Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Chapter Twenty

It was nearly dark when Jennie Miller walked into the inn and sat at a bench near the door with her pot of cider. It was too early for most of the people to have arrived, but there were already some men standing and talking in hushed voices. She knew why. Her husband had been told earlier that some of the men had returned from the hunt. They had found where Harold Greencliff was. He would be brought back soon.

In a small village like Wefford, this was news of the first order. Unused to the excitements normal in more populous or busier places, where the number of travellers passing through led to their own difficulties, Wefford had experienced its first taste of real crime in decades, and found that it had a sour flavour.

But where there were problems, there were also compensations, and this affair was no different. After all, nobody would miss old Agatha too much. She had scared too many people after the rumours put about by that old hag Oatway. Her death had caused more interest than anything she had done while living.

When the curtain opened to show a slightly nervous, scowling and dark-haired man, she looked up with interest. The face was familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him. Thin featured, with weather-beaten skin and thick dark hair that straggled at the sides. Appearing shy, he hung back at the screens as if nervous of crossing the floor. Not tall, he looked quite thickset, but quick and lithe, a bit like her husband’s horse. Where had she seen him before? Surely he had been on a horse? It was then that she recognised him – it was the bailiffs servant… What was his name? The one who had waited outside with the horses when the knight and bailiff arrived to ask her about the day that Agatha died.

Shifting quickly on her bench, she smiled at him, and saw a minimal relaxing of his glower. Patting the bench seat beside her, she beckoned to him, then waved at the innkeeper.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked innocently, and he asked for a strong ale, sitting ungraciously beside her.

“Aren’t you the man that came to see me with Sir Baldwin Furnshill and the bailiff the other day?” she said when his beer had arrived and he had taken a deep draught.

He nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and now his face had lost some of its black dejection. The flavour of the beer restored some, if not all, of his equanimity.

Hugh was annoyed. So far today he had been told to help two serving women (either old enough to be his mother) with moving barrels in the buttery, then Margaret had asked him to help an hostler in the stables area, and finally, he had been instructed by a haughty man-servant that Hugh had been assigned to him to help with the mews, the sheds behind the stables where the falcons were left to mew, or moult.

When he had gone to Margaret to demand some sympathy, she had been short with him. Of course he understood that she was upset at the continuing absence of her husband, but that was no reason to take things out on him. On seeing him, she had made it very clear that he was expected to help wherever he was needed while they stayed under Baldwin’s roof, and that meant doing whatever the servants felt was useful. After being peremptorily ordered to go out and help with the mews, he had obeyed, but had then made sure that he could not be seen afterwards, and had quickly saddled his horse to come into the village for an evening of peace before he could be asked to do anything else.

Now, as he sat and glared moodily at his pot, he was struck with a sense of the unfairness of it all. After all, he was the servant of a bailiff. He should not have to mess about helping hostlers – the knight should have enough men to look after his horses and those of his guests!

Looking at him, Jennie could see that he was feeling gloomy, and quickly ordered him another pot of ale. After all, if the bailiffs man knew nothing, especially when he had been living with the knight, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, then no one could know anything.

“I hear they’re bringing back young Greencliff,“ she said tentatively, as if musing. ”Shame that. He’s such a nice lad, too.“

“Yes. They should be back later, or first thing tomorrow.”

“Your master? He’s with them?”

“He’s leading them,” said Hugh tetchily, then resumed his gloomy stare at his pot. “They all seem to think Greencliff must be dead, though. He was out in all that snow, so it’s unlikely he’ll survive.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “What about her”? That French wife of Trevellyn?“

Hugh stared at her uncomprehendingly, wondering what she was talking about. “Eh? What, the widow? What about her?”

“Didn’t you know? She was having an affair with Greencliff. That’s why he was with her horse when she went to see the witch. He was helping his lover, looking after the horse of the woman he was having an affair with. I think she killed old Agatha while he held her horse!”

When the little group rode into town the following morning, Simon was pleased to see Baldwin, Edgar and Hugh standing outside the inn opposite the gaol. Saying, “You see to him, Tanner,” he dismounted and led his horse to the group of men standing on the patch of brushed earth, which showed red where the snow had been swept away.

“So, Bailiff. You were successful,” the knight said smiling, nodding towards the man being led into the little gaol, then, with surprise, he said, “John! I thought you left for Gascony days ago.”

