The Merchant's Partner (7 page)

“You disliked her after the affair with your chickens, didn't you?” said Simon flatly, feeling as he spoke that the words were superfluous, but wanting to cut off her flow of invective. It worked. She stopped and glowered at him.

“Well? What if I do?”

“Did. She's dead. We're trying to find out why. Why did you hate her so much?”

The shock was plain on her face, her mouth opening and shutting, and then she turned to her husband and stared at him. “Is this true? Eh?”

He shrugged as Simon said, “Answer the question, woman. Why did you hate her?”

Sighing, and after some grumbling, she told them of her suspicions about Agatha Kyteler's dog.

“Did you see her dog do it?” asked Baldwin, wincing and coughing.

“See it? No, but it was her dog, all right. We followed the feathers, didn't we?” She turned for verification to her husband, who nodded vaguely.

Simon considered. “Did you see her yesterday?”

“I…” She paused, her glower deepening.

“Good. When?”

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“Why?” sighed Simon, and stared at her in silence.

“It was that dog again,” she said at last, reluctantly.

“Her dog? What did it do?”

“It attacked my chickens again. Took another one. What was I supposed to do? Wait' til it had killed them all? I went to tell her to keep the dog tied up. I told her if I saw it on our land again, we'd kill it.”

“What did she say?”

“Her!” Her lips curled again in scorn. “Nothing, of course! She said it wasn't her dog. Said it was in the house with her all day. Well that was a lie!”

“You saw her dog, then?”

“No, but the feathers went her way again. It must have been her dog.”

Shrugging, Simon glanced at Baldwin, who
coughed. “Very well,” he said reasonably; “did you see anyone else there?”

Her face wrinkled with the effort of recollection. “Yes. Yes, while I was on my way there, Sarah Cottey and Jennie Miller were talking near the house. And some other woman was in the trees—I don't know who—when I left.”

“What did she look like?” asked Baldwin.

“Look like? Oh, I don't know. Dressed well. Slim woman. Fairly tall and young, I'd say. Had a long cloak on, with fur on the hood.”

“A gray cloak?” Baldwin's face wore a frown when Simon shot a glance at him.

“Yes, it was gray, I think.”

“You saw no men?”

“No.”

After checking where Jennie Miller lived, they walked out with relief to the open air. Even the extreme cold of the gathering darkness was preferable to the stench inside. The husband followed them, standing and inhaling deeply on his doorstep as he watched them mount their horses. Baldwin whirled his horse, and was about to ride off when he seemed struck by a sudden thought.

“Oatway. Why was your wife so sure that Kyteler's dog attacked your chickens?”

He stared up at the grave knight, then quickly glanced behind to the open doorway. Moving a little away from it, to stand closer to Baldwin, he said, “Because she thinks old Kyteler got her dog to come here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Kyteler never liked my wife. My wife thinks she got the dog to come and kill our chickens, one by one.”

Simon felt the hair begin to rise on his scalp as the
stooping man stared up at the knight, his voice dropping as if nervous of being overheard—not by his wife, but by someone else. “Kyteler was clever with animals. She always knew how to help hurt ones. And she could make potions for people too. She knew how to make potions, medicines and such. There's only one sort knows about that kind of thing.” His eyes held Baldwin's with a fearful conviction. “She was a witch!”

 

It had not taken the Bourc long to light his little fire from one of the bundles on the packhorse, and he was soon sitting and warming himself. Munching on a hunk of bread, he watched the man until he saw a finger twitch and eyebrow flicker, and then he stood and contemplated the supine figure for a moment before walking over and kicking it. “Wake up! You have questions to answer!”

The man was thick-set and swarthy like a seaman. On hearing the Bourc's voice, he looked around blearily, his eyes unfocused and slowly blinking above the scuffed and bloody chin, until they caught sight of his captor and suddenly widened.

“I see you recognize me,” said the Gascon affably, squatting nearby. Pulling out his long-bladed dagger, he toyed with the hilt for a moment, then studied his prisoner with a smile. When he spoke, his voice was low and reasonable. “Why were you trying to ambush me?”

