The Merchant's Partner (10 page)

An elderly servant, a thin, gaunt man with an expression of intense trepidation, opened the door and peered out at them. Trying his most winning smile, Simon nodded to him. “Is Stephen de la Forte here?”

“I…” As he began to speak, there was a bellow from behind, and the servant spun round, quickly ex
plaining to someone inside. “No, sir. No, I don't know who it is. He's asking for Master Stephen, sir.”

“Out of the way!” came the voice, and the servant disappeared, his face replaced with that of an older man.

Simon felt he must be middle-aged from the thick and grizzled hair. Stout, not fat but thick in body, he stood a little shorter than the bailiff, but was almost half as wide again at the shoulder. He had a massive barrel chest, with arms that would have looked well as tree trunks, they were so massive.

His face was a maze of creases, some of them so deep that they appeared to be separate flaps of skin roughly butted together and sewn, and among them Simon could see the lighter marks, thickened with age, of old wounds from knives or swords. In the midst was a mouth, itself a colorless gash. A thick and broken nose sat between two bright and intelligent eyes, blue-gray like his son's, which stared unblinking at Simon.

“Well? Who are you and what do you want with my son?” he said, his voice harsh with distrust.

“You are de la Forte? Father to Stephen?” Simon heard the knight ask softly from behind.

“Yes. Who are you?”

Baldwin slowly paced forward until he was beside the bailiff and stared back unblinking. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,” he said, announcing his title with careless pride. “I am Keeper of the King's Peace here, and my business is with your son, not with you. You will bring him here to me. Now.”

Initially, Simon felt sure that de la Forte was going to explode like a child's firework. His face appeared to become suffused with blood until the veins stood out at his temples and neck. His eyes seemed to want to start
from their sockets, as if they could themselves leap out and attack the knight. But as quickly as his rage appeared, it passed. After a moment's thought, he stood aside, albeit with bad grace, to let his visitors enter.

“My apologies, sir. I did not realize who you were. Please, come inside and seat yourselves by my fire while I fetch him out for you.”

“Thank you,” said Baldwin graciously as he swept inside.

This was no rude hovel. The screens gave into a broad and airy hall, with a huge fireplace built into one long side. Richly colored tapestries hung from the walls, with narrow-looking gaps where sconces lay to brighten the interior. Two large candle-holders in wrought-iron stood before the fire, shedding pools of light. A massive table built from thick oak timbers stood at the opposite end of the room, while a bench from it had been dragged to the heat, leaving the earth bare in two great sweeps where the rushes had been dragged apart by the bench legs. A chair and small writing table stood near the hearth, and a man, dressed like a monk in a habit, stood nearby.

“My clerk,” said their host dismissively before walking to a chair and sitting, shouting at his servant to “Fetch him out!”

“You have a very pleasant house,” said Simon tentatively, watching the clerk clearing his papers and hurrying from the room.

“Yes. It took many years to build, but now it is as we want it. I only hope,” his face became sour, “we can make enough profit to keep it.”

“To keep it? Why, what's the difficulty?”

“The Genoese, they're the problem!” he said, a sneer curling his lip. “The whore-sons want my money.”

The knight turned and watched impassively as the man carried on. “I have been a successful merchant for many years, with my partner, Alan Trevellyn, and now these
Italians
”—he spat the word—“want us to pay them back the loans we have with them. It's madness! They know we can't. They just want to bankrupt us, that's all.”

“Why would they want to do that?” asked Simon reasonably.

The gray eyes fixed on him. “Why? So that their own people can take over the trade from us, of course!”

“My friend has had little experience of trade. Perhaps you could explain for him,” said Baldwin suavely, and Simon threw him a look of sour distaste. To his knowledge, his grasp of trade was as good as any man's.

“Alan Trevellyn and I hire ships and use them to bring wine over here from Gascony. We've been doing it for years. Going the other way we take what we can, wool mainly. When the ships arrive, they sell the cargo and use the money to buy the wine to bring back. We've been very successful over the years, but for the last two we've been unlucky. The pirates have caught our last two ships, and wiped out the profits from the previous ten. The profit is too low now, with the high costs since the harvests. So now the Italians want back the money they loaned us some time ago. What it means is, they want everything. It could mean losing our houses…Everything!”

They sat for some minutes in silence, and just as Simon opened his mouth to inquire about the consequences should he refuse to pay, they heard the sound of approaching feet, and through the curtain to the screens came the boy they had seen earlier, with a thin,
mousy-looking woman who had enough similarity with Stephen to look like his mother. She stood just inside the doorway, darting little glances at each of the men, while her son strode in, boldly enough to Simon's eye, although his face held a curious expression. It was almost petulant annoyance, as if he were close to anger that the knight and bailiff should dare to invade his father's household.

