‘There!’ he exclaimed.
Horehound edged nearer and moaned quietly at the sight of the corpse bobbing in the shadows. Skullcap, stretching out his cudgel, forced the corpse to turn. Horehound glimpsed a mud-encrusted face with long hair; the dried blood ringing the mouth had mixed with the slime. He stepped back and stared around; whoever had killed that woman, and it must be a young woman, had brought her down here, murdered her and thrown her corpse into the marsh. He padded back, searching the ground for any sign, yet he could find no trace of a horse or a wheel in the frozen snow. Here and there a disturbance, but Horehound’s own footprints, as well as those of Skullcap, would be difficult to distinguish from those of an assassin.
‘What do you think?’ Skullcap crawled close, crouching beside his companion, his thin spotty face flushed with excitement, eyes gleaming, the tip of his nose as red as a cinder glowing in a fire. On any other occasion Horehound would have made a joke of it and stretched out his fingers to what he always called this fiery ember. ‘I saw it this morning, it wasn’t there last night,’ Skullcap hissed. ‘Or I don’t think it was.’
Horehound made his way back to the marsh to take a second look; this time he was bolder, allowing his boots to sink into the icy mud. He took his own cudgel and tipped the corpse. Yes, it was a woman, a young woman, probably from the castle. Her features were hard to distinguish, but he glimpsed the dried blood round that awful wound high in her chest. He retreated hastily, aware of the sombre silence. There was no birdsong, none of that flurrying in the thicket, the sounds of the forest which always reassured him. It seemed as if the winter snow had smothered all life. Horehound curbed his panic. He ran back, grasped Skullcap by the shoulder, and hastened with him into the trees.
‘What shall we do?’ Skullcap demanded. ‘Now we have another horror. You know what they’ll say.’ Horehound tried not to flinch at his companion’s sour breath. ‘They’ll say she was going for a walk down to the church or tavern and one of us killed her.’
Horehound didn’t disagree. If this continued Sir Edmund would be forced to go hunting. He would summon up the levies and they’d enter the forest and see the horror hanging from that oak; it would only fan the fire of their anger. Horehound and the rest of his gang would be tracked by verderers and huntsmen; they would bring hunting dogs and not rest until they had cornered them in some glade. Justice would be quick. They would be either hanged there and then, or taken back to swing from the castle walls.
Horehound looked up through the bare black branches, the melting snow dripping down, splashing his face. A sudden sound made him start, and a rabbit sped from one bush to another, but Horehound was so frightened, so cowed, he couldn’t even think about hunting fresh quarry.
‘I wonder how long?’ he muttered.
‘And we are hungry,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘The meat we are eating is rotten. What can we do?’
Horehound crouched, assuming what he thought was his wise look. What could he do? Master Reginald’s generosity had been stretched far enough. And Father Matthew? Horehound recalled that fire leaping up and shuddered. The villagers? He breathed in. They had little enough to share, and once they heard about that girl’s corpse, every peasant’s hand would be set against them. So who was responsible? How could a young woman’s body, a crossbow bolt embedded in her chest, be floating in that marsh so near to the tavern? Was Master Reginald responsible? Had the wench gone down there? The taverner could be a brutal man, well known for his liking of the ladies. What about Father Matthew? Was the priest a warlock? Why should he be sprinkling powders on his own at the dead of night in his church?
‘At least another quarter to spring,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘Milkwort wonders if any of us will be alive by Lady Day.’
Horehound sprang to his feet and hurried away. Skullcap, in surprise, followed him.
‘What’s the matter?’
But Horehound, shoulders hunched, ran on, deeper and deeper into the forest. Skullcap paused to catch his breath. They weren’t going back to the camp, but towards that glade ringed by ancient oaks, and with that horror hanging from one of the outstretched branches. Horehound was going to break his own rule, and Skullcap had no choice but to follow.
They reached the glade, but this time Horehound didn’t stop. Ignoring Skullcap’s cries, he raced across and halted directly beneath the corpse for the first time ever, staring up at that hideous face, made all the more gruesome by the passing of time and the pecking bites of birds and animals. The eyes had gone, leaving only black staring sockets, and the neck was all twisted, head to one side. Horehound wrinkled his nose at the smell of death. Although hideous in aspect, the corpse had now lost its horror. It was only the pathetic remains of a young woman, who had climbed up the oak, draped part of her long fustian skirt over the branch and fashioned a noose. Horehound could see how easy that would be; even the ancient ones could climb a tree like that. She must have moved along the sturdy branch, knotted one end around her throat and one end around the bough and simply let herself drop. Horehound walked around the corpse. Or had she killed herself? Had someone else brought her here and murdered her in this macabre way? He stared at the hands, the pared nails, then at the twisted cloth strong as rope. It would take some time before it rotted and allowed the body to fall.
Horehound drew his knife and scrambled up the trunk of the oak. Using the gnarled knots for steps, he edged along the branch and, positioning himself carefully, sawed through the cloth until it ripped and the corpse plunged to the forest floor. The sheer effort and tension had exhausted Horehound. He put the knife between his teeth and dropped lightly to the ground. Using the frozen, sodden leaf meal, the outlaw covered the corpse, trying not to look at that face, praying quietly to himself, begging Christ’s good mother to help him.
‘Who is it?’ Skullcap drew closer.
‘Just another girl. The flesh is beginning to decompose.’ Horehound went to a nearby rivulet to wash his hands. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, not yet, not until they find her.’
Horehound picked up his cudgel, took one last look at that forlorn heap, and found the pathway which would lead him back to the hidden cave where the rest of his band sheltered. He was almost there when he caught the first smell of wood smoke and the delicious tang of roasting meat. He stopped so abruptly Skullcap collided with him.
‘Do you remember Fleawort?’ he muttered. ‘And the fantasies he saw? I can smell roasting meat.’
‘So can I,’ Skullcap retorted.
They ran through the tangled undergrowth, desperate to seek the source of the smell. Horehound couldn’t believe his eyes when he reached the glade. The outlaws had left their cave and built up a great fire, and were roasting strips of meat and drinking greedily from the small cask being handed around. Horehound drew his dagger, then smiled as one figure emerged from the rest, pushing back a tattered cowl. It was Hemlock! Horehound hurried across to hug this comrade who had left shortly before the eve of All Souls, saying he would try his luck further to the east.
‘What brought you back?’ Horehound demanded.
Hemlock pushed aside his strange hair, thick and black with white streaks like the fur of a badger. He was a tall, sinewy man, the bottom half of his face hidden by a moustache and bushy beard. Horehound noticed the scar just under his comrade’s left eye. The wound was still fresh.
‘I have my own men now.’ Hemlock jabbed a finger towards the fire. ‘I brought two of them with me, just in case. They fetched the meat and the cask of ale.’
‘Where from?’ Horehound demanded.
‘Ah!’ Hemlock smiled and put a finger to his lips. ‘I must tell you what I have seen and then you must see what I have witnessed.’ He shook his head and laughed at Horehound’s protest. ‘Come,’ Hemlock gestured, ‘fill your belly, then I’ll solve the riddle . . .’