Brown eyes narrowed and flitted around the landscape.

“I shouldn't bother, if I was you. They went. If they tried to come back, I would have seen them. They've left you here,” said the Bourc.

“They wouldn't leave me alone.” But the eyes were
uncertain as they moved over the surrounding country, and the Bourc let him search for his friends for a minute without interruption. There was no need to emphasize the fact. From here the moors fell down to the stream where he had caught the man, then rose to the trees a mile or so beyond. It was clear that no rescue was to be mounted from there. The Bourc watched as the man peered round to look up the hill, and grinned humorlessly. He knew that the country was as empty for nearly as far in that direction.

Holding the dagger delicately between finger and thumb, point dangling, the Bourc glanced at him again. “Why were you trying to ambush me? And why did your friends not shoot to kill? They had bows. I saw.”

The eyes snapped back to his face and the Bourc was surprised to see no fear there. The dark face stared at him with what looked like a vague sneer. “Why do you think?”

“I have no idea. Why don't you tell me?” There was no answer. The man hawked and spat contemptuously. Sighing, the Bourc tried again. “My friend, I don't know. You don't look hard done by—you aren't starving or anything. You don't seem poor: your tunic is good quality and not worn.”

Now the scornful expression grew. “We aren't footpads!”

“Ah! So why else attack someone you have never met? You have the look of a sailor, and yet I know no sailors…”

Seeing a quick interest, he paused. “So you
are
a sailor. But I know no sailors…No, I do not understand why you should have tried to rob me. So…”

“So maybe I just hate Gascons.”

“Yes, that's possible,” said the Bourc softly. With a
flick he tossed the dagger up. It turned once in the air and he caught it again by the hilt. Reaching forward, he touched the point at the top of the man's breastbone. As the eyes widened, he smiled, then dragged the blade gently downward, so lightly he left no mark on his prisoner's skin, although it made the man squirm as it traced a mark of tickling terror down his chest. When it touched the top of his tunic, the Bourc angled it, so that it sliced through the cloth.

Speaking conversationally, he said, “You don't look worried about dying at my hands. I suppose you aren't scared of a quick death. That's fine. But it's getting close to dark, and it will be very cold tonight. I think I might just leave you here once I have cut your tunic off. After all, maybe
I
don't like sailors.”

“You can't do that! I'm your prisoner, you must…”

“
I
must? I don't have to do anything. You attacked me. I can do as I wish with you—I'm a knight. And I have little time to take you anywhere, my lord expects me home in Bordeaux. No. I think that leaving you here to freeze slowly will be best.”

Now the fear was fighting to overcome the disbelief. “You can't! What if someone finds me here and…”

“Finds you? Here?” The Bourc smiled at him again, his knife stilled, and he made a show of gazing round. When his eyes came back to his prisoner, he began to move the blade again. “I think it's a little unlikely, don't you? We're not close to a road here. I doubt whether anyone would come here before morning. Of course, a wolf might come along…”

“Stop!”
It was a cry of panic. “I'll tell you why we were there…Stop!
Please!
”

The Bourc paused, his dagger poised under the man's heart. “Yes?”

“We were paid to attack you. Not to kill you, just to hurt you a bit…”

“Who paid you? And why?” He stared. He only knew a few people here—who could have asked for him to be ambushed?

“Trevellyn—Alan Trevellyn—he lives over north of Crediton—we work for him. He paid us to follow you today, after he pointed you out to us in the inn—told us he wanted you hurt. That's all I know.”

For a minute the Bourc held the man's gaze while he considered. It was quite possible that the merchant had chosen to pay men to attack him. He had made sure of the Gascon's route by telling him which way to go. Nodding to himself, he whipped the knife down, swiftly slicing the tunic to the hem. Then he moved the blade down and cut the thongs hobbling his ankles.

“Very well. You can go now.”

“But…”

“What?” He mounted his horse and stared down.

“My hands! And where is my horse?” the man said, struggling to his feet and dejectedly looking down at his bare chest.

