The road passed along the valley at the side of the river heading southwards, wandering with the water. Baldwin splashed through thick puddles, black with peat, and almost copied the Coroner, turning his ankle on a large, slippery pebble, but recovered himself in time and pounded on. Soon he was jumping from one rock to another as the ground became wetter, but all the time he could see the bare footprints of the girl in the soil, or gleaming wetly from stones.
She crossed it where there was a slight broadening of the river. Too deep to be termed a ford, it nonetheless provided easier passage, and Baldwin didn’t hesitate. He was into the water and through it to the other side in a moment. Here there appeared to be a rough track, little better than a sheep’s path, climbing the hillside at the edge of a stream. A print or two further up showed that Felicia had taken this route, and Baldwin forced himself upwards as quickly as his legs would allow, his feet slipping on loose scree, once almost falling and catching himself by throwing his hand out into a furze bush and feeling the thorns puncture the flesh of his palm, fingers and wrist. Cursing, he carried on.
There was a lip and then the ground eased, giving onto a shallower plateau, and at last he could see her. She was running hard still, rushing up the hillside, then was out of view over another hillock. Baldwin took a deep gulp of air and was off again. His thighs aching, his lungs feeling as though they might burst, his head thundering with the rushing of blood in his temples; the bruises at his flank and torso throbbed as though they were licked with fire.
He had no idea where he was exactly, nor did he care; all he knew was that Felicia was attempting to escape by running over the moors, perhaps to hide somewhere down by the coast. She must not be allowed to escape. The girl was prepared to murder and eat her victims; she was a monster. She had to be stopped and executed before she could murder again.
The furze thinned, and soon he was running up over grass and heather. Birds exploded from the ground beneath his feet, darting away to chitter at him angrily, or swept upwards to sing melodic, liquid tunes, but he ignored them. His whole concentration was on the figure so many yards ahead of him. And then, just as he felt that he could not run any further, he saw her stagger a little, and realised that she was flagging.
He redoubled his effort, and as he did so, she turned. Instead of running straight away from him, she was turning right, across him. It was possible that he might be able to head her off. She was running on the flat, following the contour of the hill while he was still climbing, but the angle of his climb made it less brutal on his legs, and he thrust himself onward with what felt like the last vestiges of energy he possessed.
She was above him, rushing along a sheep’s track, while he was climbing slowly to meet her, his calves feeling as though they were shrinking from sheer exhaustion. He was closer, much closer, when she turned and noticed him, and he saw the expression in her eyes.
The look stabbed his heart. It was like being stared at by the devil himself, and Baldwin quailed. Not from fear, but from shock. No young woman should be able to express so much malevolence.
With that thought, he lost his concentration. His foot caught on a root and he felt himself flying through the air: black earth came up to meet him, and he closed his eyes a moment before his arms and then his chin slammed on the ground with a force that knocked the air from him.
His wounds and bruises from the tournament at Oakhampton were raw agony now, as though he had been flayed, and even breathing was hideously painful; he sobbed with the effort as he looked up towards the horizon. She had disappeared now, running on around the curve of the hillside. There was no sign of Simon or Drogo, and Baldwin knew that he must somehow continue, or she would be lost to them.
Simon was about to set off after Baldwin when Drogo called him away. ‘This way, Bailiff. Follow me!’
With that he was off, setting a cracking pace on the western side of the river. Soon the ground was boggy and heavy going, but Drogo bounded from one boulder to another, from a fallen tree-trunk to a low branch, ever onwards, ducking beneath low boughs, swinging over lower ones, until they began to climb.
Simon was to remember that chase for many years afterwards. He had never run so far on such uncertain ground, with the earth seeming to suck at his feet, as though trying to swallow him up like one of the mires on the high moor; every time he put his feet on a rock or a block of wood it seemed to move and threaten to break his ankle.
‘There she is!’
It was Peter, who had passed Simon and now stood a few yards in front. Up on the hillside east of them, Simon could make out the line of the path from South Zeal to Belstone, and on it, near Serlo’s warren, was the fleeing figure. Peter said no more, but hared off again, Drogo close behind him. Simon had to grit his teeth and push on.
Baldwin scrabbled with his feet for purchase and then he was up and running again. Ahead was a broad, slick expanse of water, and he rushed through it, the mud bursting upwards on all sides. As he came out the other side, he could see her again, and noted that Serlo was nearby.
‘Warrener! Serlo! Catch her! She’s the murderer!’
His voice was powerful enough, just, to reach the grim-faced man. Serlo hurried up to the path as fast as his legs would carry him, but he was not swift enough. The girl saw him coming and quickly darted around him without breaking her stride. But then Baldwin saw the Warrener frown and roar a warning, and to his horror, Baldwin spotted the figure of Joan, a short distance from Felicia, running downhill.
Felicia was at the top of the path which led to Belstone when she saw them: three men, all heading towards her, coming up from the river. She screamed, stamping her foot in a futile gesture of impotent rage. There was no escape that way; she could not return past Baldwin, and Serlo blocked her path down the hill. Clenching her fists, she shrieked her anger, and then set her face to the hill once more. Thank God Joan had disappeared, thought Baldwin. She must have concealed herself in among the clitter or behind some furze, and he was relieved that he need not worry about her safety.
The men were exhausted. They had run more than a mile, all uphill, and their bodies were beyond pain. Those who were barefooted had felt their flesh being slashed on stones, while the dead, dry furze thorns stabbed into sensitive arches; those with boots felt their muscles tearing with the effort of hurling themselves up the hill.
Bent double to catch his breath, Baldwin glanced up in time to see Felicia turn and look at them all. Her face was a mask of contempt, as before, but now she held no fear for him. He simply knew that she must not be allowed to escape. And then he saw the little figure bob up at her side.
‘JOAN! NO!’
Simon heard his agonised cry and looked up to see Joan at Felicia’s side. The miller’s daughter reached for her with a reassuring smile on her face, and Joan smiled back, a happy child. But then there was a burst of movement as Felicia reached in behind her apron again, and Simon knew she was going for her knife. He opened his mouth to roar his own warning, but knew it was too late. Felicia would have struck, or captured a hostage, before his voice could carry.
And then something odd happened. While Felicia’s hand was in her apron, Joan ducked, shifted her weight, pushed at the older girl, and kicked out with her small foot. Felicia gave a loud curse, and then wheeled around, trying to keep her balance, reaching out with her knife towards Joan even as she began to topple, and then she gave a wailing oath as she fell from view.
Joan stood peering down, and Simon ran up to her side. At her feet was a wide gully, a fall of some ten feet, and at the bottom lay Felicia, an arm broken beside her, staring back up at him with a twisted grin. She coughed, and bright red blood erupted from her mouth. It wasn’t from her knife: Simon could see that, lying on the ground a short distance from her. No, it wasn’t from her knife, but as he stared down at her, dumbfounded, and as Baldwin and Drogo appeared at his side, he saw the crimson pool spreading on the rocks beneath her, and the spurting wound in her breast. At the same moment he noticed the blade in Joan’s hand.