“She wasn’t a witch!” The hot defence came swiftly from the girl, surprising Baldwin.
“No, I don’t think she was,” he said gently, but then turned back to the farmer. “Then?”
“I…” His eyes became reflective as he thought. “I pulled her up a bit – she was so cold she couldn’t be alive – so I lifted her a little to see who it was. I couldn’t see from the way she was lying there, so I had to lift her by the shoulder. Well, when I saw who it was, I had to drop her, it was such a shock.”
“Yes, yes. What then? You saw who it was, you saw how she’d died, what did you do then?”
“I buggered off! She was a witch.” He glared at his daughter. “Everyone knows that. So I left her there and went up to the Greencliff place.”
“Greencliff was there?”
“Oh, yes. He was there all right.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was just out to see his sheep, he said. He was just getting ready to go.”
“So he was dressed and ready? What time would that have been, do you think?”
“What time?” The farmer stared at him, then gazed at the view for a moment. Talking slowly and pensively, he said, “It was still dark, but I think the light was just starting… I don’t know, really… I think it was around dawn, just before, not after…”
“But he was dressed and ready to go out?” Simon said, and the farmer turned to him and peered at his face.
“Yes, he was about to go out. He already had his cloak on, that bright red one. Why? Why does it matter?”
“The innkeeper said that he had made some comment about the woman on the day she died, something about her doing something. Greencliff said that if Kyteler wasn’t careful, someone would do something to her. We think he might have killed her.”
“That’s mad!” Sarah’s sudden interruption made them all turn in astonishment. “Harry wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s a good man, kind and gentle. He wouldn’t kill like that – especially not an old woman.”
“Be quiet, girl!” The old farmer’s voice was harsh and thick, his face stiff in his anger at being interrupted.
“No, wait!” Baldwin’s order made Sam Cottey fall back, as if the quick fury had exhausted him. “Now, Sarah,” he said more quietly: “why do you think that?”
Glancing briefly at her father, she paused, but then decided that, having come so far, she should continue. “Because I know him. He’s not cruel, he couldn’t kill someone like that.”
“The innkeeper seemed sure.”
“He’s wrong. Harold wouldn’t kill an old woman like that, cutting her throat. He’s too gentle.”
Baldwin’s eyes held hers for a moment, and then her gaze fell, and Simon was sure he could see the embarrassment there in the way that her face suddenly reddened.
“Perhaps,” said the knight softly. Looking back at the farmer, he said, “Cottey, what would you say about that? Would you expect Greencliff to be able to kill an old woman in that way?”
“Not an old woman, no.” Then his voice became bitter again. “But a witch? I should think he could have killed her and been glad! He might think it was a service – a Godly act – to kill the old bitch!”
Leading their horses from the house, Baldwin stopped for a moment and scratched at his head with a speculative grimace. “What do you think?”
Simon paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think she’s as convinced it couldn’t be Greencliff as her father is that Kyteler was a witch. Maybe…” He was cut off by running feet crunching on the soft snow.
“Sirs, sirs! Wait a minute!” It was Sarah again, rushing along the track with her skirts held high in her hands, giving Baldwin a glimpse of her legs.
“Yes?” he said.
She stopped in front of them, her face bright from her exertion, panting a little, then somewhat breathlessly leaned forward. “It can’t have been Harold.”
“Why?”
“He never thought Kyteler was a witch. He was sure she was clever, and she knew about plants, but he never thought she was evil or made magic. Anyway, he was a kind, gentle lad…” Her voice faltered as she caught sight of the knight’s raised eyebrow.
Baldwin smiled and said:
“So he didn’t believe Kyteler sent her dog to the Oatway’s chickens?”
“That!” She dismissed the idea with a curt movement of her hand, as if slapping away the suggestion. “How could anyone believe that! It was a fox or a weasel did that, not a dog. If her dog wanted to eat chickens, he would have eaten her own, not gone all the way to the Oatway holding to eat theirs.”
“Hmm.” Simon could see that Baldwin’s eyes were looking over her shoulder, and when he followed the knight’s gaze, he saw that the dog was lying in front of the door to the house, head between his forepaws and watching the huddle of humans, while the chickens strolled and pecked around him.
“But why then would Greencliff have said that about her? Why should he be so annoyed with her?” Baldwin asked after a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have many friends?”
“Not really, sir. Some of the other lads in the village. I suppose mainly he was friends with Stephen de la Forte.”
“I see.” He appeared to think for a moment. “All right, thank you for your help, anyway.” He mounted his horse, then glanced back at the dog, and his voice held a hopeful note as he said, “Her dog seems happy enough here… I don’t suppose you’d like to…?”
She smiled, but shook her head. “No, I don’t think father would like to have the old woman’s dog here. He’d always be afraid that she might be watching over him, ready to protect him or attack the man that strikes him. No, you’d better take him back with you.”
Baldwin sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with resignation, and whistled.
Back at the road, Simon looked over at him. “Well?”
