Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Chapter Four

Six miles to the south the Bourc was glancing up through the trees as he rode, retreating into his cloak in the bitter cold. On either side the trees rose stolidly impervious to the weather, but high above he could catch occasional glimpses of the stars, shining as tiny pin-pricks of light which flared and were hidden like sparks from a fire. They glittered briefly before being smothered by the ghostly clouds rushing by, clouds that made him frown with wary anxiety. They raced by as if fearful of the weather that he knew must chase hard on their heels.

Hearing hooves, he stopped and stared ahead cautiously. It was late to be travelling. Soon he saw a man riding toward him. Showing his teeth in a short grin, he nodded. The other man, dressed warm and dark for hunting, nodded back and hurried on. The Bourc smiled ruefully to himself. He was muddy from splashing through puddles, and he knew he was hardly a sight to inspire confidence in a stranger. At a sudden thought he turned, and saw that the man was staring back with frank interest. The Bourc smiled ruefully as he kicked his horse and ambled off towards Wefford.

He had travelled far enough tonight. At the first clearing that looked hopeful, he pulled off the road.

Through the trees he could see a cabin, a simple affair of rough-hewn logs. Part of the roof was gone, and it was in a sorry state, but for all that it was a refuge from the worst of the wind. He led the horses inside and saw to them before starting a fire.

Chewing at some dried meat, he considered his options. His business was finished now, so there was nothing to keep him here. The sooner he could get home the better. If he continued this way, heading to the west and retracing the route he had taken from the coast, he should arrive within a couple of days, but it would surely take a lot longer than necessary. The journey west to Oakhampton and then south was quite out of his way, working its way round the perimeter of the moors. It would be more direct and quicker to cut straight south, over the moors to the sea that way.

It was still dark the next morning, Wednesday, when, over to the south of Furnshill, Samuel Cottey harnessed his old mule to the wagon and prepared for his journey, cursing in the deep blackness before dawn as his already numbed fingers struggled with the rough brass and leather fittings, pulling hard at the thick leather straps.

“Sorry, my love, he muttered as he occasionally caught a flap of skin in the buckles, making the old animal snort and stamp. “Not long, now. We’ll soon have you done.”

All set, he stood back and surveyed his work, rubbing the bandage on his arm that covered the long gash. It was a week ago now that the branch had dropped from the tree be was felling and slashed the flesh of his arm like a sword, but, thanks to God, the old woman’s poultices seemed to be working and it was healing. Sighing, he stretched and then walked back to the cottage, stamping his feet to get the feeling to return to cold toes. Inside the smoky room, he washed himself by the fire in the clay hearth in the middle, smiling crookedly from the side of his mouth, the lips pale and thin in the square, ruddy face under the thatch of grey hair. Sarah, his daughter, smiled back into his light brown eyes as she handed his mug full of warmed beer to him and watched carefully as he drained it, smacking his lips and wiping his hand over his mouth, then burping appreciatively. Giving her a quick grin, he passed back the mug.

“That’s good,” he said, then kissed her cheek briefly. “Be back soon as I can – I’ll try to be home before dark, anyway.”

When she nodded, he left, stomping quickly to the wagon and clambering aboard, whistling for his dog. After a quick wave, he snapped the reins and began to make his way from Wefford to Crediton, the dog barking excitedly behind.

As he left the light from the open doorway behind, his mind turned back to their problems. This last year had been the hardest he had known, especially since his brother had been killed by the trail bastons, down far to the south on the moors. Now the family relied on him alone to keep both farms going. His sister-in-law was right when she said that the two families could not live on either holding: both were too small to support them all, and neither could be expanded without a deal of work, hacking down the trees that fringed them. No, the only way to continue was by keeping both going.

But how to do that? There was only him, his daughter Sarah, and his brother’s son Paul. There was too much work for them, now that they had to try to keep both properties working. Maybe they should do as Sarah suggested, and buy more pigs, at least they could often feed themselves.

