“I think it was after that he managed to earn enough to hire his first ships. And build his house. But recently it seems he has suffered from the French pirates. I think he has lost several boats, and cargoes. That’s probably why he wants a new partner.”
“Yes, because he already does business with… Er… He told us his partner’s name. Who was it?” The knight snapped his fingers as if frustratedly trying to remember.
“Alan Trevellyn, over towards Crediton. Yes, they have both been badly hurt by the troubles. You know, there have even been rumours that Trevellyn has somehow been responsible for the failures. I’ve heard that he was in debt to the French and told them when his ships were leaving, so he could pay back his debts with his partner’s half of the shipment as well as his own.” He sat back, his head nodding knowingly.
“Where would you have heard that from?”
Winking confidentially, the innkeeper said, “Walter de la Forte’s son, sir. Stephen.”
“So you think I should be careful, then?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Yes, very careful.” His eyes flickered to the hilt of the sword at the knight’s waist. “It’s said he was quite a warrior in his youth, you know. That he was in many sea battles, not just at Acre, and that’s how he got all those scars. Yes, I hear he’s a bad enemy to have.”
“Thank you, my friend, I am very grateful to you. You have given me a great deal to consider.”
“Sir, I’m sure it’s an honour to help,” said the innkeeper, recognising the dismissal and rising slowly to clear the table. When he had finished and left them, Simon glanced over at the knight.
if he was in so many battles, that explains his scars.“
Baldwin nodded. “Yes,” he mused. “But there seems to be little to connect him to Agatha Kyteler apart from both of them being in Acre when the city fell - and that was over twenty years ago.”
“Well surely that itself is enough of a coincidence.”
“By the same token you might as well suspect me, Simon,” said the knight drily. “No, I don’t see it. But who did kill the old woman?”
“I don’t know. If Stephen de la Forte is telling the truth, it wasn’t Harold Greencliff, though.“
“No. No, his evidence shows that, doesn’t it?”
Simon nodded. “Yes, we will have to let him go. Although I would like to know why he tried to run away.”
“But if he refuses to tell us, we shouldn’t keep him imprisoned,” said Baldwin, “I will try to talk to him again tomorrow. Perhaps I can get him to tell us why he ran off.“
Simon looked up sharply at the sad tone in his friend’s voice, and then realised what it meant. Baldwin was sure that Greencliff was innocent, and that left him with only one suspect: his friend’s son, the Bourc de Beaumont.
* * *
The next day was overcast and dreary, with a grey-black sky and a bitter wind that blew continually from the south. Gazing out from the front door, Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance.
“We do need to speak to Greencliff,” the knight reminded his friend, and then barked with laughter at the expression of doubtful misery his words brought to Simon‘ face. “Come on, the sooner we’re moving in this, the better!”
“Simon!”
They turned to see Margaret in the doorway, her face anxious. “Take Edgar or Hugh with you. You may need to send a messenger if the weather gets worse, or if you get stuck somewhere overnight.”
The bailiff glanced back at the sky, then nodded. “All right, tell Hugh to get ready.”
She did better than merely sending the servant. While the two men meandered casually towards the stables and called for their horses and that of Simon’s servant, Margaret went to work. When Hugh appeared, he was sulkily struggling under the weight of three packs carefully bound for protection. As he took one, Simon looked at his servant with an inquiring eye.
“She said you’d need it. There’s bread and meat, and wineskins for you.”
Tying the sack to his saddlebow, Simon said wonderingly, “Doesn’t she know we intend being home by evening? What does she think we’ll be doing today? Riding to the Scottish marches?”
Baldwin grinned, but kept silent. He was thinking how good it would be to have a wife like Margaret. He sighed, half jealous.
Meanwhile Simon was staring at his servant with exasperation. “Where’s your cloak and jacket?”
“Why? Am I coming too?” His face showed his surprise.
“Of course! Come on, you’ll have to do as you are. We can’t wait for you to get changed.”
“But I’ll freeze!”
“Don’t whine. You’ll be fine if we ride fast. Now mount! We want to get to town as early as possible.”
Smiling, Baldwin watched as Simon lifted his hands in a show of despair, only to let them drop with frustration. When Hugh was ready at last, they left the mews and stables, winding round to the front of the house where Margaret stood waiting to wave them off. The brown and black dog was there, and was about to follow, but Margaret pulled him inside, if you’re going to be travelling all over the shire, I think I’d better keep him here for now!“ she said.
They waved farewell as Baldwin led the way down the narrow lane and out to the road, and once there, he spurred his mount to an easy canter.
