“Are you quite sure? You couldn’t have made a mistake? It wasn’t just a similar horse?” interrupted Simon dubiously. She threw him a withering look.
“It’s not only knights can see the difference between a tired old hackney and a good young mare,” she said, then added tartly, “and my eyes are perfectly good enough to tell colours from a couple of yards away.”
Baldwin coughed discreetly, bringing her attention back to him. “That’s good. Can you describe the man?”
“Oh, yes. He’s short in build, not your height, sir. Very dark face, with scars and wrinkles all over. His mount was a palfrey, a grey with dappled sides. Both horses had good leather fittings with brass.”
“Good!” Baldwin stood. “We should be able to find a couple like them easily enough.”
“Yes, sir. I can take you there if you’re worried you’ll lose them.”
He spun around to stare at her. “You know where they are?”
“Of course I do!” she said, seeming amused at his surprise. “I know everyone round here. I’m the miller’s wife.”
Simon grinned at Baldwin’s dumbfounded expression, and asked: “Could you just tell us who these two people are, please, Jennie?“
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Mr. and Mrs. Trevellyn. They’re from over to the west, at South Helions.”
“Trevellyn?” Baldwin glanced at Simon, who shrugged. “Now that is interesting!”
“Do you need anything else from this woman?” Peter’s voice sounded strained, Simon thought, and as the priest stepped forward into the pool of light from a large candle-holder, the bailiff saw that his friend’s face was taut and pale, and his face registered distaste when his glance fell on her.
Stirring, Baldwin shook his head quickly. “No. Thank you, Jennie. You’ve been very helpful.”
She stood. “Suppose I’d better get on with buying what we need, then, and get on home.” She smoothed her tunic and grinned at the knight before walking out enthusiastically. This was an important day for her. There was the excitement that her story would have for the people in the ‘Moon’ later, as the only person who saw the woman in the trees and who also saw Greencliff with her horse. That should start some heads shaking, she thought with satisfaction. And then there was the interest there had been over the apparent break up between Greencliff and Sarah Cottey. Was that because of Mrs. Trevellyn? She paused at the door, caught by the idea as she pensively straightened her shawl. Now that was a thought!
Inside, Baldwin and Simon stood and prepared to take their own leave when the priest caught them both by the arms. “Wait, I want a word with you two.”
Baldwin was surprised by the urgency in his voice. “What is it, Peter?”
“What on earth have you two been saying about Greencliff? Or Mrs. Trevellyn?”
“What?” Simon was confused, but he ran through the sequence of events that so far made up their search for the killer of the witch, leading to the discovery of the identity of the woman who was involved. “What is troubling you? All we’re trying to do is find Agatha Kyteler’s murderer. What’s wrong?”
“It was what she said. That woman will make sure that this is all over the parish within hours. And what will happen then? Everyone will assume that Mrs. Trevellyn was responsible, whether or not she was. Just as they will all think Agatha Kyteler was a witch.”
“You don’t think she was?”
“God! No, why on earth should I? She was a very pleasant woman, always ready to assist the people of the parish who hurt themselves. No, I’m sure she was no witch.”
Baldwin grinned sidelong at the bailiff. “You see, Simon thinks there may be something in it because of all her roots and herbs.”
“Simon?“
“I’m sorry, and I’ll pray for her if that will help, but so many others think she was, I…”
“Agatha Kyteler was a good and kindly woman. Ignore the rumours. But you see how gossip can spread? What if news of this gets back to Alan Trevellyn?”
“Ah!” Baldwin seemed to understand this, although Simon was left looking from one to the other with growing exasperation.
“Why? Who is this man? Why should this be a problem?”
“Don’t you know Alan Trevellyn?” Peter asked. “I thought you would be sure to… well, he is a powerful man, a merchant…”
“Partner to Walter de la Forte,” murmured Baldwin softly.
“Precisely. They bring wine from Gascony. Anyway, he is known for his boldness.”
Baldwin turned to Simon. “What the good priest is trying to say is that this man Trevellyn is a hard man, known to be cruel to his servants, and who takes the law into his own hands on occasion. I had not thought before, while we were speaking to de la Forte, but now I remember Trevellyn. He almost beat an hostler to death late last year. How will he react, I think Peter is wondering, to us asking if his wife is having an affair with a local farmer?”
Peter nodded dejectedly.
“But surely,” Simon said frowning, “all we’re doing is asking her about what she was doing at Agatha Kyteier’s house.”
Peter and the knight exchanged a glance, then the priest scratched his head while he threw a speculative frown at the bailiff. “I don’t think that will help much. You see they have no children after several years of marriage. At the same time as starting rumours about the faithfulness and honour of his wife, you are asking her why she went to see the midwife – I don’t quite see how that’s going to help.”
“Ah!”
It was not until they were riding on the road to Wefford from the Tiverton road that Simon threw a speculative glance ahead and suggested that they leave questioning the woman until the morning.
“Why?” asked Baldwin, swivelling in his saddle to peer at him.
