The Merchant’s Partner aktm-2

by Michael Jecks

  There was only one penalty to avenge the murder of a man or woman: hanging.

  There was a small gasp of excitement at his side, and when he looked over, Mark Rush’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. Following his gaze, Tanner saw a tiny figure in the distance, a slender, stick-like shape, seeming to pelt across the snow.

  “Come on!” cried the hunter, and both whipped their mounts.

  Tanner stuck rigidly to the footprints. It was possible that the boy had thought of taking any pursuers over rough or broken ground to try to throw them off. If he had led them towards a mire, they could get stuck. The constable kept his eyes down, but saw no sign of any obstacles. Jolting and lurching, they rode up one slope, then down the other side. Now they could see him, some distance off in the distance, making for a copse in a valley. “Bugger!” he thought. “Must stop him before that, it’ll take hours to find him if he reaches it.” But he need not have feared.

  As they pelted forward, he saw the shape take a tumble, tripping and falling, roiling, to lie for a moment as if winded. Then he got up again, and set off once more, but this time he was slower, and looked as though he was limping. His speed was gone, and the two men chasing felt confident enough to slow to an easy canter, taking the pursuit more carefully to protect their horses.

  They rode up in front, swinging round in a curve, to come to a halt facing him, sitting on their horses between him and the protection of the trees. As he sat and watched the wretched figure of the man staggering towards them, Tanner felt the sadness again. It looked as if he had been ruined. His hair was matted and slicked down over his head, damp from falling in the snow. His tunic and jacket were covered in white as well, making him look like a weird monster of the winter. But his eyes were full of his grief. Even from a distance Tanner could see that.

  “We hunted that?” He heard the hunter say in wonder, as if he too was feeling compassion for a destroyed life. The constable nodded and let out his breath in a long drifting feather on the frozen air.

  A few yards from them, Greencliff stopped and stood surveying them with a frowning face that seemed close to breaking into tears. When they both kicked their horses forward, he took a half-pace back, then twitched the front of his tunic aside, and pulled his dagger out. “Leave me alone!”

  “Come on, Harold. You can’t stab me.” Tanner felt that the words sounded ridiculous even as he said them.

  “I can’t go back. I won’t! There’s nothing for me. Just let me go. Please…” His eyes filled with tears. “Just let me go.”

  “You know we can’t do that, Harold. We have to take you back.”

  “Why? Sir Baldwin doesn’t need me…”

  “Bugger Sir Baldwin,” said Mark Rush from Tanner’s side. “We can’t let you go after you murdered Alan Trevellyn. What’s it to be? Alive or dead?” As he spoke he pulled his bow over his head and checked the string.

  “Alan Trevellyn?” Tanner was sure that he saw absolute horror in the boy’s eyes. “Dead?”

  The bow was ready. Mark Rush took his time over selecting an arrow, then tugged one free and fitted it. “I suppose you wanted to just scare him? That’s why you cut his throat, like you did with the old witch too. Never mind. You can apologise to them both when you get to hell.“

  Tanner watched as the boy gaped, but then, as if with a sudden resolution, he pulled his dagger’s sheath free and put the blade away, tossing it towards the men. “You can put up your bow. I surrender to you. Yes, I killed them both.” The words were said calmly, but with what looked to Tanner like a kind of tired but firm defiance. He stood patiently while the constable swung from his horse and strolled over to the prisoner, tied his hands with a thong, then picked up his dagger and pointed back the way they had come.

  “Come on, Harold. Let’s get back.”

  Simon watched the slow approach of the three men, two on horseback, one staggering slightly on foot, with a feeling of relief. At least there was no one else hurt. Greencliff had not managed to stab one of the men when they captured him.

  He heard the crunch of snow as the Bourc strolled over to stand beside him. At the sound of a sigh, Simon turned with surprise. It seemed out of place for the man. From what he had seen of the stranger, he had appeared to be strong and self-sufficient, not the sort to express sympathy for a murderer and outlaw.

