“They’re close friends, aren’t they? Maybe this de la Forte knows Greencliff has done it and wants to protect him. So he told you he was with Greencliff all afternoon when he wasn’t.”
Baldwin grunted assent. “It would make sense.”
“I don’t know,” said Simon thoughtfully.
“The only other people who had a real reason to kill Kyteler were the Oatways,” Hugh continued doggedly.
“But if Kyteler was still alive after she’d been there…‘ Baldwin began, and was interrupted by Simon.
“Was she? We don’t know that. Grisel Oatway could have killed her. We don’t know for sure that any other person saw the witch alive afterwards. If they did, we haven’t spoken to them!”
“Witch!” muttered the knight with a brief display of disgust, then took another sip at his drink. “All right, so we cannot be certain that Oatway did not kill her. Likewise we cannot be sure that Greencliff didn’t. There appears to be another person involved somehow as well, this strange woman in a grey cloak. Oatway saw her, so did Jennie Miller. Sarah Cottey didn’t mention her, though. Who could she be?”
“There is the other side, don’t forget.” Simon gulped wine, then leaned back and sighed contentedly as he felt it heat a simmering trail in his body. “Why was she carried away from her house up to Greencliffs field?”
“Maybe Grisel Oatway admitted to her husband that she had killed their neighbour and he carried the body away to hide the fact that they’d done it?” said Baldwin.
Hugh looked up. “That’s daft,” he said flatly. Baldwin was so surprised at the contemptuous comment he could not respond, but simply stared at the servant, who suddenly seemed to realise what he had said. Flushing an embarrassed red, he quickly carried on, “What I mean is, sir, that they’re not young, the Oatways. If they were going to hide the body, why would they take it so far away? They’d dump it nearer, somewhere they knew, somewhere they knew other people wouldn’t go-‘
“He’s right,” said Simon frowning. “If they had done it, they would hardly carry it so far. And, if they were trying to keep it all hidden, they wouldn’t have left the Kyteler house with blood everywhere, would they?”
The knight mused. “That’s an interesting thought. But the only conclusion must be that it’s even more likely that it was Greencliff. The body was close to his house - maybe he was intending to go and hide it somewhere he knew, but Cottey interrupted his plans? It’s possible.”
“Yes. The only reason for thinking he must be innocent was the fact that Stephen de la Forte gave him an alibi, but from what Jennie Miller said, that wasn’t true,” Simon said. “Which means he must have been lying to protect his friend.”
Chapter Twelve
In the middle of the afternoon they left Wefford and began to make their way back to the manor house at Furnshill. They had to take the journey slowly, for Hugh’s sake, but now even Baldwin did not grudge the servant his speed. It was too clear that the man was in pain.
They were home again by three, and when they arrived, Simon insisted that Hugh stay before the fire for the rest of the day, an order with which the man appeared to be well satisfied. It was the small grin of gratitude that showed the bailiff just how poorly his servant was feeling. Usually he would have expected a grimace and complaint even for such a welcome command.
Leaving him staring at the flames with a blanket over his shoulders, Simon took Margaret outside to where Baldwin stood contemplating his view. Turning, the knight pointed to the house with his chin. “How is he?”
Margaret shrugged. “He seems all right, but he’ll need to stay indoors for a while. He got very cold.”
“It was my fault,” said Simon. “I should have waited while he got his clothes, but I thought he was making excuses to avoid coming with us to Crediton.”
“It’s easy to forget how cold it is in winter,” his wife agreed. “But make sure in future that he’s got his cloak and jacket if you’re taking him with you.”
He nodded grim-faced, feeling the implied rebuke. She was right. The winter here, so close to Dartmoor, was always brutal, as he knew well. To change the subject, he said, “Did Hugh tell you what we have learned today?”
From the look on his face she knew he felt the blame for Hugh’s illness. That was only right, she thought. If they had not been quick once they realised how badly chilled Hugh was, the man could have died. Although he was the son of a moors farmer, and had himself spent much of his youth out in all weather looking after the farm’s flock of sheep, he was not indestructible. The weather here was so cold as to stop a man’s mind. It was foolish not to take the correct precautions when there was time. Now, though, there was no reason to make her husband feel any worse. As she gave a brief nod and listened to him explain about the conversation with Jennie Miller, she studied his features with frowning concentration.
“So you have three real suspects, then,” she said at last.
“Grisel Oatway, Greencliff and his woman, you mean?” said Simon.
“No, Oatway sounds as though she only really bore the old woman a grudge,” she said, frowning. “If she wanted Kyteler dead, she sounds shrewd enough to have persuaded the villagers that her neighbour was a witch, and let them do her work for her; let the mob lynch her. She doesn’t sound like she’s a killer herself.” She shot a sharp glance at Baldwin.
The knight sighed and looked out over the hills as if seeking inspiration. “I know. There’s only the one other suspect. But I find it hard to believe that my friend’s son could have been involved. He was too grateful to this woman to want to kill her.”
“Maybe you’re right, but you’ll need to speak to him.”
