“Right!” Mark Rush tugged his horse’s reins, pulling it over to the far side of the enclosure. Tanner following, while Simon stood and looked out in the direction John had shown. There, clear against the white background, were the footsteps. Now they were more purposeful, each step defined as an individual print without the dragging lines where the feet seemed too heavy to lift above the crust of snow. As he looked, he became aware of the man at his side.

“What are you after him for?”

“Murder. He’s killed two people.”

“Really?” The note of sadness made Simon turn to him with an eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, Bailiff. It just seems so unlikely, he is a pleasant enough lad.”

“It seems he’s killed a man and a woman. Both over the last week.”

There was a brief pause, then the black eyes met Simon’s in a frown. “How did he kill them?”

“He cut their throats.”

The Bourc sighed, then told him of the blood-stained ballock dagger. When he had finished, the bailiff stared after the men on their horses, now riding slowly away after the fugitive. “That more or less proves it, doesn’t it?” he said musingly.

These were the steps of a rested man. His prints showed deep at the toe, light at the heel, and Tanner saw that the boy had been running. He sighed. It was sad to think of the youth, only just an adult, bolting in fear of his life, trying to escape his death.

Because that was what the outcome would be if he was found guilty of the murders, and the boy must know that.

There was only one penalty to avenge the murder of a man or woman: hanging.

There was a small gasp of excitement at his side, and when he looked over, Mark Rush’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. Following his gaze, Tanner saw a tiny figure in the distance, a slender, stick-like shape, seeming to pelt across the snow.

“Come on!” cried the hunter, and both whipped their mounts.

Tanner stuck rigidly to the footprints. It was possible that the boy had thought of taking any pursuers over rough or broken ground to try to throw them off. If he had led them towards a mire, they could get stuck. The constable kept his eyes down, but saw no sign of any obstacles. Jolting and lurching, they rode up one slope, then down the other side. Now they could see him, some distance off in the distance, making for a copse in a valley. “Bugger!” he thought. “Must stop him before that, it’ll take hours to find him if he reaches it.” But he need not have feared.

As they pelted forward, he saw the shape take a tumble, tripping and falling, roiling, to lie for a moment as if winded. Then he got up again, and set off once more, but this time he was slower, and looked as though he was limping. His speed was gone, and the two men chasing felt confident enough to slow to an easy canter, taking the pursuit more carefully to protect their horses.

They rode up in front, swinging round in a curve, to come to a halt facing him, sitting on their horses between him and the protection of the trees. As he sat and watched the wretched figure of the man staggering towards them, Tanner felt the sadness again. It looked as if he had been ruined. His hair was matted and slicked down over his head, damp from falling in the snow. His tunic and jacket were covered in white as well, making him look like a weird monster of the winter. But his eyes were full of his grief. Even from a distance Tanner could see that.

“We hunted that?” He heard the hunter say in wonder, as if he too was feeling compassion for a destroyed life. The constable nodded and let out his breath in a long drifting feather on the frozen air.

A few yards from them, Greencliff stopped and stood surveying them with a frowning face that seemed close to breaking into tears. When they both kicked their horses forward, he took a half-pace back, then twitched the front of his tunic aside, and pulled his dagger out. “Leave me alone!”

“Come on, Harold. You can’t stab me.” Tanner felt that the words sounded ridiculous even as he said them.

“I can’t go back. I won’t! There’s nothing for me. Just let me go. Please…” His eyes filled with tears. “Just let me go.”

“You know we can’t do that, Harold. We have to take you back.”

“Why? Sir Baldwin doesn’t need me…”

“Bugger Sir Baldwin,” said Mark Rush from Tanner’s side. “We can’t let you go after you murdered Alan Trevellyn. What’s it to be? Alive or dead?” As he spoke he pulled his bow over his head and checked the string.

“Alan Trevellyn?” Tanner was sure that he saw absolute horror in the boy’s eyes. “Dead?”

The bow was ready. Mark Rush took his time over selecting an arrow, then tugged one free and fitted it. “I suppose you wanted to just scare him? That’s why you cut his throat, like you did with the old witch too. Never mind. You can apologise to them both when you get to hell.“

Tanner watched as the boy gaped, but then, as if with a sudden resolution, he pulled his dagger’s sheath free and put the blade away, tossing it towards the men. “You can put up your bow. I surrender to you. Yes, I killed them both.” The words were said calmly, but with what looked to Tanner like a kind of tired but firm defiance. He stood patiently while the constable swung from his horse and strolled over to the prisoner, tied his hands with a thong, then picked up his dagger and pointed back the way they had come.

“Come on, Harold. Let’s get back.”

Simon watched the slow approach of the three men, two on horseback, one staggering slightly on foot, with a feeling of relief. At least there was no one else hurt. Greencliff had not managed to stab one of the men when they captured him.

He heard the crunch of snow as the Bourc strolled over to stand beside him. At the sound of a sigh, Simon turned with surprise. It seemed out of place for the man. From what he had seen of the stranger, he had appeared to be strong and self-sufficient, not the sort to express sympathy for a murderer and outlaw.

Catching the bailiff’s eye, the Bourc shrugged, ashamed. “I know. He’s a killer. But he’s a likeable sort of lad. I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of murder. He seems too quiet. And he seems more sad than cruel.”

“But you said you found blood on his dagger!”

“So I did. So I did. Could it have been in defence?”

Simon paused and considered. “Defence? No, I don’t think so. Both murders were from behind, both of them had their throats cut. I don’t think they could have been killed except by a man who wanted to murder them. I can’t see it was defence. In any case, what defence would he need from an old woman?”

“Old woman?”

“Yes, he killed an old woman in Wefford.”

Simon became aware of a sudden tenseness as the man leaned forward and said, “What was this woman’s name, Bailiff?”

“Her name?” The three men were almost with them now, the lone walker struggling in the deeper snow that lay beneath the hillside, moving slowly and swinging his arms as if trying to maintain his balance. “She was called Agatha Kyteler.”

There was a sudden intake of breath from the man, and Simon turned to see that his eyes were filled with horror as he stared at the figure labouring towards them. “Agatha? You killed Agatha Kyteler?”

The bailiff gasped. “Of course! You must be the Bourc de Beaumont!”

“Yes, I am, but how…?”

“I am friend to Sir Baldwin. He mentioned you had been staying with him. He would like to see you again, I am sure. Would you ride back with us?”

The Bourc stared past the bailiff towards the centre of the moors, and when he glanced back, he smiled ruefully. “My friend, I think it would be a very good idea for me to return with you, and when I next leave for the coast, I think I shall take the roadways like others do, and avoid my own short cuts! Ah! Here they are.”

Turning back, Simon saw the men entering the ring of stones.