Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Chapter Two

In the late afternoon of the Saturday, under a leaden sky in which gulls wheeled, the wind blew up from the grey sea in a series of gusts, disturbing the branches of the trees at the shore and cutting through the clothes of the man standing on the foredeck like arrows of ice. Until the old ship was secured he must stay here, but the coldness of the middle of winter made him wish he could leave this duty to another and make his way below, to his cabin and a warm pot of wine.

It was rare for him to be sailing this early in the year. As the master of the cog Thomas, he tried to keep the old timbers out of the sea during the freezing cold of the winter so that the clinkered hull could be retarred and sealed, but these last few years had been so hard that any cargo of food could bring high profits, and even though the Thomas needed maintenance, the old ship was good for a few more trips over to France and the English ports of Gascony.

From here, the master could see most of the old town. His lip curled into a disdainful sneer, twisting the podgy face into a glower of loathing under its thatch of greying brown hair, his hazel eyes flitting over the port area with near disgust. This was not what he and Thomas had become used to over the years.

Usually he would try to make for the wealthier Cinque ports, or for London, where the people had money and the towns were used to entertaining sailors, but not on this trip. The Cinque ports were getting too silted, making it difficult and dangerous for a cog the size of Thomas to manoeuvre into the harbour, and London was far too busy at this time of year. He sighed to himself. But this was such a miserable place!

In London there was a cheery bustle, with merchants, seamen and wharfingers shouting and swearing at each other, and the occasional fight when a curse resulted in the drawing of sword or dagger. Here was very different. Four scattered villages lay to the east of the sound, and he could just make out the Benedictine abbey that owned most of the area. Apart from that the whole place looked dead. On the docks there were a couple of men splicing heavy coils of rope, but for the most part the master could well imagine that his was the first ship seen here for months – or years. It seemed as if the place was deserted after long years of desolation.

Not, he reflected, that it would have been too surprising if it had been left long ago by its inhabitants. The French pirates, long competitors of the Cinque ports, had for some time spread their carnage to other southern ports. Now even the smaller places like this, Plymouth, were being attacked and fired more often and, with so many tiny villages and towns on the coast, it was easy for the murderers to attack with relative impunity. After all, there was no organised navy, so the country could hardly be defended in so many places. The only answer was for each man to look to his own protection, and generally that meant helping the village or town.

Sighing again, he checked the cables to the front of the ship. When satisfied, he wandered along the side of the cog looking to the other hawsers, checking all was taut and safe. It was only when he had almost arrived at the rear castle that he found his passenger.

Startled, he stopped and cursed under his breath. It had been the same every time he had seen this man. He appeared when and where he wanted, but so noiselessly on his soft leather boots that it was as if he did not need to walk, he could simply drift to any point on the ship, quiet as flotsam on the water, suddenly arriving and making everyone jump in their surprise. He was standing by the rail and gazing towards the villages with a slight smile on his face. The master studied him, wondering who this taciturn man was and what he was doing here and feeling glad that he would soon be rid of him. Today, Sunday, he would lose him and hopefully never see him again.

It was not that he had threatened the master or his crew, but there was an aura of danger about him. Although he was cheerful enough, there was something about him that urged caution, something unsettling.

He was dressed well, with an embroidered blue surcoat over grey hose. His cloak was heavy, of thick, warm wool, and he wore light leather gloves. There was a harshness about the square face, an air of indifference in the set of the granite-like jaw, as if he cared nothing for the people around him. His thin, curved eyebrows exuded an arrogant haughtiness – like a new squire or a recently dubbed knight. It was as though he knew his own value, and that of others. He clearly felt sailors to be necessary but unimportant in comparison to himself, and although he treated the master with courtesy, there was an underlying contempt. It was there in the pale grey eyes. They looked through people, like a steel blade stabbing through paper, as if they could see a man’s most secret thoughts.

If he had been older, his indifference towards others might have marked him out as a man of wealth. In one so young – for he was little more than six or seven and twenty years old – it merely served to warn. He was a man to be avoided.

He was obviously hardened in battle, from the width of his shoulders and strongly muscled arms. At his age, he was old enough to be dead on a battlefield or living as a wealthy lord: many men like him made their fortunes in their early twenties, becoming great by virtue of loyalty and prowess, or dying in the attempt. Constantly on the alert, always ready to reach for his sword, he did not look like a man who could be easily ambushed in a moment of thoughtlessness.

There was something strangely noble about him too, the master admitted grudgingly. It was in his posture, not slouching like an over-muscled, mindless fool, but rolling gently with the ship, looking for all the world like a new king proudly surveying his inheritance – or conquests.

To his discomfort, the man turned and fixed his light eyes on the master. “When can I go ashore?” he asked softly.