He moved directly to a chair and sat, his pale features turned to the knight. “Well?” he asked, impatiently.

Baldwin sat quietly contemplating him. Then he sighed. “Your friend will not talk to us. It's as if he wanted to be convicted. I am not happy that he did it, though, and I want to be sure that I have the right man. So tell me, why do you think Greencliff ran away last night?”

“Last night? I've no idea,” said Stephen, leaning back and crossing his legs. He appeared to have a slight smile on his face, which Baldwin felt looked a little like a sneer.

“You said to us that you went there because he was upset. In what way was he upset?”

The boy haughtily raised his hands as if in exasperation. “Oh, I don't know! Upset! Depressed! He just seemed to think that there was nothing to keep him here. He wanted to go: leave and travel. He's often said he'd like to go to Gascony.”

Frowning, Baldwin peered at him doubtfully. “So although he could give no reason for his misery, you felt he was so upset that you tried to go and see him twice in one day?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, and uncrossed his legs.

“How long have you known him?”

“How…? Oh, almost all my life.”

“You are of the same age?”

“Yes. We are both twenty.”

“I suppose you must have talked about everything.”

“Yes.”

“So why was he upset, then? He must have told you.”

To Simon it looked like a gesture such as a theatrical player might use. The boy half turned to his father, opening his mouth, then faced the knight again with a thoughtful frown on his face.

“It is difficult for me to tell you this…I do not know if I should, for he told me in confidence, and I swore to keep it silent for him.”

“What?”

“A woman.”

Baldwin sat back, his eyes still fixed on the boy, and Simon found himself immediately thinking: Sarah Cottey! It must be
her.

“Who?” he heard Baldwin rasp.

“I cannot say.”

“This is nonsense!” said Baldwin, standing abruptly.

“You expect me to believe that he knew you since childhood, that you talked about everything, that you were close friends, and yet something like this, something so important, he kept from you?”

“No, sir. You don't understand.” The voice was low now, almost sad. “She is well-born, not a villein. And married.”

“Ah!” The knight faced him again.

“Yes. Of course I know who she is, but I swore to keep her name secret when he told me. You must understand, I cannot break my vow.”

“No. No, of course not,” said the knight hastily.

“But there's one thing I can tell you.”

“Yes?”

“He couldn't have killed the witch?”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He was with me all afternoon on Monday, and all evening.”

“So?”

“I heard from the innkeeper that old Kyteler was seen by Oatway in the early afternoon, so she was killed later in the afternoon or in the evening. I was with Harry all that time. It can't have been him.”

T
he father stood at the door and watched as the two walked to their horses, untied the dog and mounted, turning and slowly making their way back down the path, through the ford, and on to the road back to Wefford.

There was a bitter wind blowing that felt as though it was licking at Simon's skin with a tongue of pointed ice. His cloak, tunic and shirt were of no use in defense.

“The weather doesn't improve, does it?” he remarked after some minutes of silence.

“Hmm? Oh! No, no it doesn't.” Baldwin was jogging along with his mind completely absorbed.

Sighing, Simon said, “What part of his speech did you find confusing?”

“Only the one part that matters. Who is she?”

“This lover of Greencliff's?”

“Yes. Who could she be?”

“Unless Greencliff himself decides to tell us, I doubt whether we'll ever find out.”

“No. Unless, of course, the boy de la Forte could be persuaded. I wonder…?”

“What?”

“Was he lying, do you think?”

“Ah!”

Baldwin glanced across at him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren't you going to tell me not to jump to conclusions? Tell me I'm being fanciful?”

“Would you listen to me if I did?”

The knight considered. “No.”

“Good!” said Simon and chuckled. Then, with a small frown, he said, “What did you think of the boy de la Forte?”

“Think of him?” Baldwin shot him a glance. “I don't know. I don't trust him. I think he is telling the truth about the woman, though.”

“That Greencliff was having an affair with one?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so too,” said Simon, nodding. “So what do we do now?”

“I suppose we must release him. There can be no doubt that after Stephen de la Forte's evidence the boy could not have been close to the woman when she was killed.”

“No, unless de la Forte was lying. I felt he was this morning, and again just now. It wasn't just a case of holding things back. I got the definite impression he was deliberately lying.”

“Yes. I thought so too.” Baldwin glanced up at the clouds overhead. “There's at least another hour and a half to dark. Do you think Margaret would grudge us a warming drink on our way home?”

If it had not been for the innocent expression on his face, Simon might have thought he had no ulterior motive. As it was, the bailiff knew well that the knight had
a reason to want to visit the inn and his grin broadened as they increased their pace to a canter.

 

The innkeeper was sitting at a trestle in his hall when they arrived, both flushed from the sudden warmth after their ride. He was not alone.

