Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Michael Jecks
THE MERCHANT’S PARTNER
1995

Chapter One

It was not until much later, when winter had relaxed its grip and spring had touched the land with the fresh, yellow-green shades of renewal, that the feelings of horror and revulsion began to fade.

The knight knew full well that they were not gone entirely but merely superseded for a time by the pragmatic concerns of the villagers. The beginning of a new year forced the killings out of people’s minds. Everyone was too busy for contemplation, preparing the fields and making use of the increasing daylight. But the murders had been committed late in the winter, and the long, cold evenings had given time for the storytellers to reflect and embellish. With their faces lighted by the angry red glow at the fireside, the families thrilled to hear about them time and again.

He could not grudge the people their fascination with the murders – it was only natural in such a quiet, rural shire. Devon was not the same as other parts of the kingdom, where people lived in continual anxiety. On the northern marches men feared more attacks from the Scottish raiders, while at the coast people were terrified of raids by the French pirates. Here the only concern was the possibility of a third failed harvest.

No, it was not surprising that the people looked to a story like that of the murdered witch to enliven their evenings, not surprising that every man had his own opinion of the truth behind the killings, or that some now lived in fear of her ghost in case she sought revenge on the village where she had been killed.

Thinking back now, he was not sure when it all began. It was surely not the day when Tanner called, the Wednesday morning when he first saw the body with his friend the bailiff. It was before, maybe on the Saturday, when he was out hunting and saw the women for the first time. The morning he spent falconing with the rector of Crediton.

“It’s bitter, isn’t it,” said Peter Clifford again.

Without looking at him, Baldwin grinned. His concentration was focused on the slender figure clutching at his gloved fist, admiring her slate-coloured back and black-barred white chest. She sat like a high-born Syrian woman, he thought. Confident, strong and elegant, not thick and heavy like a peasant, but slim and quick. Even as he gazed at her, the head under the hood turned to face him as if hearing his thoughts, the yellow, wickedly hooked beak still and controlled. It was not threatening, but she was asserting her independence, knowing she could take her freedom when she wished: she was no dog, no devoted servant – and like all falconers, he knew it.

The priest’s words broke in on his meditation and, giving a wry smile, he turned back to the rector of the church at Crediton, the corners of his mouth lifting under the narrow black moustache. “Sorry, Peter. Are you cold?” he asked mildly.

“Cold?” Peter Clifford’s face appeared almost blue in the chill of the early morning as he squinted at his companion. “How could I feel cold in this glorious weather? I may not be a knight, I may be used to sitting in a warm hall with a fire blazing at this time of year, I may be thin and older than you, I may be sorely in need of a pint of mulled beer, but that does not mean I feel the bitterness of this wind that cuts through my tunic like a battleaxe through butter.”

Baldwin laughed and looked around at the land. They had left the forests behind and now were on open, bleak moorland. The weak winter sunshine had not yet cleared the damp mists from the ground, and their horses’ hooves seemed almost to be wading in the thick dew underfoot. Bracken and heather covered the hill and shimmered under the greyness.

They had left early, almost as dawn broke, to get here. Baldwin had rescued the peregrine as a young and vicious juvenile in the previous year and Peter had not yet witnessed the bird hunting, so the knight had eagerly agreed to bring her and show off her skill. For him it was a pure delight to watch the creature climb, only to float, high and silent, almost as if she was as light as a piece of wood ash.

This was ideal land for falcons, up here on the moor, away from the woods. Shorter in the wing, hawks were better at chasing their prey and were used by their astringers to hunt among trees or other cramped areas. The falconer used his long-winged birds on open land where they could rise quickly, soaring up to their pitch and staying there, touring above their targets until they stooped down like a falling arrow, rarely missing their mark.

Shrugging himself deeper under his cloak, Peter Clifford grimaced to himself as they rode along. Last night he had thought it would be pleasant to go hunting, after their meal and with plenty of Sir Baldwin’s good Bordeaux wine inside him, heated by the great fire while they chatted of the latest Scottish attacks to the north. Then he had envisioned a warm day, the sky a perfect blue, the hawk swooping on to her targets… He glowered. Now he felt only cold: cold, damp and miserable. There was a fine sheen of silvery moisture all over his cloak and tunic, the wind cut through to his bones, and his face felt as though he was wearing a mask of ice. It was not as he had imagined.