Shrugging, he glanced over the last few ropes. “We seem well enough berthed. Whenever you want. Why, are you in a hurry?” Even after the voyage he still knew little about this stranger.

“Yes,” the man said, turning to face him. “I am in a hurry.” There was a suppressed eagerness in his voice, a slight thrill that hinted at keen excitement lying almost hidden under his calm-seeming exterior, like a harrier dog who has just seen his prey. Looking at him, the master could see that he appeared to have the controlled anticipation of a man-at-arms waiting for the order to go to battle.

“Do you have far to go?” he asked.

“No, not far. Just to the north of here, to a small manor.” His eyes turned back to their introspective study of the land. “To a place north and east of the moors. It’s called Furnshill.”

The master left him. Men such as he were disturbing, and all too often dangerous. It was hazardous enough just being responsible for a ship in these difficult times without courting additional troubles. He strode forward and began issuing instructions for unloading the ship.

As he left, John, Bourc de Beaumont, turned back to the view. He had other thoughts to absorb him. Not many memories, for they were too far in the past and his life had been full since the parting so many years before, with the continual training and service to the count, the Captal de Beaumont. All his life had been spent in serving him, his lord – and father. He did not regret it, it had been a good education for a man who would become a soldier, a man who would need to spend his time in training with weapons to be able to protect his master.

In that time he had hardly paused to regret his loss. Indeed, it was hard to think of it in those terms. All he now had were vague recollections, pictures seen as if through a milky haze, where faces and features were indistinct.

Was it wrong of him to come and see her, though. The Captal de Beaumont had felt so – had said so – not with anger, but with a slight sadness as he tried to explain that it could do her no good; it would not ease her last years. But the Bourc was sure it could not be wrong to see her just once, to see what she actually looked like. He was not going to punish her for what she had done: she had done the best she could, and without thinking of herself or her own safety. He was grateful for the opportunity she had given him, and had tried to take advantage of it.

At first it had been easy, of course. When he had been young it had all come so naturally, as if he had in truth been born to the Captal de Beaumont’s wife and not to his mother, as if he had not been the Bourc, the bastard. He had known no better. But then, while he was still a squire training to be knight, the snide comments had started. It was not malicious, they were merely the cruel, pointed comments of young boys to a peer who was different. It meant little to them that he was the Captal’s son. To them he had no mother and that was enough. He was marked with the worst scar possible for a child: that of not being the same as others.

But John, Bourc de Beaumont, had proud blood in his veins – from both the Captal and from Anne of Tyre – and he endured the comments, only occasionally defending his virtue and honour. As he grew into a tall man, fit and lean, the need to protect his name reduced in proportion to his size and the extent of his warrior training, until at last he had his spurs and became a knight.

He always knew that some day he would have to go and seek her. In the event he had remained much longer than he had originally planned. For a man trained in war who delighted in battle, there were few places better than the marches between French and English lands. Here there was honourable service, opportunities to prove himself a worthy man, and to earn money from ransoms and protection money. But after so many years of fighting, he wanted some peace for a few months, and a chance to find out the truth while he still could.

Slamming an open hand on to the rail in a gesture of decision, he made his way to his packs, lying on the deck by the main mast. A sudden thought made him pause. She would be old now: according to the Captal de Beaumont she should be about fifty, maybe a little more, so well into old age. She might even have died. Throwing a quick glance at the coast again, he was troubled by the thought.

With an effort he calmed himself and continued to his bags. If she had died, there was nothing he could do about it, it was God’s will. And his own fault for delaying the trip for so long. Collecting his things together, he walked to the plank that would deposit him once more on solid, safe, dry land, and he felt a small smile of relief twitch at his mouth. It would be good to be able to move without the constant pitching and rolling of the round-keeled ship to make him feel continually on the brink of vomiting.

Once at the shore he hefted his packs and took stock. Spying an inn, he set off for it. A drink and some food would fill the time until his horses were offloaded.

When the innkeeper of the ‘Sign of the Moon’ in Wefford entered his hall on the Monday, his feeling of pride was dimmed as the reek attacked his senses. It was not the ale on the floor, that acidic scent held for him the very promise of his business. The smell that assailed his nostrils was the harsh, bitter tang of vomit where young Stephen de la Forte had thrown up – again.

Even now in the early morning he felt the thrill of pride at the sight of his hall. It held the promise of comfort and pleasure, with the tables and benches laid down both sides, more at either end, and the massive hearth in the centre on its bed of chalk and soil. There were no flames now, so he set to his first task, building up the fire slowly with kindling, bending low and blowing gently but persistently until the flames, small and yellow, began to lick upwards enthusiastically and he could put smaller logs on top.