This late in the afternoon, the inn was filled with people after their day's work. Farmers and laborers, local villeins and others lounged on the benches or stood near the fire. Round and portly, slight and thin, no matter what the drinker's figure, all became silent at the sight of the knight and his friend. The black and brown dog followed, slinking quietly as if he realized the impact of their entry.

“I think we've been noticed,” said Baldwin quietly, almost laughing.

Simon could not find their situation amusing. His eyes were darting over the men in the room, trying to find a friendly face. There was none.

“Sirs! Please, come in and sit,” said the keeper, evidently trying to put them and the others present at their ease. Walking to them, he quickly led the way to a table in a dark corner, at the back wall, near the curtain to the screen, and pulled over a pair of chairs.

“Wine,” said Baldwin shortly, and the landlord nodded as he walked away. Pulling off his gloves, the knight looked around the room, and as he met the eyes of others there, they looked away. Gradually they began talking again under the firm gaze of the knight. The dog curled up under the table.

“Here, gentlemen, your wine. Warmed and spiced.” The innkeeper set the tray down and poured them each a large measure.

“Good,” said Baldwin, smacking his lips as he drew
the mug from his mouth. “Ah, yes. Very good, innkeeper. Will you join us? Will you take a drink?”

The expression of harassed nervousness disappeared. “Yes, sir, I'd like one. Here, let me…” He waved to a woman at the far end of the bar, a short and stout woman of a few years less than the landlord himself, whom Simon took to be his wife, and soon another tankard arrived.

“It seems to be a busy inn you have here, keeper,” said Baldwin appreciatively.

“Yes, sir,” said the publican, smiling as he looked around his empire. “Yes, we have some good customers here.”

“Are they all locals?”

“Yes, all of them. We don't have many travellers at this time of year, not with the snow. That trade begins again later, when the spring begins.”

“I see.”

Simon leaned forward and set his pot down, resting his arms on the table, while Baldwin leaned back and gazed at the man sitting with them. The bailiff stared thoughtfully at his hot wine, then said, “We've been to see the de la Forte family. Do you know much about them?”

The innkeeper took a long pull of his drink and glanced from one to the other. “Not very much, no.”

“So you do not know about their business?”

He shrugged. “Merchants. They import wine. Well…”

“What?”

“Oh, I was going to say, they used to, that's all. I think they've suffered more than most over the last few years. I used to buy my own stocks from them.” He waved an airy hand vaguely toward the far side of the
room, where he kept his barrels. “But then, when they began to lose their ships, I had to go elsewhere. Now I buy it from…”

“So you know the father, then?”

“Old Walter? Yes,” he chuckled. “He still comes here every now and again, but not too regularly.”

“What is he like?”

“How do you mean, what's he like?”

Before Simon could answer, Baldwin leaned forward conspiratorially, beckoning the landlord closer and peering round as if to make sure no one could overhear their talk. “You see, my friend,” he said quietly, “Walter has suggested, in a way, that perhaps I might like to invest in some of his ideas.”

“Oh yes?” The landlord's eyes were large moons, bewitched by the confidence.

“Yes.” Baldwin peered over his shoulder, then beckoned again, settling farther forward on his elbows.

“But…You will understand I'm a little suspicious, eh? I hardly know the man. What can you tell me of him?”

“Ah well.” He settled, convinced of his audience by the knight's firm and steady gaze, and Simon could not help a small smile at the similarity between the innkeeper and a bird preening itself. He suddenly realized that this man spent the whole of his life having to listen to other people, and he was rarely asked to give his own opinion or express his feelings. He was enjoying the experience.

“I think he's a steady sort of businessman, in truth. He's been a merchant now for many years, and knows all the ways of the sea, and of Bordeaux in Gascony. Yes, if you want someone who knows his trade, he is good. He learned it while aboard ship as a boy, and soon managed to make enough to start to hire his own.”

Frowning, Baldwin said, “But surely he would have had to make a fortune to be able to charter his own ships? How could a man who began as a crewman make that much?”

“Well, sir, I've heard tell…” His eyes darted nervously toward Simon and back, then his voice dropped.

“I've heard tell that he was in Acre. I think he helped bring people out of the city when the Saracens took it, and he could charge as much as he wanted for that.”

“Ah!”

In the dark, Simon found it difficult to read the knight's expression, but he was sure that he caught an angry glint. He recalled the knight's stories of how Acre had fallen, of how the seamen of all nations had appeared, like carrion crows to a corpse, demanding gold and jewels for taking people away to safety. After centuries of life in the Holy Land, families were ruined over a few short days, while the mariners became fabulously wealthy in hours.

“I think it was after that he managed to earn enough to hire his first ships. And build his house. But recently it seems he has suffered from the French pirates. I think he has lost several boats, and cargoes. That's probably why he wants a new partner.”

