The Merchant's Partner

by Michael Jecks

  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, towards 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 upwards 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 a woods that he caught a snuffling sound and then a bar from the hedge to his right, and he saw a narrow path Shaking his head impatiently, he climbed up, catching hi 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 recognise 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 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, towards 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 centre, 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: probably 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 grey and heavy. The bailiff became aware of the knight darting quick, measuring glances upwards 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.

  “Thank heaven you’re here! These scum have nothing better to do than see someone else’s misfortune. Tanner, get rid of them, will you?”

  The constable slowly heaved his bulk from his old horse and patted her neck, looking round at the people. Tanner had the kind of build that inspired respect. Even without a weapon in his hand his poise was somehow threatening, with his stolid and compact body moving slowly as if to prevent two of the great muscles colliding under his skin. Usually the eyes in his square face held a kindly light, but not now: Simon had seen that expression before, on the day that they had caught the trail bastons. Mouth pursed, he looked over the faces with disgust and, under his gaze, there was suddenly a shuffling of feet and nervous coughing. A few turned and began strolling away. Others waited a little as if unconcerned, but soon followed.

  The inn had a small screens area, a wooden corridor beyond the door to keep draughts from the hall itself, and beyond a curtain on their right they found a large square room, blocked at the other end by another wooden screen and hanging tapestry. Heavy logs were already crackling and spitting merrily on the hearth in the centre of the room. Three large benches crowded round close, so that frozen customers could get to the heat. Though the roof was high above, the room was warm and the atmosphere heavy with the cloying odours of stale beer and wine.

  Simon and Baldwin tramped in together, glad to be back in the warm after their journey, and went straight to the fire. Holding their hands to the flames, they followed the innkeeper’s finger, pointing at a silent figure sitting with his back to the wall on their left. His face was in the dark, but Simon could see two wide eyes staring back at him. When the flames suddenly spluttered and flared, lighting his face, the bailiff started. The farmer’s eyes were wide with terror. A black and white sheep dog was seated between his legs, head resting in his lap as if trying to comfort him.

  “You’re Cottey?” asked Baldwin gently, and the ashen-faced farmer nodded. He looked ancient, a tired, drooping and slumped little man.

  Tanner moved away, keeping to the shadows so as not to distract them, and pulling the innkeeper with him. At first it seemed to the constable that the knight and bailiff were unsure whether to question Cottey or not, he was so upset. As if to allay any fears he might have, Baldwin slowly seated himself, the bailiff following suit.

  “We need to ask you some questions, Cottey. Is that all right?” asked Baldwin, keeping his voice low and soft. “You found a body?”

  Nodding, the old man stared at them, then his eyes dropped to the dog at his feet as if in fearful wonder.

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “Yes.” It was almost a sigh.

  “Who?”

  “Agatha Kyteler.”

  Simon saw his friend start at the name and wondered why as Baldwin continued:

  “Did you know her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  The farmer gave him a curious look, as if doubting his reasons for asking, before giving a curt shake of the head.

  “Where’s her body? Did you bring it back with you?”

  “No,” Cottey said, shaking his head, “I left her there. I… I thought I wouldn’t be able to lift her. I asked young Greencliff to watch over her. He lives closest.“

  Simon sighed. “We were told you thought it was a murder. Why? What made you think that?”

  The farmer looked up again and leaned forward, his haggard face moving into the firelight, so that his eyes glittered with a red and yellow madness of anger in the oval face. “Her neck,” he said. “Who can cut their own throat?”

  * * *

  Wincing, the Bourc felt that the crick in his neck would never go away as he rose, grunting. The fire was all but gone out, and it took time to tempt it back into life, but when it was blazing, he crouched and bleakly eyed it.

  Leaving the hovel, he stood outside for a moment and looked up at the sky, sniffing the air like a seaman. Plainly the cold weather was here to stay for a while, but although the clouds above were thick and heavy, he felt that they should hold off for a day or two. There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground, but he was fairly sure there would be no more today.

  When he glanced over to the south, he could see that the blue-grey moors were almost untouched with white. Except for a few hollows, there was only the merest dusting. As he frowned and considered, a finger of light seemed to gently stroke a hillock directly in front of him, as if pointing out his path.

  Nodding with a gesture of decision, he went back inside. He would collect wood first, so that he would have fire in case of bad weather, but for now it was holding. He would make his way over the moors.

  Chapter Five

  Refusing a jug of ale each, Baldwin and Simon led the way back to their horses. The old farmer agreed to take them to the place where he had found the old woman, and when they heard he had a wagon, they decided to take that and use it to bring the body back. The innkeeper had made sure that the mule had been fed and watered, and it was almost sprightly as it was led round to the front.

  The damp chilly atmosphere outside was so sharp and bitter that it was only with a physical wrench that Simon could force himself to leave the warmth of the inn. Once out he found that snow had begun to fall, soft insubstantial flakes dropping thinly from a leaden sky making the fire seem even more appealing. The people at the front of the inn must have thought so too, because they had faded away.

  Tugging on his gloves, Simon saw that there were only a few youngsters left, all of whom appeared unwilling to leave while there was a chance of seeing something interesting. He grinned at them good-naturedly as he strode to his horse and swung up, waiting for the others to mount, and while he sat there he became aware of a girl, standing a little apart and staring at him with large and serious brown eyes. She could only have been ten or eleven years of age, he thought, and gave her a quick flash of a smile. She grinned quickly, but then her eyes dropped, as if in contemplation, before she pursed her lips and turned away. It was sad, he felt, that children were introduced to death while so young, but he knew well that even here many of the children would know relatives who had starved to death in the famine. In any case, what could he do about it? Seeing that the other three were ready, he trotted after them towards the right-hand turn, glancing up at the sky with a frown every now and again as he wondered how bad the snow would be.

  He rode along silently, watching the farmer. It was his impatience that had made the old man clam up. After he had asked his question, once Cottey had told them about the cut throat, he withdrew from them, his eyes filming over with tears as though he was in fear of something. But of what? There was something he had not told them, Simon was sure of that, and he intended to find out but, to his surprise, the fanner seemed not at all concerned by the three men, hardly even giving them a glance. His concentration was directed solely at the trees all around, eyes darting nervously from one side to the other and then upwards, as if he expected to be ambushed.

  When he glanced at his friend, he saw that Baldwin was deep in thought too. The name of the old woman had surprised him, Simon knew, and he wondered briefly whether he should interrupt his friend’s reflective mood. He decided not to. Baldwin would explain his concerns when he was ready.

  The bailiff was right. To have heard the name of the old woman so soon after hearing it from his fri
end’s son had worried Baldwin. It was too coincidental. If he could believe the Bourc, the main reason for the man’s visit was to see and thank her for saving him. There was no reason to suppose that he was involved in her death, surely.

  It was only a little over a mile to the edge of the trees, and here the farmer stopped his mule and pointed wordlessly to the gap in the hedge. The knight and the bailiff were soon clambering over it and into the field.

  Tanner was surprised that the old man made no effort to drop down with the others. Staring dumbly ahead, he stayed fixed to the wooden seat, reins held ready in his hands, as if daring them to ask him to join them, not even acknowledging his dog as it jumped up onto the wagon and rested its forepaws beside him to peer around. The others were out of earshot, so the constable ambled his horse alongside the older man’s, and said quietly, “What’s the matter, Sam?”

  When the farmer’s face turned towards him, he could see the terror. “It’s her, Stephen. Her! Why did it have to be me as found her?”