The Merchant's Partner

by Michael Jecks

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 centre of the floor. Entering, they had to step down. Like many older properties, to save the valuable animal dung, the floor of the house was built on a lope. 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 faeces 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 greying 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…‘

  “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 grey cloak?” Baldwin’s face wore a frown when Simon shot a glance at him.

  “Yes, it was grey, 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 pack horse, 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 recognise 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 emphasise 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 humourlessly. 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 sa
ilors…‘

  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 breast-bone. As the eyes widened, he smiled, then dragged the blade gently downwards, 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.

  Chapter Seven

  Old 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 rouse, Baldwin grimaced, glancing upwards 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 rumours could easily accumulate around people and 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 roman, that was all, surely. Glancing up, he saw the clouds were the colour of old pewter, angry and heavy.

  “Well, Simon? Shall we go and question this Jennie filler? 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 wards Agatha Kyteler’s house. “We have to see her lace. 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 limewash 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 draughts.

  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 centre 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 odour. 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 baulks 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 organised on both sides, as if placed in military li
nes. He wandered carefully towards 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.