The Merchant's Partner (19 page)

“No need to worry about that, sir,” said Mark Rush, indicating his bow with a jerk of his thumb.

“I'd prefer to take him alive, Rush. We'll avoid any unnecessary violence.”

“Yes. I'll avoid unnecessary violence, but I'll use any that
is
necessary,” he said meaningfully.

The three rode on in file now. There was no real need for a hunter to follow this trail. If the man had wanted to leave an invitation his path could not have been more easy to detect. It straggled on, winding unnecessarily round shrubs and saplings, sometimes seeming to halt, both feet placed together, and then starting out afresh. Once or twice Simon felt sure that the man must have stumbled or tripped. At one point there was a definite mark where he had fallen, and the outline of his body remained, his hands making deep prints in the snow, looking strangely sad, as if they were all that remained of him.

Simon shivered. It was curious, but he felt a kind of sympathy with this man, for no reason he could fathom. Perhaps it was merely empathy for the hunted creature? He had felt that once before, when, as a boy, he had watched a deer at bay, the hounds snapping at it, the animal's eyes rolling in his terror, knowing that he was about to die. Then, when the huntsmen had egged on the dogs, and the deer had fallen, legs flailing uselessly, beneath the pack, Simon had felt the same sadness. It was not for the hunt itself, but for the inevitability of the end. For that buck it had been death at the teeth of the hounds. For Harold Greencliff it would be the slow strangling as he was hauled up the gibbet by the rope around his neck.

With a shrug, he concentrated on the trail again. Had the boy given any compassion to the witch? Or to the man he murdered? The bailiff doubted it.

 

It was getting close to dark when the man at the back of the troop called out, and Baldwin had been getting short-tempered long before that.

Their ride had been slow and painstaking, searching carefully along the lane, with Edgar on one side and the knight on the other, both looking for tracks that could have been left by the farmer, but they found nothing. Baldwin had even insisted on going into the sheep's pasture to see whether they could find a trail there leading into the woods, but the sheep had trampled the whole area and scraped at the surface to get at the grass underneath so effectively that there was nothing that the two men could find.

Carrying on, they had slowly worked their way along the lane, up to the Trevellyn house and beyond, and Baldwin had managed to throw it only the most cursory of glances, preventing himself from staring and searching for the extraordinary beauty of Angelina Trevellyn. It was not purely his willpower that stopped him. It was the raised eyebrow and sardonic smile on Edgar's face when he happened to catch the servant's eye.

As he turned back to the road ahead, he wore an expression of vague perplexity. The look from Edgar showed more clearly than any words just how obvious his interest in the woman was. Baldwin was no fool. If it was that obvious to Edgar, it would surely be as clear to others who knew him.

His problem was, he did not know what his feelings were. Was it just sympathy for a woman recently widowed? He slumped in his saddle as he tried to analyze his emotions. Although there was a sense of lust, that was hardly enough to explain his desire to see her again. It was quite a poignant sensation, one that he
had never experienced before. Was it normal to feel like this after such a brief introduction? Who could he speak to about it? Edgar?

They had almost arrived at the end of the road, and Baldwin was debating which direction to take, when the call came. Stopping his troop, they waited, and soon saw the figure of Simon's messenger.

After hearing the message, Baldwin looked at the two men in his squad. “You two go back. Find Tanner and tell him he can call off his hunt, then go back with this man and join the bailiff and the hunter.”

There was a little grumbling, but they finally agreed, and Edgar and the knight sat on their horses and watched as the three disappeared round the curve in the road. Then Baldwin sighed and flicked his reins, setting off at a slow walk, his servant behind.

“Well?”

Edgar grinned at the gruff word, and at the implied question. “Sir?”

“What do you think?” Baldwin had stopped his horse and now sat frowning at Edgar with his brow wrinkled in perplexity. “Of Mrs. Trevellyn, I mean?”

“Mrs. Trevellyn? A very beautiful lady. And very marriageable, I would think, with the money she must have. Her dowry would be high, I imagine.” He maintained a wooden and blank expression.

