Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

“So, you’re awake now, are you?”

“Ah.” No words could convey the same anguish and pain as the simple, soft and quiet groan that broke from Harold Greencliffs lips as he tried to sit up. Moaning gently, he rolled on to his side and peered through slitted eyes at the man who stood looking down at him with grave concern. When he opened his mouth, it felt as if there was a week of dried saliva encrusted around his lips, and he winced as his skin cracked.

“Keep quiet, friend. Sit back. You can’t go anywhere.”

As his eyes began to focus, Greencliff stared at him. He was dressed in thick and warm-looking woollen clothes, his tunic woven of heavy cloth and his cloak lined with fur. He must be a wealthy man.

His face was arresting. Swarthy and weather-beaten, square and wrinkled, it seemed as rugged as the rocks around them. Two gleaming black eyes gazed back at the farmer with interest under a thick mop of deep brown hair. Although there were lines of laughter at the eyes, now they contained only concern, and Greencliff realised what a sorry figure he must appear. Then, as the memories returned, he felt a sob rack his body in a quick shudder of self-pity.

“Calm yourself. Drink this.”

The liquid was almost scalding hot, but he thought he had never tasted anything so wonderful. It was a warmed wine fit for the king himself, Greencliff thought. Though he sipped carefully, it still seared the flesh around his mouth and burned a trail down his throat, seeming to form a solid, scalding lump in his stomach. Meanwhile his host crouched and watched.

After a few moments, Greencliff took stock of his surroundings. He was in a cave of some sort. Outside, through a small doorway, he could see the fire, whose heat wafted in with the smell of burning wood. He was lying on a straw palliasse with his blanket over him, and his new friend had clearly let him sleep on his own bed because a roll and blanket on the floor showed where he had slept.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” At the question, the farmer felt his stomach wake to turbulent life as if it had been hibernating until then, and a low rumbling started to shake his weakened frame. The man gave a short laugh. “Good. I’ll have some stew ready in a little while. I have bread too, so don’t worry about losing your own food.”

An hour later he felt well enough to rise from the mattress and walk outside to where the man crouched by the fire, meditatively breaking twigs and branches to feed the flames. He looked up as Greencliff came out, bent double to save himself from hitting his head at the low entrance.

“How’re you feeling now?” the Bourc asked.

Wincing, Greencliff sat warily on a rock near the fire. “A lot better. I’m very grateful, if you hadn’t helped me, I’d be dead.”

“One day, I might need help, and I hope that I will be protected as I protected you.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m called John, the Bourc de Beaumont.”

“You are not from here?” It was an innocent question, and the farmer was surprised by the laugh it brought.

“No! No, I come from far away, from Gascony. I would not live here from choice!”

Greencliff nodded, morosely staring at the moors all round. “I can understand that!” he said. “So, why are you here?”

Grimacing, the Bourc explained about his decision to cross the moors. “The wolves chased me here, and I was attacked by one – night before last, that was. I killed it, but I got little sleep, so I chose to stay here for another day. Anyway, I thought it was easier to defend myself here. If they catch you on horseback, they’ll chase you ‘til your horse drops.”

“Why were they trying to attack you? Are they just evil?” asked the farmer, shivering at the memory of the slavering mouths tearing at his belongings.

“No, not really. It is just the way they are. They saw me – and you – as a meal, that’s all. There is not enough food for them right now. They thought we’d be easy enough to catch.” He almost shuddered at the memory. The way that the beast had leaped at him had terrified him. In his mind’s eye he could still see the jaws opening and smell the foul breath. In that moment he had been sure he was about to die.

The fear had almost caused his death. It slowed his reactions, so that the huge creature had almost succeeded in tearing his neck with its wickedly curved fangs, just missing and slashing his shoulder. The pain had woken him to his danger, and turning quickly, he had stabbed deep, again and again, in a fit of mad panic.

Afterwards he had built the fire and waited, nursing his shoulder, but they had chosen not to attack again. The next day they were still there, and he had kept an eye on them as he sat and kept warm.

