The Merchant's Partner (17 page)

At first it looked like their worst fears were unwarranted. The lane that wound round before the house appeared relatively clear, and even as they rode farther up on to the top of the hill, it was still reasonably easy going. It was only when they began to descend once more that they found that the drifts had accumulated, and all at once they were bogged in snow which at times was over their feet as they sat on their horses. At one point Edgar showed his horsemanship, keeping his seat as his mount reared, whinnying in fear and disgust at the depth of the powder and trying to avoid the deepest drifts, and the servant was forced to tug the reins and pull the head round, to turn away from the obstacle. Standing and gentling the great creature, he glanced over at Baldwin.

“I think I'll have to walk this one.”

He dropped from his saddle and, strolling ahead, spoke calmly to the horse as he led it forward, keeping a firm and steady pressure on the reins. Once it stopped and tried to refuse to carry on, shivering like a stunned rabbit, but then it accepted Edgar's soft words of encouragement and continued.

That was the worst of it. Now the land opened up and the snow was less thick. There was hardly enough to rise more than a couple of inches above their horses' hooves, and they all felt more confident, breaking into a steady, loping trot.

The house was soon visible. Simon could see it, a welcoming slab of gray in the whiteness all round, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to make a
comment, turning to look at Baldwin, when he saw a troubled frown on the knight's face. He appeared to be staring at the ground near their feet.

“Baldwin? What's the matter?”

“Look!” When Simon followed the direction of the pointing finger, he saw them. They were unmistakable, and his mind swiftly returned to the hunched figure of the dead merchant. The blood had been laid over the top of the snow, as if a geyser had spouted it up, and over the body the snow had been piled up into a makeshift hide-out. There had been little fresh powder over the body or the bloodstains. Trevellyn had died after the snowstorm had stopped.

And here were the clear marks, slightly marred by drifting, rounded and worn by the strong winds but still recognizable, of a pair of feet and the hoofprints of a horse, leading the way they were going. Back to the door of Harold Greencliff's farm. Exchanging a look, the two men trotted on.

There was no doubt, the marks clearly led straight to the trodden mess in the ground before the door, the tracks of a horse and a man. Shaking his head, Baldwin tossed his reins to Edgar and sprang down. Simon followed, unconsciously testing the dagger at his waist, making sure that the blade would come free if needed. Noticing his movement, Baldwin smiled suddenly, and Simon saw that he had been doing the same with his sword. Leaving Edgar on his horse, they strode to the door, and Baldwin pounded heavily on the timbers with a gloved fist.

“Harold Greencliff! I want to speak with you. Come out!”

There was no answer. He thumped the door again, calling, but there was still no reply, and Simon sud
denly found himself struck with a feeling of nervousness. He felt an extreme trepidation for what they might find inside. Involuntarily he stepped backward.

“What is it?” snapped Baldwin, angry at being left outside. “God!” The sky was again starting to fill with tiny feathers of purest down, light specks of glistening beauty. But these minute granules were composed of pure coldness, and they could kill. Baldwin swore, then slammed his fist a last time on the door.
“Greencliff!”

But there was no response. Glancing at Simon, he shrugged, then reached for the handle.

Inside it was almost as cold as out. Calling to Edgar to bring the horses in, Baldwin crossed the threshold and strode immediately for the hearth. Crouching, he studied the ash for a moment, then tugged off his glove and held his hand over it, swearing again. “Damn! We'll need to light a fresh one!'

Simon busied himself gathering tinder and straw, then set to work relighting the fire. As he blew gently but firmly at the glowing sparks, carefully adding straw and twigs as the flames started to creep upward, he was aware of Baldwin noisily clumping around the room, peering into dark corners and searching under blankets and boards. Meanwhile, Edgar unperturbedly saw to the horses, removing their saddles and bringing their packs to the fire. Tossing them down, he gave Simon a quick grin before returning to the mounts.

The fire starting to shed a little light, he carefully piled smaller pieces of wood on top, then balanced logs above, and soon the house was beginning to fill with the homely smoke, catching in their throats, making them cough and rub at their eyes to clear away unshed tears. But as the fire caught hold the smoke rose
to sit heavily in thick swathes in the rafters, and the air below cleared.