The sun was lighting the early sky as he rattled and squeaked his way down the track into the village, head down, chin on his chest and shoulders hunched in an effort to keep the bitter cold from his vulnerable neck. Samuel had been a farmer for many years, and he was used to the cruelty of the wind and the freezing snow that attacked the land every winter, but the weather got worse with each passing year. Glancing up, he saw the sky was lighted with a vivid angry red, and sighed. The sharpness of the air, the streamers of mist from his mouth, and the red sky could only mean one thing: snow was on its way at last.

Passing the inn on his left, he glanced at it with longing, already wishing he could stop and warm himself before the great fire in the hall but, shuddering and shivering, he carried on, rubbing at his arm every now and again. Beyond was the turn he needed, and he made off to the right, towards Crediton, where his brother’s farm lay, between the town itself and Sandford. He had to collect their chickens and take them into the market. Paul was still too young to be allowed to go to market on his own.

It was hard, he thought, sighing again. If only poor Judith had lived longer. But his wife had succumbed to the pestilence that followed on the tail of the rain that killed off the harvest two years ago.

The trees suddenly seemed to crowd in around, him, their thick trunks looming menacingly from the thin mist that still lay heavy on the ground, almost appearing to be free of the earth, as if they could move and walk if they wished. It was this feeling that made him shiver again, peering up at the branches overhead. From somewhere deep in the trees came the screech of a bird, then some rooks called overhead, sounding strange and unnatural.

All he could hear was the clattering and squeaking of the wagon, with the occasional dull, deadened thump as the iron-shod wheels struck stones or fell into holes, and it felt impossible that any noise could be heard over the row he made, but still he caught the sounds of the waking forest, and his eyes flitted here and there nervously, as if fearing what he might see.

Then, all at once, he was out of it. The track led upwards here, to a small hill where the woods had been cleared, and he drew a deep breath of relief, blowing it out in a long feather of misted air. The feelings of dread left him, and he squirmed on the board that made his seat, telling himself he was a fool to be fearful of noises in the woods.

Here the trail was little more than a mud path, with stone walls and hedges on each side that were just below his level of vision, so that he could look over to the animals stockaded behind. Now he could see that the road opened out up in front as it passed the Greencliff barton, the old farm that had stood here for years, gradually growing as the family had cut down the trees for their sheep.

It was just before the farm, at a sudden thought, that he turned slightly, trying to look behind while keeping his body clenched like a tight fist of heat in the smothering chill. His dog had gone.

Calling out, he frowned, then hauled on the reins to stop the mule and turned, cursing. The last thing he needed was for the dog to attack one of the Greencliff sheep. There was no sign of him back on the track, so Samuel dropped from the wagon and walked back, blowing on his now-frozen hands, his face stern.

It was when he was almost level with the line of a woods that he caught a snuffling sound and then a bar from the hedge to his right, and he saw a narrow path Shaking his head impatiently, he climbed up, catching his old russet tunic on a thorn, and swearing. At the top he could see into a field full of sheep. Beneath him was a wattle fence to keep the lambs from wandering to the hedge, but a section had fallen a little. The dog must have entered here.

Precariously balanced on the summit of the wall in the hedge, he glared round. The livestock seemed untroubled. He shouted, then heard the sudden movement as the dog started, and, seeking his master, began to return, skulking as if expecting a kick.

“No more’n you deserve,” Samuel muttered, scowling at him. “What were you looking at, anyway?”

There was a lump, a huddled clumping, under the hedge that led to the woods some thirty yards away. He could not see what it was in the darkness, so he stepped forward carefully, his face frowning. When he had only taken a few steps, he took a quick intake of breath and groaned. It was a body. Rushing forward and touching the hand gently, he knew there was nothing he could do. It was as cold as granite.

For a moment he stood and looked down, shaking his head. Someone who did not respect the land and its dangers, no doubt, who had trusted to their own strength and found that nature in her cruelty could destroy even the strongest. Leaning down, he gently took a shoulder with his good arm and pulled, trying to see if he could recognise who it was, but the body was so cold it had frozen into its position, and it took all his strength. He gave a haul, and at last it shifted.

It only then, when he saw the dead, unseeing eyes in the petrified face staring back at him above the wicked blue lips of the gash, that he moaned in terror. Dropping her back on her face, he stumbled back until he tripped, and then, rising quickly and glancing at her one last time, he ran headlong to his wagon.

