The Troubadour's Tale by Ann Swinfen

Author:Ann Swinfen [Swinfen, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shakenoak Press
Published: 2018-01-28T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

When I rode over to the manor house the following morning, it was to find Alan Wodville and his nephew Rob setting two of the most experienced lymers to the scent of the intruders, by leading them repeatedly to the spot where the horses had been left the previous night, and encouraging them to pick up the trail.

‘Have you any hope of success, Alan?’ I said, reining Rufus in.

He shook his head.

‘As I feared, too much snow has fallen since. It stopped around dawn, but by then all traces of men and horses were buried deep. We cleared away the top layer, but apart from the horse droppings, there is nothing left, and these dogs are trained to seek out deer, not to follow a horse from the scent of his droppings.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you have done your best, but I suppose there was never much chance of tracking them to where they came from. Have you asked in the village whether anyone saw strangers riding through, making for the manor?’

‘Aye, I have that, but ’twas a cold night, and most folk were tucked up in bed early. ’Tis my guess that the rogues never came past until well after midnight.’

‘I agree. They would not want to risk being seen. Had the alaunts not raised the alarm once they broke into the barn, it is possible no one would have been roused even in the manor house.’

‘Do you think they could have broken into the house?’ he said.

‘I misdoubt it. Even had the man who climbed the ivy been able to find a window where the shutters were not bolted, they would still have been hooked together. The noise he would have made, breaking them open, would surely have roused the household.’

‘Seems like desperate measures then, do you reckon?’

‘Aye,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘it does.’

‘We’ll be off then, and return the dogs to the kennels. We can do no good here.’

‘I am come to see Peter Winchingham. I shall tell him that you have done your best, but there is nothing for the dogs to follow. Since they rode away toward Burford, it may be that they came that way too.’

‘Easy enough for them to hide themselves amongst the folk in the town.’

‘Hmm.’ I did not altogether agree with this. To the villagers of Leighton, Burford might seem a town, but it had never been a large one, and like everywhere else in England was much diminished since the Great Pestilence. Wayfarers travelling from London and Oxford along the main highway to Gloucester and Wales would regularly spend the night at one of Burford’s inns, but they would be noticed, nonetheless. It might be worth making enquires there.

I rode on up the lane, Alan and the boy trudging through the snow behind me, while the dogs frisked about, seeing this outing in the snow as an occasion for play.

One of the maids showed me into the small parlour, where I found Peter writing letters.

‘Working even at Christmastide?’ I said. ‘’Tis but two days until Christmas Eve.

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