The Merchant's Partner (3 page)

The innkeeper nodded and smiled before turning to
fetch the drink and warm it, while the Bourc led his horses round to the stables, rubbing them down and setting out hay and water before making his way indoors. He smiled at the smell of fresh rushes, soft as the scent of hay on a summer's evening, and the promise of warmth from the burning wood at the hearth. There was a cheering tang from the beer in the pot over the flames. Sighing with pleasure, he waited silently while the innkeeper busied himself pouring the hot and spiced drink into a mug, and took it with a sigh of sheer delight. It was almost painfully lovely after the cold discomfort of the ride here. He gazed deep into the depths of the liquid before sipping, and a slow smile spread over his face.

“Am I heading the right way for Furnshill manor?”

“Yes, sir. It is only a few miles north of here.”

“Good. Good,” he said and sipped. Then, “Tell me, do you know the people of this area well?” The innkeeper nodded. Of course he did—who else would know the local community as well as the publican, his baffled expression implied. “Do you know where I can find a woman, an old woman called Agatha Kyteler?”

To the Bourc, it looked as though the man suddenly caught his breath, and his expression became suspicious. “Why do you want to know about her?”

Before he could answer there was a bellow, and both men's eyes went to the door. The innkeeper sighed and rose, leaving the Bourc alone, sipping at his drink and considering the innkeeper's reaction. The man had been distrustful for some reason when her name had been mentioned, he reflected, and he offered up a quick prayer that his fear of arriving too late was not going to be realized, that she had not died.

He had turned to stare at the flames as he mused and
thus did not at first notice that he was no longer alone. It was the waft of flowery scent that made him look up, and when he did he gaped in awe.

The woman who stood nearby tugging her gloves off was beautiful. She was only a little shorter than him and about the same age, with a slender body clad in a light green tunic under a gray riding cloak, and when she glanced at him, he saw that the color of her eyes almost matched her dress. High-cheeked and with pale features, she looked frail at first sight, but as he mumbled an apology and lurched to his feet he saw that it was an illusion. Her figure was strong and supple as a whip.

“Madam, please be seated,” he said, and she turned to him. He found that she had a disconcertingly intense gaze. The way she stared, it was if she was concentrating her whole being on him, looking him full in the face with a strange stillness. After what felt like several minutes, she gave a faint smile and inclined her head, sitting on the bench he had moved for her, then unclasping the gray cloak from her throat and, with a short shrug, letting it fall. The Bourc had just sat with her when another man entered.

Glancing round, the Bourc saw a barrel-chested man in his late forties or early fifties. From his breadth and peculiar, rolling gait, the knight needed no flash of intuition to guess that he must have been a sailor. The life at sea had stamped itself on him too heavily. Although the face was not badly formed, the mass of wrinkles and scars made it ugly. There was no gaiety, no pleasure or joy in his eyes, only a cold brutality. Small eyes like those of a wild boar glared from the Bourc to the woman, and as he stepped forward, the fire seemed to strike sparks in his eyes as the flames were reflected.

“Angelina! Move over!” he said, standing behind them.

To the Bourc it looked as though she was reluctant to move. As if rebelling against the order, she waited a moment while the newcomer grumbled before shifting along the bench. Even then she moved farther than she needed, leaving a gap between herself and the man, and the Bourc was pleased to see a sneer of disgust twist her face when she looked at the man.

“Innkeeper!” the man bellowed. “Wine! I want wine!” Only then did he turn and peer at the Gascon.

“Who are you?”

Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”

“I'm Alan Trevellyn—merchant. Who's this master of Furnshill?”

The Bourc started and peered at him on hearing the name, then stared at the woman. She clearly felt that his gaze was in response to the man's rudeness, and softened the harshness of the question by her gentle voice. Eyes on the Bourc, she said, “I think we have heard of him, Alan. He is named Sir Baldwin.”

The landlord arrived with a tray of wine and handed pots to the man and woman. Other people were entering now, and he was soon busy going from one group to another.

“Sir Baldwin, eh?” said Trevellyn. “Yes, I think I remember him. He's not been there for long, has he—his brother died or something.”

“I had heard,” the woman said, “that Sir Baldwin came here just before the abbot was murdered last year.”

“But surely you have not lived here long yourself, madam?” asked the Bourc, leaning forward and peering at her.

“She's been here long enough.” The merchant put himself between them and glared wide-eyed at the Bourc, as if daring him to continue talking.

Staring back, the Bourc allowed himself a small smile and his eyebrows rose. “Do you object to me speaking to the lady?” he inquired softly.

“Yes, I do!” the merchant said, and suddenly his face contorted with fury. “She's my wife! Leave her alone, or you'll have to deal with
me
! Understand?”

