The Merchant's Partner (18 page)

At first he had wandered in the darkness without any firm direction in mind, aimlessly following where his feet led him, and he had found himself heading south. Soon he was in among the woods. Usually he would stride through there, knowing each trunk and fallen
bough like the furniture in his hall, but in the bitter cold and his despair he had meandered witlessly.

Now he knew it was a wonder that he had managed to survive and had not succumbed to the freezing temperatures. He had been lucky. The woods appeared to go on forever, leading him up gentle hills and down the other sides, through lighter snow which the winds had not been able to pile into deep drifts, heading away from his home and his past life.

Only when he had begun to smell woodsmoke did he realize he had almost arrived at Crediton, and he stopped. Almost without consciously making a choice, he had found himself starting to walk again, following the line of trees to circumnavigate the town, always keeping to the shelter of the thick boughs. When he had passed by the town, he had discovered a strange lightening of his spirit, as if he had truly left his old life behind. He had only rarely been this far from home before.

All that day he had continued, ignoring calls from other travellers, concentrating solely on the steady trudge of his feet, careless of his direction, neither knowing nor caring where he was heading, until he had realized that the snow was falling again.

It forced him to waken from his mindless, daydreaming tramping, and he stopped dead, staring around with no idea where he was. He had arrived at a flat area, an open space fringed by trees, and now, as the first few flakes began to fall, he could see that there appeared to be no houses nearby.

Here he was quite high up, his view unimpaired, and to the left he could see over the top of some trees to a hilltop some miles away which wore a circle of trees at its summit like a crown. Before him he could see along
a small cleft in the land, which appeared to forge ahead like a track, with both sides hidden under a light scattering of trees. Narrowing his eyes against the thin mist of snow, he had set his face to the valley and determinedly carried on.

But it had been no good. The snow had begun to take hold, the air becoming colder, and each fresh gust of wind felt as if it blew a little harder than the last, making the snow swoop and dive like millions of tiny, white swallows.

The random movement of the white dust held an almost hypnotic fascination, and he found himself beginning to stumble more often as he fell under the spell of the all-encompassing whiteness that now appeared to form an impermeable barrier around him. It was as if the dance of the snow motes before his eyes was an invitation to sit and sleep. He had the impression that they were soothing, calming, as if asking him to rest.

And then he had fallen.

Possibly it was a gnarled tree root hidden from sight, maybe a fallen branch, but suddenly he had discovered he was not walking any more. He had tripped, and was how lying headlong, his face resting against what had felt like a warm soft pillow of the smoothest down. Rolling, he could not help a sigh of relief. He stretched and groaned in happiness. At last he could relax: he had come far enough. Now he could sleep.

It was not until much later that he could be grateful for the interruption. At first it had seemed to be a growling, then a moaning as of pain, low and persistent. Just at the edge of his hearing, it had penetrated his thoughts and dreams like a saw cutting through bark. He had mumbled to himself and rolled, trying to sleep and lose the insistent noise, but it had continued, and
as his mind grew angry at the interruption, the anger started to make him waken. It was sufficient.

The snow had strengthened, and as he lurched unwillingly back to consciousness, he realized that he was smothered in a film of light powder. Recognizing his danger, he stood quickly, his heart beating madly, while his breath sobbed in his throat, and he gazed around wildly, a feral creature recognizing the sound of a hunter. The snow had cocooned him, swaddling him under its gentle grip of death. If he had not heard that noise, he would soon surely have died, sleeping under the soothing influence of the murderous cold.

But what had made the noise? As he turned here and there looking for the source, a slow realization had come to him: it was the noise of cattle, and it came from nearby.

As soon as he had recognized the sounds, he had started off toward them. There, hidden behind a line of oaks, was an old barn. The walls were red-brown cob, not limewashed, and if he had not heard the animals inside, he would not have seen the place. After carefully looking to see that there were no people nearby, he had entered. Inside there was a store of hay, and he fashioned a rough cot from it, sitting and preparing to wait for the snow to stop.

The sudden lack of movement freed his mind from the shackles of exercise and he had found his thoughts returning to
her.
To his pain at leaving her behind. He had wept tears for her last evening as he had sat alone and miserable at his house, he could now remember. Hot, scalding tears that seared his soul. He had loved her. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to her again. To know that he could never see her again, never feel the smooth softness of her body, never hold the thick,
blue-black tresses of her braids in his hands like silken ropes, never kiss her again, hold her, feel the warmth of her breasts and the flat sweep of her belly, was maddening. He had once thought that he had loved Sarah, but this was much more: this was almost a religious loss. It felt as if, after the horror of her face in the dark only two nights before, a part of him had died. When she saw him there, and spoke with such loathing, a spark of his soul had weakened and finally faded to dullness. There was nothing there any longer.