He was about to question them about the hunt and where they had met, when he noticed the pinched look on Simon’s face and called out for the innkeeper. Soon, mulled wine was brought, the steam rising steadily from the liquid, and the smell from the sweetened mixture with its strong spices made the bailiffs mouth water. Taking a mug gratefully, he cupped it in his hands and blew on the surface to cool it a little, then took a sip of the scalding drink as the Bourc accepted another pot from the innkeeper.

“And, surprisingly enough, he’s alive, too!” Simon said, voicing the knight’s thoughts as he stared after the figures entering the gaol. “Yes, and it feels like I nearly died of the cold myself on the way.”

Mark Rush soon joined them, and they walked indoors out of the cold.

After his initial pleasure at seeing the men returning, Simon saw that Baldwin had sunk into a pensive reverie. The Keeper of the Peace was wondering whether he would shortly see the boy, his villein, hanged in the market square for the murders. It was surely not pleasant, Simon thought, to have to see the last remaining member of an old family on the estate coming to this kind of ignominious end. Far better that the boy had died on the moors or in the woods. To an extent, perhaps, it would have been better for all concerned if Greencliff had put up a defence and had died with an arrow in his head. At least that way there would have been an end to the matter. Now there would have to be a trial, with the lad perhaps attempting to defend himself – though how he could try to was beyond Simon’s imagination. The evidence all pointed to him.

As the knight called for more drinks, an eyebrow delicately rising at the speed with which the men finished off their first pots, Simon leaned forward on his elbows and jerked his head towards the Gascon. “Your friend knows a little more about the day Trevellyn died, and the day Agatha Kyteler was killed.”

“Really?” said Baldwin, glancing across the Bourc, who looked up inquiringly. “John? Simon says you can help us with the death of your old nurse and the merchant. Is that right?”

Before the Gascon could answer, Simon fixed him with a gleaming eye. “Be very careful how you respond, John. Your father’s friend thought you might be the killer.“

The Bourc stared at him, then at the sheepish knight. “You thought I did it?”

Shifting uneasily, Baldwin grimaced, “It did seem odd that you were with the old woman when…”

Laughing, Simon enjoyed the sight of his friend’s embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Baldwin. Anyway, he has an alibi, even if we didn’t already have Greencliff. Rush saw the Bourc on the road at dusk that day, far south of Wefford.”

“So what do you know of these killings, John?” the knight asked.

“I saw them both before they died.”

“Both?”

“Yes. When I left you on Tuesday morning, I went to see Agatha, as I said. I told you about the escape from Acre, but not the last detail. Agatha told me that herself. My mother wanted to save me, so she went to the boats to ask for a passage. You know more about it than I do, of course, but apparently it was mayhem. Boats everywhere, and all of the sailors demanding huge fees to save people. My mother carried me along the harbour, begging for help, but no one would help. Then she thought she had found one. Trevellyn’s ship.

“The master was happy to take her,” he said. “Pleased to, he said. But then he named his fee. Not money, not her jewels, just her. He wanted her!” He sipped his drink sullenly, but then grinned lopsidedly. “My mother apparently refused his kind offer, and asked that he accept a more sensible fee, but he insisted, and she came away empty-handed. Anne of Tyre, my mother, was of an important family, and I suppose she could not comprehend how low things had sunk by then. Anyway, she gave me to my nurse, and pleaded with her to take me to my father’s house. That was Agatha.

“To shorten the story, she managed to get on board, and refused to leave. She had all that remained of my mother’s wealth, and that was the cost of her passage. You have seen the man Trevellyn’s house? I would guess many of the stones of his walls were purchased by my mother’s jewels. A sobering thought, eh?”

“What became of your mother?” asked Simon.

“She died, I hope,” said the Bourc shortly, and Baldwin gave the bailiff a quick glare to stop him asking more. Time enough later, the knight thought, to explain about the horrors of capture by the besiegers of Acre, about the multiple rapes, the slow and painful murders – or, worse, the lifetime of slavery, owned by a fat merchant or prince. Far better, as the Bourc said, for the poor woman to have died quickly. Perhaps she was in the Temple when it collapsed, mercifully crushing all those who could not escape together with the remainder of their protectors, the last of the Templar Knights in the Holy Land. They were all buried together, in the one massive tomb.