“He's not here, that's for certain,” Baldwin grumbled, crouching nearby.

“The footmarks seem to show that he was here last night,” said Simon calmly as he watched the flames.

“Maybe he's out to look after his sheep.”

Baldwin jerked his chin to point at the fire. “And left his fire to go out? In this weather? Come along, Simon. Nobody would let his fire die at this time of year. It could mean death.”

“Well…” Simon nodded slowly. “If he's gone, where has he gone to? We can't follow now, not with the snow coming again, that would be too dangerous.”

“No, but I can take a look and see which direction he's going in,” said the knight and stood. He walked outside, shutting the door behind him.

Already the weather had changed, and the small flakes were replaced by large petals falling at what looked like a ludicrously slow speed.

Peering, he narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out any marks in the snow. It was hard to see, the light was too diffuse behind the clouds, and with the failing light as day slipped toward night, he found that bending and looking for some differentiation in the contours was no help. All was uniformly white. There was not the relief of grays or blacks to mar the perfect apparent flatness. It was only when he stood again and stared farther away, wondering in which direction the youth would have gone, that he thought he could make out a depression left in the snow, like a shallow leat pointing arrow-straight to a mine. It led down the lane toward the trees, toward Wefford.

The wind began to build, whisking madly dancing
flakes before his eyes, occasionally knocking them into his face. This was impossible, he thought. There was no way they could find out where the boy had gone in this: it was too heavy. He turned back to the door with a mixture of despondency and anger at being foiled.

 

The cry started as a low rumble on the Bourc's right. He might easily have missed it, but his ears were too well attuned to sounds of danger, even after the punishment the wind had inflicted during the day, and he immediately stopped in his tracks and stared back the way he had come.

He could feel the shivering of the horses as the call began again. First low, then rising quickly to a loud howl before mournfully sliding down to a dismal wail of hunger: wolves!

Putting out his hand, he stroked his mount gently. There was no sign of them yet. They must be some distance away. He threw a quick glance at the hill ahead. The shelter it offered was a clear half-mile farther on. He gauged the remaining ground he must cover, then set his jaw and pulled at the reins, setting his face to the hill. It held the only possible cover here in this darkening land.

The howls came again, but their tone had changed. They must have found his trail, for he thought he could hear a note of fierce joy. The cries were no longer full of anguish and longing; now they were a paean of exultation. Desperation was replaced by harsh, cruel delight, as if the creatures could already taste the thick, hot blood in his veins.

When he peered at the hill again, he knew he could not survive on foot. Throwing an anxious glance be
hind, he could see the dog-like animals running toward him. It would be dangerous to ride, God only knew how many hazards lay just under the surface of the snow, waiting to break his horse's legs, but to walk was suicide.

Clambering on to the horse, he whirled, checking the distance once more. They were only a few hundred feet away, seven of them running at a steady lope with their eyes fixed on him. The sight of their implacable approach sent a shiver of expectant fear down his back. He knew what would happen if they were to catch him. Turning, he spurred his horse into a gallop.

The two horses ran madly with their terror. There was no need to urge them on, both knew their danger. The calls of the wolves had seen to that. All he need do was hold on, clinging for dear life as his mount bolted, ears flat back, head low, pelting forward. The Bourc let him have his head, occasionally twitching the reins a little to keep the great horse heading in the direction that would lead them, he hoped, to safety.

“Thanks be to God!”

The heartfelt prayer of gratitude sprang to his lips automatically as they stumbled into the ring, and he fell from the saddle just as the second of his horses galloped in.

Grabbing the packhorse's leading rein, he managed to haul the horse round, and then he could tug the bow free. Calling softly to the petrified animal, trying to calm him, the Bourc grabbed the arrows from the top of his pack. Only when he had them in his hand did he set the point of the bow on the ground and pull down sharply to string it. Then, arrow ready and nocked, he moved forward to the perimeter, a string of great stones that encircled his small encampment.