  Catching the bailiff’s eye, the Bourc shrugged, ashamed. “I know. He’s a killer. But he’s a likeable sort of lad. I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of murder. He seems too quiet. And he seems more sad than cruel.”

  “But you said you found blood on his dagger!”

  “So I did. So I did. Could it have been in defence?”

  Simon paused and considered. “Defence? No, I don’t think so. Both murders were from behind, both of them had their throats cut. I don’t think they could have been killed except by a man who wanted to murder them. I can’t see it was defence. In any case, what defence would he need from an old woman?”

  “Old woman?”

  “Yes, he killed an old woman in Wefford.”

  Simon became aware of a sudden tenseness as the man leaned forward and said, “What was this woman’s name, Bailiff?”

  “Her name?” The three men were almost with them now, the lone walker struggling in the deeper snow that lay beneath the hillside, moving slowly and swinging his arms as if trying to maintain his balance. “She was called Agatha Kyteler.”

  There was a sudden intake of breath from the man, and Simon turned to see that his eyes were filled with horror as he stared at the figure labouring towards them. “Agatha? You killed Agatha Kyteler?”

  The bailiff gasped. “Of course! You must be the Bourc de Beaumont!”

  “Yes, I am, but how…?”

  “I am friend to Sir Baldwin. He mentioned you had been staying with him. He would like to see you again, I am sure. Would you ride back with us?”

  The Bourc stared past the bailiff towards the centre of the moors, and when he glanced back, he smiled ruefully. “My friend, I think it would be a very good idea for me to return with you, and when I next leave for the coast, I think I shall take the roadways like others do, and avoid my own short cuts! Ah! Here they are.”

  Turning back, Simon saw the men entering the ring of stones.

  Now he could see the youth close to again, Simon felt that he was unwell. He had the feverish red and apparently sweating face of a convalescent. Was it that or was it just his guilt? Was it illness from his nights out in the cold or a deeper sickness at the knowledge of what he had done, of what his price must be now he was captured? His hands looked blue, as though the blood was cut off, and the bailiff made a note to get the thong tying him loosened.

  His eyes were bright and steady, not ashamed or worried. They almost looked relaxed, as if he had tested himself and found himself to be stronger than he had expected. Although he appeared dirty and unkempt, he still stood tall – a bit like Baldwin, Simon thought. Proud and arrogant in his confidence.

  The boy stood staring at him for a moment, then peered over his shoulder. Throwing a quick glance behind him, Simon saw that the Bourc was crouching by the fire and feeding it with fresh branches. The bailiff saw that the boy was struggling to control a shiver, and wordlessly led the way to the heat, Greencliff squatting and holding his bound hands to the flames with a small grunt of pain. After a moment Simon pulled his dagger free and, reaching over, sliced through the thong. The boy gave him a nod of gratitude before returning his gaze to the fire.

  Tanner hobbled his horse before walking to the three by the fire. He stood and watched his prisoner for a moment, then pulled the ballock knife from his belt and tossed it to the ground beside the bailiff.

  Looking up, Simon saw his serious – sad? – gaze and picked it up. Pulling the blade from the sheath, he saw the stains and picked at them with his fingernail. There was no way to tell for certain, but it looked a dirty brown, like dried blood.

  “Whose blood is this, Harold?” he asked.
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br />   The light eyes glanced at him, then down at the knife for a moment with apparent disinterest before he shrugged and faced the flames. “Trevellyn’s, probably.”

  “He admitted the murders,” said Tanner, and dropped down beside the bailiff.

  “Why did you do it, Harold? Why kill them?” Simon said, frowning at the gasp from the Bourc.

  The boy did not even bother to turn to face them. “I wanted to get away. I wanted money. They refused to give me any.”

  “But you must have known that Agatha Kyteler had nothing! I suppose Alan Trevellyn was wealthy, but she had nothing! Why kill her?”