The bailiff was on his horse and trotting fast, riding down the narrow tunnel between the trees, the leaves lighted with a bright orange glow, towards the light at the end, branches snatching at his cloak, twigs scratching at his face, and he had to slap them away with his hand until he came into the clearing, and there he found a huge fire blazing, with, in the very centre, the hottest part, the cowled figure, who slowly turned and faced him. It was the abbot who had died the year before, glaring at him with eyes of black cinder glowing red-hot at the edges, who opened a mouth like the entrance to the void, and said in a voice deep and contemptuous, “So you thought I was unimportant? You thought my death mattered so little? You decided to let the murderer go free? Why? Why, Simon? Simon?”

“Simon! God in heaven, will you wake up! Simon!”

Lurching upright, his eyes wide in his shock, the bailiff sat up on his bench, staring wide-eyed until his heart began to slow its panicked beating. He blew out his cheeks, ran a hand through his hair, then held both hands to his face, shaking as the fear of the nightmare left him. He was still at Furnshill.

“I am sorry to waken you like this, Simon, but… Are you all right?”

The quick concern in Baldwin’s voice made Simon give a wan smile. “Yes. Yes, I was just having a dream. What is it?”

Margaret was not there. She must have gone outside. She always woke early when she was with child. Now he could only see Baldwin standing at the foot of the bench where he had made his rough bed last night, a look of wary anxiety on the knight’s face.

It was not a nightmare Simon suffered from often, but he had occasionally had it over the last few months. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to lose the feeling of gloom as he wiped the sleep away. “What’s the matter?”

“A murder, Bailiff.”

At the voice, Simon turned sharply and saw the constable, Tanner, standing behind him. “What? Who?”

Stepping forward to Simon’s side, the constable glanced across to Baldwin before beginning, as if seeking approval from the Keeper of the King’s Peace. “Well, Bailiff, it seems to be an old woman who lived in Wefford, down south of here. Sam Cottey – do you remember him? – he was on his way to Sandford this morning. Found the body and sent a message to me. He reckons she was murdered, says there’s no way it was an accident. I thought I should come here first, see if Sir Baldwin would want to come with me.”

“I do!“ said the knight with conviction. ”And so do you, don’t you, Simon?“

The bailiff was surprised to see how seriously the knight seemed to take the matter. As far as Simon was concerned, this was surely just a local incident: probably not a murder at all, but some old woman who had met with an accident. He was happy with just his long dagger at his belt. But when he was buckling it to his waist, he caught a glimpse of the rigid set of Baldwin’s face, and saw him taking his sword, pulling it out a short way and looking at it, before slipping it on over his tunic and fixing it in place.

“Anybody would think it was him who had the nightmare,” Simon thought, but then they were walking out to their horses. Taking his leave quickly of Margaret, he kissed her and swung up into his saddle, smiling at her briefly before wheeling with the others and setting off to the village.

There was a light smattering of snow as they rode, the prelude to a storm from the feel of the air, and the clouds were grey and heavy. The bailiff became aware of the knight darting quick, measuring glances upwards every now and again, studying the sky, and when he looked himself, his expression became pensive.

From the crowds it was clear that the hapless Cottey must be inside the inn. There could be no other explanation for so many people standing and waiting, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the cause of the excitement, or, ideally, a body. As soon as they became aware of the riders, they parted eagerly to let the three get to the door, and the babble began to increase with the people’s excitement.

At the entrance Simon saw a short but thickset man, broad and strong with a pot-belly, glaring round from under sandy hair, trying to keep the people away by gesturing with a stout cudgel.

“Thank heaven you’re here! These scum have nothing better to do than see someone else’s misfortune. Tanner, get rid of them, will you?”

The constable slowly heaved his bulk from his old horse and patted her neck, looking round at the people. Tanner had the kind of build that inspired respect. Even without a weapon in his hand his poise was somehow threatening, with his stolid and compact body moving slowly as if to prevent two of the great muscles colliding under his skin. Usually the eyes in his square face held a kindly light, but not now: Simon had seen that expression before, on the day that they had caught the trail bastons. Mouth pursed, he looked over the faces with disgust and, under his gaze, there was suddenly a shuffling of feet and nervous coughing. A few turned and began strolling away. Others waited a little as if unconcerned, but soon followed.

