Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter Fifteen

It was not there for long, and it was speedily covered by an expression of, if not grief, at least a degree of respectable regret. “Where?” she asked simply, and the man led them outside, Edgar silently bringing up the rear.

Walking quickly, the servant kept up a constant stream of apologies and pleas for pardon until she cut him off with a curt gesture, and he fell silent. Out through the door to the stable he took them, across the snow-covered yard, already trampled and flattened into a red-brown shlush, to an open picket gate in the wall that gave on to the pasturage behind. Here they could easily make out footprints, leading straight to the woods. It was a place where he trees looked to Simon as though they were being cleared for a new assart, or perhaps merely to increase the lands available for the hall. Up at the treeline was another servant, moving from one foot to another in obvious agitation and wringing his hands. They made their way to him without a word.

At first the ground fell away, giving the house a solitary imminence. A small stream lay at the bottom, curling lazily round the house. The snow had not covered this rippling water. It lay with small sheer cliffs at either bank like a miniature gorge, almost, Simon thought to himself, like a tiny replica of Lydford itself.

The servant took them to a bridge built of sturdy planks, wide enough for a wagon, then they were climbing the bank to the figure waiting at the trees. He was a middle-aged man, with a face flushed from the cold. His square, stolid features showed his terror. It was as if he feared even to talk, his muscles moving as if with the ague, mouth twitching, brows wrinkling, eyelids flickering. He pointed wordlessly, then remembered his place and would have fallen to his knees if the knight had not sharply ordered him to take them to his master. With a hesitant glance at his mistress, and seeing her nod, he turned and stumbled in among the trees. It was not far.

The assart was a small semicircular clearing, with stumps cut off a few feet above the ground, and Simon realised it was a coppice. The trees were being cut to allow for regrowth. When the new long-stemmed shoots grew, they could be harvested for fencing, staves or just for burning on the fire.

At the far end, to which the servant now led them, there was a spur cut into the forest like a thin, invasive finger of land thrusting the trees apart. Inside was a recently felled oak, lying on its side waiting to be cut into planks or logs. The man led them up to it, and there, just beside the bough, was a rolled-up form. Baldwin stepped up, a hand held out to stop the others, and then crouched by the figure.

On hearing a small gasp, Simon said, “Wait here!” to the others, and went forward to join him. “Oh, God!”

All around he could see the snow was dappled and clotted with frozen black gobbets of blood.

He stood motionless, his eyes on the ground for fully a minute. Then, though waking, he took a deep breath and let it out in one long jet. Breathing slowly, he peered around the small glade. Baldwin was beside him, his eyes on the figure. Beyond was the thickest concentration of blood, as if it had jetted forward under great pressure, thick gouts lying nearby and thinner droplets farther away.

Studying it, he could see that it was almost as if the stream had all been impelled in one direction. It had not all sprayed in a circle, but started to his left, in a thinnish drizzle, then fanned round to the great thick line ahead. When he looked down he could see that the body pointed in this direction too.

Alan Trevellyn lay partially covered with snow. He was down on his knees, his torso and arms outstretched as if praying, his head on the ground between. Only one side of his body was cleared, the other was still as white as the ground. Simon paused and peered down, then crouched, hands on his knees, and stared.

Standing, he pointed at the agitated servant. “You! Did you find him here?”

“Yes, sir. I was here to collect wood for the log store when I stumbled on something. I thought it was a log… Or a stump… I had no idea it was the master… When I kicked at it, all the snow fell away, and I saw it was… Was…” He seemed to run out of energy.

“Did you clear away the snow with your hands?”

“No, sir. I kicked, and the snow fell away, and…”

Simon interrupted harshly, “I know all that. Did anyone else come here to see the body after you found it? Did anyone touch the body?“

“No, sir. I stayed here with the master until you got here just now, sir. I didn’t leave, sir.”

Nodding, the bailiff turned back to the frowning knight.

“What is it, Simon?”

“Look!” He pointed. “There’s snow over the body. But the blood’s on top of the snow.”

