The Merchant's Partner (11 page)

In the end it took them a little over two hours to get to Crediton. The small market town was bustling, with wagons trailing through the slush on the roads, riders on horses trotting happily, and pedestrians groaning and complaining at the chilly mess thrown over them at the passing of each vehicle or animal. As they came closer to the church, a small herd of cattle stopped all the traffic, and the three had to pause and wait for the huge creatures to pass. They got to the church, and walked through the courtyard to the house beyond where the priest had his living quarters.

“Simon, old friend, it's good to see you again!”

The thin, older man grasped his hand enthusiastically, then stood back and studied him critically.

“You're working too hard,” he said at last, “and I think you aren't eating enough, but apart from that I am pleased to see you looking so well, thank God!”

“Peter, it has been a very long journey to get here, old friend. Do you not have any wine?”

Laughing, the priest led them indoors and seated them, Hugh grumpily taking a seat as close as he could to the fire. When all had a drink to hand, the priest leaned forward and peered at the knight with a serious expression on his face. “Sir Baldwin, do you have any suspect other than this miserable creature Greencliff yet?”

“I fear not, Peter, no. But why do you ask?”

Peter sat back in his chair and meditatively sipped at his wine while staring past Hugh at the flames. “It's very difficult. Sometimes a man admits to a brutal
crime in the confessional, and the confessor is bound to keep his secret. Sometimes it likewise comes to pass that a man is sent to the executioner when his father in God is certain of his innocence.” His eyes shot up to stare at the knight. “I am as sure as I can be that this boy is innocent of the woman's murder.”

“But, Peter,” said Simon, “does that mean he has denied it to you in confessional?”

“No! Of course not!” Peter was shocked. “If he had, I would have to keep my peace. No, he is as yet unshriven, I could not have said anything otherwise.”

“But you are sure?” asked Baldwin, his eyes glittering as he leaned forward.

“Yes. I am as sure as I can be that the boy is innocent of this murder. He just isn't capable.”

“We think so too,” said Simon.

“Why? Do you have another suspect? I thought you said…”

“No, we were telling you the truth. We have no other idea who could have done it. Do you?”

“Me?” The expression of amazement that spread across his face was so comical that both Baldwin and Simon began to laugh, making the priest gaze at them reproachfully. “How could
I
know who had done it? I…”

“Sorry, Peter,” Simon managed at last. “No, you're right. We didn't expect you to have any better idea than we ourselves.”

Standing, Baldwin yawned and stretched. “Since we all agree that it was not Greencliff, I should get to the gaol!” Sighing, he glanced at the priest and explained about the evidence from Stephen de la Forte. “So you see,” he finished, “we are here to release him. It's not fair to keep the boy imprisoned for no reason, and now
Stephen de la Forte says he was with Greencliff all afternoon and evening, there's little reason to keep him locked up. No, Simon. You might as well wait. I shan't be long.”

“Bring him back here. I'll not see him go without being fed—not in this weather,” said Peter.

 

The town gaol stood at the entrance to the market beside the toll-booth, a small square block used mainly for those traders found to have given short measures of grain or bread, and only occasionally for holding vagabonds found in the town. Strolling along the street and trying to avoid the slush, it took the knight only a few minutes to cover the short distance, and soon he was at the entrance, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the market, which had not yet been cleaned from the last market day, and consequently was bathed in an all-encompassing stench of animal and human ordure. He glanced at the area, wincing, and then rapped his knuckles on the heavy door.

Tanner had apparently been sleeping, for when he opened the door, his hair was tousled and his eyes bleared. At the sight of the knight, he seemed to wake rapidly, and hauled the stiff door wide on its hinges.

“Good morning, sir.”

Stepping into the murky gloom of the gaol, the knight sniffed with distaste. The men who were usually held here tainted the very atmosphere with the pervasive, metallic scent of fear. Convicts knew what would happen to them once they were judged in court. There were not many sentences available for a judge, and justice usually followed swiftly after pronouncement of sentence, most often involving a brief meeting
with the executioner. There was good reason to be fearful of the result of the legal process.

He shrugged. After all, that was the whole idea of justice.

“So, Tanner. How is the prisoner today?”

“Greencliff, sir? He seems well enough in body, but I wish he'd say something.”

“Why? Has he stayed silent?”

“Yes, sir. Since the hour we brought him here.”

Baldwin sighed. “Take me to him.”

The cell was an unpleasant, square chamber dug under the floor of the main room. To get to it, Tanner had to lead the knight through the curtain at the back. Here, in the wooden floor, was a trap door with a simple latch secured by a thick wooden peg. Lifting this, the knight could peer into the dank and murky interior.