The howling had not stopped. Ahead the Bourc could see them approaching, not now with the mad enthusiasm of the hunting pack, but with the wary caution of dogs who have seen the boar to his lair and now watch carefully to see how to pull him down without danger.

Teeth showing in the dark, the Bourc waited while they approached, bow held firmly in hands that now felt clammy with anticipation.

E
very now and again Simon or Edgar would stir from the fireside and peer out, but each time the view was the same: clouds of tiny swirling and pirouetting motes sweeping by in the breeze, a pageant in white and gray. The knight sat and stared morosely at the fire.

It was still early when they decided they must remain for the night. The snow was here to stay for some hours and they all recognized the need to keep warm. Once the horses were fed and watered, they opened the packs that Margaret had forced them to bring and sipped at the cool wineskins, then huddled in their blankets around the fire and began to talk desultorily until sleep took them.

Simon found himself nodding soon after sitting, and his voice dropped, his words coming slower and slower, until Baldwin and Edgar were aware of a rhythmical droning as he started snoring.

“Noise like that could waken the dead,” said Edgar, but not unkindly.

Baldwin nodded. It was many months since he and his servant had slept away from their new home. In the
past, when they had travelled more, they had always tended to avoid other people on the road. Someone always snored, and they preferred their own sleep undisturbed.

“At least the snow's not too heavy,” he said. “We should be able to get on tomorrow.”

“Yes. And then we'll need to hunt for Greencliff.”

Nodding, the knight sighed. “So long as the snow stays like this, we should be able to follow him.”

“Yes, God forbid that it could get any worse—we could get snowed in here for ages. No one even knows we're here.”

“Oh, I shouldn't worry.” He peered at the bailiff's body and threw a quick smile at Edgar with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “There's a good amount of meat on
him
! We'll survive!”

His servant smiled, relaxing back and laughing silently. He was the only man Baldwin had ever met who did so, opening his mouth and letting the breath gasp out in that curious, inaudible exhalation. Baldwin had seen him laugh that way before battles, showing his teeth in a purely natural delight, taking pleasure while he might, even if he were to die shortly thereafter.

“So if we're snowed in for a while we can eat him?” Edgar said after a moment. “Ah, that would be good. There're some good joints on him! Mind, he'll be heavy to haul to the fire. How would you cook him? On a spit?”

Leaning back, the knight squinted at the recumbent figure. “I don't know,” he said musingly. “He looks a bit heavy. Is there a spit strong enough in this place?”

Rolling on to an elbow, Edgar stared at him too, grinning. “I don't know. No, you're right, we'd need to paunch and joint him first. Maybe we could hang the
rest of him in the open air outside? At least that way he'd keep well.”

“Maybe, but he might be too tough. Perhaps we should boil him into a stew?”

“That's possible. Yes, with carrots and a thick slice of fresh bread.”

There was a grunt from the bailiff, then they heard his voice. Although muffled by his blanket, the disgruntled tone was unmistakable. “When you have both finished discussing my merits as food on the hoof, perhaps you would like to go to sleep so that we can all be fresh in the morning.”

Laughing, Baldwin rolled himself up in his blanket, and was soon breathing long and deep, but now Simon found sleep evaded him. He kept seeing, as if in close juxtaposition, the two gaping wounds, one which had killed the old woman, the other which had killed the merchant. And then he saw the face of Harold Greencliff next to Angelina Trevellyn.

 

The first attack was easy to fight off. As the Bourc watched, the pack circled, some slinking from side to side in the expanse of clear ground before the wall, others sitting and peering back, like soldiers at a siege checking on the defenses. But then he noticed one in particular, and concentrated on it.

It was a tall dog wolf, from the look of it, lean, taut and strong, with thick gray hair and eyes that stared fixedly at the Gascon. As the others in the pack walked up and down, this one slowly and deliberately inched forward like a cat, staring unblinkingly. Then, as if at his command, they hurled themselves forward.