His feelings of chilly discomfort were emphasised by the relative calmness of the man beside him. Baldwin sat as straight and alert as the bird on his fist, swaying and rocking with the slow walk of his horse. He was a strange man, the rector thought, this quiet, educated and self-possessed knight. Very unlike the normal warriors Peter Clifford met passing through Crediton. In build he was much the same, of course. Tall and strong, with the broad chest and shoulders of a fighter, Sir Baldwin Furnshill was the very image of the Norman knight, even down to the knife scar from temple to jaw that shone with a vivid heat in the cold, and he carried himself with a haughtiness to match his position. Only the black, neatly trimmed beard that covered the line of his jaw seemed incongruous in these days when men went clean-shaven.

With the hood of the knight’s cloak lying on his back and the dark eyes roving constantly over the land, Peter could imagine him studying a battlefield, searching out the best points for an ambush, the line in the ground for the cavalry charge, the places to site the archers. His expression was curiously intense, as always, as if the knight had seen and done so much that his spirit could never be completely at ease.

But for all that the rector knew him to be a loyal friend and, more important, an honest representative of the law. Sometimes he looked as though he could only hold his temper at bay with difficulty while dealing with the local folk, but he still managed to hold it in check – unlike others the priest had known. Even the knight’s predecessor, his brother Sir Reynaid Fumshill, had been known to beat his men on occasion, though he was considered generally to be a fair man. In comparison, Baldwin appeared to be almost immune to anger.

There was a restlessness about him, though. It was there in his eyes and in the occasional sharpness of his tongue, as if every now and again the slow deliberations of his villeins became intolerably frustrating. Not like Simon Puttock, Peter thought. Simon never allowed his impatience to show. But Simon had gone to Lydford to be the castle’s bailiff. At the thought, a vague memory stirred, and his brow creased. “Baldwin? Last night… Did you say Simon would be here soon?”

The question made the knight turn and raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Yes, in a couple of days – maybe three: Monday or Tuesday. He’s been to Exeter, visiting the sheriff and the bishop.”

“Good. I would be grateful if you could let me know when he arrives. It’s been a long time since I last saw him.”

The eyebrow lifted a little farther in sardonic amusement before Baldwin gave a short laugh. “Peter, you asked me that last night! I said I would send a messenger to you as soon as he arrived. Do you expect me to forget so quickly?”

Smiling, the knight studied the ground ahead, searching for prey. He had not realised how drunk Peter had been the previous night. As for him, he rarely consumed much alcohol. It was too ingrained in his nature now, even if he had turned his back on the religious life of a monk. Glancing back, he saw his quiet, restless servant Edgar close behind. Peter had once said that he appeared to be so close to Baldwin that a shadow could not squeeze between them, the knight recalled, and his smile broadened at the thought. How else should a knight and his man-at-arms be? “This should be fine. There’re normally birds here. We need go no further.”

On this hill they were a little above the trees, and they could look down over the woods to the occasional plumes of smoke from the cottages. In the cool morning air they looked like strings of mist trying to rise to heaven, and Peter felt strangely calmed at the sight, as if it was proof of the need of all elements to struggle ever upwards to God. The thought helped to ease the pain in his head and the rumbling acid in his belly.

Sighing, he watched as a small fluttering flock of pigeons rose from the trees to their left, drifting off into the rising mist. The sun was quite high now, and the priest gazed up at it with concern. It looked watery in the pale sky, as if the heat which had once blazed would never return, and he offered up a quick prayer for a better harvest this year. From north and east he had heard of people being forced to resort to all sorts of extreme behaviour to survive. In parts of the kingdom all dogs and cats had disappeared, and he had heard of people eating rats. There were even rumours of cannibalism in the east.

“Please, God!” he muttered, suddenly struck with a sense of near panic. “Let us have a good crop this year.”

“Yes,” he heard Baldwin murmur in quiet agreement. “Let’s hope it’s better this year.” But his reflective mood was broken even as he spoke. From beyond the trees, where a pool lay, there was a sudden flash of feathers as a heron rose. Drawing the hood from the peregrine, Baldwin quickly loosed her and spurred his horse, crying, “Oo-ee! Oo-ee!” to lure her on towards her prey, while Peter sat and watched and winced.

