The Merchant's Partner (6 page)

It was when they reached the hedge that led to the road that he realized he was wrong. Greencliff went up the incline first, stumbling backward. At the top he paused and Tanner caught sight of his face. The boy was not just nervous: he was terrified, and the constable was about to urge him on impatiently, “She's dead, boy, she won't care if you drop her now!” when he saw the boy's glance flicker over to Baldwin and Simon, and the realization hit him like a bolt from the sky: he was scared of the knight, not of the body!

From that moment, the constable kept a wary eye on him. They managed at last to heave the body down into the track, and from there it took little time to toss it unceremoniously into the back of the high wagon. Again, the constable saw that the old farmer did not move. He too seemed petrified. Even when the old woman's corpse hit the wagon and made it lurch, Cottey stayed staring resolutely ahead, shoulders hunched as if against the cold and elbows resting on his knees.

“Come on, Sam,” Tanner called. “Let's get her back to Wefford.” Cottey whistled and clucked to the mule, but neither spoke nor turned, and the constable shook his head in a quick flare of disgust.

Baldwin and Simon were soon back. The knight mounted his horse and watched as Simon followed suit, then glanced over at Greencliff. “We may want to see you later—when we've had a chance to find out more. You live there?” He pointed with his chin to the
longhouse at the top of a small rise. When Greencliff nodded, he wheeled round, checked the others were ready, and started off back to Wefford. By the time they had entered the trees again, he found Simon had caught up with him and was riding alongside.

Smiling, the knight gave him a quick look. “Feeling better?”

“Not really, no.” He was quiet for a moment, then said musingly, “It's always worst just before you see them, isn't it? It's not knowing what you're going to find that makes it more revolting. Once you've actually seen the damage, it's not so bad.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Baldwin, the smile fading.

“Are you sure about the blood?”

The humor was wiped away like snow from armor.

“Yes. She cannot have died there, not with the amount of blood she must have lost. Think about it: when you slit the throat of a pig or lamb, the blood sprays, doesn't it?”

“Well, yes…”

“So too with humans. If she had died there, the leaves, the ground, everything would have her gore. No, she cannot have died there.”

“So where
did
she die?”

“Where?” His voice became lower and quieter, and he was musing as he continued, “That's what we must try to find out.”

Yes, thought Simon. And why she was put there, too.

 

They clattered into Wefford at a little before lunch, and carried the wrapped figure into the inn, ignoring the protests of the owner, before calling for mulled wine.

Walking through into the dark interior, Simon strode over to the benches and sat, holding his hands out to
the flames as if in a pagan ritual, feeling the numbness flee, only to leave stabs and prickles as sensation returned. Groaning, he stretched his legs toward the hearth and flexed his toes, grimacing in the exquisite pain.

After a moment he heard the curtain draw aside and the familiar stomp of his friend.

“God! Thank you for small gifts! That feels so good!” said the knight, baring his teeth as he stood close to the flames and sighed. “Innkeeper! Where's my wine?”

Simon glanced at him. “I thought you believed in moderation with your wine?'

“When it's this cold? Moderation, yes: but not to the exclusion of comfort,” he said, then roared again:

“Innkeeper!”

He entered scowling, a look of bitter dissatisfaction on his face, and walked to the other end of his hall, disappearing through the curtain. After a moment he was back, carrying a pair of jugs and mugs on a tray which he set down between them. Turning, he was about to leave when Simon called him back.

“This dead woman, Agatha Kyteler,” the bailiff mused. “The name doesn't sound local to these parts.”

“No, sir. She was quite new hereabouts. Only came here about ten years ago.”

“You seemed surprised earlier when you heard who had died. When we were questioning Cottey.”

“I was, sir. I heard her name only recently.” The man told of the visit of the Bourc and how he had asked about the old woman. Baldwin frowned as he listened but did not say anything, and ignored Simon's questioning glance.

“What do you know about her?” asked Simon, his
eyes on his friend. He felt nervous. It was clear that the knight was worried, and from what he had said of the Bourc's visit when the Puttocks had arrived, he could guess why.

“
Know
about her? I don't…”

“She was murdered, you know,” said Baldwin shortly, avoiding the man's eyes as he toyed with the hilt of his sword in a vaguely threatening manner. “We want to find out who did it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, answer!”