The inn had a small screens area, a wooden corridor beyond the door to keep draughts from the hall itself, and beyond a curtain on their right they found a large square room, blocked at the other end by another wooden screen and hanging tapestry. Heavy logs were already crackling and spitting merrily on the hearth in the centre of the room. Three large benches crowded round close, so that frozen customers could get to the heat. Though the roof was high above, the room was warm and the atmosphere heavy with the cloying odours of stale beer and wine.

Simon and Baldwin tramped in together, glad to be back in the warm after their journey, and went straight to the fire. Holding their hands to the flames, they followed the innkeeper’s finger, pointing at a silent figure sitting with his back to the wall on their left. His face was in the dark, but Simon could see two wide eyes staring back at him. When the flames suddenly spluttered and flared, lighting his face, the bailiff started. The farmer’s eyes were wide with terror. A black and white sheep dog was seated between his legs, head resting in his lap as if trying to comfort him.

“You’re Cottey?” asked Baldwin gently, and the ashen-faced farmer nodded. He looked ancient, a tired, drooping and slumped little man.

Tanner moved away, keeping to the shadows so as not to distract them, and pulling the innkeeper with him. At first it seemed to the constable that the knight and bailiff were unsure whether to question Cottey or not, he was so upset. As if to allay any fears he might have, Baldwin slowly seated himself, the bailiff following suit.

“We need to ask you some questions, Cottey. Is that all right?” asked Baldwin, keeping his voice low and soft. “You found a body?”

Nodding, the old man stared at them, then his eyes dropped to the dog at his feet as if in fearful wonder.

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes.” It was almost a sigh.

“Who?”

“Agatha Kyteler.”

Simon saw his friend start at the name and wondered why as Baldwin continued:

“Did you know her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her well?”

The farmer gave him a curious look, as if doubting his reasons for asking, before giving a curt shake of the head.

“Where’s her body? Did you bring it back with you?”

“No,” Cottey said, shaking his head, “I left her there. I… I thought I wouldn’t be able to lift her. I asked young Greencliff to watch over her. He lives closest.“

Simon sighed. “We were told you thought it was a murder. Why? What made you think that?”

The farmer looked up again and leaned forward, his haggard face moving into the firelight, so that his eyes glittered with a red and yellow madness of anger in the oval face. “Her neck,” he said. “Who can cut their own throat?”

***

Wincing, the Bourc felt that the crick in his neck would never go away as he rose, grunting. The fire was all but gone out, and it took time to tempt it back into life, but when it was blazing, he crouched and bleakly eyed it.

Leaving the hovel, he stood outside for a moment and looked up at the sky, sniffing the air like a seaman. Plainly the cold weather was here to stay for a while, but although the clouds above were thick and heavy, he felt that they should hold off for a day or two. There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground, but he was fairly sure there would be no more today.

When he glanced over to the south, he could see that the blue-grey moors were almost untouched with white. Except for a few hollows, there was only the merest dusting. As he frowned and considered, a finger of light seemed to gently stroke a hillock directly in front of him, as if pointing out his path.

Nodding with a gesture of decision, he went back inside. He would collect wood first, so that he would have fire in case of bad weather, but for now it was holding. He would make his way over the moors.

Chapter Five

Refusing a jug of ale each, Baldwin and Simon led the way back to their horses. The old farmer agreed to take them to the place where he had found the old woman, and when they heard he had a wagon, they decided to take that and use it to bring the body back. The innkeeper had made sure that the mule had been fed and watered, and it was almost sprightly as it was led round to the front.

The damp chilly atmosphere outside was so sharp and bitter that it was only with a physical wrench that Simon could force himself to leave the warmth of the inn. Once out he found that snow had begun to fall, soft insubstantial flakes dropping thinly from a leaden sky making the fire seem even more appealing. The people at the front of the inn must have thought so too, because they had faded away.

