“Ah, they’ll be coming here now.” The Bourc spoke calmly. After years of hunting wolves in Gascony, he knew how to defend himself, and now he watched carefully – he was prepared for them. Before him was a handful of arrows, their points in the ground, standing like a makeshift fence. When he gave Greencliff a quick, appraising glance, the farmer saw his dark eyes glittering in the shadow under his hood as the firelight caught them.
The Bourc gave him a nod, then pointed to the fire with his chin. “You get back. Warm yourself. Don’t think you’ll be any help right now.” He turned back to the scene below, pulling an arrow from the ground and nocking it on his bowstring, his hands moving with the assurance of long practice.
Greencliff felt his head move in slow acceptance, and he began to walk, stumbling in his tiredness and chill. His limbs felt leaden, his head heavy, and he moved as if in a dream, his feet moving automatically like heavy metal weights in a great machine. But as he got to the fire he heard a roar, and spinning round, saw a huge animal streak forward. The bowman seemed to stand still, the wolf running straight for him, and then there was a thrumming sound and the wolf fell, an arrow in his head.
Even as he seated a fresh arrow on the bow and drew it back, two more of the evil-looking animals appeared, but they were undecided, slinking from side to side at the edge of the camp like cavalry trying to see a weakness in a line of foot-soldiers, while the Bourc’s arrow-tip followed them.
With a snarl as if to boost flagging spirits, both streaked forward, and the Bourc hesitated a moment, as if unsure which to attack. Then, quickly drawing the bowstring again, he let his arrow fly at the leading animal, but perhaps in his haste, perhaps because of the darkness, his shot missed its mark.
To Greencliff’s horror, the wolves rushed on, and one of them launched itself at his saviour’s throat. To his astonishment, he saw the man fall back, one arm held up to protect his neck, and the wolf caught his arm in its mouth, his leap carrying the man backwards. But almost as soon as the man had dropped, he rolled, then sprang back to his feet. The farmer’s shocked eyes shot to the figure of the wolf, which lay shuddering as it died, and when he looked back at the Bourc, he saw the short sword in his hands, now flashing and glinting as it dripped red in the firelight.
The last wolf had followed almost on the heels of the first, but had held back when it had sprung, and now hesitated, circling the man warily. Its eyes flitted from the Bourc to Greencliff with uncertainty, and while it paused, the Bourc dropped his sword, snatched up his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and fired in one smooth action. This time he made sure of his target. The wolf dropped as if felled by a pike.
When he had stood for a minute or two, the Bourc slowly lowered his bow and sighed. Holding a fresh arrow in place, he cautiously walked to each of the figures, kicked them briefly, then strode to the perimeter of the camp and peered into the darkness. Seemingly the view satisfied him, and he sauntered back to the bodies with a low but cheerful whistle. Dropping the bow, he collected his sword and went from one body to the next, slitting the animals’ throats.
Looking up, he gave a quick grin. “Always best to make sure with these evil buggers!” he said contentedly. The last thing Greencliff saw as he slowly toppled sideways was his grin slowly fading in perplexed surprise. The farmer’s exhaustion had won at last.
Simon and the troop were mounted and ready early the next morning just after light. He felt stiff and had a kink in his back from sleeping on a bench, but it was, as he knew, a great deal better than how he would have felt if they had tried to sleep out in the open.
They were soon back at the trail and Mark Rush began his careful perusal of the prints once more. He was convinced that today they would find a corpse at the end of the trail. It was easy to see why.
The steps were almost like a pair of long lines with deeper indentations where the boots had dropped. Between the footprints were scraping drag marks where the man had been too tired to lift his feet. Simon had no doubt that Mark Rush was right. The boy had little chance of surviving.
When they had been riding for an hour, they came across the flat area where the boy had lain. After this the steps changed direction, seeming to stagger and falter into the trees, and they found the byre. Dropping from their horses, Tanner and Mark Rush slowly drew their swords and walked in, half expecting to find Greencliff’s body. While they searched, Simon glanced around at the snow nearby, then gave a cry.
“There’re more prints!”
Mark Rush came out, his face expressionless, and followed the bailiffs pointing finger. To Simon he seemed to doubt what he saw. He stood staring down, his head shaking in disbelief, then he sighed and walked back, putting his sword away as he walked. “He lived to rest, then. He must have made it to the moors.”
The weather was not so cold this morning, and a dampness had set in. The trees overhead occasionally dropped great clods of ice and snow, occasionally hitting one of the men. Riding along, the men were all warm enough. Even at a slow trotting pace, the exercise kept them glowing with an internal warmth, and Simon was grateful for the slight breeze.
They found that the tracks kept them going almost straight south-west, so Simon knew that they were going towards the moors. It would not be long before they were out of the trees and on the moors themselves. There they would be certain to find the boy.
Margaret had passed an uncomfortable night, and she rose late to find that Baldwin had already left the house.
She spent an idle morning wondering what Simon was doing and where he was. She had not been overly concerned when they had not arrived on the first evening, and she was quite sure that he would be safe, but still felt an occasional twinge of concern.
She picked up her tapestry and managed almost half an hour of work before she tossed it aside impatiently, startling the old woman’s dog. “Sorry, it’s not your fault,” she said apologetically, holding out her hand and snapping her fingers, but the dog stared at her with unblinking accusation before meaningfully standing, stretching, then lying down once more near the fire, this time with his back to her. She grinned at the obvious rejection, then rose and walked out to the front.
Here she found Edgar supervising other servants splitting logs for the fires. He looked up and gave her a welcoming smile as she emerged into the sunlight, blinking at the sudden glare.
“Morning, Edgar,” she said, peering at the horizon with a hand shielding her eyes.
“Hello, my lady.”
“Has Baldwin gone far?”
He shot her a quick glance, then she was sure she caught a glimpse of a grin as he turned back to the men at the logs. “I’m sure he won’t be too long, madam.”
This was puzzling. She had never seen any sign of the humour from the normally taciturn servant, and she suddenly wanted to know where the knight had gone. “Walk with me a while, Edgar. I’m very bored.”
Looking up, he considered, but then he nodded and, after issuing instructions to the men, walked to her. “Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, just down the lane.”
They set off in companionable silence, but once they were out of earshot, she gave him a quick look. “So where has he gone?”
His expression was wooden. “Just into Wefford, I think.”
“Why? And why was he in such an odd mood last night when you returned?”
“Odd mood, madam?” He turned guileless eyes on her.
“You know he was. He would hardly talk to me. Every time he opened his mouth he got embarrassed. I thought he must have done something foolish.”
He smiled and she suddenly stopped in amazement as a flash of intuition suddenly blazed and she caught her breath. The knight’s embarrassment, his apparent shyness, his servant’s amusement, all pointed to one thing in her mind.