The Merchant's Partner (15 page)

She registered surprise. “Shouldn't I have looked after him? Don't be stupid! Of course not. I've done little today, and so has he. I wasn't going to send him out when his master nearly killed him yesterday, was I? No, but at least he's cured now.”

“Good,” said Baldwin, sitting by the fire and pulling his boots off. “That's better! Good, so he can come with us tomorrow, then.”

Hugh's face was immediately frowningly suspicious. “Why? What are we doing tomorrow?”

Sitting, Simon grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled her on to his lap. “We're going to go and see the mystery woman who was there when Kyteler died. The woman who, according to gossip, has a fancy for strong young farmers,” he said, and kissed her.

Baldwin smiled at the sight of the bailiff and his struggling wife, then turned to face the fire. Yes, he thought. We'll surely find out more tomorrow.

 

The dark was crowding in as the Bourc settled again, squatting as he gazed at the Trevellyn house. He smiled to himself as men hurried past nearby. None could see him, hidden as he was behind the thick fringe of bracken and bramble. Two men were talking as they lopped branches from a fallen tree only a few feet away. They had been there almost from the time that he had arrived, late in the morning, and were still unaware of him.

Since he had seen the ambush, he had carefully considered what to do. The first night, he had been able to find a room in an inn in a hamlet to the south of Crediton—keeping to the woods had meant taking a great deal longer on his journey than he had expected, and he had been surprised at how far to the east he had been forced to travel before finding a bridge.

The next day, Thursday, he had risen early and crossed the stream at a small wooden bridge built by the villagers. Taking his time, he had made his way back to Wefford by quiet trails and paths, avoiding any
large villages or towns. This way it had taken him until dark to get to the little hut where he had stayed before, and he had been glad to merely light a fire and tumble down to sleep.

It was the Friday when he began to plan his revenge while he spent his morning fetching wood for his fire. He knew where the man lived, so it should be easy enough to waylay him.

Any wealthy man was predictable in his habits, as the Bourc knew. Rising with the sun, he would take a light meal with his servants before dealing with whatever business his clerk wanted to bring to his attention, maybe handing out punishments to wrongdoers. The main meal would follow, and then it would be out with the dogs or hawks to see what game could be found, and back home with the carcasses.

It followed that the Bourc must try to catch him while alone to have any chance of success. There would be no likelihood of taking Trevellyn while he was out hunting—he would have too many men with him.

Late in the morning he had ridden off to the Trevellyn house. Finding a high point in front where few seemed to wander, he saw to his delight that the master of the house did not hunt. He saw the men leaving with the dogs, and stared at the group, but Trevellyn was not there. Shortly afterward he heard a bellowing, and saw a stable-lad being beaten. The hoarse shouting and pitiful crying came to his ears, making him set his jaw with distaste. It sounded as if the boy had taken too long in bringing the master's horse when it had been called for.

And now it was Saturday and he was no closer to seeing how to catch the man on his own. Whenever he had thought he had an opportunity, he had been
thwarted by the proximity of others. Even now, sitting as he was high on the land behind the house, where the day before Trevellyn had wandered alone and aimlessly for the earlier part of the afternoon, he could see the workers all around, hewing wood or taking it back to the house under the watchful eyes of Trevellyn's seneschal. The master was there too, close to the house where the Bourc could not reach him.

The smile was still fixed on his face even as he decided he must leave and go back to the hut for the night before he died of cold. He placed his hands on his thighs to begin to rise, but then stilled himself as he heard the hated voice thundering at the two men before him.

“Why have you not finished? Hurry with that wood, you lazy sons-of-whores! Why should you eat when you can't even fetch the logs we need to cook on?”

There was more in the same vein, but the Bourc was surprised to see that the two men did not answer but redoubled their efforts to cut the branches away from the bough. Their faces set and troubled, they hacked and chopped with a curious silence that was at odds with their frenetic actions. Usually men would answer back if their master shouted at them, or so the Bourc had believed from what he had seen of the lower orders in this country, but these two hardly spoke. They looked terrified of the man blustering below.

“I can't finish, I'm too tired,” he heard one say.

“Hisht! Save your breath! We have to, or he'll take the skin off your back. You know what he's like.”

“I can't. I've got to rest, or I'll die here.”

“Such talk! Just get on and…” He was cut off by an enraged bellow.