“Yes, because he already does business with…Er…He told us his partner's name. Who was it?” The knight snapped his fingers as if frustratedly trying to remember.

“Alan Trevellyn, over toward Crediton. Yes, they have both been badly hurt by the troubles. You know, there have even been rumors that Trevellyn has somehow been responsible for the failures. I've heard that he was in debt to the French and told them when his ships were leaving, so he could pay back his debts with
his partner's half of the shipment as well as his own.” He sat back, his head nodding knowingly.

“Where would you have heard that from?”

Winking confidentially, the innkeeper said, “Walter de la Forte's son, sir. Stephen.”

“So you think I should be careful, then?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Yes, very careful,” His eyes flickered to the hilt of the sword at the knight's waist. “It's said he was quite a warrior in his youth, you know. That he was in many sea battles, not just at Acre, and that's how he got all those scars. Yes, I hear he's a bad enemy to have.”

“Thank you, my friend, I am very grateful to you. You have given me a great deal to consider.”

“Sir, I'm sure it's an honor to help,” said the innkeeper, recognizing the dismissal and rising slowly to clear the table. When he had finished and left them, Simon glanced over at the knight.

“If he was in so many battles, that explains his scars.”

Baldwin nodded. “Yes,” he mused. “But there seems to be little to connect him to Agatha Kyteler apart from both of them being in Acre when the city fell—and that was over twenty years ago.”

“Well surely that itself is enough of a coincidence.”

“By the same token you might as well suspect me, Simon,” said the knight dryly. “No, I don't see it. But who did kill the old woman?”

“I don't know. If Stephen de la Forte is telling the truth, it wasn't Harold Greencliff, though.”

“No. No, his evidence shows that, doesn't it?”

Simon nodded. “Yes, we will have to let him go. Although I would like to know why he tried to run away.”

“But if he refuses to tell us, we shouldn't keep him imprisoned,” said Baldwin. “I will try to talk to him
again tomorrow. Perhaps I can get him to tell us why he ran off.”

Simon looked up sharply at the sad tone in his friend's voice, and then realized what it meant. Baldwin was sure that Greencliff was innocent, and that left him with only one suspect: his friend's son, the Bourc de Beaumont.

 

The next day was overcast and dreary, with a gray-black sky and a bitter wind that blew continually from the south. Gazing out from the front door, Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance.

“We do need to speak to Greencliff,” the knight reminded his friend, and then barked with laughter at the expression of doubtful misery his words brought to Simon's face. “Come on, the sooner we're moving in this, the better!”

“Simon!”

They turned to see Margaret in the doorway, her face anxious. “Take Edgar or Hugh with you. You may need to send a messenger if the weather gets worse, or if you get stuck somewhere overnight.”

The bailiff glanced back at the sky, then nodded. “All right, tell Hugh to get ready.”

She did better than merely sending the servant. While the two men meandered casually toward the stables and called for their horses and that of Simon's servant, Margaret went to work. When Hugh appeared, he was sulkily struggling under the weight of three packs carefully bound for protection. As he took one, Simon looked at his servant with an inquiring eye.

“She said you'd need it. There's bread and meat, and wineskins for you.”

Tying the sack to his saddlebow, Simon said won
deringly, “Doesn't she know we intend being home by evening? What does she think we'll be doing today? Riding to the Scottish marches?”

Baldwin grinned, but kept silent. He was thinking how good it would be to have a wife like Margaret. He sighed, half jealous.

Meanwhile Simon was staring at his servant with exasperation. “Where's your cloak and jacket?”

“Why? Am I coming too?” His face showed his surprise.

“Of course! Come on, you'll have to do as you are. We can't wait for you to get changed.”

“But I'll freeze!”

“Don't whine. You'll be fine if we ride fast. Now mount! We want to get to town as early as possible.”

Smiling, Baldwin watched as Simon lifted his hands in a show of despair, only to let them drop with frustration. When Hugh was ready at last, they left the mews and stables, winding round to the front of the house where Margaret stood waiting to wave them off. The brown and black dog was there, and was about to follow, but Margaret pulled him inside. “If you're going to be travelling all over the shire, I think I'd better keep him here for now!” she said.

They waved farewell as Baldwin led the way down the narrow lane and out to the road, and once there, he spurred his mount to an easy canter.

It was soon clear that Simon's man had no great desire to be with them. Somehow he had never quite become used to the idea that a creature as tall and muscular as a horse could be trusted as a slave to his whim, and as a result he objected to trying to force it to his will. The inevitable consequence of bringing him was that the speed of the three was slowed to a more
leisurely pace. Although Baldwin would occasionally urge them to move faster, he would soon discover that he and the bailiff were far in the lead and Hugh was moving along at his accustomed speed—somewhat quicker than a snail, but not a great deal.