“Which doesn’t make much sense,” Baldwin agreed.

“No. He would hardly bury himself in the snow after dying, would he? No, someone else piled the snow around him after he was dead. And there,” he indicated the rows of lines on top of the mound that covered the dead man’s side, “are the finger-marks to prove it.”

“Let’s see what actually killed him.”

Simon grunted assent, and they carefully began to clear away the snow from around the corpse.

“Do you want one of the men to help you?” asked Mrs. Trevellyn.

Looking up, Simon glanced at the two men before returning his gaze to her husband. “No,” he said. “I think we can do this. Could you send one to fetch a wagon, though, to bring the body back to the house?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be inside if you want me.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s too cold for me up here.”

Simon nodded, and watched as she began to make her way back to the house, followed by her two servants, who straggled along like confused dogs expecting to be beaten. Turning back, he caught Baldwin’s eye. The knight was watching her too.

To Simon’s surprise, it did not take them long to clear the snow from Alan Trevellyn’s corpse. After only a short time they had wiped it from his back and sides, and now they had a small moat around him. His stance was clear to see now, with the arms reaching up as if in supplication.

“More than likely he just fell down like that,” was Baldwin’s own curtly expressed view when the bailiff pointed this out to him. “Come on! Let’s roll him over.”

Both taking a shoulder, they pulled hard. At first he seemed to have frozen to the earth itself. Simon felt it was as if the ground knew that he would be buried soon and had no wish to give up what it knew to be its own. But then it reluctantly gave up the struggle with a sudden loosening of its grip, and Simon nearly fell back as Trevellyn’s body moved, then toppled over on his side.

Simon stared at the bulging eyes, the blackened tongue, the black and red mess around the mouth where the blood had spurted and frozen or dried, at the deep wound beneath where the murderer’s knife had sliced through the yellowed cartilage of the windpipe before severing the arteries, and found himself swallowing hard to keep the bitter bile at bay. “Interesting,” said Baldwin, rocking back to squat on his heels after studying the wounds. “Just like Kyteler.”

The bailiffs voice was thick as he said. “Yes. Just like the witch.”

The knight took a close look at the face, and Simon could see a series of scrapes where blood had been drawn. It looked as if he had been hit with a heavy weapon of some sort.

“Mace, or maybe a cudgel,” he heard the knight mutter to himself. Apart from that there was little they could learn from the body.

It was not long before the men arrived to carry it back to the house, and Simon relinquished it with pleasure. As he watched the men collect it up, rolling it in a blanket and staggering with it to the cart, he stood well back, away from the gaze of those sightless, dead fish-eyes.

Even last year’s killings had not been quite as bad as this. At least then it had been a series of murders caused by a group of trail bastons, wandering outlaws with no other means to earn a living. Nobody was safe from the increasing prices that made food so expensive, that made lords have to reconsider how many retainers they could afford and threw out those they felt to be a burden. It was not surprising that some resorted to violence to gain what they needed. Especially since now, by law, all men had to own weapons for their defence, and by law must practise using those weapons for the better defence of their communities and themselves. No, it was not surprising that some decided that when their world refused to give them an honest way to earn a living they should resort to violence.

That was different, an almost comprehensible reason for a life of brigandage. But now? Two deaths like this? These were made more horrible, in some strange way, by the fact that they were unique. Perhaps if there were other bodies they would not seem so shocking. Maybe it was their stark, lonely individuality that made them so hideous.

As the wagon began the slow progress back, bumping and rattling over the lumpy ground, he paused a moment. It was just the same as the witch, he thought again. And it was only then that he felt the prickle on the back of his head as the hairs began to rise erect, and he felt as if he was suddenly smothered in an ice-cold sweat.

“What is it, Simon?” he heard his friend ask as he stopped in his tracks.

“I was just thinking. How was his body? Kneeling, sort of like he was praying – or maybe begging on his knees? Could he have been pleading for his life?”