Sighing, the innkeeper poured wine for them, then sat and watched morosely as they sipped the hot, spiced liquid. “She came from far off. Some say from the Holy Land. I don't know. Took the assart down behind the Oatway place, about a mile from here, out east.”

“And?” Baldwin's eyes narrowed and Simon had the impression that he was sure the publican was holding something back. “Come on, man. You're the innkeeper! You know everyone here, and you know all the gossip, too. What was said about her? Who knew her well? Who liked her, who hated her? What do you know about her?”

His eyes flitted nervously from the knight to the bailiff and back, then, as if afraid of what he might see in their faces, he stared at the flames. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice, not fearful, but slow and deliberate. “She weren't wealthy, but always had enough to survive. Very clever, she was, and that upset a lot of people. She made them feel stupid. She was arrogant too. Didn't suffer fools easily. Not without letting them know what she thought of them.”

“Her friends?”

“Ask the women hereabouts. They all knew her.”

“Why?”

He looked up suddenly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She helped them with their babies. When there was a problem with the birth—any problem—she helped them. She was a good midwife.” He almost mused as he spoke.

“So she'll be missed?”

“Yes,” he thought, considering. “Yes, she'll be missed by some.”

“Did anyone hate her? Could someone here want her dead?”

With a shrug, the innkeeper showed his indifference, but under the intensity of Baldwin's gaze, he spoke with a defensive air. “Some might've. But you can't believe what people say here! ‘I hate him,' ‘I'll kill him,' ‘He deserves death,' you hear it every day in here. When a man gets into his cups, his mouth runs away sometimes—it's natural. You can't believe it, it's the wine talking.”

“Who has said that about Kyteler?”

“Oh! I don't know. Many people have. They were scared of her. She seemed too clever, like I said. People get worried by women who're too clever.”

“So who
has
said that kind of thing about her?” Baldwin pressed.

“Like I say, it means nothing. There's a few have said things. Young Greencliff, he has. And old man Oatway.”

“Did they say why? Why they hated her?” asked Simon, leaning forward, his arms on his knees as he frowned.

“Why? Ha!” He gave a rich, low chuckle. “Oatway has the place between her assart and here, and he's got
chickens. About a month ago, he saw one of his chickens were missing, and when he looked he found its feathers, all in a line on the way to Kyteler's place. He reckons it was her dog, but she swore it wasn't.”

“If it was going out that way, it could have been a fox or anything, heading back to the wild; away from the houses and back to the forest,” said Simon.

“That's what she said, too, but old Oatway wouldn't have it! He reckoned it was her dog, right enough. Anyway, he went to her and said he wanted the chicken replaced, and she refused. Since then, he's lost two more chickens, and he hates her, blames her for them.”

“Hardly enough to murder for,” said Baldwin mildly.

Simon glanced at him. “A chicken is enough meat for a week or more for two people. After the last couple of years, I'd say it was a very good reason to kill.”

“Well,” the innkeeper squirmed in his seat, “I'm not saying it's not, but I still don't think he could kill. Not old John Oatway.”

“No? What about Harold Greencliff?”

“Harry? No, I don't think so. He's a good lad. No, he wouldn't kill.”

“Why did he hate Kyteler?”

“I don't know. I really don't. Something happened, though. He came in here…”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Late afternoon, I suppose…Yes, it was just after dark, so it must have been about five o'clock. Anyway, he came in and took a pint of ale, and sat down over there.” He pointed at the far corner, near the screen leading to the inner rooms. “A bit later, a friend of his came in, Stephen de la Forte, and they got talking, and I heard Harry say that she was a
bitch and if she wasn't careful, someone would ‘see to her.'”

“And?”

“Oh, they left soon after. But that's not to say he was really mad—he looked more sad to me, not really angry, just upset, so don't go thinking he went straight out to kill her. Anyway, they were back here a few hours later—before eight.”

“Who? Greencliff and de la Forte?”

“Yes. They came in again and settled down for the evening with some of their friends.”

“Where had they been?”

He shrugged. “How should I know? To get food or something, I don't know.”

“How did they seem when they got back?”

“Oh, Stephen was noisier than usual, but I reckon they'd had drinks while they were out. It gets some people like that. Harry was quiet. He often is when he's drunk too much. He's a nice, quiet sort of a lad.”