  But they could get nothing more from him. He ignored their questions, sitting silently, his face set, with his hands to the fire, and his shoulders hunched as if they could act as a barrier to their questions.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was nearly dark when Jennie Miller walked into the inn and sat at a bench near the door with her pot of cider. It was too early for most of the people to have arrived, but there were already some men standing and talking in hushed voices. She knew why. Her husband had been told earlier that some of the men had returned from the hunt. They had found where Harold Greencliff was. He would be brought back soon.

  In a small village like Wefford, this was news of the first order. Unused to the excitements normal in more populous or busier places, where the number of travellers passing through led to their own difficulties, Wefford had experienced its first taste of real crime in decades, and found that it had a sour flavour.

  But where there were problems, there were also compensations, and this affair was no different. After all, nobody would miss old Agatha too much. She had scared too many people after the rumours put about by that old hag Oatway. Her death had caused more interest than anything she had done while living.

  When the curtain opened to show a slightly nervous, scowling and dark-haired man, she looked up with interest. The face was familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him. Thin featured, with weather-beaten skin and thick dark hair that straggled at the sides. Appearing shy, he hung back at the screens as if nervous of crossing the floor. Not tall, he looked quite thickset, but quick and lithe, a bit like her husband’s horse. Where had she seen him before? Surely he had been on a horse? It was then that she recognised him – it was the bailiffs servant… What was his name? The one who had waited outside with the horses when the knight and bailiff arrived to ask her about the day that Agatha died.

  Shifting quickly on her bench, she smiled at him, and saw a minimal relaxing of his glower. Patting the bench seat beside her, she beckoned to him, then waved at the innkeeper.

  “What would you like to drink?” she asked innocently, and he asked for a strong ale, sitting ungraciously beside her.

  “Aren’t you the man that came to see me with Sir Baldwin Furnshill and the bailiff the other day?” she said when his beer had arrived and he had taken a deep draught.

  He nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and now his face had lost some of its black dejection. The flavour of the beer restored some, if not all, of his equanimity.

  Hugh was annoyed. So far today he had been told to help two serving women (either old enough to be his mother) with moving barrels in the buttery, then Margaret had asked him to help an hostler in the stables area, and finally, he had been instructed by a haughty man-servant that Hugh had been assigned to him to help with the mews, the sheds behind the stables where the falcons were left to mew, or moult.

  When he had gone to Margaret to demand some sympathy, she had been short with him. Of course he understood that she was upset at the continuing absence of her husband, but that was no reason to take things out on him. On seeing him, she had made it very clear that he was expected to help wherever he was needed while they stayed under Baldwin’s roof, and that meant doing whatever the servants felt was useful. After being peremptorily ordered to go out and help with the mews, he had obeyed, but had then made sure that he could not be seen afterwards, and had quickly saddled his horse to come into the village for an evening of peace before he could be asked to do anything else.

  Now, as he sat and glared moodily at his pot, he was struck with a sense of the unfairness of it all. After all, he was the servant of a bailiff. He should not have to mess about helping hostlers – the knight should have enough men to look after his horses and those of his guests!

  Looking at him, Jennie could see that he was feeling gloomy, and quickly ordered him another pot of ale. After all, if the bailiffs man knew nothing, especially when he had been living with the knight, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, then no one could know anything.

  “I hear they’re bringing back young Greencliff,“ she said tentatively, as if musing. ”Shame that. He’s such a nice lad, too.“

  “Yes. They should be back later, or first thing tomorrow.”

  “Your master? He’s with them?”

  “He’s leading them,” said Hugh tetchily, then resumed his gloomy stare at his pot. “They all seem to think Greencliff must be dead, though. He was out in all that snow, so it’s unlikely he’ll survive.”

  “Oh.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “What about her”? That French wife of Trevellyn?“

  Hugh stared at her uncomprehendingly, wondering what she was talking about. “Eh? What, the widow? What about her?”

  “Didn’t you know? She was having an affair with Greencliff. That’s why he was with her horse when she went to see the witch. He was helping his lover, looking after the horse of the woman he was having an affair with. I think she killed old Agatha while he held her horse!”

