Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

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.