The Merchant's Partner (8 page)

Although there was probably nothing, he felt a prickling of his scalp. Partly, he was sure, it was due to the perfect siting of the bridge. If he had wanted to attack someone on the road, this would have been the place he would have chosen. The steep sides of the two hills made a fast escape almost impossible, whether forward or back. The road narrowed at the bridge over the fast waters, funnelling the victim perfectly into a small area where it would be easy to haul a man from his horse or strike him.

Nodding to himself, he studied the trees lining the trail. They were thick, with dense bushes beneath. If someone was there, he would hardly be able to see them. But he could still feel the warning tingle of danger. Dropping from his horse, he lashed the reins to a branch and walked down the hill, along the line of the road but keeping just inside the trees. All the way he kept a wary eye on the dirt of the lane, but saw nothing alarming.

The traffic making its way from Crediton and Exeter to Moretonhampstead and beyond had chewed the path into a quagmire, and the deep ruts bore witness to the number of vehicles which had recently passed. Hoofprints scarred the red mud, leaving it cratered and pitted, looking like stew left boiling for too long.

As he walked down, pacing slowly and carefully as if hunting a deer, each step carefully measured to keep his noise to a minimum, he kept his attention on the bridge and the trees at either side. There was nothing obvious to warrant the trepidation he felt, but he had been a warrior too long to ignore his instincts. Only rarely had he known this sense of warning, but each
time there had been good reason, and the feeling that this place was dangerous was not entirely due to its location. Somehow he
knew
that someone else was there.

He had covered almost half the distance when he heard a sniff and a low clearing of a throat from a few yards ahead: a man—and hidden to ambush a traveller.

Slowly, carefully, the Bourc laid his hand on his sword hilt and stepped forward softly, up to a thick oak bough with scrubby bushes at either side. Here he paused, putting out a hand to lean against the tree, listening.

“I reckon we've missed him. He's gone some other way.”

He froze at the low, muttered words. They were closer than he had realized.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he's just round that bend now, just about to come down.”

“Are you going to wait here all night just in case?”

“Trevellyn wanted him taught a lesson: not to insult an Englishman's wife.”

“But we can't wait here all night. We'll freeze.”

“We have to try to get him—do you want to lose your place on the ship?”

“It won't make much difference, will it? We never make any money on his ships now. Not since the pirates started attacking us every time we leave port.”

“Just give it 'til dusk. When it's dark we'll get back to town.”

The Bourc grinned mirthlessly, then began to make his painstaking way back to his horses. He led them slowly back up the hill for a distance before turning eastward and walking parallel to the stream. The men were too close to the bubbling water to hear his progress. He would leave them there. They would be
occupied, and they could take a message back to Trevellyn, seemingly their ship's owner; although they had failed to teach their lesson, the Bourc did not seem to have tried to return to Crediton. Trevellyn would think himself safe.

 

The ride home for Baldwin and Simon was quiet. Neither was in the mood to talk. The knight rode along scowling fixedly ahead while Simon tried desperately to keep warm, taking the long fold of his old cloak and tossing it over his hunched shoulder as he rode in miserable, frozen silence. Every time the slow jogging of the horse would soon shake it free again. The trip seemed at least twice as long in the quickening darkness, with the wind slowly freezing the sweat on his back and the thickening mist ahead. Then, to his disgust, it began to snow again.

“God!” he muttered, and saw Baldwin shoot a quick glance at him.

“Cold, my friend?” he asked sardonically.

“Cold? What do you think?” responded Simon, throwing his cloak once more over his left shoulder.

“I have no idea!” The knight looked upward before taking his bearings. When he continued, there was a new note of seriousness. “We must hurry before we freeze, Simon. This snow is not going to stop.”

They were back at Furnshill before six o'clock, both pleased to see the welcoming orange glow of the sconces, candles and fire through the tapestry-covered windows. Their breath was steaming in the bitter cold, and they rode straight to the stableyard, the knight bellowing for grooms, before dismounting. Even when the men had taken the horses, he stood quietly watching as their mounts were rubbed down, and when he
turned to Simon, he gave a quick grin. “I always watch. It's a soldier's habit, I know, but old habits stay with you, and once you've lived in a war you learn that it's crucial that your horse is well fed and cared for. Hello! So you want food too, do you?”

This was to their visitor. As they had turned to walk to the manor house and the warm hall, they found the black and brown dog sitting inquiringly at the entrance to the stables, head on one side as if asking how much longer they must bear the cold.

The dog's tail began to sweep slowly from side to side, clearing a small fan in the snow, then he stood and waited for them. “Looks like you've a new member of your household, Baldwin,” said Simon smiling. His only answer was a low grunt.

 

Tanner looked up sourly at the tree. His mouth twisted into a grimace of loathing as a small avalanche fell down his back and the wet trickle began its crawl toward his belt.

