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.
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?