It was mid-morning when they decided to return to Furnshill for lunch. By now Peter was sure it was too late; he would never be able to warm himself again. The cold had eaten past his thick cloak, and under his two tunics and shirt, taking up permanent abode beneath his skin. Although it had been a pleasure to watch the peregrine launch herself upwards, only to stoop, plummeting like an iron crossbow bolt on to her unfortunate targets, the delight in her skill was offset by his chilled dampness.

When the knight expressed himself content with their catch and suggested they should make their way back, it came as a relief to the priest, and he agreed with enthusiasm. It was short lived: soon he gave himself up to his abject, frozen misery.

Baldwin was thoughtful too. After many years of wandering and rough living he hardly felt the cold now, but he was aware that he was becoming more used to an easy life. The muscles on his shoulders still bore witness to his days of training as a swordsman, his arms were still thick and hard, his neck corded under the leathery skin, but the definition of his belly was becoming less clear, and he found himself wondering whether he was losing his fine temper, like a blade left too long unpolished and without care.

It was no false pride that led him to feel concern at the beginning of his paunch. Under the terms of his knight’s tenure at Furnshill, he must be ready to go and serve the de Courtenays, the Lords of Devon, for forty days every year. It was always possible that he could be called to go to assist his lord in the north, or on the Welsh marches – or even over to France to the king’s lands there.

Riding down the slope, Baldwin gave the hawk to Edgar before they passed in among the trees. The great oaks, elms and ashes towered above them here, their branches occasionally making the three men duck in their saddles as they passed along, until they came to an open area, the common land that led up to Wefford. Here they turned right, on to the main path north that led through the village itself.

Wefford was a small cluster of houses and farms that serviced the strips to the south of Furnshill, huddled squashed together like suspicious villagers watching a stranger. Baldwin knew it to be a thriving community which contributed well to his estates, providing not only money but also men to work the fields. As with all landholders, his greatest problems were caused by the areas that had insufficient menfolk to help with the manor’s estate. Money coming in to his exchequer was welcome, but if there was nobody to tend his fields, his main source of income, his land, must be ruined.

Here in Wefford, though, he had never had any problems. The villeins seemed content, placidly carrying on with their lives. Even last year, in the confusion of the disastrous harvest, the people had managed to produce plenty of food: enough not just for themselves, but to share with other hamlets on the Furnshill estates, and Baldwin felt a small stirring of pride as they came into the little village.

It was laid out on either side of the north-south road from Exeter to Tiverton, a straggling huddle of cottages and outbuildings that serviced the parallel scars of the fields. All the buildings were limewashed, stolid structures with their thatching thickly covered with moss. Up to the north lay the ford which had given the place its name, and halfway along the village, opposite the building that proudly acted as inn to the local folk, was the road west to Sandford and Crediton. Baldwin glanced at it as he passed. It led in among the woods, through the dark and gloomy trunks of the ancient trees, winding as it rose and fell over the hillocks of the softly undulating land, trying to find the easiest path for the traveller.

But the track was not well kept, he could see, and his brows jerked into a quick frown. Since he had accepted the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had needed to take on many new responsibilities, all going back to the Statute of Winchester. There the institutions for law and order had been reorganised and new regulations set out: how the hundred, the watch and the posse should work together; how areas should train for their own defence, and how they should protect against wandering bands of outlaws. Not only must Baldwin ensure that all men in the area were armed and trained in arms, he must keep the brushwood cleared from the public highways as well, to a distance of two hundred feet. Only three weeks ago he had told the constable, Tanner, that this track must be cleared, and Tanner had agreed to arrange it. It looked as if nothing had been done.

Sighing, he turned back to the road ahead. It was not Tanner’s fault, he knew. The constable would have tried to enforce the order, but how could he persuade people to do it in the middle of winter? There would be a complete lack of interest. After all, the villagers would reckon, why bother to do all this work when it was only for the protection of the king’s men, who had too easy a life already, or for merchants, who deserved to be robbed when they charged more than their goods were worth? It was not for the defence of the local people that the tracks should be cleared – for the same statute demanded that all men in the land must be trained in war and armed so that they might be able to protect themselves. No, this rule was for the safety of the wealthy, and that being so, the locals reasoned, the wealthy could clear the highways themselves. The villeins of Wefford had enough work already just keeping themselves fed.

