At the turn-off to the house, they slowed and ascended the hill at a walk. It was strange, Baldwin thought, that from here, outside, there was no sign of the sadness that inevitably follows the death of the master. Smoke still issued cheerily from chimneys, there were sounds of shouting and woodcutting from behind the property, and if he did not know of the death, he would have thought that nothing had happened here.

When they had dismounted and tied up their horses, Baldwin thumped on the door. It was soon opened by the same young maid who they had seen on the day before, but now, the knight noticed, she had undergone a transformation. Whereas before she had appeared timid and fearful, now she seemed gay as she opened the door, smiling as she recognised the men waiting, and he found himself grinning in return.

She led them through to the hall again, where the fire blazed in enthusiastic welcome. Striding in, the knight and his man stood warming themselves by the fire while the maid left to go into the solar at the back of the dais. After a few moments, she returned, indicating that they should follow her, and they soon found themselves in a warm and comfortable family room with another roaring fire. Sitting on a bench nearby was Mrs. Trevellyn, sewing quietly at a tapestry, and she glanced up questioningly as the two men entered.

At the sight of her cool green eyes, Baldwin felt the blood begin to thunder in his veins. She looked so soft and vulnerable, so warm and defenceless, he wanted to gather her up in his arms and gentle her. The feeling was so strong that he stood for a moment and stared, taking in her slim and languid dark beauty. It was impossible to suspect her of being involved in the murder of the old woman, let alone the killing of her own husband. He felt quite certain of that now. But when her eyes met his, he was sure that he could see a quick impatience, and at the sight he dropped into a chair, waving Edgar out to the hall. Her maid followed, so they were soon left alone.

With a sigh she set her needlework aside and subjected him to a pensive, detailed study. “So, Sir Baldwin. You wanted to see me?” Her voice was low and calm.

“Yes.” Now he was here, he realised that raising the death of her husband was going to be difficult. Mentioning Alan Trevellyn must recall to her the pain of seeing his twisted body out on the hill among the trees. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Mrs. Trevellyn, I know it must be very hard for you, but we have been fortunate in our search for your husband’s killer.”

An eyebrow rose, and he was sure he could see a sceptical smile form. “Really? And how is this?”

“After the death of Agatha Kyteler, we found some evidence that a local man might have been involved, and when we went to see him, he had disappeared. Harold Greencliff. We went to see him yesterday, but he has gone again. Run away. But we have found his trail, and…”

Her eyes had widened, as if in great surprise, and a hand raised to her throat. “Harold?” Her voice quavered, suddenly weak.

“It looks like he ran away almost immediately after the killing of your husband, lady. We have sent a search party after him. The men are following his tracks in the woods. My friend the bailiff is there, and he should soon bring the boy back to be tried for the murder. Lady? Are you all right?“

She had dropped her face into her hands, as if about to weep, and the knight leaned forward a little, his hand held out tentatively, longing to touch her and try to calm her, but he let his hand fall. He dared not.

After a minute or two, she cleared her throat and looked into the flames.

“Lady? Can I fetch you anything?”

Looking at her, he was struck by the fresh sadness in her eyes, and his heart went out to her for feeling sympathy for the young farmer, even if it was misplaced. But then her eyes returned to his, and he could plainly see the fear in their emerald depths. It was that which made him stiffen with a sudden cold doubt. This was not just womanly compassion for a hunted villein. She was scared for herself.

Chapter Eighteen

“Damn this snow!”

They had managed to follow the tracks all around the perimeter of Crediton, Mark Rush staying in among the trees, stumbling over the bracken and thin, straggling shrubs at the very edge so that he could follow the footprints while the others rode on happily in the clear area that bounded the town, listening with amusement to his muttered curses. Every time he passed too close to a tree and jogged its branches, more snow fell on him, causing another outburst.

It was not until they had passed round the town and were at the south that the trail began to turn away from the others. Rush was no fool, and he knew that if he was the fugitive he would try to confuse any pursuers. He might double back when it was not expected, or find a stream where he could travel without his prints being seen and where no hound could detect a scent, although it would be dangerous and painful to do that now with the waters frozen. What else could he do? Leave tracks and then make a trap?

These were the thoughts that kept forcing their way into his mind as he followed the prints slowly making their way south. “Bailiff?”

At the call, Simon left his horse with the last man and wandered into the trees. “Yes?”

Pointing, the hunter glowered at the ground. “He’s going south now. It’s late. We can try to carry on after him if you want, but I reckon we’d be better off finding somewhere to lie up for the night and get on after him in the morning.”

Simon nodded. Already the sky was darkening, and it would soon be difficult to see the prints. They had seen a farm not long before, in a new assart to the east, so they made their way to it, and were soon sitting before a fire, eating their cured meats and drinking wine. The farmer had been concerned to have three well-armed men appear at first, and had nervously fingered his dagger, until Simon explained who they were, and then he had agreed with alacrity to allow them to use his hall. As he said, if there was a killer on the loose, he would be safer with them in his house.

The house possessed a large hall, with the animals segregated by a fence, and there was plenty of space even when the constable arrived with two men. He had sent the other members of his party to their homes when he had received the message about the spoor. There seemed little point in having so many men to chase one.

They had arrived within an hour of Simon’s group finishing their meal, complaining bitterly at having to track not only the outlaw but also Simon’s troop to the farmhouse, and sat in front of the fire until the snow melted and steam began to rise from their clothes. The farmer bustled around enthusiastically, giving them pots of ale and cider from his buttery and providing extra blankets for those who needed them. In one corner was a table with a bench at either side, and here the constable, the hunter and the bailiff sat.

Tanner chewed meditatively at a loaf as he eyed the other two. “So you’re sure we’re on the right trail?”

Mark Rush and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Then the hunter nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. We picked up the tracks leading away from the lane by his house, like he was avoiding the roads. When it came to Crediton, like you saw, he avoided the town and kept going.”

“It doesn’t make much sense, though,” the constable mused.

“What doesn’t?” asked Simon.

“Well, he’s heading south like he’s thought it all out and decided to run away, but I didn’t see any sign of a fire. Did you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So I suppose he must be trying to cover as much ground as possible before resting. We’ve come at least twelve miles or so already. He could have gone another seven or eight before he needed to stop.”