The bailiff nodded, his animosity towards his companion forgotten now in his interest. “Yes, I would think that should make sense. Black, who do you know who could have been out that late at night?”
He considered, scowling at the road ahead and scratching at his belly, his mouth drawn down into a crescent of near-humorous misery in his deep contemplation. “Well there’s four that would be up at that time that I can think of. Cenred, the warrener, is often out late. He has to be, to try to get the badgers and foxes and keep his rabbits safe. Then there’s Alfred, the young Carter boy. He has to look after the sheep over by the tor, so he’s sometimes late back. Edward, his brother, often joins him. And there’s Roger. He’s often out late.”
“Why?” said Simon, his eyes narrowing at the lack of explanation and peering at the hunter.
He was rewarded with a rich laugh. “Because he’s wooing a woman over at Hollowbrook. Emma Boundstone. He gets back as late as he can most nights!”
They were almost back at the ruined house now. The crowd that had come to see the fire was thinner, the people, losing interest, having dispersed after the body was removed. The remaining spectators were the locals themselves, standing around in small huddles and talking in low voices, their eyes flitting suspiciously over the men with Black as they came close.
“Black,” said Baldwin, “I want you to point out the four men you just mentioned. Then bring them over to us. Now, which are they?”
“That there’s Alfred, his brother’s beside him,” the hunter said, indicating two young men. The first was slim but fit-looking, a lithe man with tallow-coloured hair, a dark, ruddy complexion and quick, shifty movements, reminding Simon somehow of a rat. His brother was a little taller, but his hair was mousey, thin and wispy. His figure was more expansive, fuller, as though he liked his beer too much, and even from fifty yards away his bright, rosy cheeks seemed to hint at excessive consumption. His eyes, though, seemed as quick and sharp as his brother’s, almost eagerly tripping over the bailiff and his friends with quick, snapping glances.
The hunter’s finger jabbed out again. “He’s Roger Ulton, him over there.” He seemed to be indicating a quiet, bookish-looking man with a thin, pale face and sunken eyes. For all that he, by the look of him, was only some nineteen years old, he looked squashed and nervous. Simon looked at him with interest. The man’s air was of a fearful dejection, as if he was waiting to be accused, knowing that he was bound to be assumed guilty.
“What about the other one – the warrener?” asked Baldwin quietly.
“Cenred? Can’t see him here. I suppose he’s out at work.”
“Good. Right, go and get the two brothers first, would you, Black. We should be able to get this matter over with fairly quickly now, I think, with only five men to see.”
“Five? But there’s only four, surely,” said Black, looking surprised.
“No, there’s you as well, Black.”
His face as dark as his name suggested, the hunter soon brought the two young men over. It seemed that Alfred was the younger of the two, and his sly, cunning eyes seemed to be everywhere as he stood in front of the others, whereas his older brother stood as if nervous, his eyes on the ground in a display of humility. Alfred looked as if he was only just out of his teens; he still had the boldness of youth, as if he did not understand that he was being questioned about a possible murder. He seemed fearless, unabashed in front of the bailiff and the knight as they sat on a fallen tree trunk with Black and Edgar standing behind. Simon looked at the man with interest. His tallow hair seemed too bright, somehow, for the dull, monotonous life of a cottar, and his lively and cunning manner did not fit in with the bailiff’s opinion of how a villein should appear. He wore a faded blue tunic beneath a leather jerkin. His worn and stained leggings were patched and mended, showing their great age, and around his waist was a thin leather belt, with a wooden-handled knife in a leather sheath hanging in front. He gazed back at the men with arrogance and defiance in his eyes.
Edward kept his eyes downcast. He had more the appearance of the servile country labourer that Simon expected. The bailiff was by no means a harsh or cruel man, but he did understand the differences between men, and he knew how they were expected to react. The son of a castle seneschal, Simon knew that it was impossible to constantly keep servants quiet and humble. The nature of his fellows was such that they could only take so much, but then they would snap. After all, any man needs self-respect, and that can only be achieved if respect is given by others. Simon knew this, and he gave his men an according amount of regard. But, even so, most of his own men would be humble in front of a new lord when presented for the first time – no matter what they might say afterwards!
This older man was dressed simply, with thick stockings, tightly bound with the thongs from his sandals under a light tunic and short cloak. He looked warm in his clothes, and Simon was surprised to see that all his garments seemed fairly new – there were no stains or patches as yet, unlike those of his brother.
Baldwin appeared to have noticed the same disparity, shooting little glances from one to the other as he sat. Then, “I understand that you were out late last night, both of you. Where were you?”
He waited to see which would answer, his eyes small glinting sparks under his lowered brows. At last Alfred, quickly snooting a confirmatory look at his brother from the corner of his eye, said, “I’m a shepherd for my father’s flocks. We were up with the sheep.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that type of work?”
His face was blank. “No, I’m only twenty, and I’m the youngest in the family, so I normally go out to see to them and make sure they’re alright. Edward often comes with me.”
“Ah yes, Edward. What do you do for a living?”
“Me? I sell goods at markets. I collect them from the town and take them with me on my cart. Why?”