The Bourc could not prevent a quick glance at her in open-eyed astonishment. That such a small, frail thing of beauty should be tied to so brutish a man seemed impossible, but even as he caught her eye, he saw the beginnings of the dampness as if she was about to weep, and she looked away quickly. When he unwillingly dragged his gaze back, the merchant's lip was curled in a disdainful sneer.

“My apologies, sir, I had not realized,” the Bourc said, stiffly formal. A devil tempted him to say that he had assumed Trevellyn to be her servant he looked so poorly made, but he stopped himself. He had no wish to fight so soon after arriving here.

“Anyway, I am here to see Sir Baldwin for my master, as I said, and then I have some personal business to see to. There's a lady I must see. Do you know Agatha Kyteler?”

It was not his imagination. At the name, Mrs. Trevellyn's head snapped round to stare at him and the merchant paused with his pot halfway to his mouth. Glowering at the Bourc, Trevellyn brought the mug down with slow deliberation. “Agatha Kyteler?” he
said, then spat into the fire. “Why do you want to see that old bitch?”

He could feel himself bridling at this contemptuous treatment of the woman, but held his anger on a close rein. Sitting more upright, and resting his left hand on his sword, he said, “If you have something to say of her, share it with me. I know her to be an honorable lady.”

“Honorable? She's a witch, that's what she is! She puts curses on people—you ask anyone around here,” Trevellyn said scornfully.

Standing, his face white and taut with anger, the Bourc stared at Trevellyn. “Say that again. Say it again and defend yourself! I know her to be honorable—do you accuse
me
of lying?”

There was silence for a moment, as if every man in the hall was holding his breath. “Sirs, please!” the publican called anxiously, but the three ignored him. The Gascon was still and watchful, but his rage was boiling beneath his apparent calm. Trevellyn suddenly realized how his words had affected the stranger, and now gaped with fear while his wife looked excited, but kept silent.

At last the merchant shrank back like a whipped dog. Shooting a sullen glance at the Bourc, he shrugged. “I've said nothing that others here won't tell you, but…if I've offended you, I ask your pardon. Ask the innkeeper where she lives, if you want to see her. He'll know.”

And that appeared to be all that he was prepared to say.

When the Bourc drained his mug, Trevellyn hardly moved. He remained sitting, staring before him and carefully ignoring the Gascon. The Bourc looked at
him contemptuously, then smiled at his wife. It pained him to see the sadness in her eyes, as if she was despairing at the misery of her life with her man, and the Bourc wondered again that such a lovely woman could have been manacled to such a brute. But there was no profit in thoughts like that, and he turned abruptly and went out to his horses.

F
or the love of God,
will
you get down, you brute! Lionors! No!
No!
I said…
Lionors, NO!
”

The bellow of despairing rage carried clearly from the house and far down into the valley as the servant handed the reins to the grinning hostler, and he could hear the sound of scrabbling paws slipping on the floor and pots smashing. He sighed and shook his head in vexation. Since Sir Baldwin had returned, he had been determined to maintain the great hunting pack that his father had owned, and kept a separate kennel for the hounds. But there was one bitch who refused to leave him: Lionors.

Walking inside, he sighed again when he saw the hall. One great iron candle-holder was on its side, a bench was upset, and plates and mugs lay on the floor. In the middle of the floor stood the knight, hands on hips, red-faced and glaring, while in front of him was the dog, lying on her back, belly and legs waving submissively while her massive black jowls dangled ludicrously to display her teeth. A fearful brown eye rolled as Edgar entered.

“After food again, was she?”

“No, damn it!” Baldwin kicked the submissive dog, but not hard, and strode to a chair. Flopping down, he eyed his dog sourly. “She was happy to see me.”

It was always the same, the knight knew. Whenever he went out and left her behind, whether it was for an hour or a day, the result was the same: on his return she would try to bring something for him. In the beginning, when he had first come home to Furnshill, he had found it an endearing trait, a sign of the mastiff's devotion. That was almost a year ago now, though. Two pairs of boots, one rug and an expensive cloak ago. “She was trying to bring me a present.”

Edgar nodded, then bent to pick up shards of broken pottery. “What was it this time?” Shaking his head, the knight motioned to the floor beside the table. When he glanced down, Edgar saw the short hunting spear, heavily chewed at the middle, which lay beside the table. “She was carrying that?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

It was only a few moments later that they heard the sound of an approaching rider. Lionors heard it first, her head snapping round as she stared at the door. Wiping his hands on his shirt, Edgar went out. After a few minutes he was back, and to Baldwin's surprise, he wore a broad smile.

“Sir Baldwin, a visitor! John, Bourc de Beaumont, son of the Captal de Beaumont.”

 

“Of course, I knew your father well. We first met in Acre. That would be some six and twenty years ago now, of course.”

Baldwin had been surprised at the demeanor of his guest. He remembered the Captal as being a cheerful, enthusiastic man, and yet the son was withdrawn, almost depressed.