“What are you doing?” The Bourc saw with surprise
that the merchant had suddenly come round from the edge of the trees and now stood, hands on hips, glowering at the men. “Well? Why have you slowed? Maybe this will give you some energy!”

As he spoke, his hand reached back over his head, and the Bourc saw he held a short whip. It made a hideous whistling noise, as full of venom as a snake. Then the younger of the woodsmen cried out as it cracked. A fold of the tunic above his elbow opened and flapped, and a red flood began to stain his arm. Whimpering, the boy hefted his hatchet high overhead, but even as the axe fell, the whip slashed across his back.

The older man stoically chopped at the branches, but he was not safe. Two strokes caught him, one around his waist, one on the chest which made him stumble and forced the breath to sob in his throat.

“Pick up the branches you've already cut and carry them to the house!”

“The wagon, sir, it's not back yet, and…” The boy's voice faltered. His objection earned him another crack from the whip.

“Do as I order, unless you want to feel this again!”

From his vantage point the Bourc watched as the two men, one snivelling, the other silent with a kind of taut agony, collected armfuls and walked back to the house.

“And hurry. You have to finish this tonight!” the merchant shouted at their retreating backs. Then he turned and looked at their work with a sneer. “Fools!” he muttered contemptuously. He kicked at a branch, walking farther along the trunk toward the trees, and the Bourc smiled to himself.

Giving a polite cough as the merchant passed by, he
was pleased to see sudden fear in the man's face as he turned and saw the Gascon for the first time. “Mr. Trevellyn, I am so pleased to see you again. I think we have some things to talk about.”

He saw the whip rise and leap back, and then it was whistling toward him.

T
he innkeeper at the “Sign of the Moon” was very busy that night. It seemed that everybody from the village had come to his hall to drink. There was little else to do on a cold and snow-bound night, and while it was a delight to have the room filled with people wanting his ale, it still created havoc. He only hoped that his stocks of beer would survive until the next brew was ready.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered when a new hand stuck in the air or a fresh voice called to him. If it carried on like this until the spring, he would have to get someone to help. As it was, he and his wife were running witlessly like headless chickens, out to the buttery where they refilled their jugs with ale or wine, then to the hall again, where they struggled to fill the mugs and pots before they were all emptied. It was like trying to lime-wash a city wall, he thought. Just when you think you've finished, as you get back to the beginning, you find it's already old and worn and you have to start again.

One group he watched with a particularly sour eye. He took no delight in gossip, even if it was a stock currency here in the “Moon.” He especially disliked mali
cious rumors that could hurt or offend, and the Miller family had an effective monopoly of them today.

Seeing a man lift his tankard in a silent plea, the innkeeper wove his way through the groups of people. As he stood pouring, he could hear the Millers.

“But how do they know it was Mrs. Trevellyn as was carryin' on with young Harry?” he heard one man ask.

Jennie leaned forward, her face serious. “Who else could it've been?” she said. “It was her who went to Greencliff and tempted him. And then they went to Agatha. You know what
that
means. And then they went back, after killing her.”

“So you sayin' as it was both of them did it? They both killed Agatha?”

The innkeeper walked away sighing. It was bad hearing such talk, ruining people's characters to fill a boring evening. There was one thing for certain: it was bound to get someone into trouble. He glanced back at the little huddle, his eyes looking for empty pots, but always they were drawn back to the group. Was it worth telling them to shut up? No, they would carry on. Throw them all out? They would just hold court outside, and he would lose business at the same time. He shrugged. May as well let them continue, he thought, and went out to refill the jug again.

There was another man who was not amused by the talk. Stephen de la Forte sat near the screens, his back to the room, his face twisted as if his ale was vinegar.

His mug was empty. Turning, he tried to catch the eye of the innkeeper, but instead found himself being fixed by the gaze of the Miller girl, the oldest one, who stood and subjected him to a close scrutiny before tugging at her mother's tunic.

Jennie saw the white-faced youth staring and her
voice failed. Following the direction of her gaze, the group saw Stephen, and their chattering died, as if the sluice that fed their conversation had been shut, and suddenly all talking in the hall stopped.

Now Stephen found himself the focus of all attention. He stood and walked to the table where the Millers sat, the woman staring at him with large bold eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he said deliberately. “You're all saying it was those two, when there's nothing to prove it, apart from
her,
” he pointed to Jennie, “saying he was in the road that day. There's nothing else says they had anything to do with it. Nothing.”