He glanced up shrewdly. “So why are you here? Who or what are you running from?”

“Me?” His start of surprise seemed to strike the Gascon as comical.

“Yes: you! Nobody who knows this place would come here to the moors in the snow unless they had a good reason. Especially at night. It’s a good way to make sure of death, but nothing else. Who are you running from?”

“I…” He paused. There was no reason to doubt his grim-faced saviour, but the truth was, he had no wish to admit to his guilt. Opening his mouth to speak, he found the breath catching in his throat again, and he had to keep silent. The sob was too close. He gave a small cough, an involuntary spasm that could have been from misery or joy, and covered his face in his hands.

“You’ve been through pain, I can see that,” said the Bourc matter-of-factly, finishing his wine. With his eyes on his guest, his mind ran through the items he had found from the satchel. A little food the wolves had left, a flint and a knife. A long-bladed ballock knife: a single-edged blade with two globular lumps where the wooden grip met it, held in a leather sheath. When he had found it, he had been going to return it, but then he had wondered. If this boy was an outlaw, if he was escaping from justice of some sort, it might be better to keep his knife back for now. “Of course,” he thought, “if he wants to tell me what made him leave, I can give it back. But not yet. Not quite yet.”

It wasn’t just the distrust of a man for a stranger in these difficult times. It was also the thick clots he had found on the blade, the dried brown mess of blood.

“Wait here!” Mark Rush ordered as he dropped from his horse. He wandered slowly and carefully round the little dip in the ground, following the line of staggering footprints. “Yes, he was here. He walked up here, tripped and fell. There’s the mark where he lay. Looks like he got up and then began to make a fire. Not much of one, though.” Kneeling, he sniffed contemplatively at the blackened twigs. “Not enough to keep him warm for more than a minute. He sat here.”

Rising, he stood and stared at the ground for a minute, hands on hips as he considered. Glancing up at the bailiffs face, he shrugged. “Didn’t wait long, from the look of it. Seems like he made his fire, sat by it for a bit – not for long – and went on.”

“Fine. Let’s get on after him, then.”

Tanner ambled forward. “One minute, Bailiff. Mark? How was he when he left here?”

The hunter pulled his mouth into a down-curving crescent of dubious pessimism. “Put it like this: I wouldn’t gamble on his chances. I’d rather put my money on a legless, wingless cock in a fighting ring.”

Nodding, Tanner glanced back at the men behind, then at the bailiff. “Sir, we may as well send the others back. The three of us are enough to catch him, even if he’s well. The way things are, all we’ll need is a horse to bring his body home.” When Simon nodded. Tanner turned to the men, telling them to return. The bailiff instructing one to ensure that a message went to the inn, to be passed on to Simon’s wife, to say that they were well. Not that it mattered much, as Tamer knew. There was little hope that they could find the boy alive now. They should be able to return home before long.

As they set off again, leaving at last the line of trees and beginning to make their way on to the moors, he found himself reflecting sadly on the last Greencliff. Tanner had known him since he was a boy.

Good-looking since he was a child, he had always been able to win apples from the women in the village while young. As he had grown, he had kept his innocent charm, and then he had taken other gifts – or so it was rumoured. Why, even Sarah Cottey was supposed to have carried on with him recently, and she was only the last in a long series. The boy was lucky to have lived so long without getting a thrashing from an enraged father or brother!

Murder was a long way from enjoying a woman’s embrace, though, he mused. Just because a man was popular with the local girls did not make him a killer. It was different, as the constable knew, with soldiers. He had witnessed enough rapings and people having their lives taken quickly or slowly to know the difference between the brutal and the gentle taking of a woman. Harold had only ever been kind with his women, which was why none had ever denounced him to their families. All still liked him. Even Sarah Cottey – she was infatuated with him.

But love was possessive, and perhaps that was why the boy had found the courage to kill, stabbing Trevellyn in a jealous fit so that he could have the woman he wanted. If so, that did not answer why the youth should have killed the witch, though. The reason behind that was still a mystery. Tanner dawdled behind the others as the thoughts drifted through his mind, making him scowl darkly as he stared with unseeing eyes at the ground.

