The Witchfinder

an exerpt from the first chapter: SIR JOHN reined his horse, and looked back. He saw four who rode faster than he could still hope that he would be able to do. He had fled since morn, and the April twilight was round him now. His lance was gone, having been broken upon the shield of one who had died at noon. Could he meet four with a sword which had had some practice in foreign wars? Loving life, as youth will, it was a chance that he would be most willing to miss. Yet he slackened the poor speed of a wearied horse, even to less than the pace it would have chosen to take. The pursuers were plain to see on the high skyline behind: before was a straggling wood, in which he might have found cover till darkness fell. But he looked back as though reluctant to enter until assured that he had been seen by those who had been so persistent upon his track. When he rode into the trees, on a bridle-path which was broad and clear, he held to the middle, though mud was deep, for there had been a week of rain, and he looked down with a smile of satisfaction at the depth of the hoofmarks that witnessed the way he came. Having ridden some distance into the woods, and the sound of pursuit now being as close as he dared risk, he slid from the saddle, stood stiffly for one listening moment, and struck the horse a hard blow with his sheathed sword. The startled animal dashed forward. Lightened of his weight, and with the instinct to find a shelter as darkness fell, it might go far on that lonely way before it would be caught up by the burdened animals that were spurred behind. So he must hope. He looked on the ground. He had chosen well. It was a spot which would show no mark of his leather, steel-faced shoes: certainly none to any glance it was likely to get in the closing dusk. He withdrew quickly into thickets which were, as yet, bare of the green of spring. He crouched in a shade of ivy-tangle where he could see those who came, with little fear that he would be noticed by them. They rode single-file on the narrow path, and keeping some space apart, for their long lances must be carried low under the boughs. The first was a man-at-arms, bigly made, mounted on a bony white Normandy charger. He wore a ragged tabard broidered with Sir Hugh Offley's crest. Man and horse looked a formidable combination, designed less for ornament than for use. It seemed natural that he should be riding ahead. One who was paid to take the brunt when hard blows were changed, and who endured them without overmuch damage to his own limbs, though he might lack the noble name to which honour is most readily paid. Sir Hugh himself came next. Well-mounted on a charger of less bone, and probably better blood. He showed debonair, with a gleam of gold on his crested helm in the evening light, and a gay surcoat over his mail. Two spearmen came behind, active, well-grown varlets both, but soberly armed, with more of leather than steel. Sir John pondered them with a tired smile, considering how they would have faced the swing of his heavy two-handed sword. He concluded: "I am best here." But it was not a place in which he wished to remain. He did not know how soon those four might catch up with a grazing steed. When that should occur, be it soon or late, he could not be too far away for his own peace. He began to force his way through the undergrowth, in which there were no wider tracks than the deer required.