“Harold?” The youth’s face showed momentary confusion, near anger as he frowned, but then he seemed to realise that the bailiff was genuinely unaware of the truth and gave him an comprehending smile. “Oh, no. You don’t understand. I told Harold to go and escape. I knew he could be in danger otherwise. That was why I went to his house after the witch died, to make sure he had gone. I had to make sure he would be all right after I killed her. Then, when I had seen to Alan Trevellyn, I made sure he left for good. He was my friend; I was looking after him.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was late when they finally made it home, and both were ready to drop straight to sleep, but there was no opportunity for them to do so. Margaret, Tanner, Greencliff and Angelina Trevellyn were still in front of the fire, and their eyes rose to the door as the three men entered.
Margaret went to Simon as soon as she saw him, with a sigh of relief, hugging him with her eyes closed. “I thought something must have gone wrong,” she whispered, and then, as she squeezed tighter in her joy, she felt him wince and heard his quick moan, and stood back. Now she could see his pain, and the paleness of his face. Even as she saw him try to smile, she turned an accusatory glare to Baldwin. “What’s happened to him?” she asked, and then gasped in horror as she saw the gore over his tunic. “Baldwin! What has happened to you?”
The knight grinned. “Very little, the same as your husband. But I fear we shall all three of us soon die of the cold if we do not get inside and sit before the fire.”
While Margaret bustled, calling for Hugh and helping Simon to a chair, Baldwin walked to his own chair by the fire and sat, pensively watching them. Hugh did not appear – he had fallen asleep in the kitchen by the fire – so Edgar went to fetch food and drink for them. It was only when he had left the room that Baldwin found his eyes being drawn to Angelina Trevellyn. Seeing her condescending smile as she watched the husband and wife, the knight nodded to himself as he turned his face to the fire once more. It confirmed his decision, reached with such difficulty on the ride homewards.
“Come on, then! What happened? And Simon, how did you guess it was him?”
The bailiff smiled at his wife. “There were a number of things that made me start to think of Stephen de la Fort,” he began. “I think the first thing was how so many people started saying how much of a friend he was to Harold, and how they were always together. It seemed as though they had no secrets from each other – Jennie Miller even said that Stephen knew who Harold’s wealthy lover was.” At this, both Greencliff and Angelina Trevellyn stirred, but Simon ignored them.
“Then there was the fact that at both murders, although Harold was there or nearby, he was apparently alone. It did not occur to me at once for, in affairs of the heart, most men will leave their friends behind when they go to see their lover. But there was something odd about the prints back from the Trevellyn house on the afternoon we went to Harold’s house after discovering Alan Trevellyn’s body. It only came to me late. There were the prints of a man and a horse?”
He glanced at the farmer. “You never owned a horse, did you? That’s what Jennie Miller said too. What use would a shepherd and farmer have for a horse? And if you did have one, why walk the horse home? To avoid ice, maybe, but it would be rare for a man to walk unless his horse was lame, and this horse did not limp. No, I became certain that there was another man with you. You confirmed that yesterday.
“So what about the day of the death of Agatha Kyteler? Once again, you were seen while you stood with Angelina’s horse, once again, you were alone there. Was it likely? Later, at the inn, you were seen with Stephen de la Forte again, but he came in after you. You did not enter together. If he was with you when you went to see your lover, when Alan Trevellyn died, surely it was possible that he was with you when Agatha died as well? In which case, where had he gone?”
Nodding, Baldwin leaned forward. “Yes, I think that this is what happened. You two, Harold and Angelina, agreed to meet, but Stephen went with you. Harold, you waited with the horse while Angelina went to see the old woman. When she left, Stephen made some excuse…”
“He said that after seeing the old woman, Angelina would want my company, but he would probably be unwelcome,” said Harold dully. “He rode off as if he was on his way home.”
“I see. So he went a short way, then tied his horse in the woods, and made his way to the old woman’s cottage. When he saw Angelina leaving, he went inside and found her still at her table. He pulled out his knife and killed her.”
“I knew none of this!” the boy cried, and his face dropped into his hands.
“No, that much is obvious,” continued the knight. “What happened was that Angelina told you what she had done, and you were shocked, horrified, by what she had done, when you had been looking forward to raising the child.”
“She said she wanted nothing more to do with me when I asked her to leave the village and come away with me.”
“Yes,” said the knight and threw her a glance. She appeared to be gazing at the youth with a small contemptuous sneer. “I imagine she did. Anyway, feeling as you did, you went to the inn to get drunk. Half an hour later or so, Stephen arrived…”
Eagerly, the bailiff interrupted. “And he was cold, you said! You said he had no surcoat!”
“Yes,” the boy nodded with surprise.
“Look at Baldwin’s tunic, after killing Stephen’s horse!” said Simon triumphantly. “Stephen may have been able to clean his face at a stream in the woods, but he couldn’t clean his clothes. That was another thing that stuck in my mind!”
“Thank you, Simon,” said Baldwin with an imperceptible frown of irritation at the break in his tale. He paused, trying to regain the threads, but Simon was too quick.