Sitting back on his haunches, he stared at it cautiously, satisfying himself that it had caught. Up above he could see the smoke drifting heavily, high among the blackened rafters. It would be some time before the room heated, he knew, but when it was, the smoke would disappear. Time now for the real work.

He began in the corner by the screens. At first he shoved the benches and chairs aside to be able to sweep underneath, but when he had got halfway, the novelty was wearing off. Realising how long he had already spent, he left the furniture where it was and merely swept around it. He was keen to finish before the first customers appeared. Arriving at the discoloured area, he could not help a grimace of disgust at the odour.

Fetching the big shovel he used in the stables, he carried the old rushes to the manure heap. It was fortunate that the pile was not far from his door, for there was a chill breeze coming from the south. A sudden shiver shook him, and he made haste to finish.

Once the floor was cleared, and all was as clean as he could get it, he found that there was only the hint of the vomit left on the air. The smoke from the fire hung in long streamers around the room like a mist over the moors on a windless day. Gradually eating its way into the atmosphere, it replaced the stench with its own healthy and wholesome bitterness. Nodding happily to himself, the innkeeper wandered outside to the store, and soon returned with fresh rushes, strewing them liberally over the floor. For some, laying new rushes was an irregular task only performed once a year, but for an inn it was the only way to keep the smells from becoming overpowering.

He had completed his task, and was standing with his hands on his hips when he heard the horses. Smiling, he reflected that new rushes worked for customers like cream with a cat. Whenever they were freshly laid the customers were sure to follow. Scanning the room one last time, he confirmed that all seemed well, then strode to the curtain that hid the passageway. At the end of the narrow corridor, he unlatched the front door and threw it open, peering out. Tall and imposing under his hooded cloak, with a bow on his back and sword by his side, was a man on a horse, leading a second by the reins.

The Bourc sprang down lightly. He had been forced to stop for the night at a little wayside inn, some miles from Oakhampton, and had set off again as early as possible in the morning. Now he was chilled to the bone, or so he felt. Puffing out his cheeks, he let his breath drift from compressed lips, then shook himself like a dog fresh from the water. “I think I need a pint of hot ale,” he said softly.

The innkeeper nodded and smiled before turning to fetch the drink and warm it, while the Bourc led his horses round to the stables, rubbing them down and setting out hay and water before making his way indoors. He smiled at the smell of fresh rushes, soft as the scent of hay on a summer’s evening, and the promise of warmth from the burning wood at the hearth. There was a cheering tang from the beer in the pot over the flames. Sighing with pleasure, he waited silently while the innkeeper busied himself pouring the hot and spiced drink into a mug, and took it with a sigh of sheer delight. It was almost painfully lovely after the cold discomfort of the ride here. He gazed deep into the depths of the liquid before sipping, and a slow smile spread over his face.

“Am I heading the right way for Furnshill manor?”

“Yes, sir. It is only a few miles north of here.”

“Good. Good,” he said and sipped. Then, “Tell me, do you know the people of this area well?” The innkeeper nodded. Of course he did – who else would know the local community as well as the publican, his baffled expression implied. “Do you know where I can find a woman, an old woman called Agatha Kyteler?”

To the Bourc, it looked as though the man suddenly caught his breath, and his expression became suspicious. “Why do you want to know about her?”

Before he could answer there was a bellow, and both men’s eyes went to the door. The innkeeper sighed and rose, leaving the Bourc alone, sipping at his drink and considering the innkeeper’s reaction. The man had been distrustful for some reason when her name had been mentioned, he reflected, and he offered up a quick prayer that his fear of arriving too late was not going to be realised, that she had not died.

He had turned to stare at the flames as he mused and thus did not at first notice that he was no longer alone. It was the waft of flowery scent that made him look up, and when he did he gaped in awe.

The woman who stood nearby tugging her gloves off was beautiful. She was only a little shorter than him and about the same age, with a slender body clad in a light green tunic under a grey riding cloak, and when she glanced at him, he saw that the colour of her eyes almost matched her dress. High-cheeked and with pale features, she looked frail at first sight, but as he mumbled an apology and lurched to his feet he saw that it was an illusion. Her figure was strong and supple as a whip.

“Madam, please be seated,” he said, and she turned to him. He found that she had a disconcertingly intense gaze. The way she stared, it was if she was concentrating her whole being on him, looking him full in the face with a strange stillness. After what felt like several minutes, she gave a faint smile and inclined her head, sitting on the bench he had moved for her, then unclasping the grey cloak from her throat and, with a short shrug, letting it fall. The Bourc had just sat with her when another man entered.

