“We put her out back in the outbuilding. She can wait there until the priest can come and see to her,” said Tanner, watching the wine being poured as he held his hands to the fire. Sighing, he continued, “Poor old woman should be all right there. We put her up on a box. The rats should leave her alone for a day or two.”
Simon nodded, then glanced over at the innkeeper, who had returned and was staring morosely at the flames once more. “Did she have any family?”
“What, here?” Looking up, he seemed disinterested now, as if he had exhausted his knowledge and would prefer to move on to talk of other things. “No, not that I’ve seen. Sam? You seen any family with her?”
Taking a long pull at his wine, the old farmer paused before answering. Head one side, he considered. “No. Don’t think so. Mind you, you’d need to ask Oatway to know. Anyone going to see the old…” He hesitated. “The old woman, they’d’ve had to go past Oatway’s place first.”
“I think we need to see Oatway,” said Baldwin ruminatively.
Chapter Six
The Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southwards, keeping the moors straight ahead. They looked beautiful, dark and soft with a vague hint of purple and blue, splashed with white in the shadowed areas where the low sun could not reach. Here, almost at the outskirts of Crediton, the moors took up the whole of the view, stretching from east to west as if trying to show him that they were the best route for him to take.
Soon he was out of the surrounding trees and winding down the lane that led into the town itself. Here he made his way to the market and bought bread and a little meat before carrying on. To his surprise, as he was leaving the market, he heard his voice called, and when he turned, he saw the merchant, Trevellyn, at the door to an inn.
“You leaving already?”
“Yes. My business is finished here. I am on my way back to the coast.”
“I see. Going to Oakhampton, then south?”
“No,” said the Bourc shortly, and explained his route, “It should be quicker.”
“Yes,” said the merchant. There was a strange expression in his eyes as he peered at the Bourc speculatively. “There’s one easy route if you’re going over the moors.”
Walking a short distance with the Bourc, he pointed to where the road began, and made sure that the Gascon understood the route before returning to the inn.
Mounting his horse, the Bourc stared thoughtfully after him for a moment. The merchant’s helpfulness did not ring true. It was oddly out of character after their last meeting in Wefford. But his advice sounded good.
The road led between some houses, down a short hill, and out to a flat plain. Crossing a river, he found that the road was well marked and easy to follow, and soon he was whistling cheerfully as he went.
After riding for some hours the countryside began to change. In place of the thickly wooded hills near Wefford and Furnshill, the trees were becoming more sparse and the hillsides steeper and less compromising. The road straggled lazily between the hills as if clambering up them would have been too much effort, and he found himself quickening his pace. As a soldier, he disliked enclosed places: he wanted to get to the moors and openness.
Not far from them, he found the road entered a wood which stood as if bounding the moors, far from the nearest house. There had been no other travellers for over an hour, which served to heighten his sense of solitude.
Riding into the shadows, he noticed the air felt stuffy. There was a hush, as if even the wild creatures were holding their breath expectantly. The silence was intimidating. When a blackbird crashed off a branch and squawked its way along a hedge in front of him, he stopped his horse with a frown.
It had moved too early to have been upset by him. Something else had worried it. He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and peered around with an apparent shortsighted lack of awareness. To have paused too long would have appeared suspicious, and he had no wish to avoid whoever could be ahead. But as his horse walked on, the knight was as alert as he ever had been.
Other men he had known had told him that they experienced extreme fear and a strange lassitude when they knew they were riding into a battle. He never did. To him warfare was life itself, his whole existence revolved around the fights on the marches, and without battle his life would have little meaning. No ambusher could have realised that from seeing him now.
His head moved sluggishly, as if he was dozing, and, as his horse meandered on slowly, his whole body slumped. Yet he managed to search each bush, every tree trunk, with care.
Only twenty yards into the trees he saw the first man and knew that he was about to be attacked.
The first glance merely gave him a flash of russet. If he had not already been expecting to see someone, he might have missed it, but that fleeting glimpse was enough. Considering where he would have put his own men for an ambush, he soon saw four other places where men could hide. There were too many – if he was attacked here he could be overcome too easily. With that thought in mind, he patted his horse’s neck. Then, with a quick prayer, he clapped spurs to his mount and they thundered down between the trees.
Suddenly the wood was full of angry shouting. He heard the low, thrumming whistle of an arrow passing overhead, a shouted curse, cries and swearing as men realised their trap was sprung, and then he was through the woods and in the open. The moors!
Risking a look over his shoulder, he could see three men struggling with horses. One was up quickly, two others a little slower. Glancing again, the Bourc saw that the first kept ahead of the others.
In front there was no cover of any sort. A quick ambush was out of the question. He would have no chance to stop and mount an attack until he had managed to increase the distance between him and his pursuers. It would take too long to grab his bow or a lance from the packhorse. Pursing his lips, he considered as he kicked his mount again. Then, when he threw another glare back, he saw that his luck was with him. The man in front had increased his lead and was gaining while the others were falling back.
Still bent low over his horse’s neck, he took the reins in his left hand and reached for his sword, checking it would pull free easily. Then he began to measure when he should turn.