It was pitch black and freezing cold. The snow fell silently but inexorably. Hunching his shoulders, the constable peered ahead through slitted eyes, grunting in his misery.

After the knight and the bailiff had left, he had gone straight to the inn, drinking a couple of pints of mulled wine with the keeper. He had wanted to see if the man could add anything to his previous statement, and hoped that Greencliff might drop in, but the attempt was a failure. The landlord was happy to sell his wine, but denied knowing more than he had already told, and after morosely waiting for an hour or so, the constable decided to go and see whether he could find the youth at home. He obviously was not coming to the inn.

The track was miserable, though. Thick clumps of snow poured continually from the sky. There was nothing in his world but the cold and the snow. All creatures had fled the bitter chill, and the trees at either side were invisible. In the absolute blackness there was no track, just a small patch of clear road ahead before sight was obliterated by whiteness in the dark. Now and again Tanner would see a clump of higher snow, showing where a bush lay hidden, or the branch of a tree. Other than that there was nothing.

Shuddering, he kept his muscles clenched, trying to keep himself warm. His mouth ached, and the unprotected skin on his throat and face felt tight and crisp, as if it had become brittle and would snap if touched.

He came to the house without realizing he had left the woods, it was so still all round. It was impossible to see the edge of the woods, or the hedge where they had ridden that morning—all was hidden. But here at the house, he was aware that the road was rising, and suddenly there was the gray mass on his left. He gave a sign of relief, kicking his horse into a trot to get to the front, but then a frown darkened his face. There was no welcoming glow of fire. No smell of wood smoke.

The small windows showed as rectangles of deeper black in the darkness of the walls. He would have expected to find at the least a glimmer from behind the tapestries and curtains, but there was nothing. With a feeling of anxiety, he realized that the house must be empty. Greencliff could not be there. To make sure, he dropped heavily from his old horse and thumped at the door.

After a few minutes, he tried the latch. Inside, all was silence, the fire a faint red apology in the hearth. He looked all round, then glanced behind him. The
view decided him. Leading his horse inside, he took off the saddle and bridle, then groomed her before seeing to the fire.

It was when he had just managed to coax it back into life that the knock came at the door. Instantly alert, he grabbed his old sword, a heavy-bladed falchion. Drawing the single-bladed weapon, he walked quietly to the door and opened it with a jerk.

“Thank God, Harold, I…Who are you?”

Tanner stared grimly at his visitor, a young man with the red blush of fear coloring his face. “I'm the Constable. Who are
you
?”

W
hat will you call it?” asked Simon as they entered the house, the slim figure of the dog walking ahead of them as if it had been born at Furnshill.

Throwing a quick glance at him, Baldwin said, “I'm not so sure I'll keep it. After all…”

“I think you'd better tell the dog that!” said Simon.

“It's already decided to stay, from the look of it, whatever you think.”

“It's not what
I
say that matters. I was thinking of Lionors.”

“Ah! Yes, I forgot. Your wife!”

Baldwin shot him a glare of irritation, but it slowly left his features, to be replaced with a self-deprecating grin.

Lionors was apparently no difficulty. As they walked through the screens, they saw that Lionors and their companion had already met, and the two were standing and cautiously sniffing at each other in front of the fire. As they watched, the mastiff obviously decided that the newcomer was no threat, and walked away to lie before the flames, and soon the black and brown dog joined her, snuggling up against her large
frame like a puppy. The mastiff lifted her head once, grumbled twice, but then flopped back down again and ignored the stranger. “I'll think of a name,” said Baldwin with resignation.

 

Later, when he walked into his hall, Baldwin was amused to see Simon still standing and defensively warming his back before the fire, Hugh beside him and tossing more wood on, while Margaret stood by, an expression of tight-lipped exasperation straining her features. From her face, and from the look of embarrassed self-justification on Simon's, the knight knew his friend had been given sensible advice about not staying out too late in the dark when it snowed. In any case, Baldwin had heard the hissed fury in her voice—and the deference in her husband's—through the wall.

When he saw the quick toss of Margaret's head in his direction, the pained glance from Simon, and the straight back of the servant that seemed to imply that as far as he was concerned he would prefer to be anywhere other than with his master at the present, Baldwin smiled broadly.

“I suppose I could deny having heard your…er, talk?” he said, looking from Simon to Margaret, catching sight of a fleeting wince on the bailiff's face.

She raised a cynical eyebrow as she turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Are you going to tell me you didn't know how dangerous it can be? How bad it is to try to travel at night? You know what the lanes can be like when the snow is heavy: are you both mad?”

“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, walking to his chair in front of the fireplace. Before sitting he poured a tankard of warm wine from the jug on the hearth, then sat comfortably and sipped, his eyes fixed on her.