“Be grateful you have hands left. As for your horse—you lost it. You know your own way home, I believe. I should begin walking.”

He could still hear the man's hoarse shouting when he had left him far behind, but he soon put all thoughts of the robber out of his mind. His only concern was how to repay the merchant. Nothing else mattered.

O
ld Oatway stood and stared after the bailiff and knight as they left his holding, watching carefully as if doubting that they were truly leaving. Once out of sight of him and the house, Baldwin grimaced, glancing upward at the sky.

“It's going to freeze tonight,” he muttered, and Simon nodded glumly, making the knight smile. Simon was not happy. Although he considered himself educated, and knew that rumors could easily accumulate around people in villages like Wefford with no reason, he felt nervous to have heard that the old woman was thought to be a witch. He shook himself. She was probably just a maligned old woman, that was all, surely. Glancing up, he saw the clouds were the color of old pewter, angry and heavy.

“Well, Simon? Shall we go and question this Jennie Miller? Or should we go and take a look at Kyteler's house?”

“Tanner? What do you think?”

Ambling up on his horse, Tanner looked down the lane toward Agatha Kyteler's house. “We have to see her place. We still don't know where she was killed. Maybe we'll find something there.”

It was a good quarter of a mile to the little assart where the old woman had lived, and the difference between her cottage deep in the woods and the Oatway property closer to the road was startling. Here the thatch was fresh, not more than one summer old; the lime wash brilliant and white. Even the log store appeared to have been carefully maintained, the logs stacked neatly to the left of the house under an extension of the thatch.

In front were two wattle pens in which goats and chickens roamed, and there was barking and whining at the sound of their arrival. Simon and Baldwin sat on their horses while Tanner alighted and strolled to the door, banging hard on the planks with his fist. There was no reply, so after looking at Baldwin, who gave a curt nod, he lifted the wooden latch and shoved the door open.

Immediately a thin black and brown lurcher burst out, barking excitedly and capering around the horses, jumping up every now and again in an attempt to reach the riders. Laughing, Baldwin threw a quick glance at Simon. “The poor devil must have been in there since yesterday to be this happy to see a stranger!”

“Yes,” said the bailiff, trying to keep his horse steady. The dog unnerved her, and she was trying to keep him in sight, reversing and turning skittishly as the black and brown streak tore round below. “Keep still, damn you!”

He was so involved he did not notice the constable come back to the door and motion to them. Grinning at his friend's discomfort, Baldwin dropped from his mount and lashed the reins to a sapling, then crouched and stroked the dog before rising, still smiling, to enter. But the smile left his face when he saw the constable's expression.

“This's where she died,” he said curtly as he stood aside to let the knight in.

That was clear as soon as Baldwin's eyes accustomed themselves to the dark inside the small cottage. It was not as well built as the other houses in the village. In place of the solid timber beams, the gaps filled with cob and dirt to give a weatherproof shell, this place was a simple wooden shed, with earth and straw plastered on the outside to stop drafts.

One window high in the northern wall gave a little light into the gloomy interior. From it he could see that there was one almost square room, with a tiny attic area which had a seven-runged ladder leading up to it. Baldwin could make out the rugs and furs that made up the bed in it. Beneath, all was cluttered. In the center sat a fireplace, around which stood two small benches. To the right was a table, covered with earthenware pots and a variety of twigs, leaves and roots. A pair of large flat granite stones sat near the fire, which must have been used for grinding in place of mortar and pestle.

All over the floor were pots and vessels containing seeds and leaves, some fresh, some dry, giving the room a soft and musty odor. Around the walls and from the beams hung clumps of other branches and drying flowers, but it was to his left that his eyes were pulled. There had been a similar table to that opposite, a simple affair built of roughly hewn planks on top of a pair of trestles, but here it was fallen, as if pulled or yanked over into the room, away from the wall. The collection of herbs and other plants was scattered all over the floor, and broken pots lay underneath the toppled balks of wood.

