“Please sit down, Baldwin,” she said, and pointed Simon to another chair before filling their pots with wine. “I have some things to tell you; things you may not like.”
The knight’s eyes moved over her, then flashed to Simon, black with suspicion. She carried on softly, sitting and resting her hands in her lap with an almost deliberate attempt at composure.
“Your friend is most astute, Baldwin. He has noticed the change in my house since your first visit. It is not surprising, really, but I should have admitted it to you before. It was not fair to let you think…” She paused for a moment, as if in sadness. Taking a deep breath, she carried on.
“Anyway, he is right to think that we are all much happier now. My husband, Baldwin, was a monster! He was a brute. He took me when I was young, and forced me to marry him. He trained the servants well, and beat them often when they displeased him, but he treated me the same! He thrashed me as if I was one of his hostlers! When he wished to, he ignored me and took the maids to his bed – and they dared not refuse him, just as I dared not complain.”
Baldwin stared at her in silence, but Simon was sure that there was pain in his eyes.
“So, my friend,” she continued, “when you found his body, I think none of us here were sad. Oh, no! How could we be?”
Leaning forward, the bailiff gazed at her intently, but she kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet his. “Mrs. Trevellyn, why did you stay with him? You could have left him and gone home again.”
She looked up at that, with an unmistakable look of sadness. “Could I? How? My home is in Gascony, a little to the south of Bordeaux, so yes, I am English, the same as any other Gascon. And my father was always loyal to the English king, so I should be able to get home. But when your husband owns ships and knows all the people in the ports, how can you gain a passage? And even if there was someone to take me, how could I pay? My husband,” it sounded as if she wanted to spit at the word, “kept control of all our money. He even refused me permission to keep my jewels. Oh, no. There was no way I could leave!”
“Why did you agree to marry him in the first place?”
“I did not.” Her voice dropped and her head fell to her breast, as if slumping with exhaustion. “How could I marry a man like him? No! He captured my parents and me when we were travelling from Normandy to our home. He took all our cargo, everything, and then bargained with my father. He would have me, and let my father keep half of his goods. I was bartered like a slave! But that is how hostages are treated: whether the daughter of a merchant or the king of a province, all are treated the same.”
Nodding, Simon contemplated her. It was common enough for a man to be held until his ransom had been paid, and if her father saw a way of retrieving half of his cargo, paying the rest as a dowry, he might well consider it a good arrangement. “I understand, madam. Could you tell me what happened on the night your husband disappeared as well, please?”
“Simon, you don’t think she had anything to do with the killing of her own husband!”
Looking at his friend, the bailiff was saddened to see the anguish in his eyes. He gave Baldwin a grave shake of his head, and then faced the woman once more. “Madam?”
Her eyes rose to meet his again, and she spoke simply, expecting to be believed. “I was outside and walking. It appears that my husband came running inside. He had decided he wanted to speak with me, and he asked all the servants where I had gone. When they said they didn’t know, he beat two of them, including little Mary, my maid. Then he stormed out. I came back inside an hour or so later, and spent the evening in trying to calm the servants. When he didn’t appear, I thought little of it. He often went out to visit the inns of the area. Usually drinking made him violent towards me, but when he went to an inn he was often too drunk, when he finally got home, to be able to hurt me.”
“And the next morning?”
“I awoke as usual. He was not with me, but that was not unusual. I was surprised, though, when I found he was not asleep in the hall. When he was incapable of making his way to the solar, I usually found him there, spread out on a table or a bench. Still, it was no real surprise, not when I saw how much snow had fallen over the night. I would have sent out a man to ask at the village, but the drifts were too deep. I was surprised when you managed to get here.”
“Tell me, madam. When Agatha Kyteler died, why were you there that day? You are not with child, and you have not had any children, is that right?”
“Yes. We… We were not lucky with children.”
“So why were you seeing the midwife?”
Her face rose in a faintly haughty manner. “I cannot tell you that. I did not kill her. Or my husband!”
Simon held her gaze for a moment, his face serious. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will not force you. But I would like to know this. Did you see anyone that night? The night that your husband disappeared. Was there anyone here?”
She seemed to become even more pale as she stared at him, her eyes wide and seeming to hold a secret fear as her lips mouthed the word “No.”
It was then that Baldwin stood decisively and bowed to her. “Madam, I think we should leave you in peace now. I am sorry that we have caused you distress. Simon, come on. We must leave.”
The bailiff rose and walked to the door behind the impassive knight. At the screens he turned, partly to take his leave of the woman, perhaps also to apologise, but when he caught sight of her face, he turned and left.
Her features were contorted with loathing, and it was concentrated and focused on him.
They had ridden almost to the door of Greencliff’s house before Baldwin turned to face the bailiff. “Simon you can’t believe that she was involved. How could you think…? After all, Greencliffs confessed… And she’s far too beautiful to be a murderess. God! Why did you have to be so hard on the poor woman?”
“Baldwin, be still! Calm down.” Simon stared at his friend and the knight could see his misery. Baldwin was torn between his strong attraction to the woman and his friendship to the bailiff, but although his loyalty to Simon was intense, he was so moved by Angelina Trevellyn that he felt a sense of near disgust for Simon after the interrogation he had just witnessed. Even so, the signs of misery on his friend’s face compelled him to be silent and wait for the explanation.