“So,” he said, “Stephen appeared, heard what Angelina had said to you, and then started to speak about how the old woman would be sure to talk about such a wealthy woman going to see her, or something, yes?”
The boy nodded miserably. “He said that Agatha never could keep her mouth shut. He said she had told everyone in the village about me and Sarah Cottey. I had to do something to keep her quiet.”
“Yes, that was when you were overheard talking about silencing the old witch!”
“Yes. And Stephen offered to come with me.”
“That’s the interesting bit. I suppose he wanted someone to confirm that it was a shock to him to find her body there.”
“I don’t know. He came up to the cottage, but when I opened the door, and found her there, her dog came out and started to attack him. He said we’d better go, and I held the dog back, for it would have taken him by the throat otherwise. When he had gone, though, I began to think, and…”
“You thought Angelina had done it,” said Baldwin flatly. “So you chose to drag the old woman’s body to your field, so you could bury it and hide the proof of the murder.”
Nodding again, the boy looked up with frank sadness. “I went to the inn first, with Stephen. I left the body there at the house. I didn’t even tell him what I was going to do, I thought it would be wrong to involve him. Then, when we left the inn I took her back with me, through the woods, and left her in the field. I was intending to bury her the next morning. But Cottey found her first.”
“Why did you run away?”
“I still loved – I still love – Angelina. But she made it clear that she did not love me. I was going away. I was going to leave the area and find my fortune elsewhere.”
“I see.”
Simon musingly poured himself some wine. “Who suggested that you should go and see Angelina later? When Alan Trevellyn died?”
“Angelina did,” he said.
“I did not!” she declared hotly. “You asked to see me!”
“I assume, then,” interjected the knight suavely, “that Stephen told you, Harold, that Angelina wanted to discuss things with you, and told you, Angelina, that Harold must talk to you?”
They both nodded, and she seemed to
consider as she said, “He threatened me. He said that Harold would tell all in the village about us if I did not agree to meet him one last time.”
“But you refused unless he came without a weapon?” asked Baldwin, leaning forward.
“That was Stephen’s idea. He said that Harold was so depressed he could do anything. He said I should be very careful, and he offered to take Harold’s knife if I agreed to see him. Stephen said he would stay nearby so that I should be safe.”
“So in that way he managed to get your knife, Harold. He used it to kill Alan Trevellyn. I don’t know how.”
“He came to the house and asked for wine. Maybe he told my husband that he had seen me with a man up in the woods? The servants were all terrified by my husband’s temper before he left to search for me. He was in a terrible rage.”
“It’s quite likely. Yes, he knew your husband well, as the partner of his father, so if Stephen saw Alan, Alan would probably have believed his story. And he could have promised to lead him to you, as well. It would not have taken much to drop back behind, and cut his throat as he stood in the trees. Then he covered the body with snow to hide it a little, and went back to see you two.”
“Why wasn’t he covered in blood this time?” asked Simon frowning.
“This murder was better planned. He knew that blood would cover the whole area after killing the old woman, so maybe he carried a fresh tunic with him, one that he only put on after leaving these two together. I don’t know, but he’s bright enough to manage that.”
“And then,” Simon finished, “he joined you, Harold, after your meeting with Angelina, and went home with you. It was his tracks and yours that we saw. Your feet, his horse.”
“Yes, he came back. He stayed with me a while, I think, but I hardly said anything to him. Angelina had confirmed that she would not leave her husband to live with me, not even if I could get us away, to over the sea. I felt that I had nothing to live for in Wefford any more. After he had gone, I packed and left. The rest, I think, you know.”
In the silence that followed, Margaret found it difficult to keep her eyes from the miserable figure of the farmer. He sat huddled, deep in thought, but none of the thoughts seemed to give him any joy. The woman was different, she could see. Angelina Trevellyn sat with a measuring gaze in her green eyes, and they were fixed intently upon Baldwin, who appeared to be unaware of her presence. The story of love and misery had struck him with its despair.
“Oh, don’t take her, Baldwin,” she found herself thinking with a shudder. To her surprise she found that the wish was so intense it struck her almost as a prayer. “She’s vicious, uncaring and grasping. Beware!”
As if he had somehow caught the drift of her thoughts, Harold Greencliff suddenly rose. Without a word, he swept from the room, his face downcast and his eyes avoiding meeting the gaze of any of the other people there. When she looked at her husband and the knight, Margaret saw the sympathy there, but the boy appeared not to have noticed as he slammed the door and stalked out into the open air.
After a moment, Baldwin stood and followed the boy.
Outside, the night was a grey curtain that hid the land around, and Greencliff was invisible in his dark tunic. But it was easy to find him from the sound of tortured sobbing that came from the side of the house. Baldwin stood undecided for a moment, not sure whether to go and interrupt the boy in his misery or not. He made up his mind. Steeling himself he strode on.
The boy was leaning against the log pile, eyes thrown upward at the star-filled sky, heaving great breaths and sobbing them out again in his despair and misery. He did not turn as the knight came up beside him, but continued his solitary skyward stare.
“What will you do, Harold?” asked Baldwin softly after a few minutes.
