The Holy Innocents

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I saw them before they saw me, and so was able to step aside into the shadow of the trees which crowded down to the water’s edge on either bank of the River Harbourne. It was barely dawn, and a cold, clinging, grey mist, filtering through interlaced branches of oak and alder, ash and beech, helped my presence to remain undetected as the robbers approached.

They walked in single file, their feet making no sound on the thick carpet of last year’s leaves, sodden now with the rains of early April. Once, there was a crackle of beechmast and the snap of a twig as someone stepped carelessly, only to be reprimanded instantly by an angry hiss from his companions. By now, I could smell them, the mixed scent of damp and sweat and dirt emanating from their clothes, and I stealthily withdrew yet deeper into the shelter of the bushes, putting a brake of holly and stunted elder between myself and these desperate men, for one glimpse had been enough to assure me that they were outlaws, wolf-heads, living rough in the forests of south Devon.

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