Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

16

Climbing on to his horse, Simon took up the reins and wheeled to face the east. Baldwin sprang up, and seeing the bailiff’s quick glance, followed his gaze. At the top of the hill, east of them on the road, a rider was approaching. By the time Hugh had managed to clamber on to his mount it was clear that it was Alicia.

“Good afternoon,” Baldwin said pleasantly as she drew near. “Been far?”

She laughed, happy after her exercise, her face warm and flushed. “Almost as far as Chagford.” She patted her mare’s neck.

The knight moved forward and studied her horse. It was a small chestnut, almost a pony in size, but strong-looking, with firm, solid legs and a heavy neck. “How old is she?”

“Meg? She’s just over three.”

“Tell me if you ever have a foal from her; she looks like a good, sturdy animal. Ideal for this land, I imagine.”

Simon joined them. She gave him a coquettish glance and tilted her head. “Are you here to interrogate me, bailiff?” she teased. “I don’t know if I can be any help to you, but maybe you should force me to tell what I know.”

“I don’t think I need question you too hard,” he said, without returning her smile. “We have already discussed this matter with your father.” For all the good it did us, he added to himself.

Baldwin could guess at the reason for his friend’s sourness. “Tell me, Alicia,” he said smoothly. “You were in Chagford with your mother on the day Peter Bruther died. You didn’t see him at all on that day, did you?”

Her face froze and her hand stopped its patting. “Me? No, I didn’t see him in town. We weren’t there for long, though, we were back here in the early afternoon.”

Trying to relax her, Baldwin smiled, and she did as well, but tentatively, unsure of his next move. “Do you often ride out so far?” he asked.

“To Chagford? Sometimes, not very often.”

“It could be dangerous, surely? There are a lot of men out here who would like to hold the daughter of Thomas Smyth.”

“How do you mean, Sir Baldwin?” she asked innocently, and Simon turned away to hide his broad grin.

The knight’s sudden discomfort made his voice harsh. “I think you know full well, Alicia. In the same way as your friend Sir Robert Beauscyr, I imagine.” It was her turn to blush – not from shame but from a kind of youthful pride – and Baldwin nodded seriously. “You should be careful. There are many different types of wolf on moors like these.”

He was thinking of what they had heard of Smalhobbe as he said this, but she misunderstood. “Oh, but that’s ridiculous! Robert isn’t like that. I don’t care what Father has told you, to me he’s always kind and gentle. I just don’t believe…” She broke off, and her hand twitched, as if wanting to grab back the words before they could reach the knight.

“What don’t you believe, Alicia?” he asked softly, but she shook her head firmly.

“Please forget what I have said. It is unimportant.”

“No, I am afraid it is not. You see, if we are to make sure that it was not Sir Robert, there are certain things we need to know. For example, at present we don’t even know where he was on the day Bruther was murdered. Now, he admits he was on the moors, but will not give us any way of checking it. It is almost as if he thinks he might get somebody into trouble if he says where he was.”

Her eyes would not meet his. She sat perfectly still, gazing at the view, and her voice was small. “You can’t really think he was involved in the murder, can you? He’s such a calm, even-tempered man.”

“Whoever murdered Bruther was probably a very calm man,” said Baldwin. “You have to be calm to take someone by the neck and strangle the life from him, holding him from behind until he stops thrashing and his death-throes are done.”

She winced. “Is that how he died? I hadn’t realized.” After a moment her head lifted and she met his gaze with resolution. “Very well, I will answer your questions.”

“You saw Sir Robert that day?”

“Yes. He was in Chagford when we got there, and I saw him. Mother didn’t, and she didn’t see me go to him. He had been drinking, and was very unhappy because of my father demanding money. I told him I would try to speak to Father and get the ransom reduced. He wanted to talk to me, but Mother was calling and I had to go, so I agreed to meet him later, out at Longaford Tor. We… we have met there before.”

“I see. So you went there in the afternoon and saw him?”

“It was evening by then, getting close to dark, but yes, and he was fine. The drink had worn off. I hadn’t managed to speak to Father yet, though. As soon as Mother and I had got back from Chagford, he went out – he’d only been waiting for George to return. There was some sort of trouble at the mine, apparently. I was going to try to talk to him later. I spent the afternoon with Mother. Later, when she went up to rest, I slipped off to the Tor to see Robert, and was with him in the early evening. When I came home, Father was back and talking with Sir William, so I was too late. Sir William had already paid the money.”