“And you said that the ring you wore was the token of your position?” asked Baldwin.

“The ruby? Oh, yes. My father gave it to my mother, she gave it to Agatha, and she used it to prove who I was when she finally got me to my father.”

“You are not wearing it…”

“No, I gave it to her when I saw her on Tuesday.”

“You gave it to her?”

The surprise in the knight’s voice made the Bourc glance up at him. “Yes. She was not wealthy, and I thought it could be useful to her. I gave it to her as a token that my family would always remember her protection of me. Now… Well, now I wonder whether that is why she died.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps Greencliff saw the ring and killed her for it. She might have died because of the present I gave her.”

Baldwin untied his purse and withdrew the ring, setting it on the table before the Bourc, whose eyes grew large and round as he stared at it.

“But… How did you find it?”

“It was not stolen. Greencliff did not see it – or did not care about it. We found it in her house after her death.”

The Gascon gingerly picked it up and studied it for a moment. “That is a relief, I suppose,” he said at last and passed it back to Baldwin. “At least I know I was not responsible for her murder.”

“I’m sure you were not,” said Baldwin. “But the ring is yours. Take it!”

“No. Let it be buried with her. She has little else. At least that way her act toward me will always be with her.” Baldwin nodded and replaced it in his purse.

“Why were you here to see her?” asked Simon frowning thoughtfully. “Was it just to give her the ring?”

“I have no reason to hide it. For many years I have sworn to find the woman who saved me, to thank her and to find out more about my mother. But where do you begin to search? She had left my father’s court when I was weaned, many years ago. Where she had gone seemed a mystery to all, but then a letter arrived.”

“A letter?”

“Yes. It said that Agatha Kyteler was here. As soon as I heard, I set off to find her. It did not take so very long.” he settled back in his seat as if that explained everything.

Now Baldwin leaned forward. “This letter,” he said. “Who was it from?”

“We weren’t supposed to know,” the Bourc said smiling, then shrugged. “It was not signed, but it came from England, that much we found from the messenger.”

“And the messenger came from…?”

“He came from a town just outside Bordeaux, from a wealthy family. I asked them. They said it had come to them in a letter from their daughter, with a note asking them to send it on to me.”

The knight mused, wrapping his right arm around his chest and resting his chin in the palm of his left so that it covered his mouth. Shooting a quick glance at the Bourc, who sat imperturbably sipping at his pot, he said, “There’s more, isn’t there? Why did you disappear? And why did you go down to the moors?”

The Bourc explained that he had thought it would be faster, and then paused. With a short laugh of pleasure, he set his pot down. Looking up, he stared at the knight, resting both hands on the bench at either side of him. “There is no reason not to tell you now, sir. Not now that the boy confessed to the murders. I admit it! When I stayed with you that night I was thinking about killing Trevellyn!”

“What?” said Simon, sitting suddenly upright and spilling his drink in surprise. “In God’s name, why?”

“Simon, have you not heard a thing the man has been saying?” said Baldwin curtly. Then, to the Bourc, “So, you would have killed the man who had caused your mother’s death. What stopped you?”

“Agatha was not at all how I had imagined. She was bitter and cruel, all she wanted was what she called revenge. But when I came to think about it, there seemed little point. Would the man be able to remember my mother? She was probably nothing more to him than just another refugee. And he did not touch her. She decided not to pay the price he demanded, but he did not actually do anything to her!” Under the stern gaze of the knight, he gave a quick shamefaced grin. “I don’t know, sir, whether you have been in a position where you have had control of refugees. I have. I know that it is easy to take advantage when you have power like that, power to give or take away life.”

Baldwin nodded. “So the choice did not seem so easy once you realised what Agatha wanted you to do for her?”

“Not, it was not at all easy. But one thing was odd.”

“What?”

“She never wanted the message to be sent to me. It came from a friend of hers, and was not Agatha’s idea.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Oh, yes. I asked Agatha. She was surprised to see me on the Monday when I explained who I was. She had not expected to see me again.”

“And she told you all this on that Monday?”

“Yes, sir. Some of it she told me later, on Tuesday, when I went to say farewell. I thought I should return home and leave the merchant. I had done what I wished. I had given her the ring and found out more of my mother. But when she asked me to kill this man Trevellyn, on the Monday, I had to have time to think about it. She said it would be revenge for what he had done to my mother. I thought, and made my decision: I could not.”