“Greencliff?” he called doubtfully.

There was a sudden stir in the far corner, then a small splash as the boy stepped into a puddle, before his face suddenly appeared under the trap, and Baldwin could not help shaking his head and sighing. The boy who so recently had been a strong, tall and proud youth was a pale shadow of himself. His features were gaunt and strained, the skin appearing yellow in the half-light, his eyes vivid and unhealthy, his cheeks sunken and wan. His whole appearance was that of a man close to death, of someone who had fallen victim to an unwholesome disease.

“Tanner, get him out of there.”

Fetching a ladder, the constable wandered back to the hole in the ground and slipped it down. “Come on, lad. The knight wants you up here,” he called, offering his hand.

Leading the way to the front room, Baldwin stood
with his arms akimbo and looked at the boy, shaking his head. Greencliff held his gaze. There was fear there. The knight could see it deep in the boy's eyes, but he still appeared defiant. “Do you have anything else you want to say to me about the old woman's death?”

“The witch, you mean.”

The knight peered at him. The boy's voice sounded as though he was caught between emotions. It was as if anger and impatience were struggling for dominance, but Baldwin was sure he could see contempt, and self-disgust as well. “Did you think she was a witch?”

“Me?” The question seemed to surprise him.

“Yes. What did you think of her?”

“I didn't
think
anything of her. I
know
what she was.
Evil!
She deserved to die!”

“Why?”

The boy held his gaze firmly and squared his shoulders with resolution, but kept silent. After a few moments Baldwin sighed.

“Very well. If you do not wish to answer, I cannot force you.” Greencliff glanced across at the imperturbable Tanner, and looked as though he was sneering. Turning, he was about to return to his cell when Baldwin stopped him. “No. Your friend has told us the truth.”

“What?” Greencliff spun round and stared at the knight. Strangely, Baldwin thought he was now scared.

“Who?”

“Yes, we know you were with Stephen de la Forte all afternoon. He's told us.”

Later, he knew that what worried him most was the fleeting glimpse of absolute surprise as the boy said, “Stephen?”

T
hey left the youth with Peter, consuming a large bowl of stew with minced meat, the priest happily organizing more bread and ale as his guest ate.

Simon rode quietly with his chin on his chest. The three were silent, as though they were all contemplating the murder. At last, he said, “Baldwin, we must go back to Wefford and ask other people what they saw.”

“Yes, you're right. We've spent two days thinking that Greencliff had to have been involved. Now we must get back to trying to find out who really was,” said Baldwin and sighed.

“Calm yourself, Baldwin.”

The knight threw him a puzzled glance. “Eh?”

“Just because it wasn't Greencliff, that doesn't mean it was your friend's son.”

“No, but it's suspicious, isn't it? That he was here, trying to find out about her just the day before she…”

“Look at it this way—nobody saw him there, did they? Let's see whether someone else
was
there.”

“Yes,” he said, but not convinced.

“So, where do we start?”

The knight stared ahead, toward the town itself, as
if there was a clue in the scenery itself. “Jennie Miller, I suppose. Oatway said she was there with Sarah Cottey. Let's see her. She might know something that can help us.”

The mill was a large sturdy building to the east of Wefford, and they found their way to it by the simple method of riding through the woods until they came to the stream, then following it north. It stood in a small, sheltered valley. Looking at it, Simon thought it looked like a safe and warm property, with thick walls and a pleasing drift of smoke rising from the tall chimney. At the eastern end lay the stream from which it gained its power, quiet and sluggish now, but wild and fast when the countryside was less frozen. They had to cross the leat to get to the buildings, and were able to use a small wooden bridge that had been thrown over to help the farmers bring their grain.

Baldwin nodded approvingly as he gazed at the mill and the stream. Mills were jealously guarded by their parishes, and although the knight had only been here once before, and then only briefly, he was proud of this one. It had been built by his brother only five years before, and he was glad to see that the walls were maintained well, their limewash shining in the light.

But then, as they approached, they heard a high scream, and they spun in the saddles to look for the source. It seemed to be a young girl's voice.

At first there was nothing, then the cry came again, shrill and urgent, from the woods to their left, on the other side of the water. Baldwin felt at once for his sword and drew it, scanning the trees with a frown while Simon fumbled for his knife and spurred his horse alongside. They exchanged a glance, then both prepared to leap the stream.

“Ignore them, they always make a lot of noise.”

Turning, Baldwin saw a smiling, chubby woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway. He motioned toward the noise uncomprehendingly.

“But…Who?”