“Look, we know she was there. She was with the witch on the day the poor woman was murdered, after the Bourc had left. She won’t say why. We know she hated her husband – she hardly hides the fact, does she? Even her servants were not with her when her husband disappeared, from the sound of things.”
“Simon, for the love of God! You can’t believe this! How could a woman like her kill? It’s not possible – it’s mad!”
“Listen to me, old friend. You know as well as I do that there have been warlike women before, women who could kill, or wage war. You know this. Why should Mrs. Trevellyn be different?”
“But Simon…”
“You recall how her husband’s body was? Lying as if outstretched? You remember I said it was as if he was pleading? Couldn’t she have got Greencliff to cut his throat while he was begging her not to kill him?”
“But Simon! You cannot believe that, surely! A woman like her…” Through his horror, Baldwin, realised that his friend was pleading with him, his face set, his eyes intense.
“Baldwin, I don’t know, I don’t know! That’s the point! I have to make sure she’s innocent of the murders.”
“But you said that Greencliff admitted to them.”
“Yes, and he had a knife with blood on it, but even so, he might have had help… Or he might have helped another. I don’t know. All I do know is that she is involved somehow. I don’t know how or why, but I’m sure she knows what happened. Baldwin, I must know what she has done. So must you!”
Margaret was worried by the sight of the two men. She had expected Simon’s return to be a joyful occasion, not miserable like this. The two men were hardly talking.
They entered
the hall together, but almost immediately Baldwin muttered about wanting to change out of his clothes, damp as they were from his journey, and left them alone. Simon stood and watched him go, then sighed and dropped on to a bench.
“Simon, what has happened?”
Briefly he explained, telling her about their visit to Mrs. Trevellyn, and his conclusions. Margaret listened with misery. She could not comprehend the feelings of the knight, who at last appeared to have found his ideal woman, only to have his best friend suggest that she could have been involved in a murder – maybe two.
When the door opened, both looked up. Seeing it was Hugh, she turned back to her husband. “But you only have some suspicions against her, nothing concrete, nothing that should make Baldwin doubt her. Why not leave him to make his own choice. If she is as beautiful as you say, then…”
“But that’s the point!” he exclaimed despairingly. “If I’m right, she might have been involved not just in one murder, but two! And one of the dead was her own husband. If she killed her own husband, would she not be a danger to Baldwin?”
To Hugh it looked as if his master was ravaged by doubts. It seemed as if he was pulled in different directions, by his friendship to the knight and the wish to see him happy, and by his confusion over the woman’s role in the death of her husband. Gearing his throat, he interrupted. “Sir?”
“What?”
“I don’t know if it’s important, sir,” the servant said, and quickly explained what Jennie Miller had said about Harold Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn.
It was one of the few times he had ever been able to shock his master, and Hugh rather enjoyed it.
“You mean Jennie Miller thinks that Mrs. Trevellyn herself killed old Agatha?”
Their evening was quiet. With Baldwin’s reserved and withdrawn manner, there was little conversation. Simon and Margaret sat opposite Hugh and Edgar at the great table. Baldwin was at his place at the head, but he was unwilling to talk, and soon after he had finished his meal, he announced that he was ready to go to bed.
Before he could rise from his seat, Margaret went to him and poured him more wine, then stood beside him. “No, you need to talk with Simon,” she said, and motioned to Hugh to clear the table. Sighing he got up and began to collect the plates. After a glare from Margaret, Edgar stood too, and began to help. Soon they were taking out the dishes, and when they had both disappeared, Margaret turned to her husband.
“Right, Simon. Tell Baldwin what we heard today from Hugh.”
He gazed at her in surprise, and then looked apologetically at Baldwin, who stared back impassively as he was told of the rumours in Wefford about Mrs. Trevellyn and Harold Greencliff. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his pot and sipped at his wine.
“All right, but there’s no proof that she has been unfaithful to her husband, no proof of an affair, and certainly nothing to suggest that she killed Agatha or her husband. It’s pure gossip, as you say.”
Margaret sat down again, looking from one to the other. “Baldwin,” she said, “did you think her evidence was strange?”
“Strange?” he glanced at her in surprise. “How do you mean?”
“From what Simon told me, Mrs. Trevellyn will not say what she was doing at the old woman’s house. And there really isn’t anyone else who seems to have had a reason to want to kill her husband. Doesn’t it seem strange?”
“Well…” He shrugged, dubious.
“And yet this boy has admitted to it. I don’t see why he would do that unless he was involved, but I think you should question him and see what he has to say.”
“There’s no point trying to do that,” Simon interrupted, “I tried to get him to speak about it yesterday and all the way back today, but I got nothing from him. He just didn’t seem to want to talk about it at all.”
“What?” Baldwin frowned at this. “Not at all?”
“No. He refused to talk about it. He wouldn’t talk about Agatha Kyteler’s death or Alan Trevellyn’s. As soon as I mentioned either he went as silent as a corpse and said nothing until we spoke of something else.”