“I see,” said Baldwin, but as he opened his mouth to say more, Tanner and Cottey came in from seeing to the body. Walking to the huddle of men at the fire, they sat and stared longingly at the jugs of wine until Baldwin gestured and the innkeeper rose with bad grace to fetch more, this time not forgetting himself.

“We put her out back in the outbuilding. She can wait there until the priest can come and see to her,” said Tanner, watching the wine being poured as he held his hands to the fire. Sighing, he continued, “Poor old woman should be all right there. We put her up on a box. The rats should leave her alone for a day or two.”

Simon nodded, then glanced over at the innkeeper, who had returned and was staring morosely at the flames once more. “Did she have any family?”

“What, here?” Looking up, he seemed disinterested now, as if he had exhausted his knowledge and would prefer to move on to talk of other things. “No, not that I've seen. Sam? You seen any family with her?”

Taking a long pull at his wine, the old farmer paused before answering. Head one side, he considered. “No. Don't think so. Mind you, you'd need to ask Oatway to know. Anyone going to see the old…” He hesitated. “The old woman, they'd've had to go past Oatway's place first.”

“I think we need to see Oatway,” said Baldwin ruminatively.

T
he Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southward, keeping the moors straight ahead. They looked beautiful, dark and soft with a vague hint of purple and blue, splashed with white in the shadowed areas where the low sun could not reach. Here, almost at the outskirts of Crediton, the moors took up the whole of the view, stretching from east to west as if trying to show him that they were the best route for him to take.

Soon he was out of the surrounding trees and winding down the lane that led into the town itself. Here he made his way to the market and bought bread and a little meat before carrying on. To his surprise, as he was leaving the market, he heard his voice called, and when he turned, he saw the merchant, Trevellyn, at the door to an inn.

“You leaving already?”

“Yes. My business is finished here. I am on my way back to the coast.”

“I see. Going to Oakhampton, then south?”

“No,” said the Bourc shortly, and explained his route. “It should be quicker.”

“Yes,” said the merchant. There was a strange ex
pression in his eyes as he peered at the Bourc speculatively. “There's one easy route if you're going over the moors.” Walking a short distance with the Bourc, he pointed to where the road began, and made sure that the Gascon understood the route before returning to the inn.

Mounting his horse, the Bourc stared thoughtfully after him for a moment. The merchant's helpfulness did not ring true. It was oddly out of character after their last meeting in Wefford. But his advice sounded good.

The road led between some houses, down a short hill, and out to a flat plain. Crossing a river, he found that the road was well marked and easy to follow, and soon he was whistling cheerfully as he went.

After riding for some hours the countryside began to change. In place of the thickly wooded hills near Wefford and Furnshill, the trees were becoming more sparse and the hillsides steeper and less compromising. The road straggled lazily between the hills as if clambering up them would have been too much effort, and he found himself quickening his pace. As a soldier, he disliked enclosed places: he wanted to get to the moors and openness.

Not far from them, he found the road entered a wood which stood as if bounding the moors, far from the nearest house. There had been no other travellers for over an hour, which served to heighten his sense of solitude.

Riding into the shadows, he noticed the air felt stuffy. There was a hush, as if even the wild creatures were holding their breath expectantly. The silence was intimidating. When a blackbird crashed off a branch and squawked its way along a hedge in front of him, he stopped his horse with a frown.

It had moved too early to have been upset by him.
Something else had worried it. He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and peered around with an apparent shortsighted lack of awareness. To have paused too long would have appeared suspicious, and he had no wish to avoid whoever could be ahead. But as his horse walked on, the knight was as alert as he ever had been.

Other men he had known had told him that they experienced extreme fear and a strange lassitude when they knew they were riding into a battle. He never did. To him warfare was life itself, his whole existence revolved around the fights on the marches, and without battle his life would have little meaning. No ambusher could have realized that from seeing him now.

His head moved sluggishly, as if he was dozing, and, as his horse meandered on slowly, his whole body slumped. Yet he managed to search each bush, every tree trunk, with care.

Only twenty yards into the trees he saw the first man and knew that he was about to be attacked.

