The Merchant's Partner (20 page)

The last wolf had followed almost on the heels of the first, but had held back when it had sprung, and now hesitated, circling the man warily. Its eyes flitted from the Bourc to Greencliff with uncertainty, and while it paused, the Bourc dropped his sword, snatched up his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and fired in one smooth action. This time he made sure of his target. The wolf dropped as if felled by a pike.

When he had stood for a minute or two, the Bourc slowly lowered his bow and sighed. Holding a fresh arrow in place, he cautiously walked to each of the figures, kicked them briefly, then strode to the perimeter of the camp and peered into the darkness. Seemingly the view satisfied him, and he sauntered back to the bodies with a low but cheerful whistle. Dropping the bow, he collected his sword and went from one body to the next, slitting the animals' throats.

Looking up, he gave a quick grin. “Always best to make sure with these evil buggers!” he said contentedly. The last thing Greencliff saw as he slowly toppled sideways was his grin slowly fading in perplexed surprise. The farmer's exhaustion had won at last.

 

Simon and the troop were mounted and ready early the next morning just after light. He felt stiff and had a kink in his back from sleeping on a bench, but it was, as he knew, a great deal better than how he would have felt if they had tried to sleep out in the open.

They were soon back at the trail and Mark Rush began his careful perusal of the prints once more. He was convinced that today they would find a corpse at the end of the trail. It was easy to see why.

The steps were almost like a pair of long lines with deeper indentations where the boots had dropped. Between the footprints were scraping drag marks where the man had been too tired to lift his feet. Simon had no doubt that Mark Rush was right. The boy had little chance of surviving.

When they had been riding for an hour, they came across the flat area where the boy had lain. After this the steps changed direction, seeming to stagger and falter into the trees, and they found the byre. Dropping from their horses, Tanner and Mark Rush slowly drew their swords and walked in, half expecting to find Greencliff's body. While they searched, Simon glanced around at the snow nearby, then gave a cry.

“There're more prints!”

Mark Rush came out, his face expressionless, and followed the bailiff's pointing finger. To Simon he seemed to doubt what he saw. He stood staring down, his head shaking in disbelief, then he sighed and walked back, putting his sword away as he walked. “He lived to rest, then. He must have made it to the moors.”

The weather was not so cold this morning, and a dampness had set in. The trees overhead occasionally dropped great clods of ice and snow, occasionally hitting one of the men. Riding along, the men were all warm enough. Even at a slow trotting pace, the exercise kept them glowing with an internal warmth, and Simon was grateful for the slight breeze.

They found that the tracks kept them going almost straight southwest, so Simon knew that they were going toward the moors. It would not be long before they were out of the trees and on the moors themselves. There they would be certain to find the boy.

 

Margaret had passed an uncomfortable night, and she rose late to find that Baldwin had already left the house. She spent an idle morning wondering what Simon was doing and where he was. She had not been overly concerned when they had not arrived on the first evening, and she was quite sure that he would be safe, but still felt an occasional twinge of concern.

She picked up her tapestry and managed almost half an hour of work before she tossed it aside impatiently, startling the old woman's dog. “Sorry, it's not your fault,” she said apologetically, holding out her hand and snapping her fingers, but the dog stared at her with unblinking accusation before meaningfully standing, stretching, then lying down once more near the fire, this time with his back to her. She grinned at the obvious rejection, then rose and walked out to the front.

Here she found Edgar supervising other servants splitting logs for the fires. He looked up and gave her a welcoming smile as she emerged into the sunlight, blinking at the sudden glare.

“Morning, Edgar,” she said, peering at the horizon with a hand shielding her eyes.

“Hello, my lady.”

“Has Baldwin gone far?”

He shot her a quick glance, then she was sure she caught a glimpse of a grin as he turned back to the men at the logs. “I'm sure he won't be too long, madam.”

This was puzzling. She had never seen any sign of the humor from the normally taciturn servant, and she suddenly wanted to know where the knight had gone. “Walk with me a while, Edgar. I'm very bored.”

Looking up, he considered, but then he nodded and, after issuing instructions to the men, walked to her. “Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, just down the lane.”

They set off in companionable silence, but once they were out of earshot, she gave him a quick look. “So where has he gone?”

His expression was wooden. “Just into Wefford, I think.”

“Why? And why was he in such an odd mood last night when you returned?”

“Odd mood, madam?” He turned guileless eyes on her.

“You know he was. He would hardly talk to me. Every time he opened his mouth he got embarrassed. I thought he must have done something foolish.”

He smiled and she suddenly stopped in amazement as a flash of intuition suddenly blazed and she caught her breath. The knight's embarrassment, his apparent shyness, his servant's amusement, all pointed to one thing in her mind.

