‘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.
‘God knows what he’s up to there, but I want to see where this track goes,’ he said, and ducking low, they made their way back over the brow of the hill before the wailing priest could see them.
Chapter Seventeen
The two men had finally gone. Jordan squirmed along until he reached the lip of the cliff, from where he could look down on the plateau. Stephen had rolled over in the foetal position now, hands covering his face while he gave great shuddering sobs.
Feeling a tug at his heel, Jordan carefully pushed himself away and returned to Alan.
‘Is he still searching for it?’ Alan asked urgently.
‘No, he’s just blubbering,’ Jordan said with contempt.
‘That’s good. We’d better get back then. The monk won’t know we’ve got it, and we can keep it hidden until we want to use it.’
‘But how can we use it?’
‘We’ll see. Maybe we won’t need to. But if we do, and we show it, and say where we got it from, they’ll realise what he did.’
Jordan glanced back doubtfully as Alan began to ascend the shallow incline. Stephen was a priest, a man who was supposed to be beyond any misbehaviour. He was appointed by God, supposed to be perfect and good. And yet Alan was right – they had seen through his front. Jordan had been taught that a man like Stephen was above any evil act, but that must have been wrong.
The man should have been incapable of sin, but Jordan and Alan had witnessed it.
Simon was dismayed when he looked up and saw how the clouds had gathered. ‘Baldwin, we have to get back.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s going to rain.’
‘Simon, if you think I’m going to run back to the manor because of a slight drizzle, you are mistaken. Those clouds hardly look as if they could fill a small bucket.’
‘You remain, then. I am going to get back to the house.’
Baldwin gave him a blank stare. ‘But why?’
‘You don’t know the moors like I do. We’re here with no cloaks or jacks. When that rain hits us, we’ll be soaked in moments.’
‘Oh, nonsense!’
Now Baldwin regretted his rashness. ‘I am sorry, Simon. I thought you were simply picking on a pretext to go back. I had no idea how this rain could get through to the skin.’
Simon grunted, mopping his forehead with the hem of his tunic, then wringing it out again. They had made for home as soon as the downpour had set in in earnest, but by then, as the bailiff knew, it was too late. This Dartmoor rain had a curiously pervasive quality: it appeared only a thin mizzle yet it swiftly permeated all their clothing. The drops were flying almost horizontally. The only compensation for the bailiff was the expression of horrified disgust on Sir Baldwin’s face as he felt the drips slithering down his skin.
The wind blew from behind them, but it whirled and howled in their ears, and Simon had to speak loudly for Baldwin to hear him. ‘If we keep to the riverbank, we’ll soon make it down to the road, and then all we have to do is turn right to follow it back to the manor.’
The knight nodded, and the two set off again, slithering in the black, peaty mud. Baldwin looked down with dismay. The track was a quagmire now, and every step he took thrust his ankle under the surface. His feet were wallowing in the stuff. He looked up, narrowing his eyes against the wind, and it was here that he fell.
He was some feet behind his friend; he placed his boot on what looked like a solid enough rock, but when he put his weight on it, it slid away. Suddenly he was off-balance and toppling backwards; he put out both hands, but his right thumb caught awkwardly on another stone, and the nail was ripped off.
At first he didn’t notice. He sat, his backside throbbing where it had connected with another lump of rock, staring bleakly ahead, swearing quietly but with feeling. Then he stood up, furious with himself for his clumsiness, trying to brush off the worst of the mud and assorted plants, and generally besmearing the whole of his tunic. Glancing at the stone on which he had landed he was about to kick at it when he stopped dead.