He froze again as another bird crashed off from its perch, upset by his sudden presence, but then his eyes dropped to the tracks, which led forward still, and he cautiously followed them, thinking to himself that with all these noises there was not likely to be any other humans about. If men were present, the other creatures would have fled.
As he walked deeper in among the trees, the dark came crowding in, forcing him to concentrate harder as he followed the tracks farther into the woods. He soon found that they became a blur, a smudge on the ground in front of him, and he had to pause more often, not to listen for any sounds from ambushers, but simply to make sure that he had not lost the trail. The undergrowth was thick, with shrubs and young ferns struggling to grow in the permanent semi-darkness under the tall trees, and several times he found that he had missed the spoor completely and had to go back over his own footsteps to pick it up. After he had done this for the fourth time, he began to follow the gaps in the trees instead, where it looked as though a horse with its rider could pass, occasionally checking down by his feet to make sure that the horse tracks were going the same way. Every now and again he looked all round, making sure that he was not being watched, his nerves feeling as though they were ready to snap, and when at last he heard the noise it was almost a relief, as if now his fears of being surprised could depart. The tenseness left him, to be replaced by the watchful expectancy of the hunter, mixed with his growing caution.
It was the sharp yap of a dog fox. Simon stiffened, taut as he listened, then let out a long, low sigh and glanced up at the cover of the leaves far overhead. A few last rays from the setting sun were fighting their way through the dense foliage – he must have been walking for over an hour, slowly and carefully edging his way deeper. He ducked behind a tree and leaned against the trunk. Breathing deeply, he considered what to do. Go back or carry on? Had he come far enough? Should he try to go back and get the others? But what if Tanner wasn’t back yet, what if the posse hadn’t arrived? If the men and the abbot were ahead, surely he should continue? After all, he might be able to overpower the robbers, whoever they may be, surprise them in the dusk and rescue the abbot. At the least he should try to get closer and see whether he could attempt it; it wasn’t completely dark yet, and it should be easy to retrace his steps.
He gripped his sword-hilt tightly and slowly continued on his way, looking down every now and then to make sure that the tracks still led in the same direction, breathing shallowly as he listened out for any sign, any hint, that he might be close.
There it was again! A yapping. His brow wrinkled as he considered: it came from ahead, from the direction of the trail. If there were foxes there, there were not likely to be any men around – those shy creatures would avoid men wherever possible. Why, he found himself wondering, do foxes make that noise? He felt the tension return, the prickle of excitement, as he edged on farther, slowly checking each step before he put his feet down, looking at the ground and avoiding twigs and other undergrowth that could give him away. At each pace he paused and stared ahead grimly, half expecting a crossbow bolt or arrow to strike him, almost as if he was daring someone to try to hit him as he surveyed the tree trunks in front. He tried to follow the spoor while walking in the shadows of the trees, trying to maintain some cover as he went, trying to use them as protection from the men that had captured the abbot.
It took him another half hour before he could see the clearing – half an hour of slow and careful pacing, with each step measured and checked, with each step taking all his concentration, with all his senses screaming at every sound, with his ears straining as he tried to distinguish any noises that could have been made by a human; but there was nothing. This deep in the woods it seemed as though even the animals had run away. There was nothing, no sound, not even a squeak or a rustle to betray a nearby beast apart from the occasional excited yapping. It was as if the whole forest was dead and he and the fox alone breathed the dank and thick air.
With the gloom growing, the hairs on his head began to rise, and he felt the breath straining in his throat. It was not the fear of humans, that he could cope with. No, it was as if with each minute, as the dark crept on towards night-time, his superstitions grew in strength. Here he was nearer the bleak moors, nearer the centre of Crockern’s power, and as if there was an affinity between the ancient trees here and the primeval stones so close, he seemed to feel his own presence as an abomination, as if he was loathed by the very earth under his feet for his trespass. It was with a physical effort that he forced himself on.
At last he could see an opening in the trees. He began to move even more slowly, inch by inch, with the infinite patience of a lizard hunting a fly, until he came into the lee of a massive oak and could stand silently watching from under its protection.
There was a sudden rustling as if two kittens were playing on the leafy floor. Simon concentrated. He could discern nothing in the gloom ahead, too much was obscured by the boles of the trees. Gradually he relaxed his grip on his sword-hilt and flexed his hand as he listened, feeling the sweat break out cold and chilling. But there was still nothing. He wiped the sweat from his palm and gripped his sword again, then crept forward, carefully moving from tree to tree as he made a wide circle around the clearing.
As he moved forward he could catch brief, frustrating glimpses: now a great oak, now a towering elm. It was as if there was a tapestry that had been roughly cut into pieces and he was trying to put it together in his mind, arranging the various parts and trying to associate them although the threads around each section were badly frayed, making it impossible to be sure which connected with which. All he could do was attempt to build the picture.
At last, when he had almost half-circled the empty area, he felt he could not continue, and began to edge his way in towards it. The blood was pounding in his ears with the tenseness of his fear and excitement as he moved forward at a crawling pace until he was at the very edge of the trees.
In the dim light he could see the ground clearly. His eyes flitted over the space, looking for any signs of humans or animals, but there seemed to be nothing. No sign of man, no blackened remains of a fire, no parcels or packs lying on the ground, no gleam of metal where a sword lay. Suddenly he felt his fear return, concentrated and almost overpowering in its intensity. There, just a few yards in front of him, lay a small pyramid of horse’s dung. For a horse to have created so perfect a shape, it must have been stationary. It must have been tethered there, surely. Had the robbers been here? And if they had been, where were they now? He paused and considered. There had been a horse in the clearing, at least one. Either it was the abbot’s or it was one of the robbers’. Could the abbot have escaped? If he had, could this be from his horse? But then, what if this horse belonged to a robber? He could be close by. His eyes quickly flitted all over the ground again, but even as he gazed all round, he started wondering. If it was the abbot’s, where was he? And what if it was a robber’s horse? Had they rested here last night and then ridden on? Or were they even now waiting, watching him, preparing to attack?
He studied the area again and tried to clear his mind, trying to decide what to do. It seemed impossible to make a clear choice, to know what was best. Go on or return to the road? Deferring the choice and frowning, he continued his slow progress.
It was only when he had almost managed to get all the way around it that he smelt the burned wood and cooked meat. Slowly he eased himself into a crouch, sniffing as quietly as he could. It was not the smell of a fresh fire, it seemed damp and dead. There was no acrid smoke, no sharp tang to the smell, just a dull, burned odour that was almost stale. It seemed to come from over to his right, just a little further on.