“Come on, Stephen,” came a voice. “Nothing wrong with wondering. That's all we're doing, just wondering who might have done it.”

He spun to face the talker, an older man with round, jowled face and grizzled hair. “Nothing wrong? You've all set your mind to it that they're guilty, haven't you? Eh?” He looked around the table, staring into their eyes, until he met those of Jennie Miller. Only then did his lip curl into a sneer. Shaking his head with contempt, he spun on his heel and left, yanking so hard at the curtain as he left that he nearly pulled it from its fixings.

 

The wind had built again, and was whipping the snow into mad, whirling smoke before him, obliterating the view and making it hard to see the ground under his horse's feet. It was with a curse of sheer fury that the Bourc dropped from the saddle, wincing as the movement pulled the fresh scabs on his back, and led his horses on, trying to keep his head to the south. This was worse than anything he had experienced before.

Here, this far into the moors, it was hard to maintain
any course. All sense of direction had left him, and now he found it almost impossible to guess which direction was south. But he was tenacious and determined. He had never before failed to find his way, even when high in the mountains, and he was confident that he would win through, even if occasionally he would curse the thought of the easy lanes and roadways to the north which he had forsaken in favor of this bitter route.

At first he had managed to make good time. He had collected more wood, storing it as faggots on the packhorse. The sky had been clear over to the south where the moors lay. Only to the north did clouds darken the sky. But that had changed as soon as he rode on to the rolling hills. Immediately the wind had begun to gust and blow, bringing the salty taint of the sea at first, but by late morning it was full of bitter coldness.

A flurry of snow blew at him, and he tugged his cowl over his face. Here, high on the moors, the wind could change direction and dart around at will like a well-trained knife-fighter. It was impossible to find his way.

He turned and stared back the way he had come. Now he could not even see his own trail. As soon as his feet lifted, his prints were filled. Cursing again, he hauled his horse's head round and began to search for any protection: a wall, even a tree, anything that could give some relief from the elements.

 

Leaning on the front of his saddle, Simon stared down the hill toward the square, gray house and sighed. “I'm still not sure I'm ready for this,” he admitted.

Baldwin blew out his cheeks and peered ahead. “No, neither am I,” he said.

They had set off just before light, this time with Edgar again. Their packs filled, their wineskins sloshing merrily in case they became stranded, they had ridden through thick drifts to get here.

At points the drifts were so bad that they were forced to leave the lane and move into the woods at either side where the snow did not drift. Using sheep and deer trails, they had managed to continue, occasionally returning to the lane for short periods before moving aside to circumnavigate drifts. Whenever they left the shelter of the trees, they saw that the fine powder had taken possession of the land outside.

Finally they had been forced to leave the tracks completely. Where the lane opened out below Greencliff's house, the snow had completely blocked their path. They had chosen a diversion to the north, taking a path Baldwin vaguely recalled, which led them up the side of one hill under the cover of the woods until they had passed over a mile beyond the field where they had found Kyteler's body. At last, when they left the trees behind, they found themselves on a smooth and rounded hillside, and it seemed that here the snow could not drift. It had been blown away before the strong overnight winds.

At the top of the hill overlooking the house, they could see that the master and his wife must be inside. Smoke rose calmly from the chimneys. There were some tracks leaving the property by the road, but they only went a short distance, up as far as the first drift, before returning to the house.

While Baldwin stared, he could see no signs of movement. Sighing, he watched his breath dissipate on the freezing air, then glanced at Simon. “At least there should be something hot to drink down there.”

“Yes, thanks to God! I'm so cold my hair will snap off at the scalp if I touch it,” said the bailiff through teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering.

“God! Come on, let's get to sit before a fire again before we die!”

At the bottom of the hill they had to ride well to their right to find a passage through another thick drift that lay deep and impassable. Once round it, they were in among the trees again and here the snow was thin. But then they could not see any route through the snow on the farther side, and after some minutes of trying, Simon heard Baldwin muttering and Edgar cursing.

In the end it was Simon who lost both temper and patience together, and with his jaw fixed, his head down, he forced a path for them, whipping his horse on. The snow was over his heavily built rounsey's chest, but the horse was strong, and barged on, whinnying slightly, taking short bounds in an effort to leap the freezing obstacle.