The leader died first. John drew the string back, sighted the cruel barbs of the arrow head between the
eyes of the grizzled dog, and let the arrow fly. He snatched another arrow and fixed it to the bow, drawing again. But there was no need. The wolf died instantly. The arrow sank deep into his brain, and the animal somersaulted on to his back, then lay, shuddering in his death throes. Immediately the others pulled back, withdrawing dismayed to the gloom where he could not fire with certainty. The death of their leader made them pause, as if they suddenly appreciated their prey was not defenseless. They kept just out of clear sight, silently circling his camp, a series of gray wraiths in the gloom.

The Bourc knew wolves, and now he had found a defensible area, he knew he could hold them off. Satisfied that he was safe for a moment from another attack, he investigated his camp.

He was out of the vicious wind at last. The tall walls of stone offered a barrier against the worst of the weather—the ground beneath was free even of snow. Here he tethered the horses.

Nearby, beyond the line of stone, some bushes stood, twisted and stunted as if blasted by magic into their weird shapes. He took his knife and hacked at them, wrenching branches off and tossing them into a pile. While there was firewood handy he would conserve the faggots on the packhorse. Nearer the horses he found a small hollow and set himself to lighting a fire, looking around as the flames began to curl upward.

By their light he saw that he was in a natural bowl on the top of a low hill. Its perimeter was bounded by a low wall to the south, but northward it had collapsed. Behind what he had thought was a derelict building was a rocky outcrop, three or four great slabs, one on
top of the other, with a narrow, low gap like a door between the two lower ones. Peering through, he saw that there was a cavern inside. A place to sleep, safe from wind and snow.

It was while he was peering inside that the second attack began. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a shape leaping noiselessly on to the wall. Even as the Bourc grabbed his bow and notched an arrow to the string, drawing it back and letting the shaft fly, he heard the screams of terror from the horses, and, spinning round, he saw the packhorse rearing in terror as another wolf jumped, jaws snapping, trying to reach the horse's throat.

Lurching to his feet, the Bourc tried to aim, but the wolf was too close to the horses, and he dared not risk the shot. Cursing, he ran forward shouting, and as he did, the wolf's teeth scraped a ragged tear in the horse's neck. Shrieking, the horse rose once more, but now the smell of blood appeared to enrage the Bourc's mount and made him lose his fear. Lifting his bulk up onto his hind legs as the wolf passed before him, he suddenly dropped, both hooves falling, legs stiff, the whole of his weight behind them. With a petrified screech, the wolf was crushed to the ground, forepaws scrabbling in the dirt, eyes wide in agony, as the horse rose again and again, only to bring his whole weight down on the wolf's back, not stopping until the hideous cries had ceased.

Before running to his horse's side, the Bourc stared around his camp carefully, arrow still set on the bowstring, every sense straining. There was nothing: no noise to disturb him. He slowly rose, walking along the line of the great rocks until he came to the horses. Squatting, he put aside the bow, and drew his dagger to
make sure the wolf was dead. It was unnecessary. A quick look at the ruined body was enough to show that.

The horse was still shivering, eyes rolling in horror, and the Bourc stroked it for a moment. A few yards away was the packhorse, and he stared at it anxiously. He could see the blood dripping steadily from the long gash, but he gave a sigh of relief as the fire spluttered and flared. The wound was not deep enough to kill the animal. Walking to it, he made sure, then patted the horse and spoke softly to him.

It was while he was there that he heard the panting. Turning slowly, his heart beating frantically, he saw the sharp features of the wolf crouched low, eyes fixed on him as it stalked forward. He glanced at his bow, lying useless only yards away. It was close, so close, but already nearer the approaching wolf than him: he would never be able to reach it. He showed his teeth in a snarl—though whether in fear or rage, he was not himself sure—and grasped his long-bladed dagger.

 

When Simon awoke, it was to a sense of mild surprise, wondering where he was. At least over the night he had not suffered from the dream again. It was as if it only wanted to seek him out while he was idle, not now, while he was searching for the witch's killer. While he was employed on that task the nightmare would leave him alone, although its memory would stay with him as a spur to his commitment to the hunt.

