The bailiff offered up a quick prayer, his eyes closed, then peered all around again. He felt that he had been stalking for days – the fatigue was giving him cramps in his legs – and it seemed, now he was close to the end of the trail, that the tiredness was settling on him heavily, like a leaden cloak that smothered mind and muscles alike. He could not control a swift, hopeful glance over his shoulder, as if he half-expected to see the posse coming through the trees towards him, but there was no one there. He would have to go on alone. His teeth clenched, he dropped silently to crawl on his hands and knees towards the smell.
After only a short distance he came to another small clearing, a slight opening in the trees where the trunks were not so closely crowded together, and carefully looked in. From here he could smell the old fire: someone must have made camp here, far away from the nearest houses and any risk of discovery. There it was, just by a tree some twenty yards away that had been blackened by the heat. Even if the smoke had been seen, nobody would have come this deep into the woods to investigate. He could see little apart from the dark smudge of the blackened undergrowth between the trunks that stood between him and the clearing, so he began another slow and careful progress around the camp, crawling from tree to tree, stopping and watching, then moving on again. There was no sound, no movement. It was as if the camp had been abandoned years before and had been left, undisturbed and untouched by human or creature.
Then he heard the yap again and, even as he tensed at the unexpected noise, he saw two foxes gambolling around, near the old fire, springing and jumping as gleefully as kittens.
With a brief flare of impatience, now that it seemed that his careful tracking was all in vain and there was no reason to be afraid, he stood up carefully and scrutinised the clearing. It seemed absolutely deserted apart from the two creatures. Nothing else moved. The only noises were from the trees as, high above, a breeze caught the branches. Taken with a sudden fit of anger at the thought that his exertions had been unnecessary, he bellowed out, “Is anybody there?”
His only response was the sudden explosion of noise as the two foxes bolted in their terror, both leaping for the safety of the dark trees at the edge of the clearing. Then the silence returned. There was nothing to betray a human’s presence, not even the scuffle of a man woken by his shout trying to grab at a club or sword: nothing. Simon drew his sword and, steeling himself, slowly crept forward until he was at the edge of the trees. As soon as he reached the fringe, he rushed on, running to crouch in the middle of the open space, whirling and glaring around, his sword grasped in both hands and the hot blood hammering in his ears.
But there was nothing. No one sprang to attack him, no one ran away into the surrounding trees, there was not even the sound of a disturbed animal to break the all-embracing silence. Gradually, shrugging shamefacedly, he relaxed, and lowered the point of his sword, taking stock. The clearing was only some twenty yards across and there was nowhere for anyone to hide apart from in among the trees.
There was no sign that anybody had ever been here apart from the fire. He turned and looked for the blackened embers to see how long the clearing had been empty. It lay over at the other side of the clearing from him, a darker stain among the shadows.
He wandered over towards it, but as he drew near, his feet-started to falter, and he stumbled as he frowned at the tree. He had only covered half the distance when he stopped. Eyes wide in horror, he gagged and dropped to his knees, staring at the patch of burned grass and the tree in front of him.
With a high scream, he turned and ran, rushing away from the sight in a mad, panicked flight back to the road.
The smell of cooked meat came from the man who had been roasted, like a convicted witch, over the flames.
Chapter Twelve
When Tanner and the others arrived, the constable was surprised to find the monk and the bailiff sitting by the side of the road in front of a small fire. The monk rose immediately and ran to greet them, his nervous features cracking with an expression of desperate relief, and when Tanner caught a glimpse of the bailiff he began to understand why he was grateful for the new arrivals. Simon did not move. He sat still and quiet with his cloak wrapped tightly around him as he stared into the fire. Tanner dismounted and walked over to him.
“Thank God you’ve arrived! We were wondering whether you’d all wait for morning before coming and we didn’t want to stay here alone all night,” said the monk, breathlessly, as Tanner walked to the bailiff. The constable nodded absently and continued on, leaving the monk to welcome the others.
“Bailiff? What’s wrong, bailiff?”
Simon could only slowly bring his eyes up from the fire. After the horror in the woods he felt more tired than he had ever been in his life before. The nervous energy and the anger that had kept him going through the woods had drained him, and the horror of the sight in the clearing and his mad rush back to the road had finished the job. Now as he looked up he seemed to the constable to have aged by twenty years since the afternoon; his face was gaunt and pale and his eyes glittered as if he was in a fever, and Tanner crouched quickly beside him, his face full of concern. Simon hardly seemed to notice him. Almost as if he wanted not to see the constable, he turned his gaze back to the fire and stared vacantly into the flames.
“Bailiff? What’s happened?” said the constable in shocked amazement.
“We got here just before dark,” Simon said quietly. “We found it easily enough. David – that’s the monk – he found it quite quickly. The tracks were clear, going off into the woods over there.” He pointed briefly with his chin to the opposite side of the road and returned to his solitary stare, talking softly and calmly while the constable frowned at him in anxious concern. “I told David to wait here for you and I went in alone. I must have been going for over an hour when I found a small clearing. One horse at least had been kept there, there was a fresh pile of shit where it had been tied.”
Simon looked up suddenly and the constable felt the pain in the bailiff’s eyes as they searched his face for a moment before returning to their introspective study of the flames. “The abbot was not far away. I carried on and found him. He had been tied up – tied to a tree. Someone had gathered up a load of twigs and branches and piled them underneath him.” Tanner saw him shudder once, involuntarily, but then his voice continued calmly. “Then set light to them and burned the abbot to death.”
Tanner stared at him steadily. “What? He was burned at the stake?”
“Yes,” said Simon softly, almost wonderingly. “He was burned alive.” Then he winced, his voice strained and harsh with the horror of it. “He must have been screaming when he died. Oh God! Stephen, you should have seen his face! It was dreadful! The flames were not hot enough to burn the top of his body, it was like he was staring at me! It felt like the devil himself was looking at me through his eyes, I could see his face clearly. God! It was awful!”
“But who could do a thing like that? Who would do that to a man of God?” said Tanner with a frown of consideration. Of course, outlaws were known for their brutality, exceeding even the viciousness of the pirates from Normandy, but neither French nor English bands were known here in the heart of Devon. Tanner was older than the bailiff and had served in the wars against the French, so he had witnessed the cruelty that men could show to each other, but even in war he had never heard of a monk being killed in this way, like a heretic. He was puzzled rather than horrified.