He sighed at the memory. Now, in the morning, he could accept that he could never see her again. Picking up his satchel, he swung it on to his back and made his way to the entrance, carefully peering out. There was no one there, so he walked out. He could break his fast later. For now the main thing was to get away, as far away as possible from this area. Could he get on a ship? Would it be possible to find one to take him away?

Pausing, he considered. There were docks at Exeter, he knew, but last time Tanner had found him there. It was further, but would they expect him to head down to the south? To Dartmouth or Plymouth? Weighing the satchel in his hand, he debated the two options. He would need more food on the way if he was going that far. It was a great deal further, but if he could make it, they would never think of searching for him there, would they?

Making his choice, he set his shoulders and set his face to the south. He must go to the coast, then on to Gascony and to freedom.

 

The village looked like a slumbering animal, as if the area had chosen hibernation in preference to the freez
ing misery of the winter weather, and Baldwin gazed around sourly as they rode along the street.

“God! Why aren't these people up and working yet?”

“It
is
very early, Baldwin. And I have no doubt that some are up. They will be out tending to their sheep and cattle,” said Simon calmly. “Especially after the snow last night.”

Baldwin grunted, and maintained a disapproving silence for the rest of their journey. It was not far. They stopped outside the inn, and at a curt nod of Baldwin's head, Edgar dropped from his horse and walked leisurely to the door. Watching, Simon saw him casually glance up at the sky, trying to assess the time. The bailiff nodded to himself. It was very early to waken the innkeeper. But then he realized his error.

After looking up to reassure himself as to the earliness of the hour, the servant grinned back at him quickly, then beat on the door in a shockingly loud tattoo before retreating a few yards.

It was a sensible precaution, from the bellow of rage that issued from inside. Simon heard rapid steps, the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the door was yanked open and the unshaven and furious features of the publication appeared, mouth wide to roar at whoever had woken him. At the sight of the knight with his servant and friend, his mouth snapped shut as if on a spring.

“Sir Baldwin,” he managed at last, with a snarl that appeared to be his best approximation to a smile.

“How can I serve you?”

The knight grunted. “You can fetch hot drinks for three, prepare cooked eggs and bread for our breakfast, and start to organize a search party. Then you can send
word to my house that we are all well, find Tanner, and tell him to come here immediately. Prepare provisions for three days for three men.”

“I…Er…”

“And you can do it all now. We must hunt a man.”

I
t seemed to the bailiff that no sooner had they sat to watch the innkeeper's wife cooking their eggs on her old cast-iron griddle over the embers of last night's fire than the men from the village began to arrive. Farmers and peasants walked in, strolling casually as if the matter was nothing to do with them, or cautiously and reluctantly sidling through the curtain as though expecting to be arrested themselves. Each was told by Edgar to go and arm himself and return as quickly as possible, with food for at least three days.

It was not until Tanner arrived, covered in snow almost up to his knees and dripping, that Baldwin looked up and began to take an interest. The old constable walked straight to him. There was no need, he knew, for subservience with this knight. Glancing up as his bulk approached, Baldwin gave him a slow grin and waved a hand to the fire. “Have you eaten? Would you like to have some eggs?”

Glancing carelessly at the griddle, Tanner shook his head. “What's the matter, sir? The innkeeper's boy told me to come here straight away. Said we had to hunt a man.”

“That's right. Greencliff has run away again.”

“Harry's gone? Oh, the daft bugger!” He shook his head as if in tired annoyance, then said, “But so what? If he wasn't there for the death of the witch, because he was with de la…”

“It's not that easy. He was not with de la Forte,” the bailiff broke in, and explained about the change in Stephen de la Forte's evidence. When he spoke of the murder of Trevellyn, there was a sudden hush in the room, as the men all around realized why they were being asked to chase Greencliff. When Simon had finished, he found he was immediately bombarded by questions from all sides, and after a moment Baldwin stood with a hand raised for silence.

“Quiet!”
he thundered, and gradually the noise died down. “That's better. Now, Harold Greencliff was not at his house last night. The fire was cold, so it's likely that he left the night before. Otherwise it would at least have been warm when we got there. So, where has he gone?”

The room was quiet as the men thought, then one said, “He could've gone to Exeter, to the docks again. That's where he went after the witch was killed.”

Baldwin nodded. It was certainly possible. “He could, but was there anywhere else he might go? Did he have any family or friends he could have gone to stay with? Anybody outside the area with whom he could rest?”

All round the room heads slowly shook.

“In that case, we have no choice: we must try to search for him on all of the roads.” Baldwin sighed. The only result of this would be long hours in the saddle. To think that he had felt sympathy for the lad when he had been in gaol! He sat, glowering.