It was soon clear that Simon’s man had no great desire to be with them. Somehow he had never quite become used to the idea that a creature as tall and muscular as a horse could be trusted as a slave to his whim, and as a result he objected to trying to force it to his will. The inevitable consequence of bringing him was that the speed of the three was slowed to a more leisurely pace. Although Baldwin would occasionally urge them to move faster, he would soon discover that he and the bailiff were far in the lead and Hugh was moving along at his accustomed speed - somewhat quicker than a snail, but not a great deal.
In the end it took them a little over two hours to get to Crediton. The small market town was bustling, with wagons trailing through the slush on the roads, riders on horses trotting happily, and pedestrians groaning and complaining at the chilly mess thrown over them at the passing of each vehicle or animal. As they came closer to the church, a small herd of cattle stopped all the traffic, and the three had to pause and wait for the huge creatures to pass. They got to the church, and walked through the courtyard to the house beyond where the priest had his living quarters. “Simon, old friend, it’s good to see you again!” The thin, older man grasped his hand enthusiastically, then stood back and studied him critically. “You’re working too hard,” he said at last, “and I think you aren’t eating enough, but apart from that I am pleased to see you looking so well, thank God!”
“Peter, it has been a very long journey to get here, old friend. Do you not have any wine?”
Laughing, the priest led them indoors and seated them, Hugh grumpily taking a seat as close as he could to the fire. When all had a drink to hand, the priest leaned forward and peered at the knight with a serious expression on his face. “Sir Baldwin, do you have any suspect other than this miserable creature Greencliff yet?” ‘I fear not, Peter, no. But why do you ask?“ Peter sat back in his chair and meditatively sipped at his wine while staring past Hugh at the flames. ”It’s very difficult. Sometimes a man admits to a brutal crime in the confessional, and the confessor is bound to keep his secret. Sometimes it likewise comes to pass that a man is sent to the executioner when his father in God is certain of his innocence.“ His eyes shot up to stare at the knight. ”I am as sure as I can be that this boy is innocent of the woman’s murder.“
“But, Peter,” said Simon, “does that mean he has denied it to you in confessional?”
“No! Of course not!” Peter was shocked. “If he had, I would have to keep my peace. No, he is as yet unshriven, I could not have said anything otherwise.”
“But you are sure?” asked Baldwin, his eyes glittering as he leaned forward.
“Yes. I am as sure as I can be that the boy is innocent of this murder. He
just isn’t capable.”
“We think so too,” said Simon.
“Why? Do you have another suspect? I thought you said…‘
“No, we were telling you the truth. We have no other idea who could have done it. Do you?”
“Me?” The expression of amazement that spread across his face was so comical that both Baldwin and Simon began to laugh, making the priest gaze at them reproachfully. “How could I know who had done it? I…‘
“Sorry, Peter,” Simon managed at last. “No, you’re right. We didn’t expect you to have any better idea than we ourselves.”
Standing, Baldwin yawned and stretched. “Since we all agree that it was not Greencliff, I should get to the gaol!” Sighing, he glanced at the priest and explained about the evidence from Stephen de la Forte. “So you see,” he finished, “we are here to release him. It’s not fair to keep the boy imprisoned for no reason, and now Stephen de la Forte says he was with Greencliff all afternoon and evening, there’s little reason to keep him locked up. No, Simon. You might as well wait. I shan’t be long.”
“Bring him back here. I’ll not see him go without being fed - not in this weather,” said Peter.
* * *
The town gaol stood at the entrance to the market beside the toll-booth, a small square block used mainly for those traders found to have given short measures of grain or bread, and only occasionally for holding vagabonds found in the town. Strolling along the street and trying to avoid the slush, it took the knight only a few minutes to cover the short distance, and soon he was at the entrance, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the market, which had not yet been cleaned from the last market day, and consequently was bathed in an all-encompassing stench of animal and human ordure. He glanced at the area, wincing, and then rapped his knuckles on the heavy door.
Tanner had apparently been sleeping, for when he opened the door, his hair was tousled and his eyes bleared. At the sight of the knight, he seemed to wake rapidly, and hauled the stiff door wide on its hinges.
“Good morning, sir.”
Stepping into the murky gloom of the gaol, the knight sniffed with distaste. The men who were usually held here tainted the very atmosphere with the pervasive, metallic scent of fear. Convicts knew what would happen to them once they were judged in court. There were not many sentences available for a judge, and justice usually followed swiftly after pronouncement of sentence, most often involving a brief meeting with the executioner. There was good reason to be fearful of the result of the legal process.
He shrugged. After all, that was the whole idea of justice.
“So, Tanner. How is the prisoner today?”
“Greencliff, sir? He seems well enough in body, but I wish he’d say something.”
“Why? Has he stayed silent?”
“Yes, sir. Since the hour we brought him here.”
Baldwin sighed. “Take me to him.”