Glancing round, the Bourc saw a barrel-chested man in his late forties or early fifties. From his breadth and peculiar, rolling gait, the knight needed no flash of intuition to guess that he must have been a sailor. The life at sea had stamped itself on him too heavily. Although the face was not badly formed, the mass of wrinkles and scars made it ugly. There was no gaiety, no pleasure or joy in his eyes, only a cold brutality. Small eyes like those of a wild boar glared from the Bourc to the woman, and as he stepped forward, the fire seemed to strike sparks in his eyes as the flames were reflected.

“Angelina! Move over!” he said, standing behind them.

To the Bourc it looked as though she was reluctant to move. As if rebelling against the order, she waited a moment while the newcomer grumbled before shifting along the bench. Even then she moved farther than she needed, leaving a gap between herself and the man, and the Bourc was pleased to see a sneer of disgust twist her face when she looked at the man. “Innkeeper!” the man bellowed. “Wine! I want wine!” Only then did he turn and peer at the Gascon. “Who are you?”

Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”

“I’m Alan Trevellyn – merchant. Who’s this master of Furnshill?”

The Bourc started and peered at him on hearing the name, then stared at the woman. She clearly felt that his gaze was in response to the man’s rudeness, and softened the harshness of the question by her gentle voice. Eyes on the Bourc, she said, “I think we have heard of him, Alan. He is named Sir Baldwin.”

The landlord arrived with a tray of wine and handed pots to the man and woman. Other people were entering now, and he was soon busy going from one group to another.

“Sir Baldwin, eh?” said Trevellyn. “Yes, I think I remember him. He’s not been there for long, has he – his brother died or something.”

“I had heard,” the woman said, “that Sir Baldwin came here just before the abbot was murdered last year.”

“But surely you have not lived here long yourself, madam?” asked the Bourc, leaning forward and peering at her.

“She’s been here long enough.” The merchant put himself between them and glared wide-eyed at the Bourc, as if daring him to continue talking.

Staring back, the Bourc allowed himself a small smile and his eyebrows rose. “Do you object to me speaking to the lady?” he inquired softly.

“Yes, I do!” the merchant said, and suddenly his face contorted with fury. “She’s my wife! Leave her alone, or you’ll have to deal with me! Understand?”

The Bourc could not prevent a quick glance at her in open-eyed astonishment. That such a small, frail thing of beauty should be tied to so brutish a man seemed impossible, but even as he caught her eye, he saw the beginnings of the dampness as if she was about to weep, and she looked away quickly. When he unwillingly dragged his gaze back, the merchant’s lip was curled in a disdainful sneer.

“My apologies, sir, I had not realised,” the Bourc said, stiffly formal. A devil tempted him to say that he had assumed Trevellyn to be her servant he looked so poorly made, but he stopped himself. He had no wish to fight so soon after arriving here. “Anyway, I am here to see Sir Baldwin for my master, as I said, and then I have some personal business to see to. There’s a lady I must see. Do you know Agatha Kyteler?”

It was not his imagination. At the name, Mrs. Trevellyn’s head snapped round to stare at him and the merchant paused with his pot halfway to his mouth. Glowering at the Bourc, Trevellyn brought the mug down with slow deliberation. “Agatha Kyteler?” he said, then spat into the fire. “Why do you want to see that old bitch?”

He could feel himself bridling at this contemptuous treatment of the woman, but held his anger on a close rein. Sitting more upright, and resting his left hand on his sword, he said, “If you have something to say of her, share it with me. I know her to be an honourable lady.”

“Honourable? She’s a witch, that’s what she is! She puts curses on people – you ask anyone around here,” Trevellyn said scornfully.

Standing, his face white and taut with anger, the Bourc stared at Trevellyn. “Say that again. Say it again and defend yourself! I know her to be honourable – do you accuse me of lying?”

There was silence for a moment, as if every man in the hall was holding his breath. “Sirs, please!” the publican called anxiously, but the three ignored him. The Gascon was still and watchful, but his rage was boiling beneath his apparent calm. Trevellyn suddenly realised how his words had affected the stranger, and now gaped with fear while his wife looked excited, but kept silent.

At last the merchant shrank back like a whipped dog. Shooting a sullen glance at the Bourc, he shrugged. “I’ve said nothing that others here won’t tell you, but… if I’ve offended you, I ask your pardon. Ask the innkeeper where she lives, if you want to see her. He’ll know.”

And that appeared to be all that he was prepared to say.

When the Bourc drained his mug, Trevellyn hardly moved. He remained sitting, staring before him and carefully ignoring the Gascon. The Bourc looked at him contemptuously, then smiled at his wife. It pained him to see the sadness in her eyes, as if she was despairing at the misery of her life with her man, and the Bourc wondered again that such a lovely woman could have been manacled to such a brute. But there was no profit in thoughts like that, and he turned abruptly and went out to his horses.