It was while he was making a mental note to speak again to Tanner that he saw someone come on to the road from a track on the right, and he stared in surprise.

Although he had ridden through this village many times on his way to Exeter or Crediton, he had never stopped, and knew no one living here. There were too many families on his lands for him to be able to know them all, but he was sure he would have known this one. Tall, covered by a heavy, grey, fur-fringed cloak that fell to the ground and was pinned with a shining metal brooch, the figure stood quietly watching, face covered by the hood as the small group approached. Though the body was covered by the draped cloak, Baldwin was sure that it must be a woman, and from the little he could see, a wealthy and elegant lady. Glancing quickly over at his companion, he saw that the rector was dozing, his head nodding gently with the steady jog of his horse, and when he looked back the lady had disappeared.

Frowning, he peered carefully, but there was no sign of her. Clearly she wanted to remain out of sight, but he was sure, as they rode up close, that he could feel her eyes on him. The sensation was unsettling, as if he was the quarry of an invisible hunter. It was this that made him turn, after they had passed, and glance back.

There, not far from the spot where he had seen the cloaked figure, was a short peasant woman with sharply suspicious features, gazing back at him round a tree before hurriedly jerking back as if to avoid being seen.

He turned back to the road with a grin lifting the corner of his mouth. Just a poor old woman trying to avoid the wealthy knight in case he demands food or drink, he thought. But then he felt a quick, cold shiver twitch his shoulders. Where did the other one go?

Agatha Kyteler watched the departing group with an expression so intense it was almost a glare. She waited until they had passed through the ford and carried on out of sight round the curve beyond. Drawing in her breath she let it out in a slow sigh, then muttered, berating herself for allowing her distrust to delay her. She still had much to do.

Pausing, she let her head fall back, then stretched her arms high overhead and yawned before rubbing slowly at the small of her back with her fists. After an afternoon of collecting herbs and roots she was exhausted, and her back was strained after so much bending. She relaxed and stooped to pick up her basket, patting the wiry head of her black and tan lurcher, which was seated beside her. As usual he responded eagerly and bounced up exuberantly before streaking off on the scent of a hare.

The basket was old, the wicker snapped and frayed, and she gave it a wry grimace as she hefted it. It was so much like her: ragged, worn and tired, too ancient to last much longer.

She knew that the local villagers were glad enough for her to be here most of the time, any small village was grateful for the help that an experienced midwife could offer, but they still looked at her askance. It was obvious why. They thought she was too clever. That was the risk, she knew. She was not a local, not brought up in the same way, trained in the same rules. While enjoying the results of her skills, the people around were scared of how she might have acquired them. And her accent was too strong as well. It set her apart from them and made them shun her. She was different. Of course, the fact that she lived a little outside the village in her own assart did not help matters. She gave a sudden grin: it was almost as if it made her stranger and even more awe-inspiring, guaranteeing her occult powers – in the eyes of her neighbours, at least.

She could not fully understand why. The people were genuinely scared of her, and yet she was no threat to anybody. There were rumours put about by the old hag Grisel Oatway, but they were hardly enough to make the people around go in terror of her.

In any case, she valued her solitude. Her life had been full enough. Peace was attractive in the evening of her life, and she was happy to be left alone with her thoughts; especially now she was in a new country. But she could not contain her annoyance when people tried to avoid her. They knew they needed her – they were always keen enough to take her advice or her medicines, like the poultice for Sam Cottey’s bad arm, the mixture for Walter de la Forte’s cow, and the potion for Jennie Miller to reduce her back pain.

“Hello Agatha.”

The voice, low and steady, soft but assured, came from her left, between her and the road, and at the sound she stiffened, her eyes searching from bough to bough, trying to see who had spoken.

A slim figure tentatively edged away from the cover of a large chestnut tree, and Agatha saw a woman, tall and slim, face covered by the fur-lined hood. “Agatha, I need your help,” she said softly.