“And you left her well on the Tuesday? You saw no one else there?”

“No, there was nobody there that I saw.”

“What about when you left? Which way did you go? Along her lane?”

“No, I left in among the trees. Agatha told me that she was often having people go to see her, and I might scare them away! She asked me to stay hidden, and I did as she asked.”

“On your way back from seeing her? Did you see anyone?”

“Ah, yes. Coming back I saw a woman.” He smiled, “It was Mrs. Trevellyn, Agatha told me that! She thought it was quite funny. The woman went to see her often, she said, and she found it amusing. Alan Trevellyn wanted children, but his wife did not.”

Simon heard his friend draw in his breath. “But I thought… Was it Mrs. Trevellyn who sent you the letter saying where Agatha was living?”

“Yes. I suppose she had heard of me from the old lady and thought I could ease her last years.”

“So, you say Agatha wanted you to revenge your mother?” said Baldwin.

“Yes. But I couldn’t. Oh, I had seen the man, and I disliked him, but that’s no reason to kill, and as for my mother… I am a soldier. I have seen what happens when a city is captured, and I have taken part. How can I condemn or kill a man because he took advantage of his position, when I have done so myself? No, I decided that I should leave him.”

“And then you left?”

“Yes. She asked me to go.”

“It’s interesting that the man she wanted you to kill died only days later,” said Baldwin pensively, and the Bourc nodded and shrugged.

“I have nothing to hide. It is more strange than you realise.” He explained about his meeting with Trevellyn at the inn, the ambush, and his subsequent visit to the merchant’s house. “He tried to whip me, and I wasn’t expecting that, but I think he was used to whipping men who would do his bidding: his servants, maybe even sailors. He worked in the east, perhaps he ran a galley for a time… I do not know. Anyway, the blow caught me on my back as I ducked, and that made me very angry.”

His eyes misted as he remembered the lash sweeping back ready for another strike, and as he told them, he saw it all in his mind’s eye: the way that the pain had lanced across his back like a slash from a razor, the way that he had sprung forward before the merchant could attack again. He had not even drawn his sword, the rage and pain were too intense. As the handle of the whip came forward again, the Bourc had swiped a gauntletted fist and caught him on the cheek and temple, felling him like a sapling under the axe.

By the time the merchant came to again, the Bourc had calmed, but Trevellyn did not know that. All he could see was the heavy blade of his sword at his throat. That was when the Gascon told him who he was and saw the terror spring into the small, black eyes.

“He honestly seemed to think I was a ghost,” he said. “He was horrorstruck at seeing me.” He gave a short laugh. “I don’t know what he thought was worse: that I had reappeared from his distant past, or the fact that I had bested his men!”

“Did you do anything else to him?” asked Baldwin.

The Bourc glanced at him and grinned. “What? Cut his throat, you mean? No, my friend, I’m afraid I did not! I left him there when I heard some of his men coming back, then made my way back to Wefford. Next morning I started south. I was happy that Trevellyn would not try anything new.” He went on to describe his journey south and the attacks from the wolfpack.

When he had finished, Simon leaned back in his chair and gazed at his friend. “Well? It fits with what we know, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Baldwin pensively. “And now Greencliff has confessed, that is an end to the affair, isn’t it?”

Chapter Twenty-one

Once they had passed through from Crediton and were making their way along the winding road north to Tiverton, Simon tried to break the depressed silence. “Did you know he still had the knife with him?”

“Eh?” Baldwin’s face registered bafflement.

“I said: the knife – he still had it with him. It even had the blood on it.”

“Oh, you mean Greencliff. No, I didn’t know that.” he returned to his gloomy perusal of the trees ahead.

“Baldwin?” Simon attempted. “Baldwin?”

“What is it?” the knight turned to him irritably.

“What the hell’s the matter?”

At the exasperation in his voice, the knight smiled apologetically. He looked as though he was about to deny any concern, but then, after a quick glance around, seeing that Edgar and Hugh were some distance behind and that Mark Rush was a little way in front of them, he dropped his voice conspiratorially and leaned over towards the bailiff.

“This is very difficult, old friend. I think I might have… No, that’s not right… I feel that there could be a… Well now, since…” He suddenly broke off, and Simon almost laughed aloud at the sight. Here was a brave and resolute modern knight, completely lost for words. His eyes met Simon’s and the bailiff saw near panic in them.