Simon interrupted. “What did your father think of you seeing Sir Robert?”

“I love Sir Robert… and I will marry him.” Alicia tossed her head haughtily. “Just because Father is not happy with his family is not my concern.”

“Marry him?”

“Yes. We agreed yesterday.”

So that was the reason for the youth’s evident pleasure the previous evening. Baldwin smiled. “You have made him very happy. But tell me: on that night, did you see your father arrive?”

“No.”

“Or see Bruther at the hall?”

“Bruther? Why – was he here?”

He studied her face, but could discern no falsehood.

“Where did you go with Sir Robert?”

“West, then south. When it got late we came to the road and back to the hall.”

Simon quickly butted in, “So you went down to the two bridges?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to him in surprise. “Yes, we were there.”

“Did you get there just as it became dark? Did you see two men on horses?”

She nodded. “Yes, but they had left the road before we got to them. They went north, up toward Wistman’s Wood.”

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look: the two riders were undoubtedly Samuel Hankyn and Ronald Taverner. “That answers one question, anyway,” said Baldwin, recalling his certainty that Sir Robert had been there. This girl was the other rider seen by Samuel, then.

“But it leaves one unanswered,” said Simon, and faced the girl again, who was staring from one to the other inquisitively. “Alicia, where were you just before that? Had you gone there by road?”

“Yes, like I said, we stuck to the road. There was no point going off it, and anyway, we wouldn’t. Not after dark, not in the moors. It’s too dangerous – you can’t see the bogs and mires. Why?”

“Did you see another rider?”

“No, only the two. Why?”

Riding back from the hall, Simon was silent and preoccupied. They were no nearer discovering who had killed Bruther; all they could come up with were conflicting testimonies. The mystery of the two riders seen by Samuel was answered… but rather than clearing up the mystery it merely served to highlight how poor was their understanding of the matter. Thomas Smyth had been to see Bruther the day before his death but refused to say why; John Beauscyr had been out and refused to say where; Sir Robert could have killed Bruther before he met Alicia.

“Back to Beauscyr, Simon?”

His friend’s calm voice broke into his depressed silence, and he grunted agreement. They were almost at the lane to their left which led down past Adam Coyt’s farm to the Manor, and now the sun was getting lower and the wind felt bitter and chill. Baldwin pulled his cloak tighter round his shoulders.

“I thought this was summer,” he shivered.

Simon gave a gloomy shrug. “The weather here on the moors can always surprise you. This wind feels like it could start raining again soon.”

“Let’s hurry back, then.”

Setting spurs to their horses they quickened their pace. Above them, huge gray clouds, their edges tinged with white, moved across the sky with alarming speed. The land, which had looked so calm and soft, green and purple under its velvet-like covering, now showed itself in a darker mood. The moors took on a more menacing aspect, the heather now a gloomy dark carpet, the tors great black monsters crouching ready to leap.

Even Baldwin gave a shudder at the sight. Though he instinctively rejected any suggestion that there could be ghouls or ghosts seeking out souls in the way that Adam Coyt and other people in the area believed, it was easy to understand how such fears could arise. The huge open space of the moors with its almost complete lack of trees made a man realize how small he was when compared with the vastness of nature.

Glancing at Simon, who rode glumly, hunched against the chill, Baldwin said, “There is a strange feeling about these moors when the weather changes.”

“Yes,” Simon muttered. “I’m glad you’ve noticed. Especially after your words about Coyt.”

“Oh, there is no need for superstition. All I meant was, one can sense… There is a certain… A malevolent…” His voice faded on an apologetic, confessional note, and he carefully avoided the bailiff’s eye.

“‘One can sense?’ ‘Malevolent?’ And you try to deny you hold any superstition?”

“Simon, one can feel an atmosphere without blaming imaginary ghosts and ghouls!”

“And yet you can blush when a young girl flirts, and sense malevolence because the weather cools!”

“It is not just that the weather has cooled!” the knight declared hotly, avoiding talking about Alicia.

“Oh no?” A cynical eyebrow was raised. “You thought nothing of the moors until the clouds came over.”

“That has little to do with it. It is the way that…”

“Yes?”

“There are times, Simon, when you can be infuriating.”