Once through, Simon rode for the house at a loping speed, half canter, half trot, without even glancing behind to see if the others were following. Indeed, he was not sure that they were until he drew up to the little tower that housed the main door and heard the chuckling of his friend. Even Edgar seemed amused, but when the bailiff's glowering countenance shot toward him, the servant appeared to be busily concentrating on the parcel tied behind him on the saddle. Even so, Simon was sure he caught a brief, dry chortle as he turned away.

After hammering on the door, Simon turned and glared at the white landscape. To his disgust, it began to snow again, a thin and fine drizzle of particles as
fine but as dry and stolid as ash. It was like watching a rain of flour.

“We had better be quick,” said Baldwin as he approached, his eyes cast upward at the leaden sky. “If this gets worse, and it looks as if it might, we could get stuck here for days.”

Simon grunted, but just then he heard the latch being pulled, and they turned to see a young servant girl. “Ah, good. We're here to see your master, is he…?” He paused as the girl started, a fist rising to her mouth as she stared at him from terrified eyes. “What is it, girl?”

“The master, sir. He's disappeared. We don't know where he is!”

She led the way inside. The stone-flagged screens beyond the door were long, reaching all the way to the other side of the house where another door gave out to the stable area and outbuildings. To their left were three doors, and when Simon peered in, he could see that the first led to the buttery. The others must lead to the pantry and kitchen. On the right were the two doors to the hall itself.

Entering, Simon was awed by the magnificence of the great room. It was vast for a family home, nearly as big as the hall in Tiverton castle, with a high ceiling above and stone pillars supporting it, very like the church at Crediton. Benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a central aisle to the dais. Simon could not help but study the rich-looking tapestries on the walls and the immense fireplace. It roared with massive logs that in his own house would have had to have been shortened and split. Glancing round, he saw that behind him the screens had a rail at the top, and to one side there was a staircase for musicians, so that the master and
his lady could hear singing and playing while they sat to eat.

Clearly, this was a house where the old traditions still held sway. On the dais at the far end, the master's table stood, with platters and mugs spread over its surface. The family still ate in the hall with their servants and friends, then, not like so many masters and the ladies who went to eat alone in their solar behind the dais.

But as he and Baldwin marched across the floor, Edgar striding respectfully behind, it was not the hall itself that commanded their attention, but the solitary figure sitting alone on the chair just before the dais. The slim figure of a young woman dressed in blue.

This was the first time that Baldwin had met the lady, and he studied her at first with a calm and studied indifference, noting her dress and deportment. She could only be in her early twenties. Her hair was deepest black, shining blue as the light caught it, and was hung over each shoulder in braids as thick as her wrists. The heavy tunic looked as though it must be woollen, and had four decorative gilt clasps at the breast. But it was not her clothing that caught his eye, it was
her.
She was almost painfully beautiful.

The face was an oval with high and elegant cheekbones, above which her green eyes slanted slightly down to her nose. The eyebrows were matching bows of black. Her nose was thin and straight and under the delicate nostrils was a voluptuous mouth whose lips pouted invitingly. Slim and elegant, confident and proud, she sat with her hands upon the arms of the chair and appeared to be subjecting them to a close scrutiny.

She rose languorously as they walked toward her,
as if weary from lack of sleep, then turned to her servant, who hesitantly explained who they were. Baldwin watched her carefully as the maid spoke, but apart from a swift glance from her splendid green eyes, he could not see any particular reaction to the news that the Keeper of the King's Peace had arrived. Was it his imagination, or were the eyes a little redrimmed?

“Gentlemen, you are welcome. Please be seated at the fire and accept our hospitality.” Her voice was soft and low, and the gentle motion with her hand toward the flame was so graceful and ingenuous that he found himself turn to the hearth as if all will had left him. And he rather liked the sensation.

Walking slowly, he followed Simon to a trestle by the fire, and stood waiting for her to join them. Closer to her now, he could see that she had a smooth skin, tinted a warm dusky color. As she sat he could not help but float his eyes over her figure, from the slender neck to the swelling of her breasts under her tunic, and on down to the narrowness of her waist and widening of her hips. He brought his eyes back to her face as quickly as he could, but he could see in her measuring gaze that she had noticed his inspection, although not apparently with displeasure. Her mouth twitched, as if she was close to smiling at him. But then her face turned inquiringly to Simon.

He began hesitantly, staring at his lap. “Madam, I am sorry to have arrived like this, it must be difficult for you. Your maid said that your husband is missing.”