“Why do you help your brother with the sheep?”
“Just so that we can get out of the village and talk alone. And it means he’s finished sooner. Why?”
The knight ignored the question for the second time. “What time did you return last night?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alfred, seeming keen to speak again, as if nervous that his brother would say too much. “I suppose we left the hill at about half past ten o’clock. I doubt whether it would have been much later.”
“How long did it take you to get back?”
“What, to get home? Oh, I suppose about a half hour, I don’t know.”
“Did you see anyone else on your way home?”
The young man glanced at his brother as he answered for him. “No, no one.” Simon was sure that he saw something – anger, or fear maybe in his dark eyes. Why was that?
“When was that, when you got into the village?” asked Baldwin, frowning in the manner that Simon was beginning to recognise as demonstrating intense concentration.
“Yes, just as we came into the village.”
“And you saw no fire as you passed Brewer’s house?”
“No, there was nothing – I could stake my life on that!”
Baldwin believed him. Alfred seemed absolutely convinced that there was no sign whatever of the fire then, but that still left the question: when did it start? He glanced at the younger man again, who was staring at him with vague interest – or was it hostility? Then, looking at the older man once more, “Did you part at any time on the way back?”
To his surprise it was Alfred who answered before his brother could open his mouth. “No. We were together the whole time.”
As the two were led away and Black fetched Roger Ulton, Baldwin raised the corners of his mouth in a poor mockery of a grin and faced Simon. “Well?”
“I didn’t like the look of the younger one, and I didn’t trust him. But whether they were capable of killing Brewer and trying to hide the fact afterwards – well I just don’t know.”
“No, neither do I,” said Baldwin reflectively. “But it did seem as i
f the younger one – Alfred – was trying to hide something. I don’t know. Edward seemed honest enough, or at least he didn’t say anything that I could put my finger on.”
“No. Well, let’s see what this Roger has to say for himself,” said Simon, and they both turned to the man walking towards them with Black.
Close to, he looked less anaemic than he had from a distance. He was a thin young man, surely not an uncommon sight after the last two years of famine, and his emaciated appearance was heightened by a curious pallor in his complexion. His clothes, light brown woollen shift and leggings, seemed too large for him, and Simon immediately wondered whether they were originally made for a brother – or a father? His boots were worn and flopped as he walked, adding to the general effect of decay that he seemed to project, and they looked too large for his feet. His tunic had a hood, but it was thrown back as he walked to the knight and bailiff, to show an effeminately long, thin neck. Like his features, this was very pale, and Simon found it attracted instant attention. Almost as a disability draws the eyes against the wish of the onlooker, this neck, swanlike in its elegance, seemed to exert some power over the vision, as if wanting to emphasise its own vulnerability by dragging the gaze to it, so that the observer could wonder how the red blood could pump beneath such pure alabaster flesh.
It was with an almost physical effort that the bailiff had to wrench his eyes away and lift them to the face of the witness. By the sudden twitching jerk at his right, he knew that Baldwin had been similarly affected. They both studied the face in front of them with interest.
Like Edward before him, Roger kept his eyes cast downward in humility, the perfect example of a poor serf. But his eyes flickered occasionally as he tried to glimpse the faces of the two questioners before him. His face was as thin as his neck, and as pale, creating a disturbing contrast with his hair, which was raven black, as dark as Black’s own. But where the hunter gave off an aura of strong and vibrant health, this man seemed weak and sickly. His mouth was a thin streak slashed under his nose, the nose looked as though it should have a permanent dewdrop dangling, and his eyes, when he looked up, seemed watery and almost colourless, as if, like a coloured book in the rain, their paint had been washed off. The whole impact of this man was unappealing – there was not even the interest, Baldwin thought, of young Alfred. At least he had a spark of individuality; he would make a good trader. This one seemed to have nothing.
The knight looked down at his own feet, wondering where to begin, and then, as he looked up, caught a fleeting glimpse of a different Roger. For a split second he caught and held the man’s eyes, and, in that moment, he realised that the man was not as weak as he had thought.
“You are called Roger?” he started sternly.
“Yes, sir.” He had a strangely deep voice, an unexpected bass from such a thin body, and he spoke with almost reverential respect.
“Last night you went to visit your woman, this Emma…”
“Emma Boundstone, sir. She lives with her parents at Hollowbrook.”
“Yes. What time did you leave her?”
Perhaps it was the curtness of the question, or the frowning glare from the knight, but whatever the reason, the young man’s face coloured instantly.
“Why, sir?”
“What?” Baldwin slammed his glove down onto the trunk beside him, and bellowed, making Simon jump and nervously stare at him. “I asked you when you left her! Do not presume to ask me why I ask. Answer the question.”
“Sir, I mean no offence, I… it was about ten o’clock, sir. Ten o’clock. No later, I think.” and he subsided, his face down once more in apparent misery.
More softly now, Baldwin said, “How far is Hollowbrook from here?”
“About three miles, sir. Not more, I should say.”
“So you were back here again at… what, about half past ten, maybe eleven o’clock?”