Baldwin shrugged. “It seems clear that the boy was ready to leave the house as Cottey got there, but that could mean anything! Maybe he was on his way to look after his sheep, like he said, or maybe he was going to move the body, to bury it or hide it… I don’t know.”
“What if he was going there to move the body? The girl seems sure that he could not have killed the old woman.”
“Yes… It was strange, that. She was very defensive…”
Simon gave a short laugh. “Not that strange! She’s young, so’s he. He’s good looking, so’s she. I don’t think you need look further for a reason than that.”
“Possibly.” Baldwin mused for a moment. “Let’s see this friend of his – what was his name? Oh, yes, de la Forte. Let’s see what else he can tell us.”
Quickening their pace, they rode off to the inn to ask for directions. It seemed that the de la Forte house was on the way to Exeter, some three miles outside Wefford, so they turned their horses to the south and were soon there.
As they approached the property, Simon could not help letting a small whistle of approval pass his lips. “The de la Fortes seem well enough off,” he said.
Baldwin nodded. The house was a large and rambling place, quite long, with a number of stables and outbuildings. In size it was bigger than his own manor, with the roof probably higher. The whitewash was fresh and clean, making the house almost seem to rise from the snowy ground in front as if it was made of the same material. Above, a thick mass of thatch was visible only from the chimney rising high overhead: around it the snow had melted, showing the greying straw beneath.
The roadway passed close to the front of the house, which itself lay in a shallow dip, while between the building and the trail was a stream, cutting a neat and precise line through the snow. As they followed the track to the house, they slowed, moving at a walk through the ford at the little stream’s shallowest point before trotting up to the door.
Here the house had two stubby arms projecting forwards like horns from a cow’s head, and the door was in a yard formed between. There was a
hitching rail, to which they tied their mounts before Simon knocked loudly at the door, while Baldwin tied up the dog with some twine he found dangling from the rail. He did not want his new dog to fight with the de la Fortes‘. They did not have long to wait.
An elderly servant, a thin, gaunt man with an expression of intense trepidation, opened the door and peered out at them. Trying his most winning smile, Simon nodded to him. “Is Stephen de la Forte here?”
“I…” As he began to speak, there was a bellow from behind, and the servant spun round, quickly explaining to someone inside. “No, sir. No, I don’t know who it is. He’s asking for Master Stephen, sir.”
“Out of the way!” came the voice, and the servant disappeared, his face replaced with that of an older man.
Simon felt he must be middle-aged from the thick and grizzled hair. Stout, not fat but thick in body, he stood a little shorter than the bailiff, but was almost half as wide again at the shoulder. He had a massive barrel chest, with arms that would have looked well as tree trunks, they were so massive.
His face was a maze of creases, some of them so deep that they appeared to be separate flaps of skin roughly butted together and sewn, and among them Simon could see the lighter marks, thickened with age, of old wounds from knives or swords. In the midst was a mouth, itself a colourless gash. A thick and broken nose sat between two bright and intelligent eyes, blue-grey like his son’s, which stared unblinking at Simon.
“Well? Who are you and what do you want with my son?” he said, his voice harsh with distrust.
“You are de la Forte? Father to Stephen?” Simon heard the knight ask softly from behind.
“Yes. Who are you?”
Baldwin slowly paced forward until he was beside the bailiff and stared back unblinking. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,” he said, announcing his title with careless pride. “I am Keeper of the King’s Peace here, and my business is with your son, not with you. You will bring him here to me. Now.”
Initially, Simon felt sure that de la Forte was going to explode like a child’s firework. His face appeared to become suffused with blood until the veins stood out at his temples and neck. His eyes seemed to want to start from their sockets, as if they could themselves leap out and attack the knight. But as quickly as his rage appeared, it passed. After a moment’s thought, he stood aside, albeit with bad grace, to let his visitors enter.
“My apologies, sir, I did not realise who you were. Please, come inside and seat yourselves by my fire while I fetch him out for you.”
“Thank you!” said Baldwin graciously as he swept inside.
This was no rude hovel. The screens gave into a broad and airy hall, with a huge fireplace built into one long side. Richly coloured tapestries hung from the walls, with narrow-looking gaps where sconces lay to brighten the interior. Two large candle-holders in wrought-iron stood before the fire, shedding pools of light. A massive table built from thick oak timbers stood at the opposite end of the room, while a bench from it had been dragged to the heat, leaving the earth bare in two great sweeps where the rushes had been dragged apart by the bench legs. A chair and small writing table stood near the hearth, and a man, dressed like a monk in a habit, stood nearby.
“My clerk,” said their host dismissively before walking to a chair and sitting, shouting at his servant to “Fetch him out!”
“You have a very pleasant house,” said Simon tentatively, watching the clerk clearing his papers and hurrying from the room.
“Yes. It took many years to build, but now it is as we want it. I only hope,” his face became sour, “we can make enough profit to keep it.”
“To keep it? Why, what’s the difficulty?”
“The Genoese, they’re the problem!” he said, a sneer curling his lip. “The whore-sons want my money.”
