The expression on Black’s face froze him. The hunter was staring with his face rigid, his jaw locked and clenched, and only his eyes moving. No other muscle worked. It was as if he had been bewitched, as if he was cursed by having all his limbs stilled and rendered immovable. With a feeling of horror, the bailiff realised that the man was stricken with disgust and revulsion, and he felt his own terror return as they rode into the camp.
At first all he could see was the burning wagons. They came into the camp through a small gap in the trees and were suddenly in a little clearing, bordered by a fringe of thin, young trees. Although the grass had long ago been trampled into mud, the first impression that the bailiff had was of a festive and peaceful site, with brightly coloured clothes on the people sleeping all round and the green of the trees reflecting off the little pool of water at the other side of the clearing. It was as if they had entered a small oasis of calm, and he felt that if they were to shout all of the people would wake and greet them. But then, as he looked all over the area, he saw that none in the camp would wake again. They were all dead.
Two wagons, parked close together, were smouldering, giving off thin grey smoke that rose and billowed in the clear air. Two others sat a little farther off, their contents strewn over the ground in a haphazard tapestry of colour. Slowly the sensation of unreality faded from him and he felt the tears warming his eyes as he saw that the nearest body was that of a woman, hacked to death and lying in her own gore. Then he saw that the next body, that of a man, lay with his arms outstretched as if reaching for her even in death, with a massive and bloody gash at the back of his head.
He felt as if he was not here, as if he was away from this scene and looking through another’s eyes, as he surveyed the bodies all over the clearing. It was as if his brain had become dissociated from his body, as if in horror of the sight before him, his mind had withdrawn to defend him from the reality of the view.
His eyes smarting, he had to turn away quickly. He looked up at the wagons again. As he saw the second of them, he felt the sensation of being elsewhere leave him, to be replaced by a rage, an anger so deep as to engulf him completely, a fury that this should have been done to peaceful travellers here, in this sheltered glade. It seemed so unjust that this should have been done, so wrong. Then, as he looked closer, his breath caught in his throat as he saw, hanging from the back of the smoking, open cart, two blackened arms that dangled from the smouldering ruins. He sat, as if incapable of movement, his eyes fixed in front of him at those two sad reminders of what had been a human.
Black dropped lightly from his horse and motioned to the posse to wait, then he quickly stalked over the ground, bending now and then at the bodies, gazing intently at the mess on the ground, checking the wagons’ contents, and kneeling occasionally to peer at some traces. Finished, he returned and took his horse’s bridle before standing by the bailiff.
“Sir,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “there was more than five here. It looks like they came in some hours ago from the tracks, and left some time ago – their marks are a little weathered.”
“What happened? Why did they kill all these people?” Simon’s voice was muted, almost awed by the immensity of the crime.
“They took all the money, took all the food.” Black shrugged. “They had no need for all these.” His hand waved, taking in all the bodies in a gesture of seeming indifference.
“Where did they go?”
“South. To the moors. The trail’s clear.”
“Let’s go after them, then.” Simon stared at the wagon again.
“Sir? We have to send word first, let the farmer know so that he can call the people over from Oakhampton.” Black was frowning as he spoke, trying to break through the cloud of anger that was smothering Simon’s thoughts.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Leave two men here and send one to the farm. The others will come with us.”
Quickly the hunter followed his orders, choosing the two oldest men to guard the camp, and the youngest to warn the farm, then he mounted his horse again and, after a quick glance at the bailiff, he kicked his mount into a brisk trot and led the way down past the pool of water and up the incline at the other side, steadily taking them toward the moors.
They went fairly slowly at first as the track took them between the trees. It seemed clear that the men who had violated the camp had not taken many precautions to make their trail hard to follow – it led through the trees where the trunks were thinnest, where the branches hardly made the riders duck, and soon they came to an open moor, where the tracks led straight as an arrow towards the blue-grey hills ahead.
As they went, the feeling of unreality left Simon, to be replaced by a sense of lightheadedness. He could not comprehend the ferocity of the attack: it seemed too vicious, too brutal. It seemed even worse than the attack on the abbot, somehow, the enormity of the crime being increased by the number of the victims, and he felt confused and troubled in the midst of his rage. More than ever, he felt the need for his wife now, for someone who could listen to him as he tried to explain the feelings that crowded his mind with the clamour of confusion. He felt as if his brain must break with the mad array of emotions that battered at him. The anger was still there, burning deep inside him with the flames of his need to avenge the attack, but he also wanted an explanation. He needed to understand why this could be done, why men could kill and destroy for no reason. Until he could understand that, he could have no peace, because if there was no reason, then why would God allow it? Surely God in his wisdom would have prevented such barbarity?
Almost without thinking, he spurred his horse to bring him level with Black.
“Black, can you understand why?”
The hunter glanced up, his expression one of absorbed concentration, but even as the recognition glimmered in his eyes, he turned to look back at his trail again. “I don’t know. I’ve only seen it once before, that was back long ago when I was up north.”
“Well, did you ever find out why they did it?”
“No. I wasn’t wanted in the posse because I wasn’t a local. Oh, I followed, I wanted to see what the killers looked like, but we never found them. No, I never did find out why.”
Simon frowned at the ground. “What could have made them behave like that? All they needed to do was tie up the men and take what they wanted, they were only merchants. They couldn’t have put up much of a struggle even if they wanted to.”
The hunter shrugged. “I don’t know. They were either mad or just didn’t want to leave anyone to recognise them later. How can I tell? All I know is I want to get them and stop them before their next attack.”
“You think they’ll attack again?”
“Aye. They will. While they know they can get away with it they’ll carry on.”
Simon looked away and up to the horizon in front. “Where do you think they’ll be heading?”
“I don’t know. It depends whether they know we’re following them or not. If they don’t, they might swing back towards Crediton or Oakhampton, or keep heading south, to Moretonhampstead, maybe. If they know we’re behind, they might keep going south, but they could try to avoid us or even ambush us if they feel strong enough.” He paused. “Damn them, the bastards!”
The poison in his voice vaguely shocked Simon, as if even the sights they had left behind them should not have so affected the hunter’s usual equanimity. He had not realised how much the camp had horrified the imperturbable man, but now as he looked he could see Black’s jaw clenching with a steady rhythm, as if he was chewing at a piece of gristle, and his eyes, normally so calm, were wide and staring with his desire for revenge.