It took them little time to saddle their horses, roll up their blankets and prepare to leave. The snow appeared not to have been so strongly blown by the wind this time, and lay evenly rather than drifting, so the three men felt that the journey to Wefford should not be too difficult. From the front of the house, they could look
over to the east where the woods began and see where the lane made its way in among the trees, the hedges at either side standing out as two long ramparts. The trail itself looked like a ditch between them, like some sort of fortification, from the way that the land rose on their left to form the small hill.

As they mounted and turned their horses' heads to the sun in the east, which seemed to hang larger and redder than usual in the pale blue sky, they had to squint from the already painful glare off the snow. Baldwin rode alongside the trail he had seen the evening before. In the bright sunlight the tracks still stood out, and they led the men along the lane a short way. But then the marks were obliterated under a fall of snow from the branches of the trees overhead. Taking their time, they set a slow pace, between a trot and a walk, as they went under the trees, casting about for a continuation of the tracks, but they saw nothing.

“We'll have to get Tanner, of course,” said Baldwin after a few minutes.

Looking across at him, Simon sighed as he turned back to the road ahead. “Yes. And raise a search party; see if we can hunt him quickly.”

Another manhunt, the knight mused sadly. He enjoyed the chase for an animal. After all, that was only right, to hunt and kill for food and sport was natural. But tracking a man was different, demeaning for the man and his hunters as well.

It would be different, the knight knew, if he felt that there had been any justifiable reason for the murders, but there did not seem to be. He frowned and bit his lip in his annoyance at one thought: if he had kept this boy Greencliff in gaol, or put him back when they had heard from Stephen de la Forte that the two of them
had
not
been together all the time when Agatha Kyteler had died, maybe Alan Trevellyn would not have died. That meant that a little of the guilt for the murder, he felt, now lay with him for making the wrong decision at the time. As his eyes rose to the road ahead, they held a frown as he swore to himself that he would catch the criminal and avenge Trevellyn's death.

Jogging along quietly beside him, Simon was not so convinced of Harold Greencliff's guilt. Why? That was the question that plagued him:
why?
Why kill the merchant? Or the witch, for that matter. The boy had made comments about her at the inn that night, but nobody could explain why he hated her. And there seemed no reason why he should kill Trevellyn either.

Then his eyes took on a more pensive look and his head sank on his shoulders. Mrs. Trevellyn was very beautiful, he admitted to himself. Was it possible that she
was
the mysterious lover? That Jennie Miller was right? Could the boy have killed her husband to win her? But if he had, why run away afterward? It made no sense!

 

The admission of what she had done at the witch's cottage had launched Harold Greencliff into a nightmare that would not stop. All he had ever wanted was to be able to live out his life like his father before him, a farmer. To be able to earn his living honestly. He knew he would never be rich, but that did not matter when none of his friends and neighbors were. Money and cattle were pleasant to dream of, but he felt it was more important to be satisfied and content, to work hard and earn a place in heaven, like the priests promised.

But since the death of Agatha Kyteler last Tuesday, there had been no peace for him. Maybe if he had man
aged to run away then, he would have left all this behind. If he had got to Gascony, perhaps then he might have been able to forget the whole affair, but it was too late now. He was marked by his guilt.

At first, when he got back home from the Trevellyns' hall, he had sat down as if in a dream, his mind empty. It felt impossible to move, and he stayed there on his bench, sitting and occasionally shivering in the lonely cold of his house, not even bothering to stoke his little fire so deep was his misery. But soon the despair returned, and the disgust, and he stood and walked around his room, sobbing. Ever since that
witch
had ruined everything, his life had been wrecked. It was all her fault: she had deserved her end.

It was like a dream, the way that he had made his decision and started taking up his meager essentials, stuffing them into his old satchel. He had picked up his ballock knife, the long dagger with the single sharp edge, from where it had fallen on the floor. He might need it, and it was good in a fight, with the two large round lobes at the base of the solid wooden grip to protect the hand.

For food, he took some fruit and dried and salted ham, which he dropped into the bag, followed by a loaf of bread as an afterthought. Then the satchel was full. He pulled a thick woollen tunic over his head, draped his blanket over his shoulders, took his staff, and left. He would never return. The shame would be too painful.