The cell was an unpleasant, square chamber dug under the floor of the main room. To get to it, Tanner had to lead the knight through the curtain at the back. Here, in the wooden floor, was a trap door with a simple latch secured by a thick wooden peg. Lifting this, the knight could peer into the dank and murky interior. “Greencliff?” he called doubtfully.
There was a sudden stir in the far corner, then a small splash as the boy stepped into a puddle, before his face suddenly appeared under the trap, and Baldwin could not help shaking his head and sighing. The boy who so recently had been a strong, tall and proud youth was a pale shadow of himself. His features were gaunt and strained, the skin appearing yellow in the half-light, his eyes vivid and unhealthy, his cheeks sunken and wan. His whole appearance was that of a man close to death, of someone who had fallen victim to an unwholesome disease.
“Tanner, get him out of there.”
Fetching a ladder, the constable wandered back to the hole in the ground and slipped it down. “Come on, lad. The knight wants you up here,” he called, offering his hand.
Leading the way to the front room, Baldwin stood with his arms akimbo and looked at the boy, shaking his head. Greencliff held his gaze. There was fear there. The knight could see it deep in the boy’s eyes, but he still appeared defiant. “Do you have anything else you want to say to me about the old woman’s death?”
“The witch, you mean.”
The knight peered at him. The boy’s voice sounded as though he was caught between emotions. It was as if anger and impatience were struggling for dominance, but Baldwin was sure he could see contempt, and self-disgust as well. “Did you think she was a witch?”
“Me?” The question seemed to surprise him.
“Yes. What did you think of her?”
“I didn’t think anything of her. I know what she was. Evil! She deserved to die!”
“Why?”
The boy held his gaze firmly and squared his shoulders with resolution, but kept silent. After a few moments Baldwin sighed.
“Very well. If you do not wish to answer, I cannot force you.” Greencliff glanced across at the imperturbable Tanner, and looked as though he was sneering. Turning, he was about to return to his cell when Baldwin stopped him. “No. Your friend has told us the truth.”
“What?” Greencliff spun round and stared at the knight. Strangely, Baldwin thought he was now scared. “Who?”
“Yes, we know you were with Stephen de la Forte all afternoon. He’s told us.”
Later, he knew that what worried him most was the fleeting glimpse of absolute surprise as the boy said, “Stephen?”
Chapter Eleven
They left the youth with Peter, consuming a large bowl of stew with minced meat, the priest happily organising more bread and ale as his guest ate.
Simon rode quietly with his chin on his chest. The three were silent, as though they were all contemplating the murder. At last, he said, “Baldwin, we must go back to Wefford and ask other people what they saw.”
“Yes, you’re right. We’ve spent two days thinking that Greencliff had to have been involved. Now we must get back to trying to find out who really was,” said Baldwin and sighed.
“Calm yourself, Baldwin.”
The knight threw him a puzzled glance. “Eh?”
“Just because it wasn’t Greencliff, that doesn’t mean it was your friend’s son.”
“No, but it’s suspicious, isn’t it? That he was here, trying to find out about her just the day before she…‘
“Look at it this way - nobody saw him there, did they? Let’s see whether someone else was there.”
“Yes,”, he said, but not convinced.
“So, where do we start?”
The knight stared ahead, towards the town itself, as if there was a clue in the scenery itself. “Jennie Miller, I suppose. Oat way said she was there with Sarah Cottey. Let’s see her. She might know something that can help us.”
The mill was a large, sturdy building to the east of Wefford, and they found their way to it by the simple method of riding through the woods until they came to the stream, then following it north. It stood in a small, sheltered valley. Looking at it, Simon thought it looked like a safe and warm property, with thick walls and a pleasing drift of smoke rising from the tall chimney. At the eastern end lay the stream from which it gained its power, quiet and sluggish now, but wild and fast when the countryside was less frozen. They had to cross the leat to get to the buildings, and were able to use a small wooden bridge that had been thrown over to help the farmers bring their grain.
Baldwin nodded approvingly as he gazed at the mill and the stream. Mills were jealously guarded by their parishes, and although the knight had only been here once before, and then only briefly, he was proud of this one. It had been built by his brother only five years before, and he was glad to see that the walls were maintained well, their limewash shining in the light.
But then, as they approached, they heard a high scream, and they spun in the saddles to look for the source. It seemed to be a young girl’s voice.
At first there was nothing, then the cry came again, shrill and urgent, from the woods to their left, on the other side of the water. Baldwin felt at once for his sword arid drew it, scanning the trees with a frown while Simon fumbled for his knife and spurred his horse alongside. They exchanged a glance, then both prepared to leap the stream.
“Ignore them, they always make a lot of noise.”
Turning, Baldwin saw a smiling, chubby woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway. He motioned toward the noise uncomprehendingly. “But… Who?”
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