“It's not a woman! He hasn't found a woman!”

“Madam, I didn't tell you that!” said the servant earnestly, but still with the smile transforming his features.

“But
who
?” She gasped with delight—and a little surprise.

“Ah,” he turned to the view with a slight frown.

“Mrs. Trevellyn.”

“So you think he's gone to see her?” she asked doubtfully, and he spun to face her with horror on his face.

“No, madam, no. He wouldn't do that. Not when she's only just lost her husband. No. I think he's gone out to decide whether he ought to even think about a wife.”

 

The servant was right. Baldwin was riding slowly, his peregrine on his wrist, but his mind several miles away.

“After all,” he thought, “there are conventions. The poor woman has just lost her husband. She might not want to even think about another man until her mourning period is over.”

He sighed. That was not the point, and he knew it. She was so desirable, especially now when she appeared so vulnerable. Her expression on hearing of the manhunt had made him want to hold her and comfort her, she had looked so scared. Clearly she feared for herself while her husband's killer was free, in case he might return.

For her to have heard the cruel gossip about her and a local farmer must have been painfully wounding, and to have then lost her husband seemed a vicious turn of fate. But if nothing else, Baldwin was at least now sure that she was innocent of adultery. A wanton could surely never have shown such emotion. And if the malicious rumors were untrue, she would make a wonderful wife for a knight.

It was so attractive the way that she licked her lips after sipping at a drink. So provocative, somehow.

“This is ridiculous!” he muttered viciously and glared balefully at the bird on his wrist. “Why should I even think that she'd…It's not as if I have huge wealth or titles…”

He broke off as his mind mischievously brought a picture of her to him. Of her sitting at the fireplace in the warm and comfortable solar, the long black hair falling down her back, her eyes so green and bright, staring him full in the face with her red lips parted a little, as if she was close to panting, and he smiled fondly again.

S
o, you're awake now, are you?”

“Ah.” No words could convey the same anguish and pain as the simple, soft and quiet groan that broke from Harold Greencliff's lips as he tried to sit up. Moaning gently, he rolled on to his side and peered through slitted eyes at the man who stood looking down at him with grave concern. When he opened his mouth, it felt as if there was a week of dried saliva encrusted around his lips, and he winced as his skin cracked.

“Keep quiet, friend. Sit back. You can't go anywhere.”

As his eyes began to focus, Greencliff stared at him. He was dressed in thick and warm-looking woollen clothes, his tunic woven of heavy cloth and his cloak lined with fur. He must be a wealthy man.

His face was arresting. Swarthy and weather-beaten, square and wrinkled, it seemed as rugged as the rocks around them. Two gleaming black eyes gazed back at the farmer with interest under a thick mop of deep brown hair. Although there were lines of laughter at the eyes, now they contained only concern, and Greencliff realized what a sorry figure he must appear. Then, as
the memories returned, he felt a sob rack his body in a quick shudder of self-pity.

“Calm yourself. Drink this.”

The liquid was almost scalding hot, but he thought he had never tasted anything so wonderful. It was a warmed wine fit for the king himself, Greencliff thought. Though he sipped carefully, it still seared the flesh around his mouth and burned a trail down his throat, seeming to form a solid, scalding lump in his stomach. Meanwhile his host crouched and watched.

After a few moments, Greencliff took stock of his surroundings. He was in a cave of some sort. Outside, through a small doorway, he could see the fire, whose heat wafted in with the smell of burning wood. He was lying on a straw palliasse with his blanket over him, and his new friend had clearly let him sleep on his own bed because a roll and blanket on the floor showed where he had slept.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” At the question, the farmer felt his stomach wake to turbulent life as if it had been hibernating until then, and a low rumbling started to shake his weakened frame. The man gave a short laugh. “Good. I'll have some stew ready in a little while. I have bread too, so don't worry about losing your own food.”

An hour later he felt well enough to rise from the mattress and walk outside to where the man crouched by the fire, meditatively breaking twigs and branches to feed the flames. He looked up as Greencliff came out, bent double to save himself from hitting his head at the low entrance.

“How're you feeling now?” the Bourc asked.

Wincing, Greencliff sat warily on a rock near the
fire. “A lot better. I'm very grateful, if you hadn't helped me, I'd be dead.”

“One day, I might need help, and I hope that I will be protected as I protected you.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm called John, the Bourc de Beaumont.”

“You are not from here?” It was an innocent question, and the farmer was surprised by the laugh it brought.

“No! No, I come from far away, from Gascony. I would not live
here
from choice!”

