Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“And?”

“Oh, they left soon after. But that’s not to say he was really mad – he looked more sad to me, not really angry, just upset, so don’t go thinking he sent straight out to kill her. Anyway, they were back here a few hours later – before eight.”

“Who? Greencliff and de la Forte?”

“Yes. They came in again and settled down for the evening with some of their friends.”

“Where had they been?”

He shrugged. “How should I know? To get food or something, I don’t know.”

“How did they seem when they got back?”

“Oh, Stephen was noisier than usual, but I reckon they’d had drinks while they were out. It gets some people like that. Harry was quiet. He often is when he’s drunk too much. He’s a nice, quiet sort of a lad.”

“I see,” said Baldwin, but as he opened his mouth to say more, Tanner and Cottey came in from seeing to the body. Walking to the huddle of men at the fire, they sat and stared longingly at the jugs of wine until Baldwin gestured and the innkeeper rose with bad grace to fetch more, this time not forgetting himself.

“We put her out back in the outbuilding. She can wait there until the priest can come and see to her,” said Tanner, watching the wine being poured as he held his hands to the fire. Sighing, he continued, “Poor old woman should be all right there. We put her up on a box. The rats should leave her alone for a day or two.”

Simon nodded, then glanced over at the innkeeper, who had returned and was staring morosely at the flames once more. “Did she have any family?”

“What, here?” Looking up, he seemed disinterested now, as if he had exhausted his knowledge and would prefer to move on to talk of other things. “No, not that I’ve seen. Sam? You seen any family with her?”

Taking a long pull at his wine, the old farmer paused before answering. Head one side, he considered. “No. Don’t think so. Mind you, you’d need to ask Oatway to know. Anyone going to see the old…” He hesitated. “The old woman, they’d’ve had to go past Oatway’s place first.”

“I think we need to see Oatway,” said Baldwin ruminatively.

The Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southwards, keeping the moors straight ahead. They looked beautiful, dark and soft with a vague hint of purple and blue, splashed with white in the shadowed areas where the low sun could not reach. Here, almost at the outskirts of Crediton, the moors took up the whole of the view, stretching from east to west as if trying to show him that they were the best route for him to take.

Soon he was out of the surrounding trees and winding down the lane that led into the town itself. Here he made his way to the market and bought bread and a little meat before carrying on. To his surprise, as he was leaving the market, he heard his voice called, and when he turned, he saw the merchant, Trevellyn, at the door to an inn.

“You leaving already?”

“Yes. My business is finished here. I am on my way back to the coast.”

“I see. Going to Oakhampton, then south?”

“No,” said the Bourc shortly, and explained his route, “It should be quicker.”

“Yes,” said the merchant. There was a strange expression in his eyes as he peered at the Bourc speculatively. “There’s one easy route if you’re going over the moors.”

Walking a short distance with the Bourc, he pointed to where the road began, and made sure that the Gascon understood the route before returning to the inn.

Mounting his horse, the Bourc stared thoughtfully after him for a moment. The merchant’s helpfulness did not ring true. It was oddly out of character after their last meeting in Wefford. But his advice sounded good.

The road led between some houses, down a short hill, and out to a flat plain. Crossing a river, he found that the road was well marked and easy to follow, and soon he was whistling cheerfully as he went.

After riding for some hours the countryside began to change. In place of the thickly wooded hills near Wefford and Furnshill, the trees were becoming more sparse and the hillsides steeper and less compromising. The road straggled lazily between the hills as if clambering up them would have been too much effort, and he found himself quickening his pace. As a soldier, he disliked enclosed places: he wanted to get to the moors and openness.

Not far from them, he found the road entered a wood which stood as if bounding the moors, far from the nearest house. There had been no other travellers for over an hour, which served to heighten his sense of solitude.

Riding into the shadows, he noticed the air felt stuffy. There was a hush, as if even the wild creatures were holding their breath expectantly. The silence was intimidating. When a blackbird crashed off a branch and squawked its way along a hedge in front of him, he stopped his horse with a frown.

It had moved too early to have been upset by him. Something else had worried it. He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and peered around with an apparent shortsighted lack of awareness. To have paused too long would have appeared suspicious, and he had no wish to avoid whoever could be ahead. But as his horse walked on, the knight was as alert as he ever had been.

Other men he had known had told him that they experienced extreme fear and a strange lassitude when they knew they were riding into a battle. He never did. To him warfare was life itself, his whole existence revolved around the fights on the marches, and without battle his life would have little meaning. No ambusher could have realised that from seeing him now.

His head moved sluggishly, as if he was dozing, and, as his horse meandered on slowly, his whole body slumped. Yet he managed to search each bush, every tree trunk, with care.

Only twenty yards into the trees he saw the first man and knew that he was about to be attacked.

The first glance merely gave him a flash of russet. If he had not already been expecting to see someone, he might have missed it, but that fleeting glimpse was enough. Considering where he would have put his own men for an ambush, he soon saw four other places where men could hide. There were too many – if he was attacked here he could be overcome too easily. With that thought in mind, he patted his horse’s neck. Then, with a quick prayer, he clapped spurs to his mount and they thundered down between the trees.

Suddenly the wood was full of angry shouting. He heard the low, thrumming whistle of an arrow passing overhead, a shouted curse, cries and swearing as men realised their trap was sprung, and then he was through the woods and in the open. The moors!

Risking a look over his shoulder, he could see three men struggling with horses. One was up quickly, two others a little slower. Glancing again, the Bourc saw that the first kept ahead of the others.

In front there was no cover of any sort. A quick ambush was out of the question. He would have no chance to stop and mount an attack until he had managed to increase the distance between him and his pursuers. It would take too long to grab his bow or a lance from the packhorse. Pursing his lips, he considered as he kicked his mount again. Then, when he threw another glare back, he saw that his luck was with him. The man in front had increased his lead and was gaining while the others were falling back.

Still bent low over his horse’s neck, he took the reins in his left hand and reached for his sword, checking it would pull free easily. Then he began to measure when he should turn.

It was not long. The leading man behind was a scant twenty yards away when the Bourc saw a stream ahead. Soon he felt his horse slow and pause before leaping. The Bourc just had time to drop the packhorse’s leading rein before they jumped.