Baldwin ignored the comment; there were too many opportunities for coarse jokes at his expense now he was married, and the bailiff tried not to miss a single one. To change the subject, Baldwin pointed ahead with his chin. ‘Will this hill never end? It feels as if we have been climbing for miles.’
‘That,’ said Simon, puffing as he stopped at Baldwin’s side, ‘is the trouble with the moors. Whichever direction you wish to take, you tend to have to go uphill.’
Baldwin gave a dry chuckle and set off once more. Now they were walking up the edge of a small valley. Below them, mostly hidden by the ubiquitous gorse and ferns, they could hear a fast-flowing stream. In the valley there were a few stunted trees, but here on the moors all was low-growing and dull, apart from the sweet, almond-smelling, bright yellow gorse. The hillside rose up before them, menacing in its height. Baldwin glanced behind them and whistled. The scene was spectacular, with a view over many miles. Southwards he could see more hills rising one after the other in succession, their flanks unspoiled by towns or villages, only a few stone walls and enclosures marking the smooth green plains. East the land was lower, and he could see gaps in the trees where farmsteads and bartons lay. Their smoke rose up calmly in the clear air.
‘It is very peaceful here,’ he murmured.
‘It looks it, doesn’t it?’ Simon said glumly, sitting down on a lump of moorstone. ‘Trouble is, that’s just an illusion. The miners over the other side of this hill cause enough grief for me, God Himself only knows. Then the farmers are always coming to blows with everyone else, especially with the tin miners when the buggers move streams and leave whole areas completely dry while flooding others. Miners come and cut peat – well, they have the right to it, so that they can smelt their ore – but they always have to take chunks from prime pasture to upset the farmers, don’t they?’
‘Stop your moaning, and let’s carry on.’
Simon eyed his friend surreptitiously as they climbed. The knight was still deeply troubled by what he viewed as his lapse, not that Simon looked at it in the same light. To the bailiff it was as plain as the nose on his face that occasionally boys would die. His own lad was not that long in his grave. It was possible that Herbert had died, as Baldwin suspected, because of a jealous adult seeking an inheritance, and if that was Herbert’s fate, they had a duty to avenge him, but that was an end to the matter.
But Baldwin appeared to take this murder as a personal challenge, as if he were engaged in a private feud with the killer.
The bailiff knew his friend too well. Baldwin was inflexibly determined to see justice prevail. He had suffered at the hands of bigots and knew how it felt to be persecuted for no reason. It was because of this that he could be stubborn, pig-headed even, in his pursuit of criminals. Simon hoped that marriage would erode some of this obduracy, but it was a little much to expect that Baldwin would be cured so soon.
This case had gripped Baldwin more forcibly than previous ones. It was something to do with the knight’s fervent desire for an heir of his own, Simon felt. The bailiff himself had much the same urge, although in his case, having buried one boy already, he was more committed to ensuring that his daughter was able to produce the family and grandchildren he and Margaret desired. In Baldwin’s case there were no children.
Baldwin was losing heart. He still hoped to find some physical proof that the boy had been dragged down here – or some proof that a man had subsequently run back up here, trying to keep hidden from the road… but he was beginning to feel the first twinges of doubt. Could he be, literally, on the wrong track?
What was more, it was several days since poor Herbert’s death, and with the rain which had fallen since then, there was no real likelihood of finding traces or clear evidence.
The track they were following was like a scar in the vegetation, circumventing the gorse, but going straight on through ferns. The direction of the path made little sense to Baldwin. It never appeared to take a straight line, like that made by a man walking, but rather it took an odd, curving route, broader than a sheep or a man.
‘Here,’ Simon said suddenly, ‘what’s this?’
Baldwin went to his side. There, off to the right, was another mud track, leading down into the valley of the river. A sheep or two had been along it, for their spoor could be clearly discerned, but their prints had not hidden the others – the human footprints.
The knight crouched and stared, trying to control his excitement. This trail was subtly different from that which they had so far followed. This second one was considerably thinner, and the brown fern fronds, where they had been broken off, were fresher, with fewer trampled into the mud. More important to him, though, were the four pairs of prints.
One was of a small pair of shoes or boots, and the owner had been walking away from the valley, moving towards the track Baldwin and Simon were following. The knight carefully stood and made a firm impression of his own boot alongside the path to gauge the size. His foot was considerably larger than the smaller prints by a good two inches, maybe two and a half in length, and wider by almost an inch, so it could have been the footprint of a woman.
The others looked more on a par with his own: the second set appeared recent, and headed away from Baldwin and Simon down into the valley ahead, while the third seemed identical with the second, and headed in the same direction.
But these were not the only ones. A fourth pair of footprints returned from the valley, and these were the oddest by far, because although the left foot was shod, the right was bare. The mark was smudged a little where animals had crossed the track, and every now and again it had been obliterated because of another footprint being superimposed upon it, but there were many images perfectly delineated of the whole foot, with each toe clearly displayed.
While he considered this, Simon touched his shoulder and pointed silently. Baldwin followed the bailiff’s finger. The path down to the river took an easy line along the contours of the hill, dropping at a very shallow rate, but gradually going to the water itself, some forty yards or so below. At the bottom was a plateau of flat ground, with the broad curve of the stream sweeping around it. Standing in the middle of the grassy plain Baldwin saw the man who had caught his friend’s attention.
At the base of the cliff was Stephen of York, but this was a very different man from the urbane cleric. He was kicking at ferns as if in a rage, pulling apart clumps of heather, peering beneath bushes of gorse. Now that the knight was aware of him, he could hear the priest’s voice over the pleasant murmur of the water, and his eye went to the sets of prints. If one pair belonged to the priest, Baldwin was comfortably convinced that two others did as well. But why should the priest have returned from the water half-shod?
Stephen’s voice was a continuous, low curse. It was as if he was damning the whole land, uttering impassioned oaths at every bush and blade of grass. At last he kicked at a low shrub, and missing it, overbalanced and fell hard on his rump, where he sat weeping.
‘Should we go and see if we can help?’ Simon asked.
Baldwin was silent for a moment, lost in thought. It was tempting to go and question the priest – they would have to at some stage – but something held him back. Stephen was a priest, and deserved cautious treatment. If he was guilty of anything, Baldwin and Simon had no jurisdiction over him, for Stephen, like any ecclesiastic, was not answerable to the secular authorities. He was responsible only to Canon Law.
If Stephen had anything to do with Herbert’s death, questioning him now might only warn him of the need for an alibi. No, Baldwin reasoned, it would be better to see what they could find on the track, and then, if there were any solid facts to present to Stephen, they could gauge his reaction unwarned.