At a sudden gasp from the hunter in front, he kicked his horse and rode forward to where Simon and Mark Rush stood pensively gazing down at a mess of confused prints.

“Looks like he walked to here, then fell,” said the hunter. He peered up the shallow slope to a small group of tors huddled together as if for warmth on the top of the hill. “Wolves were about, but he managed to get up there.”

“Let’s see if he’s still there, then,” said the bailiff, and they began to make their way up the slight incline.

Tanner stayed at the back again at first, but then he shrugged and put the thoughts from his mind. If he was alive, they would be sure to find out as soon as they caught him. There was no point in speculating.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

The call made them all stop and cautiously glare at the rocks before them. Then Simon tentatively rode forward a couple of yards. “Is that you, Greencliff?”

“No.” There was a dry chuckle. Then there was a movement above them, and they saw what had appeared to be a boulder detach itself from the tor and spring lightly to the ground before them.

For a moment they contemplated him in silence, then Simon rode forward a pace or two. The man held himself alert and had the look of a fighting man, but did not look as though he was dangerous. Merely wary at the sight of three strangers out here in the wild.

Glancing to his side, Simon saw that Rush had come up alongside.

“I know this man,” the hunter muttered, “I saw him trotting away from Wefford the day the witch was killed.“

Simon nodded, then looked back to the Gascon. “Good morning, friend. I am a bailiff. We are hunting an outlaw, a man who is running from justice. His feet led us here – have you seen him?” He gave a brief description.

“He is not here now,” said the Bourc.

“What do you mean? Have you seen him?” Simon asked eagerly.

The Bourc put his head to one side thoughtfully as he peered up at the bailiff. “I have, but he did not seem to be an outlaw. I gave him a place to sleep last night. He was here with me, but he left some time ago. Come to my camp, I will show you the path he took and you can warm yourselves by my fire for a while,” he said quietly, and, turning, led the way to the ring of old stones that stood at the summit, just under the tor.

To Simon it looked like an enclosure. It was about fifteen paces across and roughly circular, lined with boulders of the local grey granite, with here and there a patch of orange or brown lichen peeping out from under a thatch of snow. At one side was a pile of the Gascon’s tools and belongings, with, beside them, his pony and a small packhorse. To the right, beyond a fire of fresh kindling, was a low gap in the rocks of the tor. Near the fire were the carcasses of two wolves, freshly skinned, the flesh clean and glistening with silver where the membranes held the muscles. The pelts were stretched on wooden frames nearby. Simon walked to them and kicked one corpse thoughtfully while their host strode to the fire and crouched contemplatively in front of it.

“So he was here. Where did he go?” he asked.

Looking up, he saw the Bourc grin. “Oh, yes. He was here.” With a jerk of his chin, he pointed towards the middle of the moors. “He left about an hour ago, just as you all appeared through the trees. Made an excuse and ran for it. He won’t have gone far.”

“Right!” Mark Rush tugged his horse’s reins, pulling it over to the far side of the enclosure. Tanner following, while Simon stood and looked out in the direction John had shown. There, clear against the white background, were the footsteps. Now they were more purposeful, each step defined as an individual print without the dragging lines where the feet seemed too heavy to lift above the crust of snow. As he looked, he became aware of the man at his side.

“What are you after him for?”

“Murder. He’s killed two people.”

“Really?” The note of sadness made Simon turn to him with an eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, Bailiff. It just seems so unlikely, he is a pleasant enough lad.”

“It seems he’s killed a man and a woman. Both over the last week.”

There was a brief pause, then the black eyes met Simon’s in a frown. “How did he kill them?”

“He cut their throats.”

The Bourc sighed, then told him of the blood-stained ballock dagger. When he had finished, the bailiff stared after the men on their horses, now riding slowly away after the fugitive. “That more or less proves it, doesn’t it?” he said musingly.