“At least we’d have a better chance of thinking what we need to ask her that way. If we can frame the questions carefully, we may not need to ask her about things like…”
“Like whether she’s been faithless to her husband, you mean?” Baldwin sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it would be better. But what if by the time we get there Trevellyn has already heard about the rumours? You know how fast news gets around in these parts.”
“Surely they will not have heard first thing in the morning.”
Baldwin gave him a sour look. “Don’t bet on the fact!” he said. “I once smiled at a serving girl at an inn on the Exeter road. Next day a rumour began that I had used her that night.”
Simon grinned. “And?”
“No, I had not!” he declared hotly, giving the bailiff a black scowl. At the sight of the bailiffs sceptical smile, he shrugged shamefacedly, then became pensive. “You see how it is, though? I did nothing, but the rumours still started. And there was nothing I could do to stop them – it ended up with a projected date for my bastard’s birth!” He subsided, glowering gloomily ahead. A quick smile lightened his features, and he turned conspiratorially to his friend. “But the worst of it was, I would have liked to!”
He paused, scowling and shrugging himself deeper into his cloak, before continuing in a quieter, more pensive tone, “And that’s why I find these rumours about an affair between Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn hard to believe. A wealthy merchant’s wife and a villein? It hardly seems likely. Gossip is always so easily started, but stopping it is like halting a war horse in full gallop – very difficult until it has run its course.”
Looking up at the sky, Simon said, “It’s getting close to dark. Let’s get back and sleep on it. We can get the answers we need in the morning, and if we speak to her well rested, we’ll be more likely to be able to be careful and save her from embarrassment.”
“Very well.” Baldwin nodded. “But let’s go home past her house. At least you can see the place. It’s not far.”
This part of the land was not an area Simon knew well, being too far to the east of his old home. He had always spent more time to the west or the north, in the country where he had grown up, and thus it was a surprise to s
ee the great manor house of the Trevellyns at South Helions.
Baldwin’s house at Furnshill could easily be mistaken for a farm, with its cosiness and simplicity, while the place built by Walter de la Forte was imposing, showing the wealth of its owner. By comparison Trevellyn’s was a castle. It stood in its own clearing, a massive property of grey and ochre, with granite walls topped by castellations, showing that the owner had money and influence: all kings for many years had been trying to reduce the number of fortified houses to stop the internecine warfare that still continued between lords when they had squabbles. A man who could build a place like this was wealthy and important, and the house spoke of his power.
The windows at the base were small, but those higher had been enlarged to allow more sunlight and were mullioned. The door was a small, blackened timber slab set in a tower formed of a projecting section of wall, with an overhang above in which Simon knew there would be trap doors so that defenders could drop rocks or burning oil on any attacker. Overall it gave a feeling of threatening solidity, as if it was glowering down at the humans riding past.
The land all round was set to pasture, and there were a number of sheep grazing, scraping with their hooves at the snow to get to the grass beneath. A small stream led from the house to the lane, so the bailiff correctly assumed that it had its own fresh water from a spring.
“I think I prefer your house, Baldwin,” said Simon meditatively as they rode on.
“Maybe.” The knight was surveying the ground around as if assessing the best point for an assault. “But if we have a new war between barons in England, and this shire is attacked, I think I’d soon get to prefer this to my own!”
The lane curved round in a great sweep after the house, avoiding the hillock it was set upon, and then began the long and steady climb up the hill west of Wefford. It took some time for them to wander up it, both deep in their thoughts, with Edgar silent, as usual, behind. At the top they could see the lane winding through the trees ahead, dark in their leafless splendour against the snow that had fallen through their branches to the ground beneath.
There, only a half mile away, stood a solitary farmhouse, and Simon regarded it with a jealous scowl. It stood so calm and quiet, a single building with a small barn nearby. The smoke drifting from the thatch promised a warm welcome.
As his eyes roved over the surrounding country, he could see that a light mist was rising from the cleared areas, making them appear grey and somehow insubstantial, as if he was looking through fogged glass. The sun was setting slowly behind them now.
It was only then he realised that the farmhouse ahead must be Greencliff’s. Pointing to it, he said, “Baldwin. We could save ourselves some time and see Greencliff now, before we see Mrs. Trevellyn. Get his side of the story before going to her.”
“Do you think he’d tell us more than he already has?” Baldwin mused, staring at the house. He seemed to be talking to himself as he continued, “I suppose we could try. He doesn’t know how much we’ve learned or guessed. The trouble is, will we learn more from her? Should we wait until we’ve spoken to her before we see him again?”
“You’re probably right,” Simon said, staring at the peaceful house again. “There’s a chance we may learn something from Mrs. Trevellyn that could help us question Greencliff. Yes, let’s leave it for now. We’ll see him when we’ve been to the Trevellyn castle.”
Once inside Baldwin’s manor again, they were welcomed by the smell of a pair of roasting fowls, spitted on iron skewers by the fire. Hugh sat nearby, stretching occasionally to turn them.
Laughing, Simon saw that his servant appeared to have made a complete recovery. He looked as though he must have spent the whole day in front of the fire. At Baldwin’s mild inquiry, Hugh nodded towards the screens, and soon Margaret appeared holding two jugs which she set on a table before greeting her husband.