The Bourc had passed on messages from his father and some small gifts, and they were sitting before the fire, which had been stoked and now roared vigorously, lighting the room with a flickering orange glow.

“He rarely talks about those times, sir.”

“I'm not surprised. It was miserable. The end of Outremer. The end of the kingdom of Jerusalem. The finish of many brave and gallant men. Not, luckily, your father, though.”

“He told me a little about it, but never what really happened. Could you?”

Baldwin sipped at his wine as he stared into the flames, his eyes glinting. Then they narrowed—the memory was hard. “I met your father there in the early summer, before I met Edgar. Our enemy had managed to lay siege from the land—though we still got supplies in from the sea—and were bombarding the place with catapults. I met your father early on in the siege. There were so few of us there—especially in the service of the English king—that we all knew each other. Even then he was a powerful man, or so I remember him. I was young at the time, of course. We fought together several times, and I was with him when the towers in the city wall were mined and began to crumble. We fell back together through the city as the enemy rushed in, trying to escape. It was awful.”

“He told me it was vicious work in the narrow streets.”

“Yes, because they were all connected, and there were so many men against us that even if we held them back for a minute, others could get round behind us. They kept leapfrogging us all the way back, all the way to the harbor. It was mayhem, hand-to-hand all the way. The harbor was to the south and we headed
straight for it when we saw that the battle was lost. On the way we found Edgar here. He was wounded, and we helped him along with us. But when we got close enough to see the sea, we found our route was blocked. The enemy was before us, cutting us off. We had no choice: north, south and east were forbidden to us. We went west, to the Temple.”

“You were both there during the siege of the Knights of the Temple?”

“Oh, yes!” Baldwin gave a short laugh. “Not that we were much help to them. Edgar was too ill. I myself fell on rubble on the second day and broke my ankle. Your father saved me then.” He looked over at the young knight beside him. “We were at the main gate of the Temple when we were suddenly attacked by a strong force. They had a ram, and the bar that held the door gave way, snapping in the middle. Half of it landed near me, and that's what made me fall. A stone turned under my foot and broke the joint. Your father stood by me, holding off the enemy until I was dragged away and the gates fastened again. He managed to keep the men rallied.

“In the end, your father was hit by an arrow, and the wound soon festered in the heat. We were lucky. The Templars allowed all three of us to leave on one of the Templar ships. They took us away to Cyprus, where they tended our wounds and nursed us back to health.” Back to Cyprus, he mused. The words hardly covered the panicked rush to the ships and the feelings of relief and elation at being removed from the immediate dangers of the ruined city.

“I have been in similar positions,” said the Bourc meditatively. Drawing his dagger, he thrust it deep into the fire. When he had poured himself a fresh mug
of wine, he warmed it by stirring it with the knife. “It's hard when you're surrounded and know you cannot escape.”

“Aye. It's worse when your enemy has sworn to destroy you utterly and leave no survivors,” said Baldwin shortly. Then he glanced up and smiled. “Anyway, that's the truth of it, for what it's worth.” He threw a shrewd glance at his guest. “So did you come all the way here to hear that? The message and gifts hardly merit a knight as a messenger!”

“No,” said the Bourc shortly. “No, I did not come just for that. I wanted a bed for the night as well. I will be gone early tomorrow, I came for other business, a debt which I owe from that same siege.”

“How so? You can only have been a child back then.”

“I was, yes. I was less than a year old. My mother, Anne of Tyre, had me by my father, but she could not escape from the city when it was taken. She gave me to my nurse, and this woman took me away.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she took me from Acre and brought me home. You see this ring?” When he lifted his left hand, Baldwin saw a gold ring which held a large red stone. The Bourc stared at it for a moment, then let his arm fall and stared into the flames. “This was given to my mother by my father. She gave it to my nurse, who gave it to my people as a token that I was my father's son. She saved my life and made sure I was safe. Now she lives near here. That's why I've come. To see her and thank her. For my life. I saw her briefly today on my way here, and will return to her tomorrow, then go home.”

“Who was she? Maybe I know her.”

“A lowly nurse? Maybe. She was named Agatha Kyteler.”

Baldwin shook his head. “No. I don't know her. The name is unfamiliar.”

 

It was late in the afternoon of the next day, Tuesday, when Simon Puttock and his wife arrived. By then Baldwin was sitting in his hall. John, Bourc de Beaumont had left at noon, and the knight was beginning to wonder if the bailiff and his wife had been forced to change their plans. Looking up at the sound of horses, he walked to the door and, seeing his friends, bellowed for servants.

Though it was getting dark, the day's weak sun had not managed to clear the white spatterings of frost from the dirt and grass, and Baldwin could see that behind his guests a thin gray mist was already lying in the valley. On a clear day he could see for miles from here in front of his house, and today he could make out the moors lying under their blanket of pure white snow in the far distance, looking somehow less threatening than in the summer when they loomed dark and menacing.

