“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 upwards, 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 dishonourable. 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 demeanour.
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 difficult 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 bri
dge. 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.
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 forwards 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. Hoof prints scarred the red mud, leaving it crate red 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 realised.
“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 upwards 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 towards 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 realising 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 grey 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 realised 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.
&nb
sp; 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 colouring his face. “I’m the Constable. Who are you?”
Chapter Eight
“What 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…‘
The Merchant's Partner Page 9