“Yes, but should I…? Well, for a woman who's husband's just been killed? She's hardly begun her mourning. Should I…?”

“I'm sure if you catch her husband's murderer she'll be very pleased. And grateful, sir.”

As Baldwin wheeled his horse and set off, his face purposeful once more, he could not contain his glee. That the capture of Alan Trevellyn's killer would de
light her had not occurred to him, and now he could tell her that they had found the trail. He squared his shoulders. He must go to her at once to tell her.

Not having to search continually for tracks made their return along the road a great deal faster, although the snow was thick enough to ensure that they must exercise caution. They could not risk going so fast that their horses might slip on ice or on a hardened rut of frozen mud.

At the turn-off to the house, they slowed and ascended the hill at a walk. It was strange, Baldwin thought, that from here, outside, there was no sign of the sadness that inevitably follows the death of the master. Smoke still issued cheerily from chimneys, there were sounds of shouting and woodcutting from behind the property, and if he did not know of the death, he would have thought that nothing had happened here.

When they had dismounted and tied up their horses, Baldwin thumped on the door. It was soon opened by the same young maid whom they had seen on the day before, but now, the knight noticed, she had undergone a transformation. Whereas before she had appeared timid and fearful, now she seemed gay as she opened the door, smiling as she recognized the men waiting, and he found himself grinning in return.

She led them through to the hall again, where the fire blazed in enthusiastic welcome. Striding in, the knight and his man stood warming themselves by the fire while the maid left to go into the solar at the back of the dais. After a few moments, she returned, indicating that they should follow her, and they soon found themselves in a warm and comfortable family room with another roaring fire. Sitting on a bench nearby was
Mrs. Trevellyn, sewing quietly at a tapestry, and she glanced up questioningly as the two men entered.

At the sight of her cool green eyes, Baldwin felt the blood begin to thunder in his veins. She looked so soft and vulnerable, so warm and defenseless, he wanted to gather her up in his arms and gentle her. The feeling was so strong that he stood for a moment and stared, taking in her slim and languid dark beauty. It was impossible to suspect her of being involved in the murder of the old woman, let alone the killing of her own husband. He felt quite certain of that now. But when her eyes met his, he was sure that he could see a quick impatience, and at the sight he dropped into a chair, waving Edgar out to the hall. Her maid followed, so they were soon left alone.

With a sigh she set her needlework aside and subjected him to a pensive, detailed study. “So, Sir Baldwin. You wanted to see me?” Her voice was low and calm.

“Yes.” Now he was here, he realized that raising the death of her husband was going to be difficult. Mentioning Alan Trevellyn must recall to her the pain of seeing his twisted body out on the hill among the trees. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Mrs. Trevellyn, I know it must be very hard for you, but we have been fortunate in our search for your husband's killer.”

An eyebrow rose, and he was sure he could see a skeptical smile form. “Really? And how is this?”

“After the death of Agatha Kyteler, we found some evidence that a local man might have been involved, and when we went to see him, he had disappeared. Harold Greencliff. We went to see him yesterday, but he has gone again. Run away. But we have found his trail, and…”

Her eyes had widened, as if in great surprise, and a hand raised to her throat. “Harold?” Her voice quavered, suddenly weak.

“It looks like he ran away almost immediately after the killing of your husband, lady. We have sent a search party after him. The men are following his tracks in the woods. My friend the bailiff is there, and he should soon bring the boy back to be tried for the murder. Lady? Are you all right?”

She had dropped her face into her hands, as if about to weep, and the knight leaned forward a little, his hand held out tentatively, longing to touch her and try to calm her, but he let his hand fall. He dared not.

After a minute or two, she cleared her throat and looked into the flames.

“Lady? Can I fetch you anything?”

Looking at her, he was struck by the fresh sadness in her eyes, and his heart went out to her for feeling sympathy for the young farmer, even if it was misplaced. But then her eyes returned to his, and he could plainly see the fear in their emerald depths. It was that which made him stiffen with a sudden cold doubt. This was not just womanly compassion for a hunted villein. She was scared for herself.

