The Merchant's Partner

by Michael Jecks

  He saw the whip rise and leap back, and then it was whistling towards him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The innkeeper at the ‘Sign of the Moon’ was very busy that night. It seemed that everybody from the village had come to his hall to drink. There was little else to do on a cold and snow-bound night, and while it was a delight to have the room filled with people wanting his ale, it still created havoc. He only hoped that his stocks of beer would survive until the next brew was ready.

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered when a new hand stuck in the air or a fresh voice called to him. If it carried on like this until the spring, he would have to get someone to help. As it was, he and his wife were running witlessly like headless chickens, out to the buttery where they refilled their jugs with ale or wine, then to the hall again, where they struggled to fill the mugs and pots before they were all emptied. It was like trying to limewash a city wall, he thought. Just when you think you’ve finished, as you get back to the beginning, you find it’s already old and worn and you have to start again.

  One group he watched with a particularly sour eye. He took no delight in gossip, even if it was a stock currency here in the ‘Moon’. He especially disliked malicious rumours that could hurt or offend, and the Miller family had an effective monopoly of them today.

  Seeing a man lift his tankard in a silent plea, the innkeeper wove his way through the groups of people. As he stood pouring, he could hear the Millers.

  “But how do they know it was Mrs.. Trevellyn as was carryin‘ on with young Harry?” he heard one man ask.

  Jennie leaned forward, her face serious. “Who else could it’ve been?” she said. “It was her who went to Greencliff and tempted him. And then they went to Agatha. You know what that means. And then they went back, after killing her.”

  “So you sayin‘ as it was both of them did it? They both killed Agatha?”

  The innkeeper walked away sighing. It was bad hearing such talk, ruining people’s characters to fill a boring evening. There was one thing for certain: it was bound to get someone into trouble. He glanced back at the little huddle, his eyes looking for empty pots, but always they were drawn back to the group. Was it worth telling them to shut up? No, they would carry on. Throw them all out? They would just hold court outside, and he would lose business at the same time. He shrugged. May as well let them continue, he thought, and went out to refill the jug again.

  There was another man who was not amused by the talk. Stephen de la Forte sat near the screens, his back to the room, his face twisted as if his ale was vinegar.

  His mug was empty. Turning, he tried to catch the eye of the innkeeper, but instead found himself being fixed by the gaze of the Miller girl, the oldest one, who stood and subjected him to a close scrutiny before tugging at her mother’s tunic.

  Jennie saw the white-faced youth staring and her voice failed. Following the direction of her gaze, the group saw Stephen, and their chattering died, as if the sluice that fed their conversation had been shut, and suddenly all talking in the hall stopped.

  Now Stephen found himself the focus of all attention. He stood and walked to the table where the Millers sat, the woman staring at him with large bold eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he said deliberately. “You’re all saying it was those two, when there’s nothing to prove it, apart from her,” he pointed to Jennie, “saying he was in the road that day. There’s nothing else says they had anything to do with it. Nothing.”

  “Come on, Stephen,” came a voice. “Nothing wrong with wondering. That’s all we’re doing, just wondering who might have done it.”

  He spun to face the talker, an older man with round, jowled face and grizzled hair. “Nothing wrong? You’ve all set your mind to it that they’re guilty, haven’t you? Eh?” He looked around the table, staring into their eyes, until he met those of Jennie Miller. Only then did his Jip curl into a sneer. Shaking his head with contempt, he spun on his heel and left, yanking so hard at the curtain as he left that he nearly pulled it from its fixings.

  The wind had built again, and was whipping the snow into mad, whirling smoke before him, obliterating the view and making it hard to see the ground under his horse’s feet. It was with a curse of sheer fury that the Bourc dropped from the saddle, wincing as the movement pulled the fresh scabs on his back, and led his horses on, trying to keep his head to the south. This was worse than anything he had experienced before.

  Here, this far into the moors, it was hard to maintain any course. All sense of direction had left him, and now he found it almost impossible to guess which direction was south. But he was tenacious and determined. He had never before failed to find his way, even when high in the mountains, and he was confident that he would win through, even if occasionally he would curse the thought of the easy lanes and roadways to the north which he had forsaken in favour of this bitter route.

  At first he had managed to make good time. He had collected more wood, storing it as faggots on the pack-horse. The sky had been clear over to the south where the moors lay. Only to the north did clouds darken the sky. But that had changed as soon as he rode on to the rolling hills. Immediately the wind had begun to gust and blow, bringing the salty taint of the sea at first, but by late morning it was full of bitter coldness.

  A flurry of snow blew at him, and he tugged his cowl over his face. Here, high on the moors, the wind could change direction and dart around at will like a well-trained knife-fighter. It was impossible to find his way.

  He turned and stared back the way he had come. Now he could not even see his own trail. As soon as his feet lifted, his prints were filled. Cursing again, he hauled his horse’s head round and began to search for any protection: a wall, even a tree, anything that could give some relief from the elements.