It was not long. The leading man behind was a scant twenty yards away when the Bourc saw a stream ahead. Soon he felt his horse slow and pause before leaping. The Bourc just had time to drop the packhorse’s leading rein before they jumped.
With his muscles coiled like huge springs, his horse bounded up and over the small stream, the packhorse following. It was then that he knew he had his opportunity. As soon as they landed, he reined in and turned, facing the man behind just he leaped over the brook.
The Bourc immediately spurred back. While the man and his horse were still in the air, the Gascon pelted towards him, and when they landed he was only feet away. His pursuer had no chance of avoiding the swinging fist in its heavily mailed gauntlet. The blow met his chin, carrying with it the onward weight of both horses and the knight.
Seeing their friend tumble from his saddle, the other two slowed in their chase, and when they saw the Bourc draw his sword they seemed to lose enthusiasm for further battle.
“Go! Go and leave me – or accept the revenge of a knight’s sword!” he shouted.
The two hesitated. Both were dark, thin-featured men, who could have been brothers, for although one was in russet and the other wore a stained blue tunic, they had the same pale skin and thick eyebrows. Their horses were cheap riding horses, not farm animals, and the men looked, although not rich, far from poverty. The Bourc’s eyes narrowed as he stared at them. There was something wrong here, he felt. These men were not common footpads – or if they were, robbers in England were wealthier than in Gascony.
“Go!” he bellowed again, and the two exchanged a glance. One wheeled and started off back to the line of trees. When his companion did not move, he stopped and looked back, but before he could call, his friend had turned as well, with a last malevolent glare at
the Bourc. Soon they were riding at a solid trot, back the way they had come.
Only when they had disappeared among the trees did the Bourc sheath his sword and drop from his horse. He quickly bound his prisoner’s hands and feet before surveying him thoughtfully. Then, shrugging, he sat and built a fire while he waited for the man to wake.
Simon and Baldwin ate lunch at the inn, then, guided by Cottey’s directions, they found their way to the dirt track that led to the Oatway holding. They rode together, with Tanner bringing up the rear, his features set in a contemplative scowl as he lurched along.
The snow had stopped again now, but was thick enough to cover most of the roadway, only the longer shoots of grass just breaking through. Nearer the trunks, the bushes and earth were untouched by the white carpet, protected by the great branches high overhead. It looked strange to Baldwin, as if they had left the winter behind in the village and now had entered a wanner area where only the road itself was cold enough to support the virgin whiteness.
While they were still out of sight of the farm, Simon began to hear a regular noise over the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Tap, tap, tap, then a pause, then two more. It stopped, then after a moment started again, and he cocked his head and looked over at Baldwin, who caught his glance and shrugged.
As the tapping got louder, they arrived at a fork in the trail. They chose the left-hand track, and the sound became louder as they followed it. Rounding the last bend, the forest fell back to show a large assart. In the middle stood a weary-looking cottage with stained and ancient thatch, which was allowing wispy tendrils of smoke to filter out above walls that were in need of fresh lime-wash. In front a cow stood chewing hay and watching their approach with bored disinterest, while between her legs chickens madly pecked at the earth and packed dirt of the yard. Over to the left was a strong fenced enclosure with goats, while on the right was what looked like a coppice area, with thick stems rising in clumps.
They slowly rode up and into the yard. It appeared empty, but as they looked round, Simon became aware again of the tapping. Touching his horse with his spurs, he led the way to the back of the house. Here he found a pasture area, recently cleared. Stumps still littered the rough ground, and the snow could not hide the fact that the ground was only thinly grassed. The earth showed through in red scars.
At the far end was a tall, stooping, blue-smocked man with his back to the visitors, working at a series of heavy poles set vertically in the ground. Between each were bushes.
The knight and the bailiff exchanged a glance, then slowly rode on towards him. He was plainly unaware of their approach, and as they came closer they could hear him whistling tunelessly while he worked.
In his hand was a large-bladed bill, a short, solid curved-steel tool shaped like a stubby sickle with a wooden haft, with which he was tapping branches from the bushes around the stakes to build a woven fence of living wood which would later become a hedge – thick and strong enough to keep his animals in, and forest animals out. Suddenly he whirled, the bill raised in his hand, and stood facing them, unmoving, and they halted, considering him.
He was tall, at least five inches more than Tanner, more like Simon’s own height of five feet ten, but although he appeared healthy for his age, which must surely be some five and forty years, he was quite stooped. There was a slightly unnatural colour in his cheeks, as if he was on the verge of a fever. His eyes gleamed darkly from under bushy eyebrows, whose colour had faded to pale greyness like his unkempt hair. It was the eyes that Simon noticed most of all. There was an odd expression in them – not fear, but a kind of suspicion.
“There’s no need to fear,” said Baldwin.
“No? Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“This is the Keeper of the King’s Peace – and this is the Constable. I am the Bailiff of Lydford,” said Simon reasonably. “Are you Oatway?”
The bill lowered a little, but the man’s eyes still flitted over them in obvious doubt. “What if I am?”
“We need to ask you some questions. Did you know there’s been a murder?”