D
amn this snow!”

They had managed to follow the tracks all around the perimeter of Crediton, Mark Rush staying in among the trees, stumbling over the bracken and thin, straggling shrubs at the very edge so that he could follow the footprints while the others rode on happily in the clear area that bounded the town, listening with amusement to his muttered curses. Every time he passed too close to a tree and jogged its branches, more snow fell on him, causing another outburst.

It was not until they had passed round the town and were at the south that the trail began to turn away from the others. Rush was no fool, and he knew that if he was the fugitive he would try to confuse any pursuers. He might double back when it was not expected, or find a stream where he could travel without his prints being seen and where no hound could detect a scent, although it would be dangerous and painful to do that now with the waters frozen. What else could he do? Leave tracks and then make a trap?

These were the thoughts that kept forcing their way
into his mind as he followed the prints slowly making their way south. “Bailiff?”

At the call, Simon left his horse with the last man and wandered into the trees. “Yes?”

Pointing, the hunter glowered at the ground. “He's going south now. It's late. We can try to carry on after him if you want, but I reckon we'd be better off finding somewhere to lie up for the night and get on after him in the morning.”

Simon nodded. Already the sky was darkening, and it would soon be difficult to see the prints. They had seen a farm not long before, in a new assart to the east, so they made their way to it, and were soon sitting before a fire, eating their cured meats and drinking wine. The farmer had been concerned to have three well-armed men appear at first, and had nervously fingered his dagger, until Simon explained who they were, and then he had agreed with alacrity to allow them to use his hall. As he said, if there was a killer on the loose, he would be safer with them in his house.

The house possessed a large hall, with the animals segregated by a fence, and there was plenty of space even when the constable arrived with two men. He had sent the other members of his party to their homes when he had received the message about the spoor. There seemed little point in having so many men to chase one.

They had arrived within an hour of Simon's group finishing their meal, complaining bitterly at having to track not only the outlaw but also Simon's troop to the farmhouse, and sat in front of the fire until the snow melted and steam began to rise from their clothes. The farmer bustled around enthusiastically, giving them pots of ale and cider from his buttery and providing
extra blankets for those who needed them. In one corner was a table with a bench at either side, and here the constable, the hunter and the bailiff sat.

Tanner chewed meditatively at a loaf as he eyed the other two. “So you're sure we're on the right trail?”

Mark Rush and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Then the hunter nodded. “Yes, I'm sure. We picked up the tracks leading away from the lane by his house, like he was avoiding the roads. When it came to Crediton, like you saw, he avoided the town and kept going.”

“It doesn't make much sense, though,” the constable mused.

“What doesn't?” asked Simon.

“Well, he's heading south like he's thought it all out and decided to run away, but I didn't see any sign of a fire. Did you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So I suppose he must be trying to cover as much ground as possible before resting. We've come at least twelve miles or so already. He could have gone another seven or eight before he needed to stop.”

“Yes,” the hunter agreed. “He's all right. He can go at his own pace. We have to make sure we can follow his tracks, so we can only work with the sun.”

Nodding, Tanner glanced at the bailiff. “Where do you think he'll be going?”

“I've no idea. I can only assume he's heading for the coast, but he's taking a great risk.”

“Yes. He's heading for the moors. If he keeps going, he'll end up as feed for the crows.”

Mark Rush glanced up from his pot. “Won't take long. Way he's going, he'll be dead before he gets to the moors themselves if he's not careful.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Simon.

“The way he's going. His walking's all stumbling and tripping, like he's drunk. I think he'll be lucky if he makes it to the moors. I don't know, but I think tomorrow we may find his body.”

 

Greencliff was not dead, though he was frozen to the bone. He was sitting in a small depression in the ground, a tiny natural shelter, with a little fire cheerfully throwing small shadows. But it was not enough to warm him. There was an absence of tinder, and he had been forced to make do with some green branches snapped from a tree which cast little heat. Now he sat shivering, gloomily considering a dismal future, huddled under his blanket.