Her smile broadening, she put a finger and thumb to her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately the sounds stopped, and were replaced by giggling and laughter, quickly approaching. After a few minutes four children appeared, two boys and two girls, the oldest being perhaps ten or eleven years old.

The knight's eyebrows rose in sardonic amusement as he carefully stowed his sword away. Simon frowned as he watched the oldest of the two girls walk sedately to her mother. It was the girl from outside the inn, the one he had seen when they had brought the witch's body back from the field. His eyes rose to take in the mother as Baldwin asked:

“You are Jennie Miller?”

Her grin broadening, she nodded as her brood accumulated around her, their eyes fixed on the strangers.

“Yes. It was the children playing. I'm sorry if they troubled you.”

Clearing his throat, Simon glanced at his friend as he shoved his dagger back in its sheath. “It's no trouble. We…Er…Thought someone was being attacked. That was all.”

The knight dropped from his horse and glanced up at Simon, then over at Hugh, who sat glowering with a face like thunder. When he turned to the woman, Baldwin was laughing. “No, it's no trouble, apart from having a fit of the vapors!” He strode forward. “I am Baldwin Furnshill. Can we speak to you?”

At her nod, Simon leapt down, threw his reins to
Hugh and told him to wait with the horses. She led them inside, sending the children away to play.

It was sparsely furnished, but welcoming and homely. There was a large table, benches, and chairs at one end, and at the other was a huge chimney and hearth, now filled with logs and roaring. Motioning toward the flames, Jennie Miller said, “My husband isn't here right now, he's woodcutting. If you want him, you're welcome to wait by the fire…” Her voice trailed off inquiringly.

Taking a seat at the fire, Baldwin sat and smiled. “No, it was you we wished to see.”

“Me?” Her eyes seemed huge, but not from fear, only amusement. This was no mindless peasant, Baldwin thought to himself, this was a quick-witted and intelligent woman. She was also clearly not afraid.

“It's about the death of Agatha Kyteler,” said Simon as he too dragged a chair to the fire, then sat contemplatively staring at her. “Did you know her?”

She laughed as she sat. “Everyone knew old Agatha! She was always helpful to people who needed her sort of aid.”

“What sort of aid?”

“Anything,” she shrugged. “A salve for a burn or wound, a potion to clear the bowels, a medicine to stop pain—she could give help to almost anyone. She was very clever.”

The bailiff peered at her. “You know what the people say about her? That she was a…”

“A witch?” She laughed. “Oh, yes, some said so. Why? Do
you
believe that?”

From his side Simon heard a low chuckle. He subsided back into his seat and left the knight to the questioning, faintly offended by his friend's amusement. It
was not surprising that he should believe, after all. He was not credulous, but everyone knew that the Devil was all round, trying to win over the forces of good and subvert them. Shrugging, he watched the woman as Baldwin began to question her.

“You didn't think she was a witch?”

“No,” she said dismissively. “That was only a rumor. Old Grisel wanted to blame her bad luck on someone else. Bad luck happens. When we lose a sack of corn to weevils we don't say someone put a curse on us. It just happens. When something steals chickens, there's no reason to assume that it must be because of a witch. It was probably a fox!”

“But you said she was good with herbs and making medicines. Is that why people were prepared to think it was her, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so. She was very skilled, she knew all about different plants. That doesn't mean she was a witch, though, and after all, everyone was happy to take advantage of her knowledge when they needed her.”

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully, and Simon was sure he was thinking of Sam Cottey, the man who denounced the old woman as a witch but still used her poultice when he hurt his arm.

“When we spoke to Grisel Oatway, she said that she saw you there, at Kyteler's house, on the day she died. Tuesday. Why were you there?”

“Tuesday? Yes, I was there. I went to speak to her about my pains. Last time I was with child she helped with the sickness and cramps. I wanted to see her about some more herbs, like the ones she gave me before.” Seeing the knight's raised eyebrows, she giggled. “Yes, I'm carrying a baby again.”

“Oh…Fine, well…” To Simon's amusement, he
saw that it was the knight's turn to be embarrassed. “I see. You
did
see her?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I was there early in the afternoon.”

“Do you know when?”

“Not really. About two hours after noon, maybe.”

“How was she?”

“She was fine. A bit tired, I think. She used to spend so much time out collecting plants, and I think it was getting to be a bit too much, really.”

Simon cleared his throat and leaned forward. “You seem to be one of the very few people who knew her, like Sarah Cottey, but no one seems very sad that she's been killed.”

“Why should we be sad? The poor old woman never tried to make friends here.”

