
At least he had a small purse in his pocket now, courtesy of a traveller over Winnats Pass who’d not be found until spring, and by then the animals would have picked him clean. No one would know who he was or that a slash across the throat had killed him. But it served the bugger right for befriending a stranger on the road.
So he’d afforded an inn in Hathersage last night, dozing on a bench at the George and letting the warm embers of the fire dry his boots and ease through to his bones. For the first time since setting out he’d felt some peace in his rest. At daybreak, with a heel of bread and a mug of small beer in his belly, he’d set out. The journey would take him close to the village where he’d been a boy, but he was damned if he’d ever go back there.
Another few days and his life could begin again. After eight years, life would begin again.
One
The road felt hard as iron, and Richard Nottingham guided the horse carefully, avoiding patches of ice that glittered softly in a weak afternoon sun. He hated riding at the best of times, but in the bleak days of winter every mile seemed gruelling. At least he was almost home; the welcoming smoke from the chimneys of Leeds rose tantalisingly just beyond the horizon. He’d be back in his house at the dying of the day, aching and exhausted.
He’d ridden to York yesterday and given his evidence at the Assizes this morning, before staying to joylessly hear the verdict of murder on a man who’d killed his wife and children rather than watch them starve.