“But he did confess to killing them?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, when we asked him, he kept reminding us that his knife had their blood on it. And it did – well, it had some blood on it, anyway.”
“That does seem odd.”
“What does?” asked Margaret.
The knight glanced at her. “The fact that he confessed without giving any reason why. Usually people boast of the reason why they murdered someone if they admit to it. ”He robbed me“, or ”he threatened me“, they say, and use that as justification for the killing. If they don’t confess, and it’s more common that they don’t, they deny all knowledge of the crime. At least, that’s my experience.”
“So you think that because he said he did do it, it looks odd?” she said slowly.
“Yes. Nobody wants to surrender themselves to a punishment or death for no reason. It would be mad, stupid – or…” He suddenly broke off, and his eyes turned to the fire with a frown that spoke of a level of intentness Simon had not seen before. It was as if he was consumed with a total concentration which absorbed him completely. A low gasp escaped from his lips, almost a moan of pain.
“What is it? Are you all right?” asked Simon, and was surprised to be silenced by a curt wave of the knight’s hand.
There was a reason, Baldwin thought to himself distractedly. If a man was committed, or if he was devoted in his life, tied to a cause, he could subject himself even to death. Who could know that better than he, he who had seen his comrades sent to torture and to death by the flames. They were all dedicated because they all believed in their cause: in the honour and purity of the military Order, in the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon: the Knights Templar. They had refused to agree to the confessions put to them by the Inquisition, they had suffered and died, not for a lie, but because they believed: in themselves and their masters and their God. And now Harold Greencliff was behaving in the same way, as if he too had a cause. A love, greater even than his own love for life.
Simon’s eyes flitted from his wife to the knight in his bewilderment. What Baldwin was thinking was totally hidden from him. What had he been saying? Something about not surrendering to something not done? That was it, he had been saying that anyone would be mad to admit to something that they had not done. The bailiffs eyes narrowed: was that what he was thinking? That Angelina Trevellyn had killed her husband and would be mad to admit it? That she would never confess, that someone who did confess to a crime must be a fool or mad? And she was neither?
He felt his eyes drawn to the fire. But why kill old Agatha Kyteler, he wondered. Then a quick frown pulled his brows down and he gave an angry sigh as he felt the frustration rise: why, for God’s sake, why was he thinking about her still? She was irrelevant; unimportant – just a sad little old woman. Why did her murder keep impinging on his brain? As he glared at the flames, he found that with no effort he could again conjure up a picture of her from his dreams, dressed in her hooded cloak, her eyes glittering with bright red fire, her expressions intense – and yet not threatening.
It was not a terrifying face. Instead it was sad, as if she was trying to help him, nudging and prompting him towards her murderer.
This was foolish. Thrusting the thought aside, he considered. The only thing that mattered was finding the killer of Agatha Kyteler and Alan Trevellyn. And right now he was not sure that they had the right man in the gaol. Glancing up he saw Baldwin’s face set into a pensive scowl.
Right, the bailiff thought, so who wanted the witch dead? Even Harold Greencliff did not appear to have a motive. And who could have wanted to kill Alan Trevellyn? To find that out the bailiff would need to know more about him. Could one of his servants have wanted to see him dead? It sounded very much as if they all suffered under him. Who knew the man well?
He gave a start, making the brown and black dog stare at him in sudden reproach for waking h
im before dropping his head down again. He said, “I know what we have to do. Tomorrow we need to see Jennie and Sarah again and check a couple of points – I think I’m getting close to the truth at last!”
Chapter Twenty-two
After leaving their horses with the hostlers at the back of the inn, they entered and took a table near the front of the room. Baldwin haughtily summoned the innkeeper with a curt wave of his hand, while the bailiff stared round the room. After hearing what Hugh had to say about his conversation with Jennie Miller, he was interested in seeing her again, and putting some other questions to her.
But today the inn was quiet. Although it was lunchtime, there were few people there, and Simon reflected that the people from the village would still have many tasks to perform. Even with the fields under snow, there would still be animals to look after, tools damaged over the year to be repaired, and some jobs, no doubt, to be done in their houses.
There was no sign of Jennie Miller. Over by the fire there was a little group of four men, one of whom Simon recognised as Samuel Cottey, but that was all. Perhaps it would become more busy as men finished their lunches and went to the inn for a quick drink before getting on with their afternoon duties.
Wiping his hands on a thick rag, the innkeeper strolled to them. “Sirs. What can I offer you?” he said.
Simon raised an eyebrow towards Baldwin, who shrugged. “Two pints of ale, and food.”
“We have cold meats, sir. Is that all right?”
Nodding, Simon turned to his friend as the publican left to fetch their order. “Well, Baldwin? Come on, what do we do next?”
The knight glanced up at him, and gave him a wan smile before returning his gaze to the matted rushes on the floor. “I don’t know, old friend,” he admitted. “Everything we have heard would seem to support your doubts about Mrs. Trevellyn. But Greencliff had the knife, and the prints led to his door after Alan Trevellyn’s death. Then there’s Agatha Kyteler’s death. He was there, we know that.”
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