“Wait here,” said Baldwin shortly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the floor around the table. Walking
past the constable, he moved forward slowly, gazing at the wreckage while he wondered whether there had been a fight.

Turning, he looked at the other side of the room. There, he saw, the table was standing hard against the wall. The pots around it on the floor were neatly organized on both sides, as if placed in military lines. He wandered carefully toward it and picked up a pair. One contained what looked like several twigs of yew, the other held leaves and stems from a juniper. He replaced them thoughtfully and strolled back to the fallen table.

Here, it appeared, the same pots had stood at either side, with some resting on top. There were several more smashed on the ground, and leaves and roots were scattered all over the floor. Baldwin crouched down and picked up a few. Mostly they appeared to be different herbs. He smelled thyme, basil and sage. And something else. Over the heavy musk and the thick pine, he could smell the decaying sweetness. As Simon came in, darkening the room as his body shut out the light from the doorway, the knight's fingers encountered the slight stickiness, chilly and thick on the floor, directly in front of the table.

“Found anything?” Simon asked from the entrance. He saw the knight turn, his face sad and reflective.

“Yes. This is where she died. Her blood is all over the floor.”

Sighing, the knight slowly traced the cloying mess from one extremity to the other. It seemed to have settled in pools on the ground, as far as he could see in the darkness. Mostly it had congealed, but here and there the thickest gobs still held viscous proof of their provenance. Tanner crouched by the fire. There was no
chance of resurrecting the flames of yesterday, and he resigned himself to starting a new one so that they might have light.

Soon the flames were rising languidly from a small mass of tinder, and the constable found a small foul-smelling tallow candle which he passed to Baldwin, who waited by the table, crouching.

Taking the candle, the knight peered round, grunting occasionally to himself. To Simon, standing by the door, he looked like a hog grubbing for acorns. On hearing a muttered call, the constable strode to Baldwin, then lifted the bench while the candle was held to the top and sides, then the bottom and finally the trestles. Nodding, the knight allowed Tanner to set the table down again before continuing his study. He paused for a moment and stared fixedly, then reached down and picked up something, but Simon could not see what. At last he stood and, holding the candle high, looked hard at the wall behind the table. Snuffing the candle, he walked out, passing Simon wordlessly.

Outside once more, the dog sat, head on one side as if listening to their conversation. Tanner stood silently behind them.

“So what happened?” asked Simon. “Why would anyone kill her? It can't have been an accident.”

“No, it was no accident.” Baldwin dropped and snapped his fingers at the dog until it lurched to its feet and walked to them, head down and tail slowly sweeping from side to side. Ruffling the fur on the dog's head, the knight continued slowly and deliberately.

“I think someone went to her and spoke to her. She was at the table when she was killed. I think she was killed as she stood there, with her back to her killer.”

The bailiff frowned as he tried to understand. “She
was standing at her table while the killer cut her throat?”

“Very likely. Blood hit the wall behind the table in a spray, so it's probable that she was facing that way when the killer struck. Blood was over the top of the table, not on the bottom, so the table was upright when the blow fell. After her throat was sliced, she fell back, and I think she pulled the table with her. No blood lay on the leg of the trestle, so I think that the table top protected it from her blood as she fell back. If she had fallen with the blow and then tried to haul herself upward, she would have left her blood on the trestle where it faced into the room. As it is, I think she was wounded and took hold of the table, then fell back to die, taking the table with her.”

Both were quiet for a moment. It was Tanner who broke the silence. “Why would anyone do that to an old woman like her, though? She can't have had anything to steal. Why kill her?”

Turning to him, the knight gave him a cold smile in which the bitter anger flashed. “That's what we must find out.”

While the constable went to fetch their horses, Simon contemplated his friend. “Baldwin, something's the matter. What is it?”

The knight stared at him for a moment. Then, holding out his hand, he showed what he had found on the floor. It was a gold ring, with a large red stone held in its flat face.

“That hardly seems the sort of ring for a poor old woman,” mused Simon, and then he noticed the knight's expression. “Baldwin? What is it? Do you know whose ring this is?”