When they returned, it was obvious to Angelina Trevellyn that they were deep in thought. They walked in without talking, stepping to a bench and sitting, their servant standing behind them. As soon as they were seated, she clapped her hands, and was pleased to see how quickly the manservant came in to serve them. He gave them mugs and poured mulled wine for them, then left the jug by the fire to warm.

“Can you tell me how he died?” she asked at last.

“Madam, he was slashed. His neck.” Baldwin was silent for a moment, peering into his mug, then looked up. “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

Looking up, Simon was sure he could see a look quickly veiled – fear? Uncertainty? As soon as it appeared it was gone, and her face seemed to melt into repose as she reflected. “No, I cannot think of anyone who could do such a thing. Alan always had a temper, but to do this someone would have had to have hated him, surely?”

“Has he argued with anyone recently?”

She looked at him with a serious expression. “Sir, if you know anything about my husband, you will know that he was always strong and resolute. He was brave and never feared any man. He never hid his feelings.”

“Is it true that he nearly beat a servant to death recently?”

“Oh, I do not know about that. It is true he would beat the men if they were slow or stupid, but so many of them are! You know what servants are like! They are like dogs, and must be trained. He had to beat them to keep them alert. That is not a reason to kill him.”

“Did he know the witch?” Simon burst out, and she turned her face to him with sudden fear.

“The… The witch?” she said at last with an attempt at surprise. Under Simon’s gaze, she appeared uncertain. Licking her lips with a nervous gesture, she half-shrugged, then turned once more to Baldwin.

“The bailiff wondered if there could be something… You see, your husband died from the same kind of wound as Agatha Kyteler.”

She stared at him, and Simon felt instinctively that this was no play-acting. Her shock had every appearance of honesty. “What do you mean, the same?” she said at last.

The knight shrugged. “Exactly the same. It was just how she died, with a single cut across the throat.”

“I… I need to think. Gentlemen, I am sorry, but this is very hard. Would you mind leaving me now? I must… Please go!” There was no refusing that last desperate plea. Leaving their wine, Simon and Baldwin stood, bowed, and walked out.

They found their horses in the yard and were soon mounted. At the gate, Baldwin turned back to glance at Simon. “Where to now, do you think?”

“There’s only one thing I want to know right now, and that is, where was Harold Greencliff last night,” said Simon shortly. When he looked up, he thought the knight was still looking back at him, but then he realised his friend was peering over his shoulder. When he glanced round, he saw that Angelina Trevellyn was standing in her doorway, watching them leave. He sighed as he turned forward again and saw Baldwin’s face. It held a small, far-off smile.

As the light faded, the land was covered in a uniform dull greyness as if there was no distinction between heaven and earth. The snow took on a sombre shade that seemed reflected by the sky. There was no shadow to help him, and the Bourc tripped and stumbled as he carried on, leading the horses by the reins.

At least the wind had died now, and the ground glimmered palely under the soft cloak. On all sides were gently undulating hills, and here and there he could see a craggy outcrop of stone at the highest points.

He dared not ride in case he took his horses on to dangerous ground. Better by far that he should lead them, testing his steps all the way. But soon he must stop, find a place to rest and recover from the toil of the day. Stopping, he wearily drew a hand over his brow and gazed around. His eyes flitted over a number of hillsides before they rested on one.

It stood a mile away – maybe two – a hill with what looked like a scattering of rocks on the summit, as if a house had been left to collapse there. A tall spike pointed to the sky like the jagged reminder of a corner, while there appeared to be the tumbled remains of other walls, and even the hint of an enclosure.

Sighing, he let his head drop for a moment, then dragged at the reins in his hand. He must get there before the exhaustion overtook him.

The snow had not dissipated in the least. As they trotted down the hillside towards the lane, it became clear to Simon that they would have as slow a struggle as they had endured earlier.

At first it looked like their worst fears were unwarranted. The lane that wound round before the house appeared relatively clear, and even as they rode farther up on to the top of the hill, it was still reasonably easy going. It was only when they began to descend once more that they found that the drifts had accumulated, and all at once they were bogged in snow which at times was over their feet as they sat on their horses. At one point Edgar showed his horsemanship, keeping his seat as his mount reared, whinnying in fear and disgust at the depth of the powder and trying to avoid the deepest drifts, and the servant was forced to tug the reins and pull the head round, to turn away from the obstacle. Standing and gentling the great creature, he glanced over at Baldwin.