Simon stirred thoughtfully. “We saw the footprints in front of the house,” he said. “Were they going to it or leading from it?”

“What do you mean?”

“We thought he was going home
from
Trevellyn's house, but we could have been wrong. He might have gone to Trevellyn's house, killed him, then carried on toward the west on the road. Or he could have done the murder, then headed home and carried on from there. We can't be sure which.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “So those are the directions we should concentrate on. Beyond Trevellyn's place, and back this way.”

“He can't have come this way,” said a stocky man in a tough jerkin of leather and skins.

“Why not?” asked Simon, frowning.

“I'm a hunter. Mark Rush. I was up at the lane all last night between his house and here—there's been a wolf or something attacking sheep in the pens over that way—and I was sheltered there all night. When it snowed, I went into my hut, but when it was clear enough, I was out again. He never passed me.”

“Are you sure?” said Baldwin dubiously. He found that the man's eyes moved and fixed on him, curiously light and unfeeling as he spoke.

“Oh, yes. I'm sure. Nothing living passed me that night I wasn't aware of. Harry did not pass.”

Simon eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded. “In that case we should look in the woods to the north and south of the lane, especially near his house.” He thanked the woman, who passed him a platter with two eggs and a hunk of roughly torn bread. “I suggest we have three parties: one to ride to the west and look for signs, one to search for tracks in the woods north, the
last to look in the southern woods. Whoever finds anything should return here with a message to be left with the innkeeper.”

They talked a little longer about the details, but agreed to this simple plan. Baldwin and Edgar would take the western road, Simon the southern woods, and Tanner the northern. Splitting the men into three groups of four, Baldwin and Simon quickly finished their breakfast, went out to their horses, and mounted.

 

Simon was pleased to have been able to enlist the lighteyed hunter for his search. The man looked capable and confident. Although quiet and soft-spoken, he moved with an alertness and graceful ease which spoke of his skill and strength. He was older than Simon, probably nearer Baldwin's age of forty and odd, although whether he was older or younger than the knight was a different matter. The bailiff could not guess.

As they rode along to the lane leading to the Greencliff farm, Simon studied him. He wore a heavy-looking short sword by his side. There was a bow at his back and arrows in a quiver tied to the saddle over his blanket in front of him, where he could reach them quickly. Before the three groups divided, Baldwin, Simon and Tanner had held a quick conference to confirm the main plan. Whoever was to find what could be Greencliff's trail was immediately to send a messenger back to Wefford so that he could guide others there. If Simon's or Tanner's teams found no sign of the youth, they were to carry on and join Baldwin's, for it was in his direction that there were going to be the highest number of roads to search, and thus he had the greatest need of men.

With the details agreed, they had separated and made their way to the areas allocated to them for searching.

Baldwin knew, as he urged his horse into an easy lope, that his would almost certainly prove to be a wild goose chase, and reviewed the road ahead. This lane led to Greencliff Barton itself, then on up the hill to the Trevellyn house, and past it to the crossroads on the Tiverton road. Where would they go from there? Into Crediton itself? Or northeast to Tiverton? Or should they carry on west? Where would the boy have gone?

In among the trees, Simon had an easier time. At the beginning of the line of trees he had called the hunter aside. “Mark Rush, I've heard of you, even if we haven't met before.”

His eyes were a very pale gray, as if the rain and snow he lived in had washed the color from them. Set in the leathery, square face, it made him look as if the eyes were a reflection of his soul, which had been so worn with his outdoor life that it was weary now of continuing. But when the eyes fixed on the bailiff, he could see the glittering intelligence that lay behind.

“Yes, Bailiff?” His tone expressed polite interest, bordering on indifference.

“I have no idea where this boy has gone, or how to seek him. You do, you're a hunter. You're in charge: you can read his spoor if we find it, I won't be able to.”

The hunter nodded, then glanced ahead at the waiting men. “In that case, sir, we'll come out of the woods again.”

“Why?”

“It's hard going here. We'll go another half mile down the road, then go into the trees there. If he went into the trees to lose someone following him and made
a big curve, we could end up following it all the way back on ourselves. If we go in further down, we can see if he left the woods south of the village or whether he went on at all. If he didn't leave them, we know he's waiting for Tanner or the knight to find him.”

“So if we enter further on, we stand a better chance of finding him if he's there.”

He nodded. Then, apparently taking Simon's shrug to be acknowledgment of the transfer of authority, the hunter called the other two men to them and led the way down the road to the south, with Simon taking second position behind him.

When Mark Rush stopped, it was some way past the last of the houses in the village. Here Simon knew that the woods were bordered by a grassed verge before the road, but now the grass was hidden by the layer of snow. The hunter appeared to be measuring, gazing back the way they had come for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, he took his horse to the verge and on into the trees.