  Leaning on the front of his saddle, Simon stared down the hill towards the square, grey house and sighed. “I’m still not sure I’m ready for this,” he admitted.

  Baldwin blew out his cheeks and peered ahead. “No, neither am I,” he said.

  They had set off just before light, this time with Edgar again. Their packs filled, their wineskins sloshing merrily in case they became stranded, they had ridden through thick drifts to get here.

  At points the drifts were so bad that they were forced to leave the lane and move into the woods at either side where the snow did not drift. Using sheep and deer trails, they had managed to continue, occasionally returning to the lane for short periods before moving aside to circumnavigate drifts. Whenever they left the shelter of the trees, they saw that the fine powder had taken possession of the land outside.

  Finally they had been forced to leave the tracks completely. Where the lane opened out below Greencliff’s house, the snow had completely blocked their path. They had chosen a diversion to the north, taking a path Baldwin vaguely recalled, which led them up the side of one hill under the cover of the woods until they had passed over a mile beyond the field where they had found Kyteler’s body. At last, when they left the trees behind, they found themselves on a smooth and rounded hillside, and it seemed that here the snow could not drift. It had been blown away before the strong overnight winds.

  At the top of the hill overlooking the house, they could see that the master and his wife must be inside. Smoke rose calmly from the chimneys. There were some tracks leaving the property by the road, but they only went a short distance, up as far as the first drift, before returning to the house.

  While Baldwin stared, he could see no signs of movement. Sighing, he watched his breath dissipate on the freezing air, then glanced at Simon. “At least there should be something hot to drink down there.”

  “Yes, thanks to God! I’m so cold my hair will snap off at the scalp if I touch it,” said the bailiff through teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering. “God! Come on, let’s get to sit before a fire again before we die!”

  At the bottom of the hill they had to ride well to their right to find a passage through another thick drift tha
t lay deep and impassable. Once round it, they were in among the trees again and here the snow was thin. But then they could not see any route through the snow on the farther side, and after some minutes of trying, Simon heard Baldwin muttering and Edgar cursing.

  In the end it was Simon who lost both temper and patience together, and with his jaw fixed, his head down, he forced a path for them, whipping his horse on. The snow was over his heavily built rounsey’s chest, but the horse was strong, and barged on, whinnying slightly, taking short bounds in an effort to leap the freezing obstacle.

  Once through, Simon rode for the house at a loping speed, half canter, half trot, without even glancing behind to see if the others were following. Indeed, he was not sure that they were until he drew up to the little tower that housed the main door and heard the chuckling of his friend. Even Edgar seemed amused, but when the bailiffs glowering countenance shot towards him, the servant appeared to be busily concentrating on the parcel tied behind him on the saddle. Even so, Simon was sure he caught a brief, dry chortle as he turned away.

  After hammering on the door, Simon turned and glared at the white landscape. To his disgust, it began to snow again, a thin and fine drizzle of particles as fine but as dry and stolid as ash. It was like watching a rain of flour.

  “We had better be quick,” said Baldwin as he approached, his eyes cast upward at the leaden sky. “If this gets worse, and it looks as if it might, we could get stuck here for days.”

  Simon grunted, but just then he heard the latch being pulled, and they turned to see a young servant girl. “Ah, good. We’re here to see your master, is he…?” He paused as the girl started, a fist rising to her mouth as she stared at him from terrified eyes. “What is it, girl?”

  “The master, sir. He’s disappeared. We don’t know where he is!”

  She led the way inside. The stone-flagged screens beyond the door were long, reaching all the way to the other side of the house where another door gave out to the stable area and outbuildings. To their left were three doors, and when Simon peered in, he could see that the first led to the buttery. The others must lead to the pantry and kitchen. On the right were the two doors to the hall itself.

  Entering, Simon was awed by the magnificence of the great room. It was vast for a family home, nearly as big as the hall in Tiverton castle, with a high ceiling above and stone pillars supporting it, very like the church at Crediton. Benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a central aisle to the dais. Simon could not help but study the rich-looking tapestries on the walls and the immense fireplace. It roared with massive logs that in his own house would have had to have been shortened and split. Glancing round, he saw that behind him the screens had a rail at the top, and to one side there was a staircase for musicians, so that the master and his lady could hear singing and playing while they sat to eat.

  Clearly, this was a house where the old traditions still held sway. On the dais at the far end, the master’s table stood, with platters and mugs spread over its surface. The family still ate in the hall with their servants and friends, then, not like so many masters and the ladies who went to eat alone in their solar behind the dais.

  But as he and Baldwin marched across the floor, Edgar striding respectfully behind, it was not the hall itself that commanded their attention, but the solitary figure sitting alone on the chair just before the dais. The slim figure of a young woman dressed in blue.