“Yes. But my wife makes good ale and you like my store of wine,” the bailiff pointed out smugly.

“Sometimes I wonder whether that is enough to justify our friendship.”

Reaching the lane, they made their way silently down toward the Manor. A light drizzle began, spattering them and creating tiny explosions in the dust at their feet, but at the same time the weather felt warmer, and Baldwin shrugged the folds of his cloak away. The rain was a relief after the heat of the last few days, and he had always enjoyed the feeling of the droplets pattering against his face. Simon, he saw, was not so content. The bailiff rode with his back hunched against the elements wearing a grimace of disgust.

“So, Simon,” he said, “what do we do now?”

“We’re no nearer an answer, are we?” Simon replied despondently.

“At least we are beginning to understand a little about this man Bruther,” Baldwin said.

“Are we? Smyth says he was a paragon, Coyt says he was a devil-may-care sort who would twitch the tail of Crockern if he had the chance. The Beauscyrs and their guest thought he was some kind of madman, a rogue who would stop at nothing, even threatening and making fun of a knight. Smalhobbe seems to have been fearful of him, or at least wary. Molly and Smyth say he was kind, hard-working and honest, while others think he was dishonest.”

“Well, yes, but look at it from the other point of view, Simon. The Beauscyrs and Sir Ralph would naturally be disgusted by a man like Bruther. He goes against the natural order of their lives: not only did he dare to run away, but afterward he showed no remorse or guilt. That marks him out as a danger, someone who is prepared to stand in opposition to all that they hold dear – and the worst of it to them was that they could do absolutely nothing about it. To Coyt he was almost impossible to comprehend: a man who showed no fear of the moors, nor any terror of Crockern. To a farmer who has spent the whole of his life out here, that is surely understandable.”

“But what of the others?” Simon said. “Smalhobbe appeared to dislike him.”

“Yes, but a measure of that could be his own position. He is scared of being denounced as an outlaw, though he can fight, from what Magge said. Any man who realizes he is being ambushed and then circles his attacker must have had some military skill, whether it came from conventional training or… or some less wholesome experience. In any case, he clearly resented the fact that he had failed to protect himself and his wife, while Bruther succeeded somehow.”

“And as you say, Molly and Smyth almost revered his memory.”

“Molly’s motive at least is understandable, thank God! She clearly felt he was going to rescue her from her life at the inn and make her his wife.”

“But what about Smyth? There’s something very odd there.” Simon fell silent, deep in thought.

“What?” Baldwin prompted.

“It may be nothing but… everyone we have spoken to so far has referred to him as ‘Bruther,’ except two. Molly and Smyth both talked of him as ‘Peter.’ I don’t know, but both appeared to know him well… At least, both seemed to know him better than the others. Did you notice that?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Baldwin, and his brows pulled together into a frown. “But you’re right – they did. Why should that be?”

Tossing his reins to the ostler, George Harang jumped from his horse and ran to the hall. Inside he found Thomas Smyth sitting at his chair before the fire, gripping a tankard. He looked up as his servant entered, red-faced and dirty after his ride through the light rain, his face showing his concern.

“Sir? I got your message and came as soon as I could, but what is it? The boy said that the bailiff and his friend were here, that they were asking questions – is something wrong?”

Thomas Smyth gave a weary smile. “No, old friend. Not the way you think, anyway. But I know at last who killed Peter. On the night Sir William came here to see us, he rode over here with his son, that bastard John. John left him when they reached the hall and rode on to the inn. And at the inn was Peter, the poor lad. He set off home, according to Molly, a little before John arrived.”

George frowned. “So they must have crossed on the road.”

“Yes. And afterward Peter disappeared. So who could have killed him? That runt; that bastard – John Beauscyr!”

“What do you want to…”

“Don’t be stupid!” Smyth spat the words jeeringly.

“I want his head, here, now, on my lap! That pathetic little worm killed my Peter, and probably thinks he can get away with it. The bailiff’s incompetent – or is being paid to be so by Sir William. I don’t know and I don’t care which it is; all I do know is, John murdered Peter, and he must be made to pay.”

“So you want me to tell the bailiff, then?”