Greencliff nodded, morosely staring at the moors all round. “I can understand that!” he said. “So, why are you here?”

Grimacing, the Bourc explained about his decision to cross the moors. “The wolves chased me here, and I was attacked by one—night before last, that was. I killed it, but I got little sleep, so I chose to stay here for another day. Anyway, I thought it was easier to defend myself here. If they catch you on horseback, they'll chase you' til your horse drops.”

“Why were they trying to attack you? Are they just evil?” asked the farmer, shivering at the memory of the slavering mouths tearing at his belongings.

“No, not really. It is just the way they are. They saw me—and you—as a meal, that's all. There is not enough food for them right now. They thought we'd be easy enough to catch.” He almost shuddered at the memory. The way that the beast had leaped at him had terrified him. In his mind's eye he could still see the jaws opening and smell the foul breath. In that moment he had been sure he was about to die.

The fear had almost caused his death. It slowed his reactions, so that the huge creature had almost suc
ceeded in tearing his neck with its wickedly curved fangs, just missing and slashing his shoulder. The pain had woken him to his danger, and turning quickly, he had stabbed deep, again and again, in a fit of mad panic.

Afterward he had built the fire and waited, nursing his shoulder, but they had chosen not to attack again. The next day they were still there, and he had kept an eye on them as he sat and kept warm.

He glanced up shrewdly. “So why are you here? Who or what are you running from?”

“Me?” His start of surprise seemed to strike the Gascon as comical.

“Yes: you! Nobody who knows this place would come here to the moors in the snow unless they had a good reason. Especially at night. It's a good way to make sure of death, but nothing else. Who are you running from?”

“I…” He paused. There was no reason to doubt his grim-faced savior, but the truth was, he had no wish to admit to his guilt. Opening his mouth to speak, he found the breath catching in his throat again, and he had to keep silent. The sob was too close. He gave a small cough, an involuntary spasm that could have been from misery or joy, and covered his face in his hands.

“You've been through pain, I can see that,” said the Bourc matter-of-factly, finishing his wine. With his eyes on his guest, his mind ran through the items he had found from the satchel. A little food the wolves had left, a flint and a knife. A long-bladed ballock knife: a single-edged blade with two globular lumps where the wooden grip met it, held in a leather sheath. When he had found it, he had been going to return it,
but then he had wondered. If this boy was an outlaw, if he was escaping from justice of some sort, it might be better to keep his knife back for now. “Of course,” he thought, “if he wants to tell me what made him leave, I can give it back. But not yet. Not quite yet.”

It wasn't just the distrust of a man for a stranger in these difficult times. It was also the thick clots he had found on the blade, the dried brown mess of blood.

 

“Wait here!” Mark Rush ordered as he dropped from his horse. He wandered slowly and carefully round the little dip in the ground, following the line of staggering footprints. “Yes, he was here. He walked up here, tripped and fell. There's the mark where he lay. Looks like he got up and then began to make a fire. Not much of one, though.” Kneeling, he sniffed contemplatively at the blackened twigs. “Not enough to keep him warm for more than a minute. He sat here.”

Rising, he stood and stared at the ground for a minute, hands on hips as he considered. Glancing up at the bailiff's face, he shrugged. “Didn't wait long, from the look of it. Seems like he made his fire, sat by it for a bit—not for long—and went on.”

“Fine. Let's get on after him, then.”

Tanner ambled forward. “One minute, bailiff. Mark? How was he when he left here?”

The hunter pulled his mouth into a down-curving crescent of dubious pessimism. “Put it like this: I wouldn't gamble on his chances. I'd rather put my money on a legless, wingless cock in a fighting ring.”

Nodding, Tanner glanced back at the men behind, then at the bailiff. “Sir, we may as well send the others back. The three of us are enough to catch him, even if he's well. The way things are, all we'll need is a horse
to bring his body home.” When Simon nodded, Tanner turned to the men, telling them to return. The bailiff instructing one to ensure that a message went to the inn, to be passed on to Simon's wife, to say that they were well. Not that it mattered much, as Tanner knew. There was little hope that they could find the boy alive now. They should be able to return home before long.

As they set off again, leaving at last the line of trees and beginning to make their way on to the moors, he found himself reflecting sadly on the last Greencliff. Tanner had known him since he was a boy.

Good-looking since he was a child, he had always been able to win apples from the women in the village while young. As he had grown, he had kept his innocent charm, and then he had taken other gifts—or so it was rumored. Why, even Sarah Cottey was supposed to have carried on with him recently, and she was only the last in a long series. The boy was lucky to have lived so long without getting a thrashing from an enraged father or brother!