“Do? What can I do? What is there for me here? I’ve lost my only friends: my best friend is a murderer who tried to put all of the blame on to me; my woman, the one woman I thought wanted me as her husband, has made up her mind I’m not good enough for her! Not good enough to sweep her stables! What is there for me? What can I do, where can I go to find peace?”
Remembering Sarah Cottey and her spirited defence of him, Baldwin considered. He said slowly, “There are others who may be better friends or lovers, Harold.”
“There’s no one. I have no one. No friends, no family, nothing.” The tone was definite, the finality as certain as the slam of a tomb closing. In the face of it, Baldwin felt unequal to any further battle for the boy’s confidence. Turning, he stared away as he thought for a minute.
“Harold, if you need help, tell me. If you want to leave the area and go to Gascony like you said before, I’ll release you from your villeinage. But remember, you can only run from things you leave behind, not from things inside you. If you go but take the woman and your friend with you in your heart, you’ll never find peace. There must be another woman here that would be better for you, someone who can ease your life and…”
It was this that finally made the boy spin to face him. “Why? So you can take my woman? She’s told me that already, that you want her. It’s obvious why – a wealthy merchant’s widow and the wealthy knight – but don’t try to tell me it’s better for me when all you’re trying to do is look after yourself. Don’t try to tell me you’re trying to help me when what you’re doing is stealing my woman!”
Simon was sitting alone in the hall when the knight came back.
“How is he?”
Dropping into his chair, Baldwin gave him a grimace and puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. “There’s nothing I can say. He doesn’t trust me. I think if he stays for a week he’ll be here for ever, but if he goes far away I wouldn’t be too surprised. You never know, it might be best for him. It certainly did me good when I went abroad.”
There was a slight noise, and the door from the screens opened to show Angelina Trevellyn. She walked in as slowly and gravely as a nun and sat opposite the knight, her face showing a sad and compassionate concern. “How is he?” she asked softly, her voice low.
“I think,” Baldwin said, staring at her sceptically, “that you should find out for yourself, madam.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was your lover.”
Simon wriggled in his seat. He had no desire to be here for this. He glanced at the door in mute appeal, but no one entered, and he dared not interrupt them himself. Cringing back, he tried to make himself as small as possible.
“That was before,” she said calmly.
Baldwin spoke drily. “What, before you realised you were about to become a widow and could have your choice of the men – or should I say knights? – of the area, madam? Before you thought you could do better for yourself? Before you thought it would be pleasant to own a man with a title in preference to a mere merchant whom you had always feared and disliked?”
“That is hardly fair,” she said, giving a slightly nervous smile. Baldwin did not smile back.
“Isn’t it? I think it probably is. When did you decide on me? Was that some time ago too? Or was it a snap decision, like choosing to take a local farmer as your lover? It must have been funny until you got pregnant. That was the one thing that surprised me. Why were you so upset about being pregnant? Why should a married woman be so fearful that she is prepared to go to a woman reputed to be a witch to force the child to miscarry before her husband can find out?”
“I thought it would be wrong to bring up a child as his own when it might not be,” she said with a hint of defiance.
“I doubt that, I doubt it a great deal. I think it was because you knew that he could not have children. Oh, yes,” he carried on as her face coloured, “Walter de la Forte knew about that too. He told us. Tell me, though: when did you choose me? Was it when you saw my house here and realised how large my estates were? Or was it before, when you first saw me and thought I might be more enjoyable than a mere farmer?”
“I don’t have to listen to this!” she said, standing and glaring at him angrily, the l
ight reflecting from her eyes in green glints of cold fury.
To Simon, it seemed that the knight stared at her for a moment as if trying to remember something, perhaps how he had felt when he had first seen her and been so enamoured of the beautiful green-eyed Gascon lady. “No,” he said softly, “you can go whenever you want, can’t you? Do whatever you want. You are wealthy now, and have money and lands. Well, go then. I wish you well.”
As his friend turned back to his fire, Simon thought he saw doubt in the woman’s eyes, but then her rage took her over and she flounced from the room. Soon her voice could be heard outside, shrilly calling for her horse and servant, then shrieking when she felt that she was being thwarted.
“I think that you have probably just had a very lucky escape!” said Simon meditatively, but when he glanced over at him, the bailiff caught a fleeting glimpse of the deep sadness that passed over the knight’s face.
The door opened and Margaret walked in, a tray with wine and minted water in her hands. “Have you seen Angelina Trevellyn?” she asked in bewilderment. “She’s demanding her horse, and when I suggested she might be better to wait here the night and leave in the morning, I thought she was going to launch herself at me in her rage! What have you said to upset her? Baldwin, why what is it?”
But even as she set the tray down and leaned towards him with a compassionate frown on her face, even as he tried to smile, he found he could not. And only by blinking could he stop the tears that suddenly threatened.
Chapter Twenty-eight
When they had been back in their draughty castle for almost two months after the murders, Simon and Margaret received a letter from Baldwin. Of course, Margaret could not read or write, but Simon had been fortunate enough to have been schooled by the priests at Crediton when he was young, and he and the educated knight often exchanged letters when they had the opportunity.
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