“I think I’ll have to walk this one.”

He dropped from his saddle and, strolling ahead, spoke calmly to the horse as he led it forward, keeping a firm and steady pressure on the reins. Once it stopped and tried to refuse to carry on, shivering like a stunned rabbit, but then it accepted Edgar’s soft words of encouragement and continued.

That was the worst of it. Now the land opened up and the snow was less thick. There was hardly enough to rise more than a couple of inches above their horses’ hooves, and they all felt more confident, breaking into a steady, loping trot.

The house was soon visible. Simon could see it, a welcoming slab of grey in the whiteness all round, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to make a comment, turning to look at Baldwin, when he saw a troubled frown on the knight’s face. He appeared to be staring at the ground near their feet.

“Baldwin? What’s the matter?”

“Look!” When Simon followed the direction of the pointing finger, he saw them. They were unmistakable, and his mind swiftly returned to the hunched figure of the dead merchant. The blood had been laid over the top of the snow, as if a geyser had spouted it up, and over the body the snow had been piled up into a makeshift hide-out. There had been little fresh powder over the body or the bloodstains. Trevellyn had died after the snowstorm had stopped.

And here were the clear marks, slightly marred by drifting, rounded and worn by the strong winds but still recognisable, of a pair of feet and the hoofprints of a horse, leading the way they were going. Back to the door of Harold Greencliff’s farm. Exchanging a look, the two men trotted on.

There was no doubt, the marks clearly led straight to the trodden mess in the ground before the door, the tracks of a horse and a man. Shaking his head, Baldwin tossed his reins to Edgar and sprang down. Simon followed, unconsciously testing the dagger at his waist, making sure that the blade would come free if needed. Noticing his movement, Baldwin smiled suddenly, and Simon saw that he had been doing the same with his sword. Leaving Edgar on his horse, they strode to the door, and Baldwin pounded heavily on the timbers with a gloved fist.

“Harold Greencliff! I want to speak with you. Come out!”

There was no answer. He thumped the door again, calling, but there was still no reply, and Simon suddenly found himself struck with a feeling of nervousness. He felt an extreme trepidation for what they might find inside. Involuntarily he stepped backwards.

“What is it?” snapped Baldwin, angry at being left outside. “God!” The sky was again starting to fill with tiny feathers of purest down, light specks of glistening beauty. But these minute granules were composed of pure coldness, and they could kill. Baldwin swore, then slammed his fist a last time on the door. ‘Greencliff!“

But there was no response. Glancing at Simon, he shrugged, then reached for the handle.

Inside it was almost as cold as out. Calling to Edgar to bring the horses in, Baldwin crossed the threshold and strode immediately for the hearth. Crouching, he studied the ash for a moment, then tugged off his glove and held his hand over it, swearing again. “Damn! We’ll need to light a fresh one!”

Simon busied himself gathering tinder and straw, then set to work relighting the fire. As he blew gently but firmly at the glowing sparks, carefully adding straw and twigs as the flames started to creep upwards, he was aware of Baldwin noisily clumping around the room, peering into dark corners and searching under blankets and boards. Meanwhile, Edgar unperturbably saw to the horses, removing their saddles and bringing their packs to the fire. Tossing them down, he gave Simon a quick grin before returning to the mounts.

The fire starting to shed a little light, he carefully piled smaller pieces of wood on top, then balanced logs above, and soon the house was beginning to fill with the homely smoke, catching in their throats, making them cough and rub at their eyes to clear away unshed tears. But as the fire caught hold the smoke rose to sit heavily in thick swathes in the rafters, and the air below cleared.

“He’s not here, that’s for certain,” Baldwin grumbled, crouching nearby.

“The footmarks seem to show that he was here last night,” said Simon calmly as he watched the flames. “Maybe he’s out to look after his sheep.”