Following, Simon was again taken with the sudden hush, the stillness that existed inside. It was as if the troop had entered an inn as strangers, causing a void where there had been noise. Here it was as though the trees were intelligent beings who were suddenly aware of the invaders, and who were stunned into uncomprehending dumbness. He almost wanted to apologize to the towering boughs that loomed overhead for their noisy presence.

Smothering the feeling, he carried on, over the thin bracken and ferns that lay under the snow at the edge and into the woods. He was faintly surprised how thin the snow was even after only quite a short ride. Above, the trees were leafless, and he could see through the
apparently lifeless branches to the sky above, but still the ground had little more than a thin crust of snow, a mere few inches.

On the floor he could see that several animals had passed by, their prints firm and clear on the white carpet: birds, animals running purposefully in a line—twice he saw the marks of deer, with the distinctive twin crescents of their hooves. All stood out distinctly on the thin surface, and when Simon saw the attentive gaze of the hunter, seeming to notice and catalog them all in his mind, the bailiff relaxed. There was obviously no point in trying to see the tracks before Mark Rush. The man was clearly more than capable. Sighing, Simon lapsed into a private reverie.

What was Margaret doing? Probably ordering Hugh to help her with her work! He must surely be fully recovered by now, and Margaret was good at getting him to work, using the right amount of acid and sweetness in her voice to persuade him. He smiled fondly. She always did know how to get her men to do what she wanted.

That
was the kind of woman Baldwin needed, he felt sure. One who could not just excite the senses, but one who would always keep him on his toes, one who could keep his interest going. Above all, one who was intelligent. Simon was sure that the knight would need a woman who could discuss matters with him, not a pretty ornament.

The thought led him down a new and different track. What about Mrs. Trevellyn? She certainly seemed to have attracted Baldwin. Simon's lips twitched in remembered humor at the way the knight had turned in his seat to gaze back at the house as they left the day before. Yes, he had been interested!

And there was no denying her beauty, the bailiff reflected. Of course, he was more than happy with his own wife, but denying the beauty of another would be stupid and, in the light of his own devotion to Margaret, pointless. He could cheerfully confirm that he was happier with the warm and summery fair looks of his wife than he could be with the cool and wintry attraction of the brunette from France, with her calculating, green eyes, cold and deep as the sea. They were nothing like the merry, bright blue cornflower of his wife's. But still, he could appreciate her slender and willowy figure, with the long legs and tiny waist. And her flat belly, below the rich, ripe splendor of her breast, promising warmth and comfort. Yes, there was much to admire there. But was she intelligent enough for his friend?

Then suddenly the smile froze on his face as his thoughts carried on to the inevitable question: if she was clever enough, if she was capable, and if she had taken Greencliff as her lover, could she have persuaded him to kill her husband for her?

Deep in his musings, Simon nearly rode into the stationary horse of the hunter in front. Looking up, he was surprised to see that the man wore an amused grin. Thinking his humor was at his absent-mindedness, the bailiff was about to snap a quick retort when he saw that Mark Rush was pointing down at the ground.

“There he goes!”

Staring down in complete surprise—for he had not truly expected this troop to find anything—Simon saw the footprints. As the other two riders approached, he and Rush dropped down and studied them, crouching by the side of the spoor.

The hunter reached out with a tentative hand to
softly trace the nearest print, then Simon saw his eyes narrow as he glanced back to their right, the direction where the man should have come from. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and gazed the opposite way, then ruminatively down at the prints once more.

“Well?” asked Simon.

Mark Rush sniffed hard, then snorted, hawked and spat. “This is too easy. He's not trying to hide.” His brow wrinkled. “I wonder why not.”

Shrugging, Simon gave a gesture of indifference. “What does it matter? We'll find out when we've caught him.”

“Yes,” said the hunter, then grunted as he rose, a knee clicking as he moved. “Right, well I suppose we'd better get on after him. These prints're from yesterday from the look of them, they're worn. See that?” He pointed at a small round hole beside the trail. Glancing at it, Simon saw it repeated beside the footprints. “That's a walking stick. See how it hits the ground in time with his left foot, although he holds it in his right hand? He's carrying a stick, so we'd better be careful. Don't want him braining us.”

They mounted, then sent one of the men back to the inn. Before he left, Simon looked up at the sky. “How long have we been in the woods, do you think, Rush?”

Squinting at the sky, the hunter seemed to consider. “Maybe two, maybe three hours?”

“I think so too. You!” This to the waiting messenger.

“Get to the inn as quickly as you can, but then go on to Sir Baldwin—understand? Tell him too, and ask if he can send a couple more men, just in case we do have to fight to catch him.”