“Didn’t you hear me? The bailiff is no use! We have to get him and bring him to justice. Peter was a miner, a tinner, and he came under the stannary laws. We, as miners, can obtain justice. We can’t rely on officials, they have their hands in the Beauscyrs’ purses, and have no need to see to our compensation. What does this bailiff care for our hardships? He’s no use to us, we have to catch this Beauscyr on our own. I want a force of men, all armed, to take John Beauscyr prisoner tomorrow. He’s a murderer – and he shall pay.”

George rushed from the room, his brain churning. He hadn’t had time to tell his master about his conversation with Molly at the inn, and he hesitated a moment, undecided whether to return to the hall and tell Thomas. But then he shook his head. His master had new proofs. Anything George had heard from the girl was unimportant now. He ran out to his horse.

Alone once more, Thomas Smyth turned back to his solitary vigil by the fire. Strange, he thought abstractedly, that the flames did not warm him anymore. Since Peter’s killing he had felt no rest or peace of soul, and the tiredness of inaction had eaten into his bones. Shuddering, he grinned wryly to himself. This, then, was old age, this exhaustion which sapped the will and eroded the hunger for money and power. It was not like before, when each day had been a new opportunity, a new chance to expand his mining area and enhance his wealth. Now nothing seemed to hold any interest for him.

His wife Christine opened the solar door. She saw his strained, taut features and hurried over to him, feeling as if her heart would burst. When she put her arms round him and held him, she felt the same as she had when she had rocked her children, offering protection and security; performing this little service to her man made the breath stick in her throat like the stone from a plum, and tears of sympathy sprang into her eyes. Of her children, six all told, only the one had lived. All the others had succumbed to the cold and the illnesses which assailed the young of wealthy and poor alike.

Thomas finally pulled away and looked into her tear-stained face with a sort of wonder, slowly reaching up with a hand to touch the heavy drops at either cheek; then he sighed and pulled her down on his lap in a snug embrace. While she sobbed in her own turn, gulping and moaning, he rocked her, and felt himself gain strength from her weakness. The abstraction and despair left him, and he was filled instead with a rigid determination. Come what may, he would avenge Peter Bruther.

Christine Smyth slowly felt her abject misery subsiding and the grip of her man increase as his strength returned. When she eased herself away from his embrace, in his now black eyes she saw firm purpose, and she sighed as she wiped the tears away with a hand, feeling her inadequacy anew. Taking a deep breath, she managed to say, “So you will go with the men to find his killer?” before the tears welled up once more.

“You heard us?”

“I did not eavesdrop; you spoke loud enough for the miners at the camp to hear.”

His face was serious. “We will go tomorrow.” He hated to see her vexation, but there was nothing he could do. She must understand that; he had a duty to Peter Bruther.

She gave him a brittle smile. “And you will catch John Beauscyr and hang him – lynch him like a common killer?”

“Did he treat Peter any better? Beauscyr throttled him from behind like any outlaw. What do you expect?”

“I expect him at least to be able to defend himself.”

“Why, so he can brief a lawyer for himself? What good would that do? We know he did it; no one else was there.”

“But Thomas, what if it wasn’t him?”

“It was,” he said harshly, and putting her from his lap he stood and strode from the room.

Her eyes sorrowfully followed his figure as he went. Though she dared not speak out loud, her lips framed the words again: “But what if it wasn’t him?”

17

Simon and the others arrived back at Beauscyr just as Sir William was returning from a hunt, tired and frustrated after a long day in the saddle with nothing to show for it. All the animals seemed to have disappeared. Those areas which usually guaranteed food were empty: the rabbits in the warrens had suffered from a predator; the wood pigeons appeared to have moved to another site; the fishpond was free of herons. He had finally decided to get back home and tell the cooks to kill some doves from the cotes for his guests.

Seeing the four men did nothing for his humor. To his eye they were always there whenever something was wrong, as if they brought misfortune with them. Had they helped him earlier on, when Peter Bruther had first run away, he would feel different, but the bailiff’s ineffectual response to the crisis – or, as Sir William felt, his complete lack of understanding and unwillingness to assist – had left him with a sour opinion of the man. As for his friend, he had appeared to derive amusement from the Manor’s predicament. So it was with a jutting jaw that the elderly man nodded to Baldwin and Simon. His anger was not dissipated when the bailiff immediately asked for an interview.