A picture came into mind of the Kyteler cottage, fresh painted, with a new roof. “The house was well-looked-after. She was surely too old to paint and thatch—who did that for her?”

Jennie Miller smiled knowingly. “She wasn't stupid,” she said, and her voice seemed to imply that she was not certain that the same could be said for Simon. “Whenever someone went to her, they had to pay in some way. She was not anxious for money, she had little need for it. No, she asked for things that were useful. If someone needed her help, they had to help her.”

“How long were you with her on the day she died?” asked Baldwin.

“How long? About an hour. Maybe a little more. I don't know. Sarah might be able to help, she was there just as I left.”

“Do you know why she was there?”

“I think you should ask
her
that, don't you?”

Baldwin studied her with a small frown, but slowly
began to nod his head. “Perhaps we should,” he agreed. “Grisel Oatway said you and Sarah were still there when she arrived?”

“Yes. I waited until Sarah had finished. She's an old friend, and I wanted to speak to her. We started to walk up the lane toward the village…”

“How long was she with Agatha? When roughly did you leave?”

“Oh…She was there maybe a half-hour. Anyway, that's when Grisel came rushing down toward the cottage. She was mad! Another of her chickens had been taken.”

“She was mad? Mad enough to…?”

“If you're going to ask me whether she was mad enough to kill, I'm not saying yes or no,” Jennie Miller said tartly. “How could I say? She was furious, certainly, she could hardly talk without spitting. When she got to the cottage we could hear her voice clearly, shrieking at poor old Agatha while we walked back.”

“You didn't go to help?”

“Help who? Would
you
have gone to separate two strong old women like them? I'd think even a knight could be nervous of doing that!”

“Yes,” Baldwin said, with a sudden smile. “You may well be right.”

“When you left, did you see anyone else on your way home?” asked Simon.

“Anyone else?” she paused, then spoke more quietly. “I thought I did, but Sarah didn't.”

Leaning forward, both men kept silent as they waited.

“Back toward the road, I could swear that I saw a woman slipping off the track and into the trees as we came close.”

“Who?” Simon felt as though they were getting closer to the details now, nearer to an understanding of what had happened.

“I don't know,” she said, glancing at him with a sympathetic smile, seeing his near despair. “It was dark there under the trees like I say. It was a woman, I think, but she was wearing dark clothes. Both cloak and tunic.”

“And Sarah didn't see her?” he persisted.

“Ask her, but I don't think she did. She would have said.
I
didn't mention it because I wasn't sure myself.”

“Do you know of anyone who hated her enough to want to kill her?” Baldwin asked.

She screwed her face into a cynical wince. “It's hardly the sort of thing people are going to talk about in the lane, is it? No, I've never heard anyone talk about murdering her.”

“Not Grisel Oatway, for example?”

“No.”

He sighed and gazed into the fire for a moment. Looking up, he caught a thoughtful glance from her.

“There
is
something else.”

“No,” she said, but she looked troubled.

“It is very important, Jennie,” the knight persisted, seeing her waver. “Whoever did this could kill again. He's like a mad wolf: once it's tasted the blood of a man, we have to kill it because it's not scared of people any more. It kills once, then it knows it
can
kill. Whoever killed Agatha Kyteler can do it again, because he
knows
he can do it.”

It was then, when his friend sat back, looking like a kindly father persuading his daughter to obey for her own good, that Simon saw her expression change. She stared at Baldwin with a curious resolve, as if the de
cision was as difficult as agreeing to take a lover, but once her choice was made, she was committed. “Very well. But I cannot believe it was him.”

“Who?”

“Harold Greencliff. When we came to the edge of the trees, where the lane meets the road, I saw him.”

“With Stephen de la Forte?”

“Not that I saw. I didn't see Stephen, only Harold. I thought he was alone.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing. Just standing there with a horse.”

“His own horse?”

She gave a quick laugh. “Harold have a horse? No, he does not need a horse. Anyway, it wasn't a man's horse. It was a nice little mare, brown with a white flash on her head and little white mark on her left foreleg like a short stocking. He was standing and holding her just off the road, almost in the trees. He looked like he was trying not to be seen.”

“If it was Greencliff, did Sarah Cottey see him?”

She smiled sadly, but shook her head. “No. Sarah would have commented. She couldn't have seen him.”

“Why?”

“Sarah and Harry grew up together. They were as close as brother and sister. I think she still expects him to…”

Baldwin gently prompted her. “Expects him to what?”

Sighing, she stared at the flames. “To ask her to marry him. She's always loved him. But he doesn't love her.”

“Who is he in love with?”

“I don't know, but find the owner of the little mare and I think you'll find out.”