“And what does she say?”

“I haven’t… How did you know?”

This time Simon did laugh. “Baldwin, did you really think you had kept it secret? God in heaven! The very first time you saw her it was like watching a cock with a hen. It was obvious what you were thinking…”

“Please, Simon, save my blushes,” the knight murmured.

“So you have not yet said anything to her?”

“How can I, after the death of her husband?”

“Baldwin, at the very least you must get to know her better. Otherwise she may not even think of you. If you don’t let her know you are interested, how can she tell you are?”

“You did!”

“That’s different. I know you.”

He digested this in silence for a moment. “But what should I do? I can’t just go to her house and say, ”Hello, Mrs. Trevellyn, would you like to be my wife now your husband’s been murdered?“ can I?”

The bailiff sighed. “Look,” he said, “you need to find ways of getting to know her. Ways to get her alone so that you can both talk. Maybe take her hawking, or just out for rides sometimes.”

“Is that how you won Margaret?” the knight said, his eyes clouded with anxiety and doubt.

“No, I simply asked her father.”

“Well, shouldn’t I…”

“No, Baldwin. I was winning a young girl. You’re trying to get a woman, one who knows her own mind, possesses her own household, has her own land and wealth. You have to win her, not her relatives.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Then why do you look so worried?”

“I’d rather be riding into a battle than trying to take on this role, old friend. That’s why!”

Simon laughed, but then his face grew serious for a moment as he gazed ahead with a pensive expression, chewing his lip. “We’re not far. Come on, we’ll drop in on her now.”

“No, Simon, I think…”

“Come on, Baldwin. To battle!” the bailiff laughed, and to the knight’s abject misery, he turned to the servants and called, “Hugh! Edgar! We’re going to the Trevellyn house first, before going back to Furnshill.”

The bailiff was still grinning as they clattered up the hill to the Trevellyn manor, and his good humour did not fade as he banged on the door with his fist. It was only later, after they had entered, that the doubts began to assail him, but the thought had its inception with the opening of the front door, the rest was merely the gestation period.

When the door swung open, Simon found himself confronted by a pretty maidservant, a slim young woman of maybe twenty, with pert breasts and a cheeky smile. Her face was prettily framed by curling brown hair, and her lips parted in a smile as she saw him. Acknowledging her, Simon led his friend through to the hall, where both waited for the lady of the house to enter. Their servants waited with the horses in the stables, feeding them.

Upon the arrival of Angelina Trevellyn, Simon glanced at Baldwin expecting to see him step forward, but seeing his friend transfixed, he instead took a half-pace back. The knight appeared to be tongue-tied, standing as if in a dream as she approached, and Simon was pleased to see the way that the woman’s face changed on seeing Baldwin. It was as if her features were lighted by a subtle glow, and her step quickened as though she was keen to be close to the knight.

Looking at her, Simon felt a warm delight. It was not only her obvious pleasure at seeing Baldwin, it was also partly the sight of a woman in the perfection of her youth. There was no hardness to her. Her face, her body, all were composed of soft curves. Under the rich-looking blue tunic, her body moved with the grace and elegance of a well-bred Arab horse, all controlled energy carefully harnessed. Her hair was pulled back and today she was bare-headed, emphasising her wide brow, unmarked by lines, above narrow eyebrows. It was the eyes that immediately caught the interest, though.

To Simon they looked like twin chips of emerald, glinting in the firelight, not with cold arrogance, but with a warm and calm joy. Self-confident, self-possessed, she radiated a distinct and deliberate sexuality, and even Simon found it difficult to take his eyes from her.

While she chatted inconsequentially, she kept her eyes on the knight, hardly seeming to acknowledge the bailiff, and led them to chairs before the fire. Then she ordered wine, and it was then, when the maidservant returned with a jug and three pots, that Simon’s eyes quickly hardened. It was then that the idea took root.

Suddenly the whole room felt full of danger and risk, the warmth of their welcome hollow and empty. The bailiffs eyes glazed for an instant as he reviewed every moment since he and the knight had entered the place, and then focused back on his friend. He was talking to her and stammering as he invited her to join him in a day’s hawking. The bailiff watched the maid as she walked to the door, having filled their pots. Picking up his own, he rose.