  This was the first time that Baldwin had met the lady, and he studied her at first with a calm and studied indifference, noting her dress and deportment. She could only be in her early twenties. Her hair was deepest black, shining blue as the light caught it, and was hung over each shoulder in braids as thick as her wrists. The heavy tunic looked as though it must be woollen, and had four decorative gilt clasps at the breast. But it was not her clothing that caught his eye, it was her. She was almost painfully beautiful.

  The face was an oval with high and elegant cheekbones, above which her green eyes slanted slightly down to her nose. The eyebrows were matching bows of black. Her nose was thin and straight and under the delicate nostrils was a voluptuous mouth whose lips pouted invitingly. Slim and elegant, confident and proud, she sat with her hands upon the arms of the chair and appeared to be subjecting them to a close scrutiny.

  She rose languorously as they walked towards her, as if weary from lack of sleep, then turned to her servant, who hesitantly explained who they were. Baldwin watched her carefully as the maid spoke, but apart from a swift glance from her splendid green eyes, he could not see any particular reaction to the news that the Keeper of the King’s Peace had arrived. Was it his imagination, or were the eyes a little red-rimmed?

  “Gentlemen, you are welcome. Please be seated at the fire and accept our hospitality.” Her voice was soft and low, and the gentle motion with her hand towards the flame was so graceful and ingenuous that he found himself turn to the hearth as if all will had left him. And he rather liked the sensation.

  Walking slowly, he followed Simon to a trestle by the fire, and stood waiting for her to join them. Closer to her now, he could see that she had a smooth skin, tinted a warm dusky colour. As she sat he could not help but float his eyes over her figure, from the slender neck to the swelling of her breasts under her tunic, and on down to the narrowness of her waist and widening of her hips. He brought his eyes back to her face as quickly as he could, but he could see in her measuring gaze that she had noticed his inspection, although not apparently with displeasure. Her mouth twitched, as if she was close to smiling at him. But then her face turned inquiringly to Simon.

  He began hesitantly, staring at his lap. “Madam, I am sorry to have arrived like this, it must be difficult for you. Your maid said that your husband is missing.”

  “Yes,” she said, and sighed. “He left the house late last night, and when we awoke this morning, he was gone.”

  “His horse…?”

  in the stables. That is what is so surprising…‘ Her voice trailed off as she frowned at the fire.

  Baldwin said, “Has he ever disappeared like this before?”

  “No. Never in the five years I have been married to him, never has he done this before.”

  “Has anything happened recently to make him go?”

  She hesitated a little, then flashed him a quick look, which he could not fathom. “No.”

  Simon coughed and sighed. “It may be lucky that he has gone for now,” he said, shooting a nervous glance at Baldwin as if looking for confirmation that this was the right time to broach the subject. The knight gave a slight shrug of indifference. “Madam, we came here to speak to you, not your husband.”

  “Me?” Her surprise appeared genuine. “But why?”

  “Madam…‘ He broke off again, looking to Baldwin for support. ”This is very difficult…’

  Baldwin smiled at her as he leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Mrs. Trevellyn. I am sorry to have to ask this, but we are investigating the murder of Agatha Kyteler.” He was sure that she started at the name. “And we must know what you were doing at her house on the day she died.”

  “At her house?” She seemed to be considering whether to deny having been there, so to prevent her lying, Baldwin quickly interrupted.

  “Yes, madam. You were seen at the lane going towards the old woman’s house, you were seen trying to hide. You are a little too distinctive to be able to hide from the people of the village.” She inclined her head to this, as if accepting it as a compliment and, to Baldwin’s annoyance, he was not sure that he had not intended it to be. “Your horse was seen there too. With Harold Greencliff.”

  “Ah! It seems that you know I was there anyway.”

  “Yes, madam. But we don’t yet know why. That is what we would like you to tell us now.”

  She held his gaze, and there was defiance there. “I was there to buy a potion. I had felt ill for some days. I saw her on Saturday to ask for this potion, and she told me to return when she had been able to collect the right ele
ments to make it. That was Tuesday.” ‘Why did you hide?“ asked Simon, his face frowning.

  “Hide?”

  “Yes. When people came along the lane, you hid in the trees. Why?”

  It was as if she was fascinated by Baldwin. As she spoke she kept her magnificent green eyes on him, answering Simon’s quick interruptions with scarcely a sidelong glance. “What would you have done? There are any number of gossips in the village. I did not want people to know I was going there. After all, she was supposed to be a witch. I wanted not to be associated with her. She was useful, but I wanted to see her privately, not with the whole village watching.”

  Simon looked at Baldwin and shrugged, and the knight grinned as he accepted the bailiffs defeat. He studied the beautiful face before him. Was she capable of murder? Even as he wondered, he saw her eyes seem to fill with liquid sadness, and she had to blink to clear them. But when she spoke her voice was strong and even. “It is no crime to keep such things private?”