Tugging on his gloves, Simon saw that there were only a few youngsters left, all of whom appeared unwilling to leave while there was a chance of seeing something interesting. He grinned at them good-naturedly as he strode to his horse and swung up, waiting for the others to mount, and while he sat there he became aware of a girl, standing a little apart and staring at him with large and serious brown eyes. She could only have been ten or eleven years of age, he thought, and gave her a quick flash of a smile. She grinned quickly, but then her eyes dropped, as if in contemplation, before she pursed her lips and turned away. It was sad, he felt, that children were introduced to death while so young, but he knew well that even here many of the children would know relatives who had starved to death in the famine. In any case, what could he do about it? Seeing that the other three were ready, he trotted after them towards the right-hand turn, glancing up at the sky with a frown every now and again as he wondered how bad the snow would be.

He rode along silently, watching the farmer. It was his impatience that had made the old man clam up. After he had asked his question, once Cottey had told them about the cut throat, he withdrew from them, his eyes filming over with tears as though he was in fear of something. But of what? There was something he had not told them, Simon was sure of that, and he intended to find out but, to his surprise, the fanner seemed not at all concerned by the three men, hardly even giving them a glance. His concentration was directed solely at the trees all around, eyes darting nervously from one side to the other and then upwards, as if he expected to be ambushed.

When he glanced at his friend, he saw that Baldwin was deep in thought too. The name of the old woman had surprised him, Simon knew, and he wondered briefly whether he should interrupt his friend’s reflective mood. He decided not to. Baldwin would explain his concerns when he was ready.

The bailiff was right. To have heard the name of the old woman so soon after hearing it from his friend’s son had worried Baldwin. It was too coincidental. If he could believe the Bourc, the main reason for the man’s visit was to see and thank her for saving him. There was no reason to suppose that he was involved in her death, surely.

It was only a little over a mile to the edge of the trees, and here the farmer stopped his mule and pointed wordlessly to the gap in the hedge. The knight and the bailiff were soon clambering over it and into the field.

Tanner was surprised that the old man made no effort to drop down with the others. Staring dumbly ahead, he stayed fixed to the wooden seat, reins held ready in his hands, as if daring them to ask him to join them, not even acknowledging his dog as it jumped up onto the wagon and rested its forepaws beside him to peer around. The others were out of earshot, so the constable ambled his horse alongside the older man’s, and said quietly, “What’s the matter, Sam?”

When the farmer’s face turned towards him, he could see the terror. “It’s her, Stephen. Her! Why did it have to be me as found her?”

Looking at him, Tanner was about to ask what he meant when Simon called him from the hedge. Nodding at the bailiff, he said, “Wait here, Sam. You’ll have to explain all this to us later.” Swinging off his horse, the constable walked to the hedge, clambered up the steep bank and followed the other two into the field.

The snow was falling more freely now, thick clumps dropping and settling gently, making the whole area seem calm and peaceful, but the constable was not fooled, he knew only too well how dangerous the apparently soft white feathers could be to the unwary. It was not this, though, that made him frown. He had known the Cottey family for many years – Samuel, his brother, their children – and knew them to be sturdy, stolid folk. He had never known any of them to display such fear, not even back in the past when they were all younger, when Sam and he had fought as men-at-arms together. Why should he be so upset at the death of an old woman?

Simon and Baldwin were a few yards away, walking towards a tall youth dressed in a russet tunic and woollen hose, with a thick red blanket over his shoulders, pinned like a short cloak. A heavy-looking, wooden handled knife was at his waist. Tanner recognised him immediately: Harold Greencliff.

The knight had not met him before. Greencliff was a tall, fair-haired, good-looking youth in his early twenties, broad in the shoulder with a friendly and open face browned by the wind. Wide-set blue eyes glowed with health from either side of the long, straight nose. But today they were nervous and almost shifty, not meeting the knight’s gaze. From his clothes he was not poor, but neither was he wealthy. He had bright eyes, and looked quite sharp, but the knight did not judge him by that alone. He knew too many fools, who at first sight looked intelligent, to trust to his first impression.

In his hands the boy held a shepherd’s crook, and his fingers moved along the stave as he watched them approach with a trepidation that Baldwin could not understand. It seemed odd that a corpse should create so much fear – first with old Sam Cottey, now with this boy. He shrugged. There must be a reason, and he was sure to hear of it before long.