The knight turned and watched impassively as the man carried on. “I have been a successful merchant for many years, with my partner, Alan Trevellyn, and now these Italians” He spat the word. “want us to pay them back the loans we have with them. It’s madness! They know we can’t. They just want to bankrupt us, that’s all.”
“Why would they want to do that?” asked Simon reasonably.
The grey eyes fixed on him. “Why? So that their own people can take over the trade from us, of course!”
“My friend has had little experience of trade. Perhaps you could explain for him,” said Baldwin suavely, and Simon threw him a look of sour distaste. To his knowledge, his grasp of trade was as good as any man’s.
“Alan Trevellyn and I hire ships and use them to bring wine over here from Gascony. We’ve been doing it for years. Going the other way we take what we can, wool mainly. When the ships arrive, they sell the cargo and use the money to buy the wine to bring back. We’ve been very successful over the years, but for the last two we’ve been unlucky. The pirates have caught our last two ships, and wiped out the profits from the previous ten. The profit is too low now, with the high costs since the harvests. So now the Italians want back the money they loaned us some time ago. What it means is, they want everything. It could mean losing our houses… Everything!”
They sat for some minutes in silence, and just as Simon opened his mouth to inquire about the consequences should he refuse to pay, they heard the sound of approaching feet, and through the curtain to the screens came the boy they had seen earlier, with a thin, mousy-looking woman who had enough similarity with Stephen to look like his mother. She stood just inside the doorway, darting little glances at each of the men, while her son strode in, boldly enough to Simon’s eye, although his face held a curious expression. It was almost petulant annoyance, as if he were close to anger that the knight and bailiff should dare to invade his father’s household.
He moved directly to a chair and sat, his pale features turned to the knight. “Well?” he asked, impatiently.
Baldwin sat quietly contemplating him. Then he sighed.
“Your friend will not talk to us. It’s as if he wanted to be convicted. I am not happy that he did it, though, and I want to be sure that I have the right man. So tell me, why do you think Greencliff ran away last night?”
“Last night? I’ve no idea,” said Stephen, leaning back and crossing his legs. He appeared to have a slight smile on his face, which Baldwin felt looked a little like a sneer.
“You said to us that you went there because he was upset. In what way was he upset?”
The boy haughtily raised his hands as if in exasperation. “Oh, I don’t know! Upset! Depressed! He just seemed to think that there was nothing to keep him here. He wanted to go: leave and travel. He’s often said he’d like to go to Gascony.”
Frowning, Baldwin peered at him doubtfully. “So although he could give no reason for his misery, you felt he was so upset that you tried to go and see him twice in one day?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, and uncrossed his legs.
“How long have you known him?”
“How…? Oh, almost all my life.”
“You are of the same age?”
“Yes. We are both twenty.”
“I suppose you must have talked about everything.”
“Yes.”
“So why was he upset, then? He must have told you.”
To Simon it looked like a gesture such as a theatrical player might use. The boy half turned to his father, opening his mouth, then faced the knight again with a thoughtful frown on his face. “It is difficult for me to tell you this… I do not know if I should, for he told me in confidence, and I swore to keep it silent for him.”
“What?”
“A woman.”
Baldwin sat back, his eyes still fixed on the boy, and Simon found himself immediately thinking: Sarah Cottey! It must be her.
“Who?” he heard Baldwin rasp.
“I cannot say.”
“This is nonsense!” said Baldwin, standing abruptly. “You expect me to believe that he knew you since childhood, that you talked about everything, that you were close friend
s, and yet something like this, something so important, he kept from you?”
“No, sir. You don’t understand.” The voice was low now, almost sad. “She is well-born, not a villein. And married.”
“Ah!” The knight faced him again.
“Yes. Of course I know who she is, but I swore to keep her name secret when he told me. You must understand, I cannot break my vow.”
“No. No, of course not,” said the knight hastily.
“But there’s one thing I can tell you.”
“Yes?”
“He couldn’t have killed the witch.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He was with me all afternoon on Monday, and all evening.”
“So?”
“I heard from the innkeeper that old Kyteler was seen by Oatway in the early afternoon, so she was killed later in the afternoon or in the evening. I was with Harry all that time. It can’t have been him.”
Chapter Ten
The father stood at the door and watched as the two walked to their horses, untied the dog and mounted, turning and slowly making their way back down the path, through the ford, and on to the road back to Wefford.
There was a bitter wind blowing that felt as though it was licking at Simon’s skin with a tongue of pointed ice. His cloak, tunic and shirt were of no use in defence.
“The weather doesn’t improve, does it?” he remarked after some minutes of silence.
“Hmm? Oh! No, no it doesn’t.” Baldwin was jogging along with his mind completely absorbed.
Sighing, Simon said, “What part of his speech did you find confusing?”
“Only the one part that matters. Who is she?”
“This lover of Greencliff’s?”
“Yes. Who could she be?”
“Unless Greencliff himself decides to tell us, I doubt whether we’ll ever find out.”
“No. Unless, of course, the boy de la Forte could be persuaded. I wonder…?”
“What?”
“Was he lying, do you think?”
“Ah!”
Baldwin glanced across at him. “Well?”
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