,” said the hunter, then grunted as he rose, a knee clicking as he moved. “Right, well I suppose we’d better get on after him. These prints’re from yesterday from the look of them, they’re worn. See that?” He pointed at a small round hole beside the trail. Glancing at it, Simon saw it repeated beside the footprints. “That’s a walking stick. See how it hits the ground in time with his left foot, although he holds it in his right hand? He’s carrying a stick, so we’d better be careful. Don’t want him braining us.”

They mounted, then sent one of the men back to the inn. Before he left, Simon looked up at the sky. “How long have we been in the woods, do you think, Rush?”

Squinting at the sky, the hunter seemed to consider. “Maybe two, maybe three hours?”

“I think so too. You!” This to the waiting messenger. “Get to the inn as quickly as you can, but then go on to Sir Baldwin – understand? Tell him too, and ask if he can send a couple more men, just in case we do have to fight to catch him.”

“No need to worry about that, sir,” said Mark Rush, indicating his bow with a jerk of his thumb.

“I’d prefer to take him alive, Rush. We’ll avoid any unnecessary violence.”

“Yes. I’ll avoid unnecessary violence, but I’ll use any that is necessary,” he said meaningfully.

The three rode on in file now. There was no real need for a hunter to follow this trail. If the man had wanted to leave an invitation his path could not have been more easy to detect. It straggled on, winding unnecessarily round shrubs and saplings, sometimes seeming to halt, both feet placed together, and then starting out afresh. Once or twice Simon felt sure that the man must have stumbled or tripped. At one point there was a definite mark where he had fallen, and the outline of his body remained, his hands making deep prints in the snow, looking strangely sad, as if they were all that remained of him.

Simon shivered. It was curious, but he felt a kind of sympathy with this man, for no reason he could fathom. Perhaps it was merely empathy for the hunted creature? He had felt that once before, when, as a boy, he had watched a deer at bay, the hounds snapping at it, the animal’s eyes rolling in his terror, knowing that he was about to die. Then, when the huntsmen had egged on the dogs, and the deer had fallen, legs flailing uselessly, beneath the pack, Simon had felt the same sadness. It was not for the hunt itself, but for the inevitability of the end. For that buck it had been death at the teeth of the hounds. For Harold Greencliff it would be the slow strangling as he was hauled up the gibbet by the rope around his neck.

With a shrug, he concentrated on the trail again. Had the boy given any compassion to the witch? Or to the man he murdered? The bailiff doubted it.

It was getting close to dark when the man at the back of the troop called out, and Baldwin had been getting short-tempered long before that.

Their ride had been slow and painstaking, searching carefully along the lane, with Edgar on one side and the knight on the other, both looking for tracks that could have been left by the farmer, but they found nothing. Baldwin had even insisted on going into the sheep’s pasture to see whether they could find a trail there leading into the woods, but the sheep had trampled the whole area and scraped at the surface to get at the grass underneath so effectively that there was nothing that the two men could find.

Carrying on, they had slowly worked their way along the lane, up to the Trevellyn house and beyond, and Baldwin had managed to throw it only the most cursory of glances, preventing himself from staring and searching for the extraordinary beauty of Angelina Trevellyn. It was not purely his willpower that stopped him. It was the raised eyebrow and sardonic smile on Edgar’s face when he happened to catch the servant’s eye.

As he turned back to the road ahead, he wore an expression of vague perplexity. The look from Edgar showed more clearly than any words just how obvious his interest in the woman was. Baldwin was no fool. If it was that obvious to Edgar, it would surely be as clear to others who knew him.

His problem was, he did not know what his feelings were. Was it just sympathy for a woman recently widowed? He slumped in his saddle as he tried to analyse his emotions. Although there was a sense of lust, that was hardly enough to explain his desire to see her again. It was quite a poignant sensation, one that he had never experienced before. Was it normal to feel like this after such a brief introduction? Who could he speak to about it? Edgar?

They had almost arrived at the end of the road, and Baldwin was debating which direction to take, when the call came. Stopping his troop, they waited, and soon saw the figure of Simon’s messenger.

After hearing the message, Baldwin looked at the two men in his squad. “You two go back. Find Tanner and tell him he can call off his hunt, then go back with this man and join the bailiff and the hunter.”

There was a little grumbling, but they finally agreed, and Edgar and the knight sat on their horses and watched as the three disappeared round the curve in the road. Then Baldwin sighed and flicked his reins, setting off at a slow walk, his servant behind.

“Well?”

Edgar grinned at the gruff word, and at the implied question. “Sir?”

“What do you think?” Baldwin had stopped his horse and now sat frowning at Edgar with his brow wrinkled in perplexity. “Of Mrs. Trevellyn, I mean?”

“Mrs. Trevellyn? A very beautiful lady. And very marriageable, I would think, with the money she must have. Her dowry would be high, I imagine.” He maintained a wooden and blank expression.

“Yes, but should I…? Well, for a woman who’s husband’s just been killed? She’s hardly begun her mourning. Should I…?”

“I’m sure if you catch her husband’s murderer she’ll be very pleased. And grateful, sir.”

As Baldwin wheeled his horse and set off, his face purposeful once more, he could not contain his glee. That the capture of Alan Trevellyn’s killer would delight her had not occurred to him, and now he could tell her that they had found the trail. He squared his shoulders. He must go to her at once to tell her.

Not having to search continually for tracks made their return along the road a great deal faster, although the snow was thick enough to ensure that they must exercise caution. They could not risk going so fast that their horses might slip on ice or on a hardened rut of frozen mud.