Glancing at Hugh, Simon said, “Has he been making you run around all day?” with mock seriousness.
She registered surprise. “Shouldn’t I have looked after him? Don’t be stupid! Of course not. I’ve done little today, and so has he. I wasn’t going to send him out when his master nearly killed him yesterday, was I? No, but at least he’s cured now.”
“Good,” said Baldwin, sitting by the fire and pulling his boots off. “That’s better! Good, so he can come with us tomorrow, then.”
Hugh’s face was immediately frowningly suspicious. “Why? What are we doing tomorrow?”
Sitting, Simon grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled her on to his lap. “We’re going to go and see the mystery woman who was there when Kyteler died. The woman who, according to gossip, has a fancy for strong young farmers,” he said, and kissed her.
Baldwin smiled at the sight of the bailiff and his struggling wife, then turned to face the fire. Yes, he thought. We’ll surely find out more tomorrow.
The dark was crowding in as the Bourc settled again, squatting as he gazed at the Trevellyn house. He smiled to himself as men hurried past nearby. None could see him, hidden as he was behind the thick fringe of bracken and bramble. Two men were talking as they lopped branches from a fallen tree only a few feet away. They had been there almost from the time that he had arrived, late in the morning, and were still unaware of him.
Since he had seen the ambush, he had carefully considered what to do. The first night he had been able to find a room in an inn in a hamlet to the south of Crediton – keeping to the woods had meant taking a great deal longer on his journey than he had expected, and he had been surprised at how far to the east he had been forced to travel before finding a bridge.
The next day, Thursday, he had risen early and crossed the stream at a small wooden bridge built by the villagers. Taking his time, he had made his way back to Wefford by quiet trails and paths, avoiding any large villages or towns. This way it had taken him until dark to get to the little hut where he had stayed before, and he had been glad to merely light a fire and tumble down to sleep.
It was the Friday when he began to plan his revenge while he spent his morning fetching wood for his fire. He knew where the man lived, so it should be easy enough to waylay him.
Any wealthy man was predictable in his habits, as the Bourc knew. Rising with the sun, he would take a light meal with his servants before dealing with whatever business his clerk wanted to bring to his attention, maybe handing out punishments to wrongdoers. The main meal would follow, and then it would be out with the dogs or hawks to see what game could be found, and back home with the carcasses.
It followed that the Bourc must try to catch him while alone to have any chance of success. There would be no likelihood of taking Trevellyn while he was out hunting – he would have too many men with him.
Late in the morning he had ridden off to the Trevellyn house. Finding a high point in front where few seemed to wander, he saw to his delight that the master of the house did not hunt. He saw the men leaving with the dogs, and stared at the group, but Trevellyn was not there. Shortly afterwards he heard a bellowing, and saw a stable-lad being beaten. The hoarse shouting and pitiful crying came to his ears, making him set his jaw with distaste. It sounded as if the boy had taken too long in bringing the master’s horse when it had been called for.
And now it was Saturday and he was no closer to seeing how to catch the man on his own. Whenever he had thought he had an opportunity, he had been thwarted by the proximity of others. Even now, sitting as he was high on the land behind the house, where the day before Trevellyn had wandered alone and aimlessly for the earlier part of the afternoon, he could see the workers all around, hewing wood or taking it back to the house under the watchful eyes of Trevellyn’s seneschal. The master was there too, close to the house where the Bourc could not reach him.
The smile was still fixed on his face even as he decided he must leave and go back to the hut for the night before he died of cold. He placed his hands on his thighs to begin to rise, but then stilled himself as he heard the hated voice thunderin
g at the two men before him.
“Why have you not finished? Hurry with that wood, you lazy sons-of-whores! Why should you eat when you can’t even fetch the logs we need to cook on?”
There was more in the same vein, but the Bourc was surprised to see that the two men did not answer but redoubled their efforts to cut the branches away from the bough. Their faces set and troubled, they hacked and chopped with a curious silence that was at odds with their frenetic actions. Usually men would answer back if their master shouted at them, or so the Bourc had believed from what he had seen of the lower orders in this country, but these two hardly spoke. They looked terrified of the man blustering below.
“I can’t finish, I’m too tired,” he heard one say.
“Hisht! Save your breath! We have to, or he’ll take the skin off your back. You know what he’s like.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to rest, or I’ll die here.”
“Such talk! Just get on and…” He was cut off by an enraged bellow.
“What are you doing?” The Bourc saw with surprise that the merchant had suddenly come round from the edge of the trees and now stood, hands on hips, glowering at the men. “Well? Why have you slowed? Maybe this will give you some energy!”
As he spoke, his hand reached back over his head, and the Bourc saw he held a short whip. It made a hideous whistling noise, as full of venom as a snake. Then the younger of the woodsmen cried out as it cracked. A fold of the tunic above his elbow opened and flapped, and a red flood began to stain his arm. Whimpering, the boy hefted his hatchet high overhead, but even as the axe fell, the whip slashed across his back.
The older man stoicly chopped at the branches, but he was not safe. Two strokes caught him, one around his waist, one on the chest which made him stumble and forced the breath to sob in his throat.
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