“Now?” he snapped. Surely the bailiff could understand that he wanted to get changed, then wash and relax for a moment before any more questions, but the bailiff was insistent, and eventually the knight agreed, but with a bad grace. Hugh and Edgar went to see to the horses while the three trooped up to the hall. Here they discovered a number of guards playing dice before the fire; they showed little desire to move to the guardrooms, which were draftier. In the end it took a furious bellow from their master to persuade them that he was not of a mood to be trifled with, and they moodily took their things and left.

“Right. What is it?”

Simon sat, and, realizing after a minute that the meeting could take some time, Sir William also dropped into a chair. Baldwin sat some feet away, watching the knight with interest. His anger was clear, and Baldwin could understand how he felt. As far as Sir William was concerned, the death of Bruther was none of his business. The murderer had saved him considerable trouble, and that was all. Conversely the law, represented by this bailiff to whom he had turned at the outset, had been of little help. He had behaved properly, calling on the King’s official when he had seen the problem, but it had given him no comfort. What had appeared to be a simple, straightforward case of a runaway snubbing the estate had become a tangled web of political maneuvering between him as the landowner, and the miners – and the bailiff had, in his eyes, taken the part of the miners in preference to his own claims. And the bailiff was still trying to find the man who had cleared away his problems like snow swept from a path. For all Sir William cared, Simon could search until kingdom come. Yet he could still be summoned to speak to the bailiff whenever the damned official wanted.

And the worst of it for the old knight was, the bailiff could do so when he wanted, Baldwin knew. Old he might be, but Sir William was no fool. Though he had an alibi, he knew full well that his sons did not, and any reticence on his part could be considered suspicious, especially since Sir Robert thought Peter Bruther’s death could benefit his inheritance. Even so, to be called to discuss the affair immediately after a day in the saddle was at best discourteous from a guest.

So now he sat regally, his brows beetling as he tried to hold his temper at bay, and his mood was not improved by the long, measuring stare to which Simon subjected him. “Sir William,” he said at last, “we too have spent many hours on horseback today, and have been to see several people…”

“Get to the point, bailiff,” Sir William growled.

“Very well. On the day Peter Bruther died, you rode out from here with your son John, your guest Sir Ralph, and two men-at-arms. Is that right?”

“You know it is.”

“Yes. On your way to Thomas Smyth’s hall, did you see anybody else on the roads?”

There was an edge to Simon’s voice which seemed to indicate that the question was important; Sir William considered for a moment, his face fixed into a scowl of concentration. “We went up past Coyt’s farm,” he said at last. “There was no one on the road there, that I know.”

“How about the rest of the way? Was there anyone else on the road between there and the hall?”

“No. I’m sure there wasn’t.”

“Good. Now, when you got to the hall, what exactly happened?”

“I dismounted and John and Sir Ralph decided to leave me there. They preferred to ride on to the inn rather than wait with me.”

“What of the men-at-arms?”

“I had told them to leave me beforehand, shortly after quitting Coyt’s road. I didn’t want them to hear what I was to discuss with Smyth, but I had to tell John. It was hardly an impressive position to be in, was it? Why should I let my men hear of such things? Anyway, I told you all this before; why do you need to hear it all again?”

“It’s important, Sir William. Now, did you see anyone on the road ahead when you left your son? Was there someone approaching the hall from the east?”

“No, of course not!”

“From there the moors roll away and you can see for a great distance. Did you see anyone on the moors?”

He glared at Simon, then at Baldwin, irritation sharpening his voice. “No! Why? What are you suggesting now, bailiff? Who should I have seen?”

Simon remained silent, but Baldwin eyed the knight tentatively. “We know that Peter Bruther was at the inn that night, and that he left shortly before your son got there. It seems likely that they must have met on the road, but if they did, why does your son not tell us?”

“Who says John saw the man? Bruther must have hidden from view when he saw my son approach.”

“Not out there, Sir William. You know the land as well as we do. There are no places for a man to hide, not near the road. And we already know that Bruther was accustomed to passing on to the moors near the hall. He did not leave the road until he got to Smyth’s place. That would seem to indicate that your son could have met him.”

“What if he did? Are you saying he killed the man, dragged the body all the way to Wistman’s Wood, then raced back to the inn? I assume he was at the inn that night?”

Simon sighed. “Well, yes, but…”

“And did he arrive with Sir Ralph? Or was he later than his master?”

