Tanner stayed at the back again at first, but then he shrugged and put the thoughts from his mind. If he was alive, they would be sure to find out as soon as they caught him. There was no point in speculating.
“Morning, gentlemen.”
The call made them all stop and cautiously glare at the rocks before them. Then Simon tentatively rode forward a couple of yards. “Is that you, Greencliff?”
“No.” There was a dry chuckle. Then there was a movement above them, and they saw what had appeared to be a boulder detach itself from the tor and spring lightly to the ground before them.
For a moment they contemplated him in silence, then Simon rode forward a pace or two. The man held himself alert and had the look of a fighting man, but did not look as though he was dangerous. Merely wary at the sight of three strangers out here in the wild.
Glancing to his side, Simon saw that Rush had come up alongside.
“I know this man,” the hunter muttered, “I saw him trotting away from Wefford the day the witch was killed.“
Simon nodded, then looked back to the Gascon. “Good morning, friend. I am a bailiff. We are hunting an outlaw, a man who is running from justice. His feet led us here -have you seen him?” He gave a brief description.
“He is not here now,” said the Bourc.
“What do you mean? Have you seen him?” Simon asked eagerly.
The Bourc put his head to one side thoughtfully as he peered up at the bailiff. “I have, but he did not seem to be an outlaw. I gave him a place to sleep last night. He was here with me, but he left some time ago. Come to my camp, I will show you the path he took and you can warm yourselves by my fire for a while,” he said quietly, and, turning, led the way to the ring of old stones that stood at the summit, just under the tor.
To Simon it looked like an enclosure. It was about fifteen paces across and roughly circular, lined with boulders of the local grey granite, with here and there a patch of orange or brown lichen peeping out from under a thatch of snow. At one side was a pile of the Gascon’s tools and belongings, with, beside them, his pony and a small packhorse. To the right, beyond a fire of fresh kindling, was a low gap in the rocks of the tor. Near the fire were the carcasses of two wolves, freshly skinned, the flesh clean and glistening with silver where the membranes held the muscles. The pelts were stretched on wooden frames nearby. Simon walked to them and kicked one corpse thoughtfully while their host strode to the fire and crouched contemplatively in front of it.
“So he was here. Where did he go?” he asked.
Looking up, he saw the Bourc grin. “Oh, yes. He was here.” With a jerk of his chin, he pointed towards the middle of the moors. “He left about an hour ago, just as you all appeared through the trees. Made an excuse and ran for it. He won’t have gone far.”
“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.