“He’s probably back in Gascony by now. He has not been seen since Tuesday. For now, I think it’s the woman who is the problem. How can we find out who she is?”
“Oh, really!” her scathing tone made both men turn and stare. When she saw their puzzled expressions, she said, “The woman lives somewhere near. There can’t be many for you to consider.”
“But we have no idea where she might have come from, Margaret,” said Baldwin, peering at her with a small frown. “It could be from miles away!”
With a small laugh, she shook her head in mock disgust. “You think so? I doubt it! She must be close by - it’s surely unlikely that Greencliff would have taken a lover who lived far away. How often could he meet her if she lived far off?”
“So? How many women do you think live…‘
“Simon, that’s not the point. De la Forte said she was well-born, didn’t he? And how well she was dressed! How many wealthy women are there round here. That’s the point!”
To her relief, she saw the understanding dawn. Baldwin looked as though he had doubts, but Simon grabbed her, tugging her to him, and embraced her, hugging her tight.
“I married a philosopher,” he said, gazing into her eyes and smiling.
Baldwin turned back to the hills. It was good to see his friends happy, but… He grinned as he accepted his jealousy.
Noticing the way he averted his gaze, Simon pulled away from his wife. He knew how much his friend wanted a wife and a son, and was sympathetic. It was impossible for him to understand how a man could live alone. But he could not stop himself patting his wife’s belly affectionately, hoping again that this child would be strong and healthy, that the birth would not be difficult. He wanted a son badly, but more than that he wanted his wife to be safe and well. A passing thought struck him. Did this woman of Greencliff’s have children? Then another idea leapt into his mind: was she pregnant? Had she gone to the midwife to get medicines for a birth, like Jennie Miller?
He frowned as he stared at the moors in the far distance. Who could this woman be? Was she the last person to see Agatha Kyteler before her murderer - if she herself was not the killer? Who was this mystery lover of Harold Greencliff?
But the hills gave him no inspiration.
The next morning, Jennie Miller winced, tugging her old woollen
shawl tighter around her shoulders as she rattled her way towards Crediton on their little wagon. It was still freezing here on the road through the woods, even with the sun up. The ground crackled under the steel-shod wheels as ice on puddles and streams fractured under their weight.
Usually it was Thomas, her husband, who would ride into town. He would make his way in, calling cheerfully to his friends and customers, before delivering their sacks or collecting the items he needed. But this winter was hard and he must fetch more wood while it was possible in case the snow stayed.
When they had bought the wagon, it had seemed to be a good idea. Then they had only been in the mill for two or three years. The steady flow of grain from the manor had been enough to keep them busy and provided them with a good income, even after paying the taxes to the manor. That was in Sir Reynald de Furnshill’s day, of course, before his death and the arrival of Sir Baldwin. Their trade had been so good with the new mill that they had been able to bring in corn from other parts and make a good profit. That was why they had decided to purchase the wagon. It meant they could buy corn from farms far distant and sell their flour in Crediton to the bakers.
Now, though, after two years of appalling harvests, the wagon seemed less of a good idea. They could hardly afford to keep and feed the old horse, and with the prices demanded in the town for the simplest goods, Jennie felt that they were better off staying in Wefford. At least in the village most things could be bartered.
She passed the new house, where the de la Forte family lived, with little more than a cursory glower. She felt it was unfair that some were able to buy whatever they wanted when so many of her friends were starving or freezing to death for want of fuel. At the thought of death she shivered, thinking again of poor old Agatha.
The old woman was sometimes difficult to deal with, Jennie knew that. But even so, there was a strain of decency in her that was missing in others. Old Agatha was always prepared to come and see anyone in pain, always happy to help. She may not have been as subservient as some would have wished, but that was no great problem to Jennie. She was not overly humble either, except to the priest in Crediton, Peter Clifford. He was a holy man; he deserved respect.
Agatha Kyteler’s death was very sad, she reflected. It was all round that the old woman’s throat had been cut. The innkeeper had charged people a fee to look, and many had taken the opportunity, giving gory details later to the others waiting eagerly outside, and that made her feel sad, as if the old woman had been molested. Jennie was happy enough to go and watch the executions when she had a chance, but that was different. That was seeing other people who did not matter. It was quite an exciting time, usually with a small, thriving market to supply food and drink to the crowds waiting for the first hanging, waiting to see the criminals being lined up, having the ropes set around their necks until they were hauled upwards, spinning slowly, twitching and jerking in their struggle for life, while the hemp tightened and stopped the breath in their throats.
If the felon was particularly strong and muscled - she had seen it a few times - one of the executioners would have to grab the swinging body, then leap up and embrace it, using his extra weight to jerk the victim down hard and fast to snap the spine. But they only did that if the felon was still alive after fifteen minutes or so, not before. After all, they had to make sure that the crowds were satisfied with their viewing first, even if there were a lot more criminals waiting for their turn. Otherwise there could be arguments over the gambling, with accusations that the executioners had intentionally killed the victim before the allotted time, that they had been bribed, and they could all do without the problems that kind of altercation produced.