He looked like a bishop, sitting in his small chair as if it was a throne, she thought. Although he was not mocking her, she felt sure she could sense derision in his attitude, and drew in her breath to berate him in his turn, but before she could, he began speaking softly.

“Margaret, I'm sorry you were worried, but you must understand: there's been a murder. We could not just stop and come home as soon as it became dark. We had to see if we could discover any more.”

“Of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But how would it profit your investigation for you both to die on a journey home?”

“Not at all, of course, but…”

“Exactly!” she said, cutting him off. “Not at all! Two merchants and a monk have already died this year on the way from Tavistock. All because they carried on with their journey after dark. I will not have you two doing the same.”

“But Margaret,” Simon began, but she whirled, glaring, and he subsided.

“No more: I will hear no more!”

Baldwin grinned and inclined his head. “Very well, lady. I will ensure that we are back in time in future.”

“Do so.” She walked to a bench and sat, arms crossed. “And now, tell me about this woman who has died.”

The knight and Simon exchanged a glance, then, at a brief shrug from his friend, the bailiff quickly told her of their day and what they had found about the dead woman. Tentatively sitting beside her, he told of their discovery of the body, their talk with the Oatways and their visit to the empty cottage. As he spoke, the mastiff rose and walked to Baldwin, closely followed by her black and brown shadow.

“Poor woman,” Margaret mused when he finished, and Simon nodded. “And these Oatways think she was a witch?”

“Yes,” said Baldwin. “They seem to believe she could make her dog do as she wished. As if a dog needed any prompting to do mischief! Anyway,” he took Kyteler's dog by the head, holding it in both hands and peering into its eyes, “how could they think this one was evil?”

“That's what they do, though,” said Hugh, and at his sudden interruption, they all glanced at him. Under their gaze he hunched his shoulders as if he wished he had not spoken, but then continued sulkily, “Well, it is. They get animals and make them do what they want. They can call on wild animals if they want.”

Baldwin grunted, “Nonsense!”

“It's true! And if they want, some of them can change into animals, too! There've been witches all over here since men first got here,” said Hugh, hotly defensive. “Ever since men came here and fought the giants away there's been witches.”

“No, Hugh. There's no such thing as witches,” said the knight. “There's only superstition and fear—sometimes jealousy. Never witchcraft.”

“Then how did this old woman get her dog to go and eat these chickens, then?” asked the servant triumphantly.

Looking up, Baldwin smiled at him, but then his face grew somber. “Just because some old woman has a dog, and her neighbor thinks it was that dog that attacked her chickens, does not mean it really was. I think the dog deserves the chance to defend itself. Likewise, just because somebody thinks a woman is a witch does not necessarily mean she is, and she deserves the chance to defend herself.”

“How can she? She's dead!”

“Yes. She is.” The words came quietly.

Margaret stirred. “But, Baldwin, what if she was a witch?”

“Kyteler a witch? No, I don't think so.” His face was as gentle as his voice as he looked over at her.

“Why not?”

“Because I do not believe such people exist. I cannot.”

Simon leaned forward and peered at him. “But surely on your travels you must have…”

“No. I never found any proof of a woman having been a witch. Oh, I found plenty of examples of old women accused of being evil, of being involved in magic. I have seen many of them being killed. But there was always another reason why they were accused, it was never because anyone really believed they were guilty.”

“What do you mean, ‘another reason'?”

“I mean, whenever there was someone accused of being a witch, it was because the accuser wanted their money, their cattle, their house—something! Always there was something that would benefit the accuser. And, often, it would only turn up later, after the poor wretch had already died in the flames. Even the priests don't usually believe they're evil, which is why they rarely get to see the Inquisition even when they have been accused. They're usually killed by the mob. No, I do not believe in witches.”

“But this old woman had all those herbs and roots,” said Simon doubtfully.

The knight shot him a quick look. “Don't tell me
you
believe in witches?”

“Well,” the bailiff explained apologetically, “it's not that I believe in them necessarily, or that I think
Kyteler was one, it's just that there are so many stories, and…”

“Oh, really!” The knight suddenly stood and strode to the fire, standing by the great lintel of the chimney, and when he spoke again his face was all in shadow, his body framed by the flames behind. “What is a witch?”

It was Margaret who answered. “Someone who uses magic to do what she wants.”

“And what does she want?”

“Wealth. Love. Power. Sometimes to stay young. There are many things a witch can desire.”

“Kyteler had none of these. What did
she
achieve?”

Simon stirred. “You say that, but surely witches use magic just to do evil? They don't need any benefit, they do it to please their master?”

“Their master? Who do you mean? The Devil?”

The bailiff was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the isolation of the manor as he answered, “Yes.”

Filling his mug, Baldwin strolled back to his chair slowly. “Possibly. I would be happier to believe in a witch who was wealthy, though, than one who was trying to please her dark master!”