“Excuse me, madam, but I find it a little warm. I’ll just go out for some air,” he said, though the others hardly noticed him. Leaving the room by the screens, he saw the girl walking into the buttery, and quickly strode after her.

In the little room, filled with pots, jars and barrels, he found the maid drawing a pot of beer for herself. As he entered, she turned quickly, then, seeing who it was, she gave him a quick smile, shooting a glance to the door behind him.

“I wanted to speak to you. What is your name?“

Her eyes dropped demurely. “Mary, sir.”

“You seem a very happy girl, Mary.”

“Thank you, sir. This is a happy household.”

“It is now, isn’t it?”

“Now, sir?”

“When I first came here, you were very different, you know.”

Her fingers began to play with a cord dangling from the neckline of her tunic. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Oh, I think you do, Mary. I think you do.” He sat on a barrel. “Did he beat you often? I suppose that was not all he did, either, was it?”

“Beat me?” Her eyes seemed to grow large in her face as she stared at him, but not with confusion. There was complete understanding there.

“When I first saw you, you were a nervous, shy thing, scared and fretful. Not now, not since he died. Not since he stopped hitting you, is that it? And what about his wife? Did he beat her too? She wasn’t sad to see him dead either, was she?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He spun around. There in the doorway was Angelina Trevellyn.

“You can go, Mary.” When the girl had scampered past, relieved to be free, the lady turned back on to the bailiff. “Well? Do you wish to interrogate me here, or shall we go back to the hall?” She picked up a jug, filled it with wine, and motioned with her hand towards the door.

Entering the room, the bailiff found Baldwin standing before the fire, his back to it, and staring at the door hopefully. Seeing Simon, his face fell a little, but then he grinned. At the sight of Mrs. Trevellyn behind, his face cleared and he smiled again.

“Please sit down, Baldwin,” she said, and pointed Simon to another chair before filling their pots with wine. “I have some things to tell you; things you may not like.”

The knight’s eyes moved over her, then flashed to Simon, black with suspicion. She carried on softly, sitting and resting her hands in her lap with an almost deliberate attempt at composure.

“Your friend is most astute, Baldwin. He has noticed the change in my house since your first visit. It is not surprising, really, but I should have admitted it to you before. It was not fair to let you think…” She paused for a moment, as if in sadness. Taking a deep breath, she carried on.

“Anyway, he is right to think that we are all much happier now. My husband, Baldwin, was a monster! He was a brute. He took me when I was young, and forced me to marry him. He trained the servants well, and beat them often when they displeased him, but he treated me the same! He thrashed me as if I was one of his hostlers! When he wished to, he ignored me and took the maids to his bed – and they dared not refuse him, just as I dared not complain.”

Baldwin stared at her in silence, but Simon was sure that there was pain in his eyes.

“So, my friend,” she continued, “when you found his body, I think none of us here were sad. Oh, no! How could we be?”

Leaning forward, the bailiff gazed at her intently, but she kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet his. “Mrs. Trevellyn, why did you stay with him? You could have left him and gone home again.”

She looked up at that, with an unmistakable look of sadness. “Could I? How? My home is in Gascony, a little to the south of Bordeaux, so yes, I am English, the same as any other Gascon. And my father was always loyal to the English king, so I should be able to get home. But when your husband owns ships and knows all the people in the ports, how can you gain a passage? And even if there was someone to take me, how could I pay? My husband,” it sounded as if she wanted to spit at the word, “kept control of all our money. He even refused me permission to keep my jewels. Oh, no. There was no way I could leave!”

“Why did you agree to marry him in the first place?”

“I did not.” Her voice dropped and her head fell to her breast, as if slumping with exhaustion. “How could I marry a man like him? No! He captured my parents and me when we were travelling from Normandy to our home. He took all our cargo, everything, and then bargained with my father. He would have me, and let my father keep half of his goods. I was bartered like a slave! But that is how hostages are treated: whether the daughter of a merchant or the king of a province, all are treated the same.”

Nodding, Simon contemplated her. It was common enough for a man to be held until his ransom had been paid, and if her father saw a way of retrieving half of his cargo, paying the rest as a dowry, he might well consider it a good arrangement. “I understand, madam. Could you tell me what happened on the night your husband disappeared as well, please?”