Fear in the Forest by Bernard Knight

mares or geldings, ticking off their value on the document with a charcoal stub. Stephen Cruch, who could neither read nor write, was using a tally made of a length of twine with different-sized knots, which he fingered one by one as the priest checked off the animals.
    As well as the difference in their stations in life, the two men were markedly unlike each other in appearance. Father Edmund, in his habit of pale grey wool with a black scapula apron, was tall and angular, with a Roman nose and jet-black hair cropped short below his tonsure. He was in his late thirties and had a brisk, businesslike manner, unlike the typical image of a monastic recluse.
    The horse-dealer was, by contrast, small and furtive. A dozen years older, he had a leathery, wizened face, darkened by an outdoor life. His mobile features had a sly look, his eyes constantly darting about him. When he spoke, it always seemed to be from one corner of his mouth. He allegedly lived in Totnes, but was always on the move between horse fairs and markets. Some rumours had it that he was an illegally returned abjurer from Wiltshire, but other gossip said that he was an outlaw from Gloucester’s Forest of Dean who had slipped back into circulation years before.
    When both were satisfied that their lists coincided, Father Treipas rolled up his parchment and slipped it into his sleeve, while Cruch tucked his tally into the pouch he carried on his belt. They raised their pewter cups of mead to seal the bargain and drained them. The priest refilled from the flask.
    ‘My men will rope them up from the top paddock in the morning, Father,’ said the dealer. ‘We should be in Plymouth well before evening.’
    He pushed a heavy leather bag across the table, the neck tied securely with a thong. ‘That’s the price we agreed. Count it if you wish.’
    Edmund Treipas shook his head briskly. ‘No need. We’ve done business too often for you to short-change the abbey.’
    He pulled the bag of silver coins nearer, then looked quickly around the room, to check that no one else was within sight. Dipping into a deep pocket in his loose robe, he pulled out a smaller purse and slid it across to Stephen. The bag, clinking a little, vanished as if by magic into some recess in Cruch’s brown serge surcoat.
    ‘I don’t want to know any details, understand?’ said the monk. ‘Just don’t tell me. It’s none of my business how you arrange these affairs.’
    He threw down the rest of his drink and stood up, nodding rather curtly at the horse dealer.
    ‘I’ll see you off with the beasts in the morning, straight after Prime. And you’ll be back here as arranged, in three days’ time.’
    He strode out without a backward glance.
    In the gathering dusk, John de Wolfe made his way across the Close, the large space around the cathedral. It was almost a city within a city, being under canon law, where the jurisdiction of neither the sheriff and burgesses nor himself could run without the consent of Bishop Henry Marshal.
    Tonight no offences were being committed there, apart from Brutus’s leg-lifting desecration of every tree and occasional grave-mound in the cluttered, rubbish-strewn area. Even the irreligious John thought this place was an eyesore, so close to the magnificent church which had so recently been completed.
    However, John’s mind was not on the state of ecclesiastical Exeter, but on Nesta, the landlady of the Bush Inn and his beloved mistress. For the last week or two, he had had the feeling that something was wrong. Nothing that he could put a finger on, but in the back of his mind there was a little flutter of concern. Nesta was as affectionate as ever, as talkative as usual and looked as beautiful as always – but something was amiss. He had caught the odd sideways glance when she thought he was not looking and his ear, attuned by two years of loving her, picked up a change in the timbre of her voice now and then.
    Much of the time he berated himself for being