“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 sent 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.
Chapter Six
The Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southwards, 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 expression 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 Furashill, 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 realised 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.
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 realised 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 he leaped over the brook.
The Bourc immediately spurred back. While the man and his horse were still in the air, the Gascon pelted towards 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 together, 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 wanner 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 towards 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 colour in his cheeks, as if he was on the verge of a fever. His eyes gleamed darkly from under bushy eyebrows, whose colour had faded to pale greyness 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.
The Merchant's Partner Page 7
