An hour later he felt well enough to rise from the mattress and walk outside to where the man crouched by the fire, meditatively breaking twigs and branches to feed the flames. He looked up as Greencliff came out, bent double to save himself from hitting his head at the low entrance.
“How’re you feeling now?” the Bourc asked.
Wincing, Greencliff sat warily on a rock near the fire. “A lot better. I’m very grateful, if you hadn’t helped me, I’d be dead.”
“One day, I might need help, and I hope that I will be protected as I protected you.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m called John, the Bourc de Beaumont.”
“You are not from here?” It was an innocent question, and the farmer was surprised by the laugh it brought.
“No! No, I come from far away, from Gascony. I would not live here from choice!”
Greencliff nodded, morosely staring at the moors all round. “I can understand that!” he said. “So, why are you here?”
Grimacing, the Bourc explained about his decision to cross the moors. “The wolves chased me here, and I was attacked by one – night before last, that was. I killed it, but I got little sleep, so I chose to stay here for another day. Anyway, I thought it was easier to defend myself here. If they catch you on horseback, they’ll chase you ‘til your horse drops.”
“Why were they trying to attack you? Are they just evil?” asked the farmer, shivering at the memory of the slavering mouths tearing at his belongings.
“No, not really. It is just the way they are. They saw me – and you – as a meal, that’s all. There is not enough food for them right now. They thought we’d be easy enough to catch.” He almost shuddered at the memory. The way that the beast had leaped at him had terrified him. In his mind’s eye he could still see the jaws opening and smell the foul breath. In that moment he had been sure he was about to die.
The fear had almost caused his death. It slowed his reactions, so that the huge creature had almost succeeded in tearing his neck with its wickedly curved fangs, just missing and slashing his shoulder. The pain had woken him to his danger, and turning quickly, he had stabbed deep, again and again, in a fit of mad panic.
Afterwards he had built the fire and waited, nursing his shoulder, but they had chosen not to attack again. The next day they were still there, and he had kept an eye on them as he sat and kept warm.
He glanced up shrewdly. “So why are you here? Who or what are you running from?”
“Me?” His start of surprise seemed to strike the Gascon as comical.
“Yes: you! Nobody who knows this place would come here to the moors in the snow unless they had a good reason. Especially at night. It’s a good way to make sure of death, but nothing else. Who are you running from?”
“I…‘ He paused. There was no reason to doubt his grim-faced saviour, but the truth was, he had no wish to admit to his guilt. Opening his mouth to speak, he found the breath catching in his throat again, and he had to keep silent. The sob was too close. He gave a small cough, an involuntary spasm that could have been from misery or joy, and covered his face in his hands.
“You’ve been through pain, I can see that,” said the Bourc matter-of-factly, finishing his wine. With his eyes on his guest, his mind ran through the items he had found from the satchel. A little food the wolves had left, a flint and a knife. A long-bladed ballock knife: a single-edged blade with two globular lumps where the wooden grip met it, held in a leather sheath. When he had found it, he had been going to return it, but then he had wondered. If this boy was an outlaw, if he was escaping from justice of some sort, it might be better to keep his knife back for now. “Of course,” he thought, “if he wants to tell me what made him leave, I can give it back. But not yet. Not quite yet.”
It wasn’t just the distrust of a man for a stranger in these difficult times. It was also the thick clots he had found on the blade, the dried brown mess of blood.
“Wait here!” Mark Rush ordered as he dropped from his horse. He wandered slowly and carefully round the little dip in the ground, following the line of staggering footprints. “Yes, he was here. He walked up here, tripped and fell. There’s the mark where he lay. Looks like he got up and then began to make a fire. Not much of one, though.” Kneeling, he sniffed contemplatively at the blackened twigs. “Not enough to keep him warm for more than a minute. He sat here.”
Rising, he stood and stared at the ground for a minute, hands on hips as he considered. Glancing up at the bailiffs face, he shrugged. “Didn’t wait long, from the look of it. Seems like he made his fire, sat by it for a bit – not for long -and went on.”
“Fine. Let’s get on after him, then.”
Tanner ambled forward. “One minute, bailiff. Mark? How was he when he left here?”
The hunter pulled his mouth into a down-curving crescent of dubious pessimism. “Put it like this: I wouldn’t gamble on his chances. I’d rather put my money on a legless, wingless cock in a fighting ring.”
Nodding, Tanner glanced back at the men behind, then at the bailiff. “Sir, we may as well send the others back. The three of us are enough to catch him, even if he’s well. The way things are, all we’ll need is a horse to bring his body home.” When Simon nodded. Tanner turned to the men, telling them to return. The bailiff instructing one to ensure that a message went to the inn, to be passed on to Simon’s wife, to say that they were well. Not that it mattered much, as Tamer knew. There was little hope that they could find the boy alive now. They should be able to return home before long.
As they set off again, leaving at last the line of trees and beginning to make their way on to the moors, he found himself reflecting sadly on the last Greencliff. Tanner had known him since he was a boy.
Good-looking since he was a child, he had always been able to win apples from the women in the village while young. As he had grown, he had kept his innocent charm, and then he had taken other gifts – or so it was rumoured. Why, even Sarah Cottey was supposed to have carried on with him recently, and she was only the last in a long series. The boy was lucky to have lived so long without getting a thrashing from an enraged father or brother!
Murder was a long way from enjoying a woman’s embrace, though, he mused. Just because a man was popular with the local girls did not make him a killer. It was different, as the constable knew, with soldiers. He had witnessed enough rapings and people having their lives taken quickly or slowly to know the difference between the brutal and the gentle taking of a woman. Harold had only ever been kind with his women, which was why none had ever denounced him to their families. All still liked him. Even Sarah Cottey – she was infatuated with him.
But love was possessive, and perhaps that was why the boy had found the courage to kill, stabbing Trevellyn in a jealous fit so that he could have the woman he wanted. If so, that did not answer why the youth should have killed the witch, though. The reason behind that was still a mystery. Tanner dawdled behind the others as the thoughts drifted through his mind, making him scowl darkly as he stared with unseeing eyes at the ground.
At a sudden gasp from the hunter in front, he kicked his horse and rode forward to where Simon and Mark Rush stood pensively gazing down at a mess of confused prints.
“Looks like he walked to here, then fell,” said the hunter. He peered up the shallow slope to a small group of tors huddled together as if for warmth on the top of the hill. “Wolves were about, but he managed to get up there.”
“Let’s see if he’s still there, then,” said the bailiff, and they began to make their way up the slight incline.