Oak predominated, interspersed with birch and beech. Some of the giant oaks must, Josse reckoned, be centuries old. Massive in girth, their upper branches high up above merged to form a thick canopy which entirely blotted out the sunlight. Many of them were thickly wreathed with ivy, which trailed down to ground level to merge with bramble, hazel, holly and thorn in an all but impenetrable thicket.
In places, he came across evidence of better-defined tracks through the forest, some of which, judging from the height of the banks on either side, were possibly as ancient as the old oaks. Were they the vestiges of roads made by the Romans, built straight, built true, built to last? Or were they what remained of the old iron ways, made by men before history began? Men who knew the forest like a brother, understood its nature and penetrated to its very heart, men who worshipped the oak as a god, in whose name they carried out unspeakable violence.
And who, according to some, still did …
Already apprehensive, it was not, Josse told himself, the best moment to let his imagination run free.
Coming to a clearing, he drew rein and sat staring about him. For the first time since he had left the sunshine of the world outside, there was evidence of human occupation. Not much, to be sure, just a huddle of mean-looking huts, simply constructed, scarcely more than a pole frame draped with a covering of branches and turves. Shelter enough, perhaps, to keep out the rain. There was evidence that charcoal-burning had been going on, although not, apparently, for some time; the patches of ground where fires had been set were no longer totally bare, but covered with small green tendrils as nature began to reclaim her own.
Josse dismounted and, tethering his horse, approached the largest of the huts. Bending his head, he went inside. There had been a small fire in there; putting his hand over it, Josse detected faint warmth. On a raised bank at one side was a mattress of bracken. Freshly cut.
It could have been anyone, Josse reflected as he remounted. All manner of fugitives and itinerants would know of these old huts, and it must be a common occurrence for someone to come and lie up here for a few days, while the heat died down and they planned their next move.
It didn’t have to be Milon.
But, as he set off back to the outside world — which, he had to admit, had rarely seemed so attractive a prospect — Josse couldn’t help being quite certain that it was.
* * *
He told Abbess Helewise what he had in mind. He saw her instinctive reaction before she could dissimulate: she didn’t want him to do it.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. Was it impertinent to assume she was worrying? ‘I can cope with Master Milon. And he may well not turn up!’ He tried to laugh.
‘He’s a murderer,’ Helewise said, equally quietly; it was as if neither of them wanted to speak aloud of such matters in the sanctity of the convent. ‘He has killed, if you are right. And, having done so once, he will not, I think, find it so difficult to do so again.’
He was surprised at her perspicacity, at a nun having the experience to understand the mind of a murderer. ‘Indeed, Abbess, it has often been observed that murder is easy after the first time.’ Suddenly he realised what they were saying. ‘But we speak of only one killing, whereas there have been two, surely!’
‘Two deaths, yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘But we do not yet know if both victims died by the same hand.’
We do! he wanted to shout. He restrained the impulse. ‘Whether he killed them both or not, Abbess, I am determined on this,’ he said instead.
‘I know.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I can see. But, Sir Josse, will you at least let me send some of the lay brothers to wait with you?’
‘No.’ The reply was automatic: Josse liked to work alone. ‘Thoughtful of you, Abbess, but the paramount need will be for silence. Any warning that he is expected and he will take to his heels.’
She tutted briefly. ‘I do not propose a band of gossiping, fidgeting old monks complaining about their aching bones and moaning at having been dragged from their sleep, although it might do some of them good to make the sacrifice. No. I propose only that you enlist the aid of Brother Saul, and perhaps one other lay brother selected by him. He knows who is sound, have no doubt.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Josse was impressed by Brother Saul. ‘But-’ He had been on the point of refusing when it occurred to him that the Abbess was talking sense. Milon, terrified at being exposed as the killer of Gunnora, hadn’t hesitated to kill again. Even though the person he’d had to dispose of to ensure his safety had been his own wife. Under the circumstances, would it hurt to have Saul at his side in his vigil?
No. In fact Josse welcomed the idea.
‘Thank you, Abbess,’ he said. ‘May we ask Brother Saul if he is willing?’
She was, he thought, about to make further mention of a second brother. But, as if knowing she had won from Josse all the concessions he was prepared to give, she merely nodded and said, ‘I will send word to Brother Saul. And now, Sir Josse, I have ordered food for you. At least I can ensure that you begin your night’s work on a full stomach.’
* * *
Milon d’Arcy, product of a comfortable home, indulged by his mother over her other, worthier sons, was living a nightmare.
It was not the fear of the great, sinister Wealden Forest where he had hidden away that threatened to unhinge him — or so he was managing to convince himself — nor the fugitive’s need to survive on his wits; a loaf of bread stolen here, a fat roast chicken off the spit there, an apple scrumped while nobody was looking that proved only to be half-bad, these were, for Milon, minor triumphs that it quite pleased him to think about.
He was, he had reassured himself not a few times, proving to be pretty good at looking after himself.
Sometimes he would forget. For a whole morning, once, he had been happy. Lying on his stomach over a stream on the fringe of the forest, staring down into the clear, cool water and trying to catch tiny, slippery, silver fish in his fingers, he had thought himself back in the life that used to be his. Had, when he stood up and brushed off the fine tunic — now damp, stained and showing distinct signs of wear — been on the point of thinking cheerfully ahead to what might be on the table for the midday meal.
To remember, at that particular moment, had been cruelly painful.
His mind increasingly shied away from the pain. He was, he knew, finding it easier and easier not to remember. To go on living in that pleasant land where it was always nearly dinner time and Elanor was waiting for him.
Elanor.
Red hair, strong, unruly, full of life. Just like her. Lusty and passionate, her ardour matching his own so that, when all the family and friends had said what a good match it was, how suited the young couple were one to another, he and she had turned their faces aside and sniggered.
That — their mutual physical hunger — they had discovered immediately. But there were other compatibilities, which had taken a little longer to surface. Such as their shared, strong sense of what was owing to them. Which, if not handed to them on a plate, they would stretch out their hands and grab.
What a clever brain she had, his Elanor! What an excellent accomplice! What fun they’d had together! Until-
No.
His mind closed down on that. Refused to let him go on.
When that happened, he would go back to his stream, and get down to something useful such as cleaning and sharpening his knife. Or he would creep into his hiding place. But there, very often, he would have to endure another attack of the terrors.
Because, one night, not long after he had first come there, a night of clear skies and brilliant moonlight, he had seen a man. Thought he’d seen a man, he kept having to correct himself. A man in a long white robe who bore a sickle-shaped knife in his hand. A man who spoke to the trees.