The bailiff squinted at the fire. “They arrived together,” he admitted.

“And yet you dare to insult my son’s name in front of me, in my own house!” Sir William’s eyes were wide in rage. “You suggest that my son is a murderer, a man who would strangle another and then hang him from a tree, when you have no evidence whatever?”

“Sir William, please!” Speaking slowly and keeping his voice level and calm, Simon said, “I have no wish to insult you or your son, Sir William. You know that. But it seems clear that John was in the area, just at the time that young Bruther was there, and must very likely have seen him. I do not say that your son alone saw him. Obviously Sir Ralph was there too, and it is possible that Sir Ralph remembered his humiliation at this Bruther’s hands. He would not be the first soldier to kill someone who offered him an insult. As far as I can see, there is no real reason for John to have murdered the young man, but Sir Ralph had cause, didn’t he? In any case, you have confirmed that you did not see Bruther on the road. The people at the inn were certain that he left only a short time before John and Sir Ralph got there, so I assume that they must have passed him on their way to the inn.”

The old knight stared, aghast. His shock was plain to both men. “But… But… Surely he must already have passed, before we got to the hall,” he stammered.

“As I said, Sir William, if he had passed already, you would surely have seen him up on the moors. From the road to Beauscyr, you can see for miles, and it’s the same all the way to the inn. If he was on the moors, you must have seen him.”

“We weren’t looking for him, though,” he was pleading. “He could have been up there, but we weren’t looking. Maybe he hid behind a rock? There are plenty of them up there, and it would take only a moment to duck behind one. That must be it! He saw us, realized who we were and dropped out of sight – he would know that Sir Ralph would want to exact vengeance for the insult he offered when they last met.”

“No. It will not do, Sir William,” said Baldwin. His manner was precise, leaving no opportunity for misunderstanding. “We have ridden past there several times over the last couple of days. If Bruther was there, then you must have seen him. You did not, and neither did your men. You had the men-at-arms with you, and they would have been looking for miners or anyone else who could have posed a threat. Likewise, your son and his master would have kept an eye open. They are men-of-war, and unused to peace. Even if you were concentrating on your meeting with Smyth, I find it hard to believe that your company were so careless as to forget to keep a lookout. Of course, Bruther could already have passed, but if he had, he would surely have been seen by Samuel and Ronald after you dismissed them.”

“Why? They would have gone in the opposite direction to get back here.”

“But they went to the Dart, to the alehouse. That’s how they found the body – they left the road because of two men they thought could be miners. So that means Bruther had not yet passed by. And that means that your son and Sir Ralph must have met him later.”

The old man gazed from one to the other, his face suddenly pale and waxen. His eyes, large and almost luminous with fear, seemed to betray his own doubts about his son, but then they fixed on Simon with desperation. “But there’s nothing to suggest that John would kill, like you say. It must have been his master, Sir Ralph. Why would John kill the man? They had nothing to do with each other.”

Simon glanced at Baldwin, trying to avoid the pitiful spectacle of the disintegration of the knight. Sighing, he looked at his hands resting in his lap as he said, “I am sorry, Sir William, but there is more. Both men arrived at the tavern together, but a short while later your son left, and did not return for a long time. He could have dragged the body over the moors to the woods and hung it there before returning.” He forced himself to meet the gaze of the old knight. “I am truly sorry,” he said simply.

Sir William raised a hand, making a curious, futile little gesture as if slapping at a fly, knocking away the suggestion that his son could have been involved. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the door opened and his wife walked in.

She appeared surprised to see the little congregation, halting as she took in the mood of the room, but then her brows drew together, and she paced slowly and menacingly toward them, her eyes glued accusingly on the bailiff. “I heard that my husband had returned, bailiff. I had not realized that you had monopolized his company since then. Usually a guest will leave his host to be welcomed by his wife after a day apart.” Her voice was cold as she stood by Sir William.

Simon sighed. Matillida Beauscyr was almost shaking with fury, and he had no desire to suffer the lash of her tongue, but that was his fate, he knew, if he raised even a suspicion about her youngest son. Already the presence of his woman had instilled a new strength into Sir William, and the bailiff could see that she was not of a mood to let the interview continue without her.

He said, “My apologies, lady. I did not mean to detain your husband any longer than necessary, and did not wish to annoy you, but there are still some points to talk through.”