Baldwin's manor house was not a modern castellated property. Built in easier times, it was thatched like a farmhouse, the only concessions to safety being in the tiny windows and its position. Standing high on the side of the hill facing south, it lay in a clearing, surrounded at a safe distance by the old woods. In front there was a shallow gully in which the rainwater drained away, and it was here that the track lay, rising gradually to the flat area before his door.

The knight watched as the small party approached. In the lead was the tall, slim figure of his friend Simon
Puttock, a ruddy-faced, brown-haired man in his thirtieth year. Just behind him was his wife, Margaret, slim and elegant in her fur-lined gray cloak, hood down to show pale features glowing with the cold and exercise under thick tresses of blond hair trapped by her net. Bringing up the rear was their servant, Hugh, his dark face, Baldwin saw with a widening grin, pulled into his customary morose glower.

Spreading his arms wide, Baldwin walked forward to meet them. “Simon, Margaret, welcome!” he shouted as they came close, his face breaking into a broad smile.

After the ride from Exeter, Margaret was frozen, her fingers feeling like icicles under her gloves, but she felt a smile tugging at her mouth on seeing his pleasure. Before her husband could drop to the ground and help her down, Baldwin was beside her, bowing low, then offering her his hand with a smile, his teeth almost startling in contrast with his black moustache. Giving him a quick nod of gratitude, she accepted his hand and dropped to the ground, then stood looking at the view while she waited for the others.

She had always loved this area, with its trees and tiny villages. The soft hills rolled gently up and down over a landscape scored with red stripes where the rich earth showed through the green carpet, smoke rising where the villeins held their smallholdings. It was so unlike the bleak, gray Devil's heathland Simon had to look after now at Lydford. Here there were happy communities still, not like on the moors.

On the moors the weather was so cold and inclement that nothing could survive but the heather and ferns. Even the trees she had seen, types she knew well from around Crediton, grew stunted and shrivelled.

Not like this lush view. Here, she felt, the land must be much as God had intended. This was how Eden must have looked: even now in the middle of winter it was green and healthy. It seemed impossible that the moors were a scant half-day's journey away.

“Come inside, both of you, out of the cold. I have food prepared. This is quite a week for entertaining!”

Baldwin led the way, chatting about his visit from Peter Clifford on the previous Friday night and the Bourc's arrival the night before, though most of what he said passed over their heads—at present they were interested only in his fire, and they hurried to the hearth.

The room was just as Margaret recalled, long and broad, with a fireplace and chimney in the north wall, and benches set around the tables. Bread and cold meats lay on platters on the table, and a pot hung from its chain over the flames, giving off a strong gamey smell. When she walked over, tugging off her gloves, and held her hands toward the flames, she saw that a thick soup was bubbling inside, and her mouth watered at the scent that slowly rose to fill the room.

As her hands gradually began to warm and struggle back to painful life, she turned to heat her back. Casting an eye over the hall, she let Simon and Baldwin's conversation float over her unheeded. They were talking about the knight's friend, the Bourc de Beaumont, and his journey to find his old nurse. She had no interest in tales of old battles, and stories of the kingdom of Jerusalem saddened her—it was depressing to think of the holy places being violated by heretics. Unfastening her cloak, she swept it off.

Baldwin stood by the table and surveyed the food, arrayed on its platters as if for inspection. Glancing
down and seeing his dog, he took his knife and cut a slab of ham, tossing it to her, before turning and smiling at his guests.

To Margaret, he appeared to have changed a great deal in some ways; not at all in others. The lines on his face, the scars and weals of suffering, had almost all gone, to be replaced by a calm acceptance of life. It was as if a sheet of linen which had been wrinkled and creased had been ironed smooth again. Where the pain had sat, now there was only calm acceptance. But still he had the quick, assured manner that she recalled from last year when she had first met him.

Simon too had noticed the signs of comfort and peace, and he was pleased, knowing that it was due to his own intervention that the knight was still free. Baldwin had admitted to having been a member of the Knights Templar when they had met the year before, and Simon was sure that his decision to keep the man's secret was the right one.

It had not been easy, especially after the murder of the Abbot of Buckland. It had been a dreadful year. There had been a band of marauding outlaws, murdering and burning from Oakhampton to Crediton, and then the abbot was taken and killed as well. For a newly appointed bailiff, the series of deaths was a problem of vast proportions, but he had managed to solve them. After hearing the knight's tale, he had been forced to search his own soul, but in the end there had been little point in arresting him, and Simon had kept his secret hidden. Now he was pleased at how the knight had justified his decision.

“Do you realize, Baldwin, how well you are considered in Exeter?” he asked as they sat.