The first glance merely gave him a flash of russet. If he had not already been expecting to see someone, he might have missed it, but that fleeting glimpse was enough. Considering where he would have put his own men for an ambush, he soon saw four other places where men could hide. There were too many—if he was attacked here he could be overcome too easily. With that thought in mind, he patted his horse's neck. Then, with a quick prayer, he clapped spurs to his mount and they thundered down between the trees.

Suddenly the wood was full of angry shouting. He heard the low, thrumming whistle of an arrow passing overhead, a shouted curse, cries and swearing as men realized their trap was sprung, and then he was through the woods and in the open. The moors!

Risking a look over his shoulder, he could see three men struggling with horses. One was up quickly, two others a little slower. Glancing again, the Bourc saw that the first kept ahead of the others.

In front there was no cover of any sort. A quick ambush was out of the question. He would have no chance to stop and mount an attack until he had managed to increase the distance between him and his pursuers. It would take too long to grab his bow or a lance from the packhorse. Pursing his lips, he considered as he kicked his mount again. Then, when he threw another glare back, he saw that his luck was with him. The man in front had increased his lead and was gaining while the others were falling back.

Still bent low over his horse's neck, he took the reins in his left hand and reached for his sword, checking it would pull free easily. Then he began to measure when he should turn.

It was not long. The leading man behind was a scant twenty yards away when the Bourc saw a stream ahead. Soon he felt his horse slow and pause before leaping. The Bourc just had time to drop the packhorse's leading rein before they jumped.

With his muscles coiled like huge springs, his horse bounded up and over the small stream, the packhorse following. It was then that he knew he had his opportunity. As soon as they landed, he reined in and turned, facing the man behind just as he leaped over the brook.

The Bourc immediately spurred back. While the man and his horse were still in the air, the Gascon pelted toward him, and when they landed he was only feet away. His pursuer had no chance of avoiding the swinging fist in its heavily mailed gauntlet. The blow
met his chin, carrying with it the onward weight of both horses and the knight.

Seeing their friend tumble from his saddle, the other two slowed in their chase, and when they saw the Bourc draw his sword they seemed to lose enthusiasm for further battle.

“Go! Go and leave me—or accept the revenge of a knight's sword!” he shouted.

The two hesitated. Both were dark, thin-featured men, who could have been brothers, for although one was in russet and the other wore a stained blue tunic, they had the same pale skin and thick eyebrows. Their horses were cheap riding horses, not farm animals, and the men looked, although not rich, far from poverty. The Bourc's eyes narrowed as he stared at them. There was something wrong here, he felt. These men were not common footpads—or if they were, robbers in England were wealthier than in Gascony.

“Go!” he bellowed again, and the two exchanged a glance. One wheeled and started off back to the line of trees. When his companion did not move, he stopped and looked back, but before he could call, his friend had turned as well, with a last malevolent glare at the Bourc. Soon they were riding at a solid trot, back the way they had come.

Only when they had disappeared among the trees did the Bourc sheath his sword and drop from his horse. He quickly bound his prisoner's hands and feet before surveying him thoughtfully. Then, shrugging, he sat and built a fire while he waited for the man to wake.

 

Simon and Baldwin ate lunch at the inn, then, guided by Cottey's directions, they found their way to the dirt track that led to the Oatway holding. They rode to
gether, with Tanner bringing up the rear, his features set in a contemplative scowl as he lurched along.

The snow had stopped again now, but was thick enough to cover most of the roadway, only the longer shoots of grass just breaking through. Nearer the trunks, the bushes and earth were untouched by the white carpet, protected by the great branches high overhead. It looked strange to Baldwin, as if they had left the winter behind in the village and now had entered a warmer area where only the road itself was cold enough to support the virgin whiteness.

While they were still out of sight of the farm, Simon began to hear a regular noise over the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves. Tap, tap, tap, then a pause, then two more. It stopped, then after a moment started again, and he cocked his head and looked over at Baldwin, who caught his glance and shrugged.

As the tapping got louder, they arrived at a fork in the trail. They chose the left-hand track, and the sound became louder as they followed it. Rounding the last bend, the forest fell back to show a large assart. In the middle stood a weary-looking cottage with stained and ancient thatch, which was allowing wispy tendrils of smoke to filter out above walls that were in need of fresh lime-wash. In front a cow stood chewing hay and watching their approach with bored disinterest, while between her legs chickens madly pecked at the earth and packed dirt of the yard. Over to the left was a strong fenced enclosure with goats, while on the right was what looked like a coppice area, with thick stems rising in clumps.

