The Merchant's Partner (4 page)

The knight raised an eyebrow and gave him a
quizzical glance, as if expecting a trap of some sort. “Oh yes?” he said suspiciously.

“Yes, even Walter Stapledon has heard good reports of you.”

“Then I hope the good bishop keeps his reports to himself, my friend! I have no desire to be called away to clerk for the king or my lord de Courtenay. Edgar!” This last in a bellow. “Where's the wine?”

His servant soon arrived, bringing a pot and mugs for the sweet, heated drink, serving them all and setting the pot by the fire to keep warm as he sat with them, flashing a brief smile at Margaret and Hugh, Simon noticed, but not to him. Ah well, he thought resignedly. It was only last year I had him trussed like a chicken and called him a liar.

“So how is Lydford, Simon?”

“Lydford is cold, Baldwin.”

“Cold?”

Margaret broke in. “It's freezing! It's at one side of the gorge, and the wind howls up the valley like the Devil's hounds on the scent of a lost soul.”

“It sounds lovely the way you describe it,” said Baldwin gravely. “I look forward to visiting you both there.”

“You'll be very welcome, whenever you want to come, but the cold's not all,” said Simon, grinning in apparent despair. “Since I arrived I've had visits from everyone. The landholders complaining about the tinners; the tinners complaining about the landholders. God! The king allows the tinners to take any land they want—well, it's worth a fortune in taxes to the king's wardrobe—and everyone is up in arms about them, and expect
me
to do something about it! What can
I
do? All I've been able to do so far is try to keep them all apart, but now they're starting to come to blows.”

“I'm sure you'll be able to sort matters out. After all, things are never easy—you had your own troubles here last year, didn't you? Margaret, try some squirrel—or rabbit, it's fresh and young.”

“Er, no, thanks,” she said, wincing and taking a chicken leg. The knight glanced at her in surprise, while Simon continued:

“The trail bastons, you mean? Hah! Give me a group of outlaws any day; they're easier to deal with than free men and landowners, all you need do is catch them and see them hang. I can't even do that with the mob at Lydford.”

“Anyway,” said Margaret, holding up her chicken thigh and studying it as she searched for the most succulent meat. “This must all be very tedious for you, Baldwin. What's been happening here? Anything exciting?”

Laughing, the knight shrugged shamefacedly and pulled a grimace of near embarrassment. Head on one side, he said, “Not a great deal, really. Tanner hasn't cleared some of the tracks hereabouts, and my warhorse went lame some weeks ago. Apart from that…”

“I could learn to dislike you, you know,” said Simon with mock disgust.

Baldwin laughed, but then his eyes narrowed a little. “What else is there, anyway, Simon? You must have heard more news from Exeter.”

Belching softly, Simon upended his mug before rising and refilling it. When he spoke, the humor had passed, to be replaced by a sober reflection. “There's lots of news, Baldwin, but none of it's good. This must go no further, of course, but even Walter has lost all patience. He says although King Edward was irresponsi
ble before, now his favorite, Piers Gaveston, has been killed, he's worse!”

“In what way?” asked Baldwin frowning.

“He's playing one lord off against another, ignoring the Ordinances, allowing insults to go unpunished…It seems that he just wants to be left alone to play about in his boats and other frivolities. He spends his time in sailing—and playing with his common friends! There are even rumors that he was not his father's son,” said Simon quietly.

Nodding slowly, Baldwin reflected on the tales he had heard: that this second Edward was a supposititious child, a replacement inserted into the household like a cuckoo chick in a nest. Wherever there were troubles, Baldwin thought, there are people prepared to imagine the worst. “I cannot believe that,” he said shortly. “But it's true that the state is becoming unsettled. I have heard that tenants have revolted against their lords, even that some knights have resorted to brigandage once more. And there are more outlaws—more tree companies and trail bastons—coming down from the north, displaced people who have lost their homes and villages to the Scots, who are trying to find new homes.”

“That's what Walter said. He's very worried. He feels that there has to be a compromise between the king and his barons, otherwise there must be a war, and God himself can hardly know what the outcome of that would be!”

“No, and God would not want that in a Christian country.”

“Of course not! That is why Walter has allied himself with Aymer de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, to try to enlist support for the Ordinances.”

“Ah!” Baldwin thought for a moment. “Yes, that would make sense. The earl could count on support from many of the barons for that. What were the Ordinances but controls to ensure good government?”

“Exactly. Walter thinks that if the king can be persuaded to agree, the troubles may be prevented from getting worse—maybe the risk of war can be averted.”

“What do you think?”

Simon glanced up and into the intense dark eyes of his friend, who sat frowning in his concentration. “I think we'll be lucky to avoid war in some places,” he said simply. “The Earl of Pembroke is on one side, the Earl of Lancaster on the other. Both are rich and powerful. If they fight—and they will—many men will die.”