These were the steps of a rested man. His prints showed deep at the toe, light at the heel, and Tanner saw that the boy had been running. He sighed. It was sad to think of the youth, only just an adult, bolting in fear of his life, trying to escape his death.

Because that was what the outcome would be if he was found guilty of the murders, and the boy must know that.

There was only one penalty to avenge the murder of a man or woman: hanging.

There was a small gasp of excitement at his side, and when he looked over, Mark Rush’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. Following his gaze, Tanner saw a tiny figure in the distance, a slender, stick-like shape, seeming to pelt across the snow.

“Come on!” cried the hunter, and both whipped their mounts.

Tanner stuck rigidly to the footprints. It was possible that the boy had thought of taking any pursuers over rough or broken ground to try to throw them off. If he had led them towards a mire, they could get stuck. The constable kept his eyes down, but saw no sign of any obstacles. Jolting and lurching, they rode up one slope, then down the other side. Now they could see him, some distance off in the distance, making for a copse in a valley. “Bugger!” he thought. “Must stop him before that, it’ll take hours to find him if he reaches it.” But he need not have feared.

As they pelted forward, he saw the shape take a tumble, tripping and falling, roiling, to lie for a moment as if winded. Then he got up again, and set off once more, but this time he was slower, and looked as though he was limping. His speed was gone, and the two men chasing felt confident enough to slow to an easy canter, taking the pursuit more carefully to protect their horses.

They rode up in front, swinging round in a curve, to come to a halt facing him, sitting on their horses between him and the protection of the trees. As he sat and watched the wretched figure of the man staggering towards them, Tanner felt the sadness again. It looked as if he had been ruined. His hair was matted and slicked down over his head, damp from falling in the snow. His tunic and jacket were covered in white as well, making him look like a weird monster of the winter. But his eyes were full of his grief. Even from a distance Tanner could see that.

“We hunted that?” He heard the hunter say in wonder, as if he too was feeling compassion for a destroyed life. The constable nodded and let out his breath in a long drifting feather on the frozen air.

A few yards from them, Greencliff stopped and stood surveying them with a frowning face that seemed close to breaking into tears. When they both kicked their horses forward, he took a half-pace back, then twitched the front of his tunic aside, and pulled his dagger out. “Leave me alone!”

“Come on, Harold. You can’t stab me.” Tanner felt that the words sounded ridiculous even as he said them.

“I can’t go back. I won’t! There’s nothing for me. Just let me go. Please…” His eyes filled with tears. “Just let me go.”

“You know we can’t do that, Harold. We have to take you back.”

“Why? Sir Baldwin doesn’t need me…”

“Bugger Sir Baldwin,” said Mark Rush from Tanner’s side. “We can’t let you go after you murdered Alan Trevellyn. What’s it to be? Alive or dead?” As he spoke he pulled his bow over his head and checked the string.

“Alan Trevellyn?” Tanner was sure that he saw absolute horror in the boy’s eyes. “Dead?”

The bow was ready. Mark Rush took his time over selecting an arrow, then tugged one free and fitted it. “I suppose you wanted to just scare him? That’s why you cut his throat, like you did with the old witch too. Never mind. You can apologise to them both when you get to hell.“

Tanner watched as the boy gaped, but then, as if with a sudden resolution, he pulled his dagger’s sheath free and put the blade away, tossing it towards the men. “You can put up your bow. I surrender to you. Yes, I killed them both.” The words were said calmly, but with what looked to Tanner like a kind of tired but firm defiance. He stood patiently while the constable swung from his horse and strolled over to the prisoner, tied his hands with a thong, then picked up his dagger and pointed back the way they had come.

“Come on, Harold. Let’s get back.”

Simon watched the slow approach of the three men, two on horseback, one staggering slightly on foot, with a feeling of relief. At least there was no one else hurt. Greencliff had not managed to stab one of the men when they captured him.

He heard the crunch of snow as the Bourc strolled over to stand beside him. At the sound of a sigh, Simon turned with surprise. It seemed out of place for the man. From what he had seen of the stranger, he had appeared to be strong and self-sufficient, not the sort to express sympathy for a murderer and outlaw.

