Sir Guy removed a document from his pouch and held it up for inspection. The little man—chief constable of the district—could not read, but he was visibly impressed with all of the official-looking seals.

“I am here on orders from the Holy Father in Rome,” lied Sir Guy. “His Holiness has heard of your troubles and sent me and this good monk here to help.”

The reeve bobbed his head. “Thank you, milord. It is a great honor to have so distinguished a—”

“Let me see the body.”

Sir Guy pushed past the reeve and stepped to the side of the cart. He pulled on his gloves and then raised the threadbare horse blanket that had been used to cover the body.

Beneath it lay a shepherd girl of no more than fifteen.

“This is ’ow we found ’er, milord,” said Faville.

“God save us!” cried Brother Reynard, who peered past Sir Guy’s elbow. “This is surely the devil’s work.”

Sir Guy could not argue. The girl had once been lovely, in the way that peasant girls can be before hard work and hard use made them old before their time. She had yellow hair that gleamed in the early sunlight, and pale blue eyes. Though she was but a girl her figure was womanly, with a premature heft of breast and good hips. But it was all ruined now. She lay naked and torn and frozen on a bed of straw.

Sir Guy shifted around to examine her face and neck. There was a small amount of blood on her throat, caked around the savage wounds, but otherwise the girl was not bathed in gore as might be expected from such injuries.

He cut a look at the reeve. “Did anyone clean her off?”

“No, your lordship,” answered Faville. “This is ’ow she was. Stripped bare and bled white. Frozen stiff, too.”

“What about the surroundings? How much blood was on the ground?”

The reeve shook his head and touched the cross around his neck. His eyes were shifty and frightened. “None to speak of, milord.”

The crowd murmured. Sir Guy noted that although they were horrified, no one looked surprised.

“Her clothes?” he asked.

“Torn to rags and scattered among the bushes.”

Sir Guy bent close and probed the wounds. As is so often the case, the legends had it wrong. Not a pair of clean punctures—that was a fantasy spun by bad poets and liars—but rather a ruin of flesh savaged by many sharp teeth.

It was exactly as Father Nicodemus had described it.

Sir Guy dropped the cloth and turned to the reeve, who was fidgeting and frightened.

“How many others have there been?”

Faville looked uncomfortable and Sir Guy knew that it was because he was the law in these parts and murders were occurring unchecked. “Six, milord.”

“Where was the body found?”