“Yes, and many women too. In any war it's always the villeins and ordinary folk who die first and last.”

Shrugging, Simon nodded. “It's the way of war.”

“But what of the king? You mention Pembroke and Lancaster, what about the king?”

“Does anyone worry about him? He will be with one or the other—he hasn't got enough support to make his own force without them. And would his support make any difference? After his defeat against the Scots at Bannockburn, who can trust his generalship?”

Baldwin nodded again, as if he was confirming his own thoughts and not listening to the bailiff's words. Then, as if he suddenly noticed her, he turned to Margaret. “Sorry, this must be very boring for you.”

She stared back, her face suddenly drawn and tight. “Boring? How can it be when you're talking about the future of the land?
Our
future?” His eyes held hers for a moment, then dropped to her belly, and she could not prevent the smile when his gaze rose to meet hers once more with a question in their black depths.

“My apologies, Margaret. I did not mean to insult you,” he said quietly. “I tend to think that matters of chivalry and warfare are only interesting to men. I forget that they affect women too.” He sat still for a moment, his eyes seeming to gaze into the distance, Lionors beside him. The huge dog peered into his face, then rested her head on his lap, making him start, suddenly brought back to the world with a shock. “Blasted hound!” he muttered, but affectionately, and, taking a few slabs of meat, tossed them away from the table. As the dog softly padded to her food, he rose. “Come, let's sit by the fire.”

While the knight sat in his chair, the two servants brought the benches, and soon all were sitting and gazing into the flames, the mastiff asleep, stretched long and lean before the hearth. Edgar walked out to fetch more wine while the friends chatted desultorily, Hugh sitting and nodding under the influence of the fire and alcohol.

“What else is new, Simon?” asked the knight again, and when the bailiff shrugged, turned to Margaret with a raised eyebrow.

She laughed, shaking her head. It sometimes seemed impossible to keep anything from the knight, he had a knack of noticing even the smallest signs, although how he had spotted this she could not guess: she had only begun to realize herself over the last week. Now she was sure even if Simon was not—she was too late this month. “Yes, I think I am pregnant again, but how did you…?”

“It's easy, Margaret. You look too well, and you seem to dislike food that you used to love—I had the rabbits brought especially for you.”

“Well, we can hope,” Simon said. Then he leaned
forward and gazed fixedly at the knight. “But what about
you?
You were looking for a wife, but I can't see any sign of a woman's hand in this house. How is your search progressing?”

To the bailiff's delight, Baldwin gave a petulant shrug, like a child feigning disinterest. “Well, I…I…The thing is…Oh damn it!”

S
ix miles to the south the Bourc was glancing up through the trees as he rode, retreating into his cloak in the bitter cold. On either side the trees rose stolidly impervious to the weather, but high above he could catch occasional glimpses of the stars, shining as tiny pin-pricks of light which flared and were hidden like sparks from a fire. They glittered briefly before being smothered by the ghostly clouds rushing by, clouds that made him frown with wary anxiety. They raced by as if fearful of the weather that he knew must chase hard on their heels.

Hearing hooves, he stopped and stared ahead cautiously. It was late to be travelling. Soon he saw a man riding toward him. Showing his teeth in a short grin, he nodded. The other man, dressed warm and dark for hunting, nodded back and hurried on. The Bourc smiled ruefully to himself. He was muddy from splashing through puddles, and he knew he was hardly a sight to inspire confidence in a stranger. At a sudden thought he turned, and saw that the man was staring back with frank interest. The Bourc smiled ruefully as he kicked his horse and ambled off toward Wefford.

He had travelled far enough tonight. At the first clearing that looked hopeful, he pulled off the road. Through the trees he could see a cabin, a simple affair of rough-hewn logs. Part of the roof was gone, and it was in a sorry state, but for all that it was a refuge from the worst of the wind. He led the horses inside and saw to them before starting a fire.

Chewing at some dried meat, he considered his options. His business was finished now, so there was nothing to keep him here. The sooner he could get home the better. If he continued this way, heading to the west and retracing the route he had taken from the coast, he should arrive within a couple of days, but it would surely take a lot longer than necessary. The journey west to Oakhampton and then south was quite out of his way, working its way round the perimeter of the moors. It would be more direct and quicker to cut straight south, over the moors to the sea that way.

 

It was still dark the next morning, Wednesday, when, over to the south of Furnshill, Samuel Cottey harnessed his old mule to the wagon and prepared for his journey, cursing in the deep blackness before dawn as his already numbed fingers struggled with the rough brass and leather fittings, pulling hard at the thick leather straps.

“Sorry, my love,” he muttered as he occasionally caught a flap of skin in the buckles, making the old animal snort and stamp. “Not long, now. We'll soon have you done.”