There was no doubt in his mind. If he did not find somewhere warm where he could rest and eat hot food, he would freeze. His teeth chattered like a sour reminder of his predicament. There must be somewhere here for him to beg a warm place to sit. And a bowl of soup.

Here he was just inside the edge of a forest, although he was not sure where. At either side of the depression the trees marched away into the distance, while in front, to the south, the land was bare and barren: Dartmoor. He had never been this far south before—there had never been reason to come here—and the view of the rolling hills ahead was awesome. There was no definition to them. One hillock merged into another, the series of flattened peaks seeming almost to be one great, flat plain. But when he strained his eyes, he could see variations in the gray ness. There was a long patch of darker ground sweeping across from his left, leading on to the horizon, there was a series of whiter areas on the hill tops where the moon lighted them.
And between them he could just make out the shading that showed where valleys lay.

Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes with fingers that were swiftly losing all feeling. He was tired out, completely exhausted, as if his very soul was drained. It had taken the last tiny sparks of defiance to light the fire, because all he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep. It would be so good to shut his eyes and drift off for a time, to let the drowsiness steal over him and give him some peace, some real peace, such as he had not known since he put the witch's body in the hedge. If only he had immediately buried her. Why had he gone indoors to sleep and not hidden her away at once?

Just then he noticed a small star and, for some reason, his eyes were drawn to it. There was something wrong with it. Frowning and wincing, he stared, trying to focus, to see what was different about it. There were several other stars above it. They all seemed about the same size, so it was not that. What was it? There was certainly something strange about it. It looked like it was flickering, as if maybe a cloud was passing in front of it—but there were no clouds, or he would see them in the moonlight. He felt a quick, stabbing fear rise in his breast: fear of ghosts, of the demons of the moors that he had heard about. His breath caught in his throat as he thought of the stories about ghouls wandering, trying to capture men to take to hell. If Agatha had a pact with the devil, like they said at Wefford, then she would be capable of sending one for him.

Then the panic fell, as quickly as the blanket from his shoulders as he suddenly lurched to his feet, his face white in the dark as he stared, his breath catching in his throat.

It was a fire!

There was no choice to make. If he stayed still, even with his little fire, he would die. That much was obvious. The cold was too severe, the shelter too exposed and his clothes too damp from his sweat and from the occasional clumps of snow landing on him and melting. With a last, longing stare at the weak flames, he recognized that they offered no safety and no chance of survival. The fire would be sure to go out if he slept. The twigs and branches he had managed to collect were too damp to stay lighted and would need constant attention. No, he had no choice.

Leaving the fire to die, he hefted his pack and stick and began to make his way toward the flickering light ahead. He could not tell how far away it was, but it looked as though it was something over a mile. It appeared to be quite high on a hill, which was why he had mistaken it at first for a star.

There was little wind, only a slight breeze, and he made good headway at first. The snow was not deep, and the ground beneath felt solid and fairly flat with few stones or holes. But then, after only a few hundred yards, it became more difficult.

It started when he tripped and fell headlong. Gasping with horror, he rose, his face and head smothered in the white, clinging powder. That was not the worst: under the surface apparently there was a stream, and his legs were soaked with freezing water. He must keep moving, to try to keep warm; to stay alive.

With a new resolution, he set off again at a faster pace, his forehead wrinkled with the concentration of his effort, straining with determination. He would not die—he must not!

The ground now was worse. It was broken, with granite stones liberally sprinkled under the white cov
ering, which now itself became a serious obstacle, not only hampering his movements but hiding the stones beneath. He could hardly move more than a few yards without stumbling, and he was so tired he would inevitably fall.

At one point he felt that he would never reach the fire. After yet another tumble, as he lay sobbing in frustration, he lifted his head to find that the rising land before him hid the flames, as if its promise of warmth and rest had been snatched away as he approached.