“You’re Greencliff?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said, peering over Baldwin’s shoulder at the bailiff and constable.

“Wake up, lad!” said the knight irritably. “You’re looking after the body of this old woman for Cottey, is that right? Where is she, then?”

Silently Greencliff turned and pointed to the hedge that led at right angles to the road to keep his sheep from going into the woods beyond. There, in the darkness under the plants, they could make out a small bundle. To Simon it looked like a bundle of dirty rags lying in the space made by a fox or badger path, in the gap between two stems of the hedge itself, lying half under the plants, half in the field. He and the knight walked towards it, leaving Greencliff standing, nervously fiddling with his crook. Tanner imperturbable beside him. The two walked to the body, pausing three or four yards from it.

“Did you touch her?” Simon called back to him, frowning concentration on his face.

“No, sir, no. Soon as old Sam told me she was here, I came and stood where you saw me. I didn’t want to see her.”

Glancing back, Baldwin nodded. He could see that the boy’s footsteps had flattened a small area of grass, but no steps came from there, showing that the boy had been there when it began to snow and had not moved from there since. “Did you hear anyone this morning? See anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“What about last night? Did you see or hear anything strange?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

His face was anxious, as if he was desperate to convince, and after holding his gaze for a moment, Baldwin nodded again, then cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff and pointed with his chin. “No tracks, Simon. We’ll never be able to see if anyone came here last night. At least no one has been here since it began snowing.”

He was right. There was no mark to upset the snow that now lay almost half an inch thick on the ground, the heavily cropped grass just poking above the surface. Shrugging, Baldwin walked the last few yards to the body.

It lay partly under the hedge, face down. The lower half projected back into the field, while the head and torso were shielded under the protection of the plants and free of snow. They could see the black of the old woman’s upper garments.

“Wait,” said Baldwin and stepped forward slowly to crouch, his dark eyes flitting over the ground, along either side of the body, back the way they had come, up to the hedge, then back to the inert figure itself. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur. “The weather has been so cold there’s no mark on the ground: it’s too hard. Even if there were, the snow would have covered them. I don’t think even a hunter could see a spoor under this.”

Simon nodded, dropping to a knee and peering back the way they had come, past Tanner and Greencliff to the hedge that bordered the road. Their own footsteps were distinct, flattened prints in the snow, but the snow had started while they were inside the inn. Now he could not even see Cottey’s marks from when he had first seen the body. Glancing back at the knight, he asked, “Could she have come from the woods? Through the hedge?”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” came the pensive reply as the knight peered up. “Look. The twigs aren’t broken. No, it looks like she fell from this side. Maybe she died right here.” He chewed his lip and considered. “Let’s see her face. Simon, come on. Help me move her.”

The bailiff gave an unwilling grimace. This was the part he loathed, the first shock of seeing the corpse, of seeing the wound that killed. Sighing, he tentatively took hold of the body by the hips while Baldwin carefully moved up, taking the shoulders and rolling her over. He suddenly pulled back and exclaimed ‘God!“

“What?” said Simon, nervously shooting him a glance.

Baldwin stared back, his shock slowly giving way to a quickening interest. “I’m not surprised he was upset! He was right when he said the throat was cut – her head’s almost off her shoulders!”

They carefully carried the figure a few yards away from the hedge and set it down on the snow-covered grass. Slowly shaking his head, Simon stood, hands on hips, while Baldwin knelt and studied the body carefully. The bailiff stared down at the sad little collection of cloth and flesh, thinking how pathetic it looked, this sorry little mass that had been a person – if only a villein. He was still staring when Baldwin rose.

“Whoever did this wanted to make sure. As Cottey said, she couldn’t have done this to herself.”

Looking down, Simon could see what he meant. The bones were still connected, but the flesh was cut so deeply that the yellow cartilage of the windpipe could be seen as a perfect tube in the sliced meat of her throat. Wincing, the bailiff gasped and turned away, swallowing quickly. Shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths, he gradually soothed the oily feeling of sickness in his belly. He heard the low chuckle of the knight and the footsteps crunching on the dry snow, but kept his eyes shut a little longer.