All set, he stood back and surveyed his work, rubbing the bandage on his arm that covered the long gash. It was a week ago now that the branch had dropped from the tree he was felling and slashed the
flesh of his arm like a sword, but, thanks to God, the old woman's poultices seemed to be working and it was healing. Sighing, he stretched and then walked back to the cottage, stamping his feet to get the feeling to return to cold toes. Inside the smoky room, he warmed himself by the fire in the clay hearth in the middle, smiling crookedly from the side of his mouth, the lips pale and thin in the square, ruddy face under the thatch of gray hair. Sarah, his daughter, smiled back into his light brown eyes as she handed his mug full of warmed beer to him and watched carefully as he drained it, smacking his lips and wiping his hand over his mouth, then burping appreciatively. Giving her a quick grin, he passed back the mug.

“That's good,” he said, then kissed her cheek briefly.

“Be back soon as I can—I'll try to be home before dark, anyway.”

When she nodded, he left, stomping quickly to the wagon and clambering aboard, whistling for his dog. After a quick wave, he snapped the reins and began to make his way from Wefford to Crediton, the dog barking excitedly behind.

As he left the light from the open doorway behind, his mind turned back to their problems. This last year had been the hardest he had known, especially since his brother had been killed by the trail bastons, down far to the south on the moors. Now the family relied on him alone to keep both farms going. His sister-in-law was right when she said that the two families could not live on either holding: both were too small to support them all, and neither could be expanded without a deal of work, hacking down the trees that fringed them. No, the only way to continue was by keeping both going.

But how to do that? There was only him, his daugh
ter Sarah, and his brother's son Paul. There was too much work for them, now that they had to try to keep both properties working. Maybe they should do as Sarah suggested, and buy more pigs. At least they could often feed themselves, they did not need grain like cows.

The sun was lighting the eastern sky as he rattled and squeaked his way down the track into the village, head down, chin on his chest and shoulders hunched in an effort to keep the bitter cold from his vulnerable neck. Samuel had been a farmer for many years, and he was used to the cruelty of the wind and the freezing snow that attacked the land every winter, but the weather got worse with each passing year. Glancing up, he saw the sky was lighted with a vivid angry red, and sighed. The sharpness of the air, the streamers of mist from his mouth, and the red sky could only mean one thing: snow was on its way at last.

Passing the inn on his left, he glanced at it with longing, already wishing he could stop and warm himself before the great fire in the hall but, shuddering and shivering, he carried on, rubbing at his arm every now and again. Beyond was the turn he needed, and he made off to the right, toward Crediton, where his brother's farm lay, between the town itself and Sandford. He had to collect their chickens and take them into the market. Paul was still too young to be allowed to go to market on his own.

It was hard, he thought, sighing again. If only poor Judith had lived longer. But his wife had succumbed to the pestilence that followed on the tail of the rain that killed off the harvest two years ago.

The trees suddenly seemed to crowd in around him, their thick trunks looming menacingly from the thin
mist that still lay heavy on the ground, almost appearing to be free of the earth, as if they could move and walk if they wished. It was this feeling that made him shiver again, peering up at the branches overhead. From somewhere deep in the trees came the screech of a bird, then some rooks called overhead, sounding strange and unnatural.

All he could hear was the clattering and squeaking of the wagon, with the occasional dull, deadened thump as the iron-shod wheels struck stones or fell into holes, and it felt impossible that any noise could be heard over the row he made, but still he caught the sounds of the waking forest, and his eyes flitted here and there nervously, as if fearing what he might see.

Then, all at once, he was out of it. The track led upward here, to a small hill where the woods had been cleared, and he drew a deep breath of relief, blowing it out in a long feather of misted air. The feelings of dread left him, and he squirmed on the board that made his seat, telling himself he was a fool to be fearful of noises in the woods.

Here the trail was little more than a mud path, with stone walls and hedges on each side that were just below his level of vision, so that he could look over to the animals stockaded behind. Now he could see that the road opened out up in front as it passed the Greencliff barton, the old farm that had stood here for years, gradually growing as the family had cut down the trees for their sheep.

It was just before the farm, at a sudden thought, that he turned slightly, trying to look behind while keeping his body clenched like a tight fist of heat in the smothering chill. His dog had gone.

Calling out, he frowned, then hauled on the reins to
stop the mule and turned, cursing. The last thing he needed was for the dog to attack one of the Greencliff sheep. There was no sign of him back on the track, so Samuel dropped from the wagon and walked back, blowing on his now-frozen hands, his face stern.

It was when he was almost level with the line of the woods that he caught a snuffling sound and then a bark from the hedge to his right, and he saw a narrow path. Shaking his head impatiently, he climbed up, catching his old russet tunic on a thorn, and swearing. At the top he could see into a field full of sheep. Beneath him was a wattle fence to keep the lambs from wandering to the hedge, but a section had fallen a little. The dog must have entered here.