Gasping with the effort, he slowly rose to his feet and began to carry on, the breath shuddering in his throat in a continual, weeping groan, his face turned toward the fire. All his energy was gone. His boots kept striking rocks, and his toes were bruised, creating a blunted, numbed ache of pain that managed to seep over even the dulled senses of his frost-bitten feet. His stick grew heavier with each step, and the energy used to lift it and place it down, lift it and place it down, sapped his failing resources, but he kept hold of it as if it was a talisman offering some support and strength of its own.

He breasted the hill and could see the fire again more clearly. Standing still for a moment, he savored the sight as he caught his breath. It lay under an overhanging rock, at the entrance, apparently, of a cave, and the cheerful flames beckoned to him, promising peace. His breath caught in his throat, and he was not sure whether to laugh or sob. Letting his breath out in a great sighing gasp, he started off again, down the slight incline to the bottom, then up the other side to the fire, to safety and warmth.

It was when he was almost at the upward slope that he heard the howling. The voices of wolves calling to each other—and realized that
he
was their quarry.

“I think you'd better get up here a little faster,” came a contemplative voice from above. “They sound a bit hungry!”

The rest of the way was a mad scramble up the hillside. He dropped his staff, his satchel fell from his shoulder, pulling his blanket with it, and it may have been this that saved him.

As he reached the top of the slope he slipped and fell, slithering face-first into a depression ringed by rocks. Behind him he heard a sudden snarling and snapping, and when he managed to rise, staring with terror, he saw four wolves tearing and ripping at his package and attacking his blanket. They had attacked his belongings rather than following and attacking him immediately.

Suddenly his legs gave way and he fell to his knees in petrified horror at the thought that the animals could have been on
him,
their teeth at his throat, their hot breath in his nostrils as they tore at him, savaging him like the bag they had just ripped apart. He gave a small cry, and was faintly surprised by how high and childish it sounded. Then he saw them turn.

“Ah, they'll be coming here now.” The Bourc spoke calmly. After years of hunting wolves in Gascony, he knew how to defend himself, and now he watched carefully—he was prepared for them. Before him was a handful of arrows, their points in the ground, standing like a makeshift fence. When he gave Greencliff a quick, appraising glance, the farmer saw his dark eyes glittering in the shadow under his hood as the firelight caught them.

The Bourc gave him a nod, then pointed to the fire with his chin. “You get back. Warm yourself. Don't think you'll be any help right now.” He turned back to
the scene below, pulling an arrow from the ground and nocking it on his bowstring, his hands moving with the assurance of long practice.

Greencliff felt his head move in slow acceptance, and he began to walk, stumbling in his tiredness and chill. His limbs felt leaden, his head heavy, and he moved as if in a dream, his feet moving automatically like heavy metal weights in a great machine. But as he got to the fire he heard a roar, and spinning round, saw a huge animal streak forward. The bowman seemed to stand still, the wolf running straight for him, and then there was a thrumming sound and the wolf fell, an arrow in his head.

Even as he seated a fresh arrow on the bow and drew it back, two more of the evil-looking animals appeared, but they were undecided, slinking from side to side at the edge of the camp like cavalry trying to see a weakness in a line of foot-soldiers, while the Bourc's arrow-tip followed them.

With a snarl as if to boost flagging spirits, both streaked forward, and the Bourc hesitated a moment, as if unsure which to attack. Then, quickly drawing the bowstring again, he let his arrow fly at the leading animal, but perhaps in his haste, perhaps because of the darkness, his shot missed its mark.

To Greencliff's horror, the wolves rushed on, and one of them launched itself at his savior's throat. To his astonishment, he saw the man fall back, one arm held up to protect his neck, and the wolf caught his arm in its mouth, his leap carrying the man backward. But almost as soon as the man had dropped, he rolled, then sprang back to his feet. The farmer's shocked eyes shot to the figure of the wolf, which lay shuddering as it died, and when he looked back at the Bourc, he saw the
short sword in his hands, now flashing and glinting as it dripped red in the firelight.