“Earlier rather than later, sir. Nearer half past ten than eleven.”
“And did you see anyone on your way home?”
“No, sir. I saw no one.”
“Do you live alone?”
“No. My parents are still there. And my brother.”
“So they would know when you got in?”
“Oh no, sir. They were all asleep by then. No, I came in quietly and went to my bed without disturbing them.”
Baldwin nodded and looked over at Simon. “Do you have anything to ask?”
“Yes,” said Simon, leaning forward and fixing a glowering stare on the man. “Where is Hollowbrook from here?”
“Where? It’s over there, sir,” said the man, pointing back down the road, to the south.
“So you wouldn’t have passed Brewer’s house to get home?” When he shook his head, Simon gave a dismissive gesture. “Fine, that’s all I wanted to know. You may go – for now.”
They watched him leave, slouching away to the lane and up the road toward his house, then, “Well?” said Baldwin enquiringly.
“I have no idea. They all seem so damn scared. It’s probably no more than the fact that we’re not villeins like them. We terrify them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the truth out of most of them would be to put them on the rack!”
“Don’t!” Baldwin’s short, anguished cry made Simon stop in horror, shocked at his friend’s pained expression. Seeing the concern and anxiety in Simon’s eyes, the knight reached towards him, an arm falteringly held out as if in supplication – or was it to hold him at bay? The bailiff took the proffered hand, fleetingly feeling the agonised, convulsive strength in the knight’s grip. After a moment, the knight’s fingers relaxed, but Simon was shocked at the way that the misery and depression remained in the dark eyes.
To Black it seemed as if the world had stopped with that single, agonised, cry. He felt, rather than saw, Edgar move forward a little, then stop as if undecided, his hand on his dagger hilt, his gaze fixed on the two men in front. Clearly he was in two minds, the hunter could see that. It was as though he wanted to leap forward to defend the knight, but was held back by the fact that he knew there was no real danger near. Black looked from the knight to the bailiff, and then quickly back to the servant, and relaxed as he saw the servant’s hand drop from his hilt. Licking his now dry lips, Black let his own hand fall from his skinning knife. He liked the bailiff and was not going to see him killed without defending him.
Baldwin was breathing quickly, not from exertion but in an attempt to regain his composure, as he held Simon’s hand. “My friend,” he murmured, “don’t think that the rack or other tortures would help. I have seen them, and the effect of them. They do not work; all they do is destroy a man. They cannot force him to tell the truth, but they can force him to tell a lie, just to stop the pain. They do not help us to find the truth, all tortures can achieve is the breaking of a man so that he is destroyed, ruined.” His eyes held Simon’s for a moment, as firmly as his hand had grasped the bailiff’s, and the fear and disgust was there again, together with… what? Pleading? Was this knight begging for him to understand, or was he asking for forgiveness? Simon felt nervous, unsure of how to react, concerned that he might upset his friend even further, but certain that Baldwin needed reassurance.
“Baldwin, we’ll not use any torture in this matter,” he said, and that seemed to be enough.
The knight slowly took a short pace backwards, as if he was unwilling to lose contact with the bailiff, his eyes fixed on Simon’s face. There was no denying it, the knight knew he was still too badly affected by his experiences in France. To have erupted like that! When it was obvious that Simon was only joking, too. It was ridiculous.
Turning, he began to lead the way back to the inn, but as Simon followed, his eyes were fixed on the knight’s back with a pensive glower. What had made him react like that? It was almost as if he himself was a criminal, the bailiff thought to himself.
Chapter Seven
They left Black at the inn after questioning him, standing grave and silent as he watched th
em leave, whipping their horses and making their way back to Crediton. He could not help them much beyond the statement he had already given. Returning home late he had seen the flames and raised the alarm. There had been no one around then, at least no one he had seen.
Simon was apprehensive, worrying about his new friend. He watched Baldwin covertly as they rode, aware of the unblinking gaze of Edgar, as if anxious that the bailiff might attack his master, that he might add to the damage that he had already done, however unwittingly, by mentioning the rack.
Riding stiffly, his mind obviously on other matters, with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, Baldwin seemed far away, so far that Simon felt instinctively that even if he were to call out his name he would not hear. He was back in his past, his expression fixed and hard, his hand a tight fist where he grasped the reins, and the muscles of his jaw clenching fitfully.
The bailiff let his eyes drop to the neck of his horse. No doubt when he was ready the knight would tell him about this horror, this evil memory. Until then he would have to wait and hope that the vividness of the apparent nightmare would fade. Then, glancing up, he saw that the knight had lost his haunted expression, had recovered some of his previous good humour.
The knight’s eyes met and held his for a minute, and the two stared at each other, until the knight grinned, said, “Come on, we’ll be all night at this rate,” slapped his horse, and the three cantered off towards Crediton.
Simon had left the other two just before Crediton. The road forked as it came into Crediton from Blackway, one arm leading east, to Exeter and thence to Tiverton, passing Furnshill on the way, the other leading to Crediton and north to Sandford. It was here that the three parted, Simon going on alone to the left.
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