Catching the bailiff’s eye, the Bourc shrugged, ashamed. “I know. He’s a killer. But he’s a likeable sort of lad. I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of murder. He seems too quiet. And he seems more sad than cruel.”

“But you said you found blood on his dagger!”

“So I did. So I did. Could it have been in defence?”

Simon paused and considered. “Defence? No, I don’t think so. Both murders were from behind, both of them had their throats cut. I don’t think they could have been killed except by a man who wanted to murder them. I can’t see it was defence. In any case, what defence would he need from an old woman?”

“Old woman?”

“Yes, he killed an old woman in Wefford.”

Simon became aware of a sudden tenseness as the man leaned forward and said, “What was this woman’s name, Bailiff?”

“Her name?” The three men were almost with them now, the lone walker struggling in the deeper snow that lay beneath the hillside, moving slowly and swinging his arms as if trying to maintain his balance. “She was called Agatha Kyteler.”

There was a sudden intake of breath from the man, and Simon turned to see that his eyes were filled with horror as he stared at the figure labouring towards them. “Agatha? You killed Agatha Kyteler?”

The bailiff gasped. “Of course! You must be the Bourc de Beaumont!”

“Yes, I am, but how…?”

“I am friend to Sir Baldwin. He mentioned you had been staying with him. He would like to see you again, I am sure. Would you ride back with us?”

The Bourc stared past the bailiff towards the centre of the moors, and when he glanced back, he smiled ruefully. “My friend, I think it would be a very good idea for me to return with you, and when I next leave for the coast, I think I shall take the roadways like others do, and avoid my own short cuts! Ah! Here they are.”

Turning back, Simon saw the men entering the ring of stones.

Now he could see the youth close to again, Simon felt that he was unwell. He had the feverish red and apparently sweating face of a convalescent. Was it that or was it just his guilt? Was it illness from his nights out in the cold or a deeper sickness at the knowledge of what he had done, of what his price must be now he was captured? His hands looked blue, as though the blood was cut off, and the bailiff made a note to get the thong tying him loosened.

His eyes were bright and steady, not ashamed or worried. They almost looked relaxed, as if he had tested himself and found himself to be stronger than he had expected. Although he appeared dirty and unkempt, he still stood tall – a bit like Baldwin, Simon thought. Proud and arrogant in his confidence.

The boy stood staring at him for a moment, then peered over his shoulder. Throwing a quick glance behind him, Simon saw that the Bourc was crouching by the fire and feeding it with fresh branches. The bailiff saw that the boy was struggling to control a shiver, and wordlessly led the way to the heat, Greencliff squatting and holding his bound hands to the flames with a small grunt of pain. After a moment Simon pulled his dagger free and, reaching over, sliced through the thong. The boy gave him a nod of gratitude before returning his gaze to the fire.

Tanner hobbled his horse before walking to the three by the fire. He stood and watched his prisoner for a moment, then pulled the ballock knife from his belt and tossed it to the ground beside the bailiff.

Looking up, Simon saw his serious – sad? – gaze and picked it up. Pulling the blade from the sheath, he saw the stains and picked at them with his fingernail. There was no way to tell for certain, but it looked a dirty brown, like dried blood.

“Whose blood is this, Harold?” he asked.

The light eyes glanced at him, then down at the knife for a moment with apparent disinterest before he shrugged and faced the flames. “Trevellyn’s, probably.”

“He admitted the murders,” said Tanner, and dropped down beside the bailiff.

“Why did you do it, Harold? Why kill them?” Simon said, frowning at the gasp from the Bourc.

The boy did not even bother to turn to face them. “I wanted to get away. I wanted money. They refused to give me any.”

“But you must have known that Agatha Kyteler had nothing! I suppose Alan Trevellyn was wealthy, but she had nothing! Why kill her?”

But they could get nothing more from him. He ignored their questions, sitting silently, his face set, with his hands to the fire, and his shoulders hunched as if they could act as a barrier to their questions.