Baldwin jerked his chin to point at the fire. “And left his fire to go out? In this weather? Come along, Simon. Nobody would let his fire die at this time of year. It could mean death.”

“Well…” Simon nodded slowly. ”If he’s gone, where has he gone to? We can’t follow now, not with the snow coming again, that would be too dangerous.“

“No, but I can take a look and see which direction he’s going in,” said the knight and stood. He walked outside, shutting the door behind him.

Already the weather had changed, and the small flakes were replaced by large petals falling at what looked like a ludicrously slow speed.

Peering, he narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out any marks in the snow. It was hard to see, the light was too diffuse behind the clouds, and with the failing light as day slipped towards night, he found that bending and looking for some differentiation in the contours was no help. All was uniformly white. There was not the relief of greys or blacks to mar the perfect apparent flatness. It was only when he stood again and stared farther away, wondering in which direction the youth would have gone, that he thought he could make out a depression left in the snow, like a shallow leat pointing arrow-straight to a mine. It led down the lane towards the trees, towards Wefford.

The wind began to build, whisking madly dancing flakes before his eyes, occasionally knocking them into his face. This was impossible, he thought. There was no way they could find out where the boy had gone in this: it was too heavy. He turned back to the door with a mixture of despondency and anger at being foiled.

The cry started as a low rumble on the Bourc’s right. He might easily have missed it, but his ears were too well attuned to sounds of danger, even after the punishment the wind had inflicted during the day, and he immediately stopped in his tracks and stared back the way he had come.

He could feel the shivering of the horses as the call began again. First low, then rising quickly to a loud howl before mournfully sliding down to a dismal wail of hunger: wolves!

Putting out his hand, he stroked his mount gently. There was no sign of them yet. They must be some distance away. He threw a quick glance at the hill ahead. The shelter it offered was a clear half-mile farther on. He gauged the remaining ground he must cover, then set his jaw and pulled at the reins, setting his face to the hill. It held the only possible cover here in this darkening land.

The howls came again, but their tone had changed. They must have found his trail, for he thought he could hear a note of fierce joy. The cries were no longer full of anguish and longing; now they were a paean of exultation. Desperation was replaced by harsh, cruel delight, as if the creatures could already taste the thick, hot blood in his veins.

When he peered at the hill again, he knew he could not survive on foot. Throwing an anxious glance behind, he could see the dog-like animals running towards him. It would be dangerous to ride, God only knew how many hazards lay just under the surface of the snow, waiting to break his horse’s legs, but to walk was suicide.

Clambering on to the horse, he whirled, checking the distance once more. They were only a few hundred feet away, seven of them running at a steady lope with their eyes fixed on him. The sight of their implacable approach sent a shiver of expectant fear down his back. He knew what would happen if they were to catch him. Turning, he spurred his horse into a gallop.

The two horses ran madly with their terror. There was no need to urge them on, both knew their danger. The calls of the wolves had seen to that. All he need do was hold on, clinging for dear life as his mount bolted, ears flat back, head low, pelting forwards. The Bourc let him have his head, occasionally twitching the reins a little to keep the great horse heading in the direction that would lead them, he hoped, to safety.

“Thanks be to God!”

The heartfelt prayer of gratitude sprang to his lips automatically as they stumbled into the ring, and he fell from the saddle just as the second of his horses galloped in.

Grabbing the packhorse’s leading rein, he managed to haul the horse round, and then he could tug the bow free. Calling softly to the petrified animal, trying to calm him, the Bourc grabbed the arrows from the top of his pack. Only when he had them in his hand did he set the point of the bow on the ground and pull down sharply to string it. Then, arrow ready and nocked, he moved forwards to the perimeter, a string of great stones that encircled his small encampment.

The howling had not stopped. Ahead the Bourc could see them approaching, not now with the mad enthusiasm of the hunting pack, but with the wary caution of dogs who have seen the boar to his lair and now watch carefully to see how to pull him down without danger.

Teeth showing in the dark, the Bourc waited while they approached, bow held firmly in hands that now felt clammy with anticipation.