They slowly rode up and into the yard. It appeared empty, but as they looked round, Simon became aware again of the tapping. Touching his horse with his spurs,
he led the way to the back of the house. Here he found a pasture area, recently cleared. Stumps still littered the rough ground, and the snow could not hide the fact that the ground was only thinly grassed. The earth showed through in red scars.

At the far end was a tall, stooping, blue-smocked man with his back to the visitors, working at a series of heavy poles set vertically in the ground. Between each were bushes.

The knight and the bailiff exchanged a glance, then slowly rode on toward him. He was plainly unaware of their approach, and as they came closer they could hear him whistling tunelessly while he worked.

In his hand was a large-bladed bill, a short, solid curved-steel tool shaped like a stubby sickle with a wooden haft, with which he was tapping branches from the bushes around the stakes to build a woven fence of living wood which would later become a hedge—thick and strong enough to keep his animals in, and forest animals out. Suddenly he whirled, the bill raised in his hand, and stood facing them, unmoving, and they halted, considering him.

He was tall, at least five inches more than Tanner, more like Simon's own height of five feet ten, but although he appeared healthy for his age, which must surely be some five and forty years, he was quite stooped. There was a slightly unnatural color in his cheeks, as if he was on the verge of a fever. His eyes gleamed darkly from under bushy eyebrows, whose color had faded to pale grayness like his unkempt hair. It was the eyes that Simon noticed most of all. There was an odd expression in them—not fear, but a kind of suspicion.

“There's no need to fear,” said Baldwin.

“No? Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“This is the Keeper of the King's Peace—and this is the Constable. I am the Bailiff of Lydford,” said Simon reasonably. “Are you Oatway?”

The bill lowered a little, but the man's eyes still flitted over them in obvious doubt. “What if I am?”

“We need to ask you some questions. Did you know there's been a murder?”

“No,” he said, and the surprise was plainly clear. His arm dropped down to his side, until the tool dangled, forgotten. “Who?”

“Agatha Kyteler.”

“Her!”
He hawked and spat, as if the name offended him. “Good!”

“Did you see her yesterday?” Simon asked.

“Yesterday?” He considered. “No. No, I don't think so…”

“Do you live alone?'

“No, my wife is here too.” He added more softly, with a hint of sadness, “We have no children.”

“Did your wife see her yesterday, do you know?” Simon persisted.

Oatway glanced down at his bill, then sighed deeply and brought it down sharply on to a log. It stayed there, gripped by its own slashing cut. “You'd better come and ask her,” he said.

When he motioned, the three men dropped from their horses and followed him back to the front of the house, tying their mounts to the rail beside his log store.

Inside they found the cottage filthy, the atmosphere rancid from animal dung. Smoke hung in the rafters waiting to drift out through the thatch from the large hearth in the center of the floor. Entering, they had to step down. Like many older properties, to save the valu
able animal dung, the floor of the house was built on a slope. As the winter proceeded, the level of the floor at the lower, byre end, would rise. When spring finally arrived, the manure could be taken out and spread over the fields and the floor level would drop once more.

Now, after some months of bad weather, the room stank, and Simon could see that the feces were almost at the level of the door. He tried to shut his nostrils to the stench, but found it difficult. To his satisfaction, he saw that Baldwin seemed to notice the smell more than him, although Tanner appeared impervious.

Mrs. Oatway was a broad, strong-looking woman of about her husband's age. She stood staring at them with a scowl of distrust as they trooped into her house, her hand gripping the large wooden spoon with which she had been stirring at the iron pot as if it was a weapon. Although her hair still had its native darkness, without the graying of her husband, her features were wrinkled with age and troubles. She looked as quick and sharp as a martin, shrewd and devious. And probably malicious too, from the look of her thin bloodless lips.

After quickly introducing themselves, Baldwin suggested that they should walk outside to talk, but she demurred. “I've got food to prepare. We can talk in here.”

Grinning at the knight's obvious discomfort, Simon said, “We are trying to find out whether anybody saw Agatha Kyteler yesterday. Did you?”

“Her!” A sneer curled her lip. “I don't look for her. Why do I care for her, the old…”