Baldwin stared at him dully. “Yes,” he said softly. “I know whose this is.”

 

Riding to the woods at the edge of the moors, the Bourc was frowning as he thought about the merchant. He had no desire to stay in England longer than was necessary, and could easily forget the incident, putting the attempted ambush down to outlaws. But that would be dishonorable. As a free-born Englishman, and knight, he had a chivalric duty to avenge this cowardly attack. To ignore it would leave the merchant thinking he had succeeded in scaring the Bourc, and that was not merely demeaning, it could be dangerous. If common people thought they could flout the law and attack their betters, all well-born men would be endangered.

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that his master would enthusiastically support him punishing the guilty man. He must go and see Trevellyn.

He was following the trail made by his horses and those of his attackers back to the copse, and slowed as he came closer. On a sudden whim, he swerved aside and rode a short way parallel to the trees, his eyes flitting over the boughs. Two men had come back this way. They could still be there.

After going east for some hundreds of yards, he abruptly cantered to the woods, crashing through the ferns and bushes at the perimeter, half expecting to feel the sting of an arrow at any moment, but he heard and saw nothing to warrant concern. When he paused, listening for any noise over the breathing of the two horses, there was nothing. He carried on.

But he kept an eye open all the way.

 

“Tanner? Are you all right?” Simon had watched the tall figure of the knight ride away, the small shape of
the dog at his horse's heels—obviously having found another master, the dog was not willing to lose him. Now he turned, worried at the man's taciturn demeanor.

The constable was slouched on his horse as they passed the Oatway holding, chin on his breast as if asleep, but staying stiff and steady in his saddle. At Simon's question, his head snapped up, and the bailiff, to his intense annoyance, found himself being studied closely.

“What is it, Tanner?”

“I'm not sure, Bailiff.”

“Come on, you've been quiet all afternoon. What is it?”

But the constable would not say more. All he had were vague suspicions: Greencliff had been nervous; the boy was more scared of the knight than of the body. That was normal for a villein, and Greencliff lived on Furnshill's land. It was only natural for him to be fearful of his master—his master held his life and livelihood in his mailed fist. That was no reason to denounce the boy.

In his youth Tanner had been a soldier for the king, as had old Samuel Cottey. They had been men-at-arms with one of the companies protecting the Welsh marches, and had witnessed all possible human cruelties at the time, or so Tanner had thought. He had seen the murders of the villagers, the rape of the women and the slow torture of men suspected of spying or fighting against the army, and it had been there, in the smoke and fury of the Welsh battles, that they had decided to leave warfare to others. They had returned home, Tanner to take up his father's profession as a farmer until he was elected to be constable. This he found a diffi
cult responsibility to drop, but until the previous year he had never been involved in more than the normal routine of arresting cut-purses at Crediton market.

Last year that had all changed when the trail bastons arrived and began to pillage the shire, killing and burning from Exeter to Oakhampton. That was when he rediscovered the joy of holding a sword. He had rediscovered the wicked delight in fighting, when the fighting was for a good cause. And now he had the same feeling: that something was wrong in the area. There was a killer loose. A killer who might strike again.

It was hard to believe that Greencliff could be involved. He knew the boy, had known him for over ten years, had known his father, and it seemed impossible that he could be involved in this murder. And yet he had been very nervous, and the body was very close to his house…

“I think I'll leave you at the inn. I want to go and see Greencliff.”

 

The Bourc had travelled for over three miles through the woods when he came up to the edge and gazed out at the road. There was nothing overt to cause him alarm, and he was about to kick his horse forward when a sudden caution made him stop.

In front of him the lane straggled untidily down the hill from his left, a red and muddy track cutting through the woods. He could see how it bent, falling down a steep incline to a rushing stream where a massive granite block acted as a simple bridge. At the other side the road rose steeply, soon swinging right to follow the riverbank all the way to Crediton. All seemed quiet and peaceful. There was no obvious reason for
nervousness, no indication that any other person was near, but he paused and frowned warily.