At the outskirts of the town, she took a wineskin and sipped at the freezing liquid. Then, taken by a sudden urge, she halted the wagon and dropped to the ground. Crunching through the thick layer of snow, she walked to a bush at the edge of a field strip, lifted her tunic and skirts and squatted, giving a sigh of relief. It must be the jogging of the wagon that always had this effect, she thought.
Then, over the sound of her little stream as it died to a slow trickle, she heard a merry, tinkling laugh, and the steady clopping of hooves. Lifting herself, she peered over the shrub toward the road, where she saw two riders. One, she saw, was a middle-aged man, thickset with a heavy belly, and a face like a mastiffs, all wrinkled and creased, with two small and cruel eyes. The other was a younger woman, tall, slim and dark, with long braided tresses lying over her shoulders as black as ravens’ wings, framing a face as beautiful as the Madonna’s. Her hood was back, but the fringe of rabbit fur showed light against the darker grey of the cloak. She glanced at the miller’s wife, then through her as if she was no more important or interesting than the shrub she squatted behind. The man ignored her completely.
As Jennie stood and let her skirts fall, her hands automatically smoothing her tunic over the top, her eyes remained fixed on them.
Simon and Baldwin arrived at the de la Forte house in the middle of the morning. Both felt the cold today, as if Hugh’s misery of the previous afternoon had reminded them both how chill the weather was. It had not snowed again overnight, but this morning the clouds were thick above, looking as soft as goose-down in the heavens, and promised more snow to come.
Today they were prepared. Edgar rode with them, and each carried a sack of provisions and a wineskin. The bailiff had felt the bitterness in the air early when they left, and glancing at Baldwin, he could see that the knight was feeling the cold as well. His chest was rigid, his shoulders hunched and his mouth pursed, looking as resolutely slammed shut as an iron door. Gentle though the breeze was, it made up for its lack of speed by shearing through any protection, seeming to aim straight for the vitals.
Arriving at the house, he thought it looked very peaceful and quiet, with the smoke rising and gently swaying before dispersing in a straggling feather that trailed languidly northwards. Here, between Wefford and Crediton, even the noises from the strip fields would be hidden by the thick woods all around on a clear summer’s day. Now there was nothing. Not even the lowing of the oxen in their byres could be heard. The only sounds were of their hooves crunching and the occasional tinkling of their horse’s harnesses, like soft bells in the pale sunlight.
With the glory of the view, with the gently rolling hills looking smothered by the tree-tops that stretched off, over to the horizon, and with the air chill and fresh in his lungs, Simon felt good: strong and healthy, alert and sharp. The ride had honed his senses, and he waited for the door to open, with a keen excitement. He wanted answers from young Stephen de la Forte.
The thin, pinched face of the manservant at the door was an anticlimax, as if his temper needed immediate expression and any delay was merely frustrating. The feeling made him curt with the man, and when the old figure retreated, cowed, into the screens, he was ashamed of himself. There was no need to vent his spleen on this man.
Baldwin noticed his sharpness and smiled to himself as he followed the bailiff into the main hall. Here they were left alone for a moment while the servant disappeared through to the solar. The knight walked to the table, pulled out the bench, and sat, his eyes on his friend.
The bailiff was strolling round the room casually, his hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of suave relaxation. But Baldwin could see the suppressed excitement in the way that his head kept snapping towards the door at the faintest sound. He was clearly on edge.
They had been waiting for several minutes when they heard the clumping of feet in the solar, and shortly afterwards the door opened to show Walter de la Forte. He paused, glaring from one to the other, then gave what looked like a sneer and walked to the table where Baldwin sat watching him with calm and detached interest.
To the knight it looked as if the merchant was taunting them, as though he felt they were both so insignificant as to hardly merit any respect, and Baldwin was intrigued. It was strange that a man of lowly birth should feel superior to a bailiff and a keep
er of the king’s peace.
It seemed to Baldwin that Simon was as interested in the man’s attitude as he was, and began to question him with a soft, almost gentle voice.
“After our last meeting, we have released Harold Greencliff.”
Watching closely, Baldwin saw the man’s sudden doubt. Walter de la Forte glanced across at the knight before staring back at Simon. “Released him?”
“Yes. Your son made it clear that they were together all day, so of course Harold could not have been involved, could he?”
“Oh. No, I suppose not.”
“Yes, but if Harold Greencliff didn’t kill Agatha Kyteler, who did? We can find no one who can suggest any good reason so we wondered if it could be someone from her past. We’ve heard that you were involved in the escape from Acre with your partner.”
“So what? Anyway, who told you?”
“Did you know that Agatha Kyteler came from Acre? That she came over with a boy and saved his life?”
At first Walter de la Forte looked merely astonished, but when he spoke, his voice was as forceful as before. He asked truculently, “What’s that supposed to mean? What is this? Are you accusing me of something? Is that it? You feel you have the right to come to my house and accuse me of murdering some old woman just because we were in the same place ages ago?”
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