Murder was a long way from enjoying a woman's embrace, though, he mused. Just because a man was popular with the local girls did not make him a killer. It was different, as the constable knew, with soldiers. He had witnessed enough rapings and people having their lives taken quickly or slowly to know the difference between the brutal and the gentle taking of a woman. Harold had only ever been kind with his women, which was why none had ever denounced him to their families. All still liked him. Even Sarah Cottey—she was infatuated with him.

But love was possessive, and perhaps that was why the boy had found the courage to kill, stabbing Trevellyn in a jealous fit so that he could have the woman he
wanted. If so, that did not answer why the youth should have killed the witch, though. The reason behind
that
was still a mystery. Tanner dawdled behind the others as the thoughts drifted through his mind, making him scowl darkly as he stared with unseeing eyes at the ground.

At a sudden gasp from the hunter in front, he kicked his horse and rode forward to where Simon and Mark Rush stood pensively gazing down at a mess of confused prints.

“Looks like he walked to here, then fell,” said the hunter. He peered up the shallow slope to a small group of tors huddled together as if for warmth on the top of the hill. “Wolves were about, but he managed to get up there.”

“Let's see if he's still there, then,” said the bailiff, and they began to make their way up the slight incline.

Tanner stayed at the back again at first, but then he shrugged and put the thoughts from his mind. If he was alive, they would be sure to find out as soon as they caught him. There was no point in speculating.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

The call made them all stop and cautiously glare at the rocks before them. Then Simon tentatively rode forward a couple of yards. “Is that
you,
Greencliff?'

“No.” There was a dry chuckle. Then there was a movement above them, and they saw what had appeared to be a boulder detach itself from the tor and spring lightly to the ground before them.

For a moment they contemplated him in silence, then Simon rode forward a pace or two. The man held himself alert and had the look of a fighting man, but did not look as though he was dangerous. Merely wary at the sight of three strangers out here in the wild.

Glancing to his side, Simon saw that Rush had come up alongside.

“I know this man,” the hunter muttered. “I saw him trotting away from Wefford the day the witch was killed.”

Simon nodded, then looked back to the Gascon. “Good morning, friend. I am a bailiff. We are hunting an outlaw, a man who is running from justice. His feet led us here—have you seen him?” He gave a brief description.

“He is not here now,” said the Bourc.

“What do you mean? Have you seen him?” Simon asked eagerly.

The Bourc put his head to one side thoughtfully as he peered up at the bailiff. “I have, but he did not seem to be an outlaw. I gave him a place to sleep last night. He was here with me, but he left some time ago. Come to my camp, I will show you the path he took and you can warm yourselves by my fire for a while,” he said quietly, and, turning, led the way to the ring of old stones that stood at the summit, just under the tor.

To Simon it looked like an enclosure. It was about fifteen paces across and roughly circular, lined with boulders of the local gray granite, with here and there a patch of orange or brown lichen peeping out from under a thatch of snow. At one side was a pile of the Gascon's tools and belongings, with, beside them, his pony and a small packhorse. To the right, beyond a fire of fresh kindling, was a low gap in the rocks of the tor. Near the fire were the carcasses of two wolves, freshly skinned, the flesh clean and glistening with silver where the membranes held the muscles. The pelts were stretched on wooden frames nearby. Simon walked to
them and kicked one corpse thoughtfully while their host strode to the fire and crouched contemplatively in front of it.

“So he was here. Where did he go?” he asked.

Looking up, he saw the Bourc grin. “Oh, yes. He was here.” With a jerk of his chin, he pointed toward the middle of the moors. “He left about an hour ago, just as you all appeared through the trees. Made an excuse and ran for it. He won't have gone far.”

“Right!” Mark Rush tugged his horse's reins, pulling it over to the far side of the enclosure, Tanner following, while Simon stood and looked out in the direction John had shown. There, clear against the white background, were the footsteps. Now they were more purposeful, each step defined as an individual print without the dragging lines where the feet seemed too heavy to lift above the crust of snow. As he looked, he became aware of the man at his side.

“What are you after him for?”

“Murder. He's killed two people.”

“Really?” The note of sadness made Simon turn to him with an eyebrow raised. “I'm sorry, Bailiff. It just seems so unlikely, he is a pleasant enough lad.”

“It seems he's killed a man and a woman. Both over the last week.”

There was a brief pause, then the black eyes met Simon's in a frown. “How did he kill them?”

“He cut their throats.”

The Bourc sighed, then told him of the bloodstained ballock dagger. When he had finished, the bailiff stared after the men on their horses, now riding slowly away after the fugitive. “That more or less proves it, doesn't it?” he said musingly.