Excerpt: Black Dog: The Hunting of the Barghest of Black County

Hart turned to ask Hough a question about masonry when Pate’s shout cut through the damp air and prattle.

“Pa! Pa! I’ve found summat!”

Forgetting his ankle – and stifling a scream as he landed on it – Hart flew off the fence and landed at Pate’s side. From the look on his face, and from the stories Casca’s nana had told him, he knew few good things would be buried at a cross-roads.

What the “summat” was wasn’t immediately clear. Hart saw a few scraps of metal and part of a chain link.

“Think it a buried armour, lad?” Hough’s middle son, Drustan, said. Hart rolled his eyes and snickered. Any knight worth his salt wouldn’t bury his armour. No, the only thing that came to mind was a –

“Think it’s a gibbet lads. Hartley,” Pate turned to Hart and a frightened look passed over his eyes, “Hart lad, ye’d better fetch Casca. And the’ hedgewife if ye can find her.”

Hart took another look into the hole to be sure. The point of Pate’s shovel was resting next to a round milky-yellow object uncomfortably like the top of a skull. Pate prodded at it and unearthed a grim little reminder of local justice.

“Think yer right. I’ll be back with Casca and Romilda. You lads stay here, and don’t touch anything!” Hart said.

He guessed the lads hadn’t seen his fall, so under pretext of readjusting his boot he crouched down, tightening the straps to brace the ankle temporarily. Then he stood up, whistled for Sable and started up the road.
The man in the gibbet, and Hart was willing to bet a week’s worth of ale that it was a man, wasn’t getting any deader, so there was no real rush. But he didn’t trust the boys not to get any bright ideas about re-burying bodies without the blessings of a hedgewife first. Doing his best to ignore the shooting pain in his leg, he marched straight up the road toward the open gates.

Casca had come off his shift hours ago. Hart imagined all the fine colourful words Casca’d use when he was rudely awoken or more likely after he’d been dragged away from a lass in the hay. Hart would’ve called for the day-watch captain first, but he was a retired army man, not interested in solving any crimes except maybe why it was a crime that ale was getting more expensive, or why the only easy-woman in town was never to be had. (The former was because Jacky Swann didn’t like officers and the latter because Charlotte was too fond of Casca’s company.)

Hart passed under the gates just as it started drizzling again, making his mission slightly more urgent. Rain might wash away the pieces before they could be re-warded and removed intact.

Something wet and snuffling pressed to his palm and Hart suppressed a shudder. He glanced down and patted Sable’s damp dark head.
“There’s a good lad, ye didn’t catch her either, did ye boy?”

Sable whimpered and wagged his long tail. His fox-like muzzle was muddy but there was no blood. Hart shrugged. It wasn’t the first time their quarry had escaped and Sable being a bit old to go it alone, but the season was almost over and Hart was supposed to be culling the herds.

The first buildings inside town were the old post office (now an inn) and the old guard house (now mostly used by Casca and the volunteer firemen). Hart marched smartly up to the guardhouse door and knocked. He waited a moment and pressed his ear to the smoky window right next to it. A feminine moan and a deep and absolutely filthy curse told him that Casca and one of Casca’s seven-hundred whores were currently being interrupted in flagrante delicto.

Hart had long ago lost patience for his friend’s womanizing. He rapped his knuckles against the door and for good measure added an annoyed,
“Casca lad, there’s a bit o’ copper business ye might be attending to!”

“May your balls be withered by pox and blight, George Hartley!” Casca replied.

Hart grinned and turned to pat Sable’s head. The wolfhound sat with a dignified “hrmph” and let himself be coddled, a privilege of his age and skill. After a moment Casca wrenched the door open, tucking his shirt into his britches, Charlotte in a state of attractive undress still lounging on the old cot behind him.

“Hullo Charlotte,” Hart said, grinning at her and pretending to be charming.

“Hullo Hartley,” Charlotte said, clearly not amused. It was all Hart could do not to grin more. She was about his least favourite of Casca’s ever-growing harem.

“This aint the time for fooken ‘hullos’, Hartley, let’s get this urgent business over with, ‘m a bit preoccupied, lad!” Casca snapped. Hart shrugged, let his grin melt away and led Casca back out through the gates. “You might have told me it was raining, let me at least fetch up me cloak, lad.”

“How does she stand ye whining’, lad?” Hart said dully.

Casca snorted and grinned a wolfish grin as he said,
“Let’s just say she aint with me for the conversation.”

“Ye might want’ fetch up yer policing’ notebook too, and a crayon or something’.” Hart added, ignoring as always Casca’s proclivities.

Casca was quick about fetching his guardsman’s cloak and helmet, as well as booting Charlotte out of the barracks. Charlotte threw Hart one of her casual and mutually-established hateful glares as she tottered up the main road, presumably to her next client.

“So what’s this policing’ I’ll needs be doing lad? Some fox been getting at the chicks, eh?” Casca said with another wolfish grin which Hart wisely ignored, and continued in a more officious guardsman voice, “someone hasn’t been poaching, have they? Went and bagged the marquis’ deer? I won’t have to arrest no one, will I? It’s been a few months since we had any big trouble.”

“This is a different kind o’ trouble, lad,” Hart said. Casca cocked his head as he looked down at Hart. It was a very probing gesture for the strapping big Rom and Hart rarely needed to say much more after that. Casca was always shrewder than he looked.

“Should I have called the captain in?”

“Nay lad, we’ll stop by Romilda’s cottage on the’ way down t’ Hough’s.”

“Hough’s?” Casca said, clearly confused. “Weren’t he putting in a new wall today?”

“At the’ crossroads, Casca. C’mon, let’s get to Romilda’s before she does a delivery,” Hart said. He grit his teeth and didn’t hobble too much as he followed Casca’s long-legged stride up the wandering footpath to the old hedgewife’s cottage that Romilda had recently claimed as her own.