“No,” he said, and the surprise was plainly clear. His arm dropped down to his side, until the tool dangled, forgotten. “Who?”
“Agatha Kyteler.”
“ Her?“ He hawked and spat, as if the name offended him. ”Good!“
“Did you see her yesterday?” Simon asked.
“Yesterday?” He considered. “No. No, I don’t think so…”
“Do you live alone?”
“No, my wife is here too.” He added more softly, with a hint of sadness, “We have no children.”
“Did your wife see her yesterday, do you know?” Simon persisted.
Oatway glanced down at his bill, then sighed deeply and brought it down sharply on to a log. It stayed there, gripped by its own slashing cut. “You’d better come and ask her,” he said.
When he motioned, the three men dropped from their horses and followed him back to the front of the house, tying their mounts to the rail beside his log store.
Inside they found the cottage filthy, the atmosphere rancid from animal dung. Smoke hung in the rafters waiting to drift out through the thatch from the large hearth in the centre of the floor. Entering, they had to step down. Like many older properties, to save the valuable animal dung, the floor of the house was built on a lope. As the winter proceeded, the level of the floor at the lower, byre end, would rise. When spring finally arrived, the manure could be taken out and spread over the fields and the floor level would drop once more.
Now, after some months of bad weather, the room stank, and Simon could see that the faeces were almost at the level of the door. He tried to shut his nostrils to the stench, but found it difficult. To his satisfaction, he saw that Baldwin seemed to notice the smell more than him, although Tanner appeared impervious.
Mrs. Oatway was a broad, strong-looking woman of about her husband’s age. She stood staring at them with a scowl of distrust as they trooped into her house, her hand gripping the large wooden spoon with which she had been stirring at the iron pot as if it was a weapon. Although her hair still had its native darkness, without the greying of her husband, her features were wrinkled with age and troubles. She looked as quick and sharp as a martin, shrewd and devious. And probably malicious too, from the look of her thin bloodless lips.
After quickly introducing themselves, Baldwin suggested that they should walk outside to talk, but she demurred. “I’ve got food to prepare. We can talk in here.”
Grinning at the knight’s obvious discomfort, Simon said, “We are trying to find out whether anybody saw Agatha Kyteler yesterday. Did you?”
“Her!” A sneer curled her lip. “I don’t look for her. Why do I care for her, the old…”
“You disliked her after the affair with your chickens, didn’t you?” said Simon flatly, feeling as he spoke that the words were superfluous, but wanting to cut off her flow of invective. It worked. She stopped and glowered at him.
“Well? What if I do?”
“Did. She’s dead. We’re trying to find out why. Why did you hate her so much?“
The shock was plain on her face, her mouth opening and shutting, and then she turned to her husband and stared at him. “Is this true? Eh?”
He shrugged as Simon said, “Answer the question, woman. Why did you hate her?”
Sighing, and after some grumbling, she told them of her suspicions about Agatha Kyteler’s dog.
“Did you see her dog do it?” asked Baldwin, wincing and coughing.
“See it? No, but it was her dog, all right. We followed the feathers, didn’t we?” She turned for verification to her husband, who nodded vaguely.
Simon considered. “Did you see her yesterday?”
“I…” She paused, her glower deepening.
“Good. When?”
“Middle of the afternoon.”
“Why?” sighed Simon, and stared at her in silence.
“It was that dog again,”
she said at last, reluctantly.
“Her dog? What did it do?”
“It attacked my chickens again. Took another one. What was I supposed to do? Wait ‘til it had killed them all? I went to tell her to keep the dog tied up. I told her if I saw it on our land again, we’d kill it.”
“What did she say?”
“Her!” Her lips curled again in scorn. “Nothing, of course! She said it wasn’t her dog. Said it was in the house with her all day. Well that was a lie.”‘
“You saw her dog, then?”
“No, but the feathers went her way again. It must have been her dog.”
Shrugging, Simon glanced at Baldwin, who coughed.
“Very well,” he said reasonably; “did you see anyone else there?”
Her face wrinkled with the effort of recollection. “Yes. Yes, while I was on my way there, Sarah Cottey and Jennie Miller were talking near the house. And some other woman was in the trees – I don’t know who – when I left.”
“What did she look like?” asked Baldwin.
“Look like? Oh, I don’t know. Dressed well. Slim woman. Fairly tall and young, I’d say. Had a long cloak on, with fur on the hood.”
“A grey cloak?” Baldwin’s face wore a frown when Simon shot a glance at him.
“Yes, it was grey, I think.”
“You saw no men?”
“No.”
After checking where Jennie Miller lived, they walked out with relief to the open air. Even the extreme cold of the gathering darkness was preferable to the stench inside. The husband followed them, standing and inhaling deeply on his doorstep as he watched them mount their horses. Baldwin whirled his horse, and was about to ride off when he seemed struck by a sudden thought.
“Oatway. Why was your wife so sure that Kyteler’s dog attacked your chickens?”
He stared up at the grave knight, then quickly glanced behind to the open doorway. Moving a little away from it, to stand closer to Baldwin, he said, “Because she thinks old Kyteler got her dog to come here.”
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