Precariously balanced on the summit of the wall in the hedge, he glared round. The livestock seemed untroubled. He shouted, then heard the sudden movement as the dog started, and, seeking his master, began to return, skulking as if expecting a kick.

“No more'n you deserve,” Samuel muttered, scowling at him. “What were you looking at, anyway?”

There was a lump, a huddled clumping, under the hedge that led to the woods some thirty yards away. He could not see what it was in the darkness, so he stepped forward carefully, his face frowning. When he had only taken a few steps, he took a quick intake of breath and groaned. It was a body. Rushing forward and touching the hand gently, he knew there was nothing he could do. It was as cold as granite.

For a moment he stood and looked down, shaking his head. Someone who did not respect the land and its dangers, no doubt, who had trusted to their own strength and found that nature in her cruelty could destroy even the strongest. Leaning down, he gently took
a shoulder with his good arm and pulled, trying to see if he could recognize who it was, but the body was so cold it had frozen into its position, and it took all his strength. He gave a haul, and at last it shifted.

It was only then, when he saw the dead, unseeing eyes in the petrified face staring back at him above the wicked blue lips of the gash, that he moaned in terror. Dropping her back on her face, he stumbled back until he tripped, and then, rising quickly and glancing at her one last time, he ran headlong to his wagon.

 

The bailiff was on his horse and trotting fast, riding down the narrow tunnel between the trees, the leaves lighted with a bright orange glow, toward the light at the end, branches snatching at his cloak, twigs scratching at his face, and he had to slap them away with his hand until he came into the clearing, and there he found a huge fire blazing, with, in the very center, the hottest part, the cowled figure, who slowly turned and faced him. It was the abbot who had died the year before, glaring at him with eyes of black cinder glowing red-hot at the edges, who opened a mouth like the entrance to the void, and said in a voice deep and contemptuous, “So you thought I was unimportant? You thought my death mattered so little? You decided to let the murderer go free? Why? Why, Simon?
Simon?
”

“
Simon!
God in heaven,
will
you wake up! Simon!”

Lurching upright, his eyes wide in his shock, the bailiff sat up on his bench, staring wide-eyed until his heart began to slow its panicked beating. He blew out his cheeks, ran a hand through his hair, then held both hands to his face, shaking as the fear of the nightmare left him. He was still at Furnshill.

“I am sorry to waken you like this, Simon, but…Are you all right?”

The quick concern in Baldwin's voice made Simon give a wan smile. “Yes. Yes, I was just having a dream. What is it?”

Margaret was not there. She must have gone outside. She always woke early when she was with child. Now he could only see Baldwin standing at the foot of the bench where he had made his rough bed last night, a look of wary anxiety on the knight's face.

It was not a nightmare Simon suffered from often, but he had occasionally had it over the last few months. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to lose the feeling of gloom as he wiped the sleep away. “What's the matter?”

“A murder, Bailiff.”

At the voice, Simon turned sharply and saw the constable, Tanner, standing behind him. “What? Who?”

Stepping forward to Simon's side, the constable glanced across to Baldwin before beginning, as if seeking approval from the Keeper of the King's Peace. “Well, Bailiff, it seems to be an old woman who lived in Wefford, down south of here. Sam Cottey—do you remember him?—he was on his way to Sandford this morning. Found the body and sent a message to me. He reckons she was murdered, says there's no way it was an accident. I thought I should come here first, see if Sir Baldwin would want to come with me.”

“I do!” said the knight with conviction. “And so do you, don't you, Simon?”

 

The bailiff was surprised to see how seriously the knight seemed to take the matter. As far as Simon was concerned, this was surely just a local incident: proba
bly not a murder at all, but some old woman who had met with an accident. He was happy with just his long dagger at his belt. But when he was buckling it to his waist, he caught a glimpse of the rigid set of Baldwin's face, and saw him taking his sword, pulling it out a short way and looking at it, before slipping it on over his tunic and fixing it in place.

“Anybody would think it was him who had the nightmare,” Simon thought, but then they were walking out to their horses. Taking his leave quickly of Margaret, he kissed her and swung up into his saddle, smiling at her briefly before wheeling with the others and setting off to the village.

There was a light smattering of snow as they rode, the prelude to a storm from the feel of the air, and the clouds were gray and heavy. The bailiff became aware of the knight darting quick, measuring glances upward every now and again, studying the sky, and when he looked himself, his expression became pensive.

From the crowds it was clear that the hapless Cottey must be inside the inn. There could be no other explanation for so many people standing and waiting, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the cause of the excitement, or, ideally, a body. As soon as they became aware of the riders, they parted eagerly to let the three get to the door, and the babble began to increase with the people's excitement.

At the entrance Simon saw a short but thickset man, broad and strong with a pot-belly, glaring round from under sandy hair, trying to keep the people away by gesturing with a stout cudgel.