“All those herbs, though…” Simon began hesitantly.

“Simon, really! Do you accuse all leeches of being witches? She was probably good with them and used her skills to help others. There may come a time when even
you
are glad for the help of a wise woman who can stop the pain from a broken limb…Or piles!”

“What do you know of her death, anyway?” asked Margaret diplomatically after a moment.

Baldwin looked up. “Not much,” he admitted. “She was seen in the afternoon by Mrs. Oatway, but from then on we have little information.”

“No,” mused Simon. “That's where we ought to start. We need to find out what Oatway and Greenfield were doing in the afternoon. They're the two we know who were supposed to hate her.”

“Yes,” said Baldwin, and stared at the fire. “There is another suspect, though, Simon. I told you of my friend's son.” Glaring into the flames, he explained about the Bourc's visit to England to see the dead woman, and his ruby ring.

“Do you think he could have killed her?” Margaret asked.

Baldwin shook his head. “He was here out of gratitude. To thank her.”

“If his story was true,” she said quietly.

The knight did not respond, but later, when he left them to go to his room, his face still wore a troubled scowl.

When Simon at last drifted off into sleep, he had the same nightmare as before, but this time the figure in the flames was not the abbot. As it turned, to his horror he recognized the face of Agatha Kyteler, her eyes sad and accusing as they held his.

 

The constable arrived before nine o'clock the next morning with his companion. It had not taken them long to make the journey, though the snow had slowed them.

“Sir Baldwin, I thought you should hear this man: what he can tell about Greencliff.”

The knight looked up, his jaw moving as he chewed on a crust of bread. The youth with Tanner was in his early twenties, tall, at least three inches over the constable, and with softly pale flesh. He looked fat, though his skin hung flaccid round his jowls and the hands
gripping the cap were chubby. His mousy hair was cut well, and from his clothes he appeared well-to-do, with a blue tunic of wool, and woollen hose of gray. On his heavy belt he wore a small dagger.

“Who are you?”

The eyes rose and met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Stephen de la Forte.”

To Simon he appeared to be a naturally haughty man who was holding himself in with difficulty. His eyes were a surprisingly light gray color, with glints of amber, which made them look oddly translucent, and they sat in a round face, where the definition of youthful exercise was already fading into the rounded obesity of premature middle-age. The bailiff instinctively disliked him, and rested his elbows on the table to study him the better.

“So, Stephen de la Forte, what can you tell us?”

The youth glanced quickly at the constable, a fleeting look, but Simon felt sure he could see a glimmering of devious intelligence there.

“I…I'm a friend of Harold Greencliff's—I've known him for years. I went to his house last night to see him, and the constable was there.”

“I went there about an hour after leaving you, sir,” interjected Tanner. “He arrived when I'd just settled down.”

“I see. Well, then. Why were you going to see him?” asked Baldwin easily, leaning back in his chair.

“I…” he shot a glance over to Tanner again, suddenly nervous. “As I said, he's a friend. I saw him on Tuesday, at the inn, and he seemed unhappy then—troubled—so I wanted to see him again and make sure he was all right.”

“How do you mean ‘troubled'?” said Simon frown
ing. The youth glanced at him with surprise and a certain distaste, as if he had thought the bailiff was a mere servant and should not try to become involved in the conversation of his betters. “Well?”

“I don't know. He was upset by something. I took him out to the inn and stayed with him, but he didn't tell me anything about what was worrying him.”

He looked shifty, and Simon thought to himself that he appeared to be lying. Watching the boy's eyes flit away, he noted the fact for discussion with Baldwin later.

The knight was toying with a knife. Spearing a slab of meat, he studied it thoughtfully, and said, “You were so worried after Tuesday that you went back to see him late yesterday? Why not earlier?”

“I
did
go earlier!”

“And?”

His eyes dropped. “He wasn't there.”

“When was that?” Simon said, leaning forward.

“I don't know. Early, not long before noon.”

“I see. Tanner?”

“Yes?” The constable stepped forward.

“I assume Greencliff didn't turn up?”

“No, sir. We stayed there all night, but there was no sign of him.”

“Stephen de la Forte, can you think of any reason why your friend should have run away?”

The eyes that gazed back at him were troubled, and the youth slowly shook his head, but Simon was sure that he saw certainty there. This boy obviously thought his friend was guilty.

Baldwin took a deep breath. “In that case, I think we'd better organize a search. It may have nothing to do with the death of Kyteler, but it certainly seems sus
picious that on the day her body is found—especially so close to his house—he disappears. Very well.” He glanced at Tanner, who nodded, and then, at the knight's dismissive wave, took the youth by the arm and led him out. It was only when they were gone and the door shut behind them that Baldwin turned back to Simon and sighed in relief.