  When the little group rode into town the following morning, Simon was pleased to see Baldwin, Edgar and Hugh standing outside the inn opposite the gaol. Saying, “You see to him, Tanner,” he dismounted and led his horse to the group of men standing on the patch of brushed earth, which showed red where the snow had been swept away.

  “So, Bailiff. You were successful,” the knight said smiling, nodding towards the man being led into the little gaol, then, with surprise, he said, “John! I thought you left for Gascony days ago.”

  He was about to question them about the hunt and where they had met, when he noticed the pinched look on Simon’s face and called out for the innkeeper. Soon, mulled wine was brought, the steam rising steadily from the liquid, and the smell from the sweetened mixture with its strong spices made the bailiffs mouth water. Taking a mug gratefully, he cupped it in his hands and blew on the surface to cool it a little, then took a sip of the scalding drink as the Bourc accepted another pot from the innkeeper.

  “And, surprisingly enough, he’s alive, too!” Simon said, voicing the knight’s thoughts as he stared after the figures entering the gaol. “Yes, and it feels like I nearly died of the cold myself on the way.”

  Mark Rush soon joined them, and they walked indoors out of the cold.

  After his initial pleasure at seeing the men returning, Simon saw that Baldwin had sunk into a pensive reverie. The Keeper of the Peace was wondering whether he would shortly see the boy, his villein, hanged in the market square for the murders. It was surely not pleasant, Simon thought, to have to see the last remaining member of an old family on the estate coming to this kind of ignominious end. Far better that the boy had died on the moors or in the woods. To an extent, perhaps, it would have been better for all concerned if Greencliff had put up a defence and had died with an arrow in his head. At least that way there would have been an end to the matter. Now there would have to be a trial, with the lad perhaps attempting to defend himself – though how he could try to was beyond Simon’s imagination. The evidence all pointed to him.

  As the knight called for more drinks, an eyebrow delicately rising at the speed with which the men finished off their first pots, Simon leaned forward on his elbows and jerked his head towards the Gascon. “Your friend knows a little more about the day Trevellyn died, and the day Agatha Kyteler was killed.”

  “Really?�
�� said Baldwin, glancing across the Bourc, who looked up inquiringly. “John? Simon says you can help us with the death of your old nurse and the merchant. Is that right?”

  Before the Gascon could answer, Simon fixed him with a gleaming eye. “Be very careful how you respond, John. Your father’s friend thought you might be the killer.“

  The Bourc stared at him, then at the sheepish knight. “You thought I did it?”

  Shifting uneasily, Baldwin grimaced, “It did seem odd that you were with the old woman when…”

  Laughing, Simon enjoyed the sight of his friend’s embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Baldwin. Anyway, he has an alibi, even if we didn’t already have Greencliff. Rush saw the Bourc on the road at dusk that day, far south of Wefford.”

  “So what do you know of these killings, John?” the knight asked.

  “I saw them both before they died.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes. When I left you on Tuesday morning, I went to see Agatha, as I said. I told you about the escape from Acre, but not the last detail. Agatha told me that herself. My mother wanted to save me, so she went to the boats to ask for a passage. You know more about it than I do, of course, but apparently it was mayhem. Boats everywhere, and all of the sailors demanding huge fees to save people. My mother carried me along the harbour, begging for help, but no one would help. Then she thought she had found one. Trevellyn’s ship.

  “The master was happy to take her,” he said. “Pleased to, he said. But then he named his fee. Not money, not her jewels, just her. He wanted her!” He sipped his drink sullenly, but then grinned lopsidedly. “My mother apparently refused his kind offer, and asked that he accept a more sensible fee, but he insisted, and she came away empty-handed. Anne of Tyre, my mother, was of an important family, and I suppose she could not comprehend how low things had sunk by then. Anyway, she gave me to my nurse, and pleaded with her to take me to my father’s house. That was Agatha.