Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

After quickly introducing themselves, Baldwin suggested that they should walk outside to talk, but she demurred. “I’ve got food to prepare. We can talk in here.”

Grinning at the knight’s obvious discomfort, Simon said, “We are trying to find out whether anybody saw Agatha Kyteler yesterday. Did you?”

“Her!” A sneer curled her lip. “I don’t look for her. Why do I care for her, the old…”

“You disliked her after the affair with your chickens, didn’t you?” said Simon flatly, feeling as he spoke that the words were superfluous, but wanting to cut off her flow of invective. It worked. She stopped and glowered at him.

“Well? What if I do?”

“Did. She’s dead. We’re trying to find out why. Why did you hate her so much?“

The shock was plain on her face, her mouth opening and shutting, and then she turned to her husband and stared at him. “Is this true? Eh?”

He shrugged as Simon said, “Answer the question, woman. Why did you hate her?”

Sighing, and after some grumbling, she told them of her suspicions about Agatha Kyteler’s dog.

“Did you see her dog do it?” asked Baldwin, wincing and coughing.

“See it? No, but it was her dog, all right. We followed the feathers, didn’t we?” She turned for verification to her husband, who nodded vaguely.

Simon considered. “Did you see her yesterday?”

“I…” She paused, her glower deepening.

“Good. When?”

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“Why?” sighed Simon, and stared at her in silence.

“It was that dog again,” she said at last, reluctantly.

“Her dog? What did it do?”

“It attacked my chickens again. Took another one. What was I supposed to do? Wait ‘til it had killed them all? I went to tell her to keep the dog tied up. I told her if I saw it on our land again, we’d kill it.”

“What did she say?”

“Her!” Her lips curled again in scorn. “Nothing, of course! She said it wasn’t her dog. Said it was in the house with her all day. Well that was a lie.”‘

“You saw her dog, then?”

“No, but the feathers went her way again. It must have been her dog.”

Shrugging, Simon glanced at Baldwin, who coughed.

“Very well,” he said reasonably; “did you see anyone else there?”

Her face wrinkled with the effort of recollection. “Yes. Yes, while I was on my way there, Sarah Cottey and Jennie Miller were talking near the house. And some other woman was in the trees – I don’t know who – when I left.”

“What did she look like?” asked Baldwin.

“Look like? Oh, I don’t know. Dressed well. Slim woman. Fairly tall and young, I’d say. Had a long cloak on, with fur on the hood.”

“A grey cloak?” Baldwin’s face wore a frown when Simon shot a glance at him.

“Yes, it was grey, I think.”

“You saw no men?”

“No.”

After checking where Jennie Miller lived, they walked out with relief to the open air. Even the extreme cold of the gathering darkness was preferable to the stench inside. The husband followed them, standing and inhaling deeply on his doorstep as he watched them mount their horses. Baldwin whirled his horse, and was about to ride off when he seemed struck by a sudden thought.

“Oatway. Why was your wife so sure that Kyteler’s dog attacked your chickens?”

He stared up at the grave knight, then quickly glanced behind to the open doorway. Moving a little away from it, to stand closer to Baldwin, he said, “Because she thinks old Kyteler got her dog to come here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Kyteler never liked my wife. My wife thinks she got the dog to come and kill our chickens, one by one.”

Simon felt the hair begin to rise on his scalp as the stooping man stared up at the knight, his voice dropping as if nervous of being overheard – not by his wife, but by someone else. “Kyteler was clever with animals. She always knew how to help hurt ones. And she could make potions for people too. She knew how to make potions, medicines and such. There’s only one sort knows about that kind of thing.” His eyes held Baldwin’s with a fearful conviction. “She was a witch!”

It had not taken the Bourc long to light his little fire from one of the bundles on the pack horse, and he was soon sitting and warming himself. Munching on a hunk of bread, he watched the man until he saw a finger twitch and eyebrow flicker, and then he stood and contemplated the supine figure for a moment before walking over and kicking it. “Wake up! You have questions to answer!”

The man was thick-set and swarthy like a seaman. On hearing the Bourc’s voice, he looked around blearily, his eyes unfocused and slowly blinking above the scuffed and bloody chin, until they caught sight of his captor and suddenly widened.

“I see you recognise me,” said the Gascon affably, squatting nearby. Pulling out his long-bladed dagger, he toyed with the hilt for a moment, then studied his prisoner with a smile. When he spoke, his voice was low and reasonable. “Why were you trying to ambush me?”

Brown eyes narrowed and flitted around the landscape.

“I shouldn’t bother, if I was you. They went. If they tried to come back, I would have seen them. They’ve left you here,” said the Bourc.

“They wouldn’t leave me alone.” But the eyes were uncertain as they moved over the surrounding country, and the Bourc let him search for his friends for a minute without interruption. There was no need to emphasise the fact. From here the moors fell down to the stream where he had caught the man, then rose to the trees a mile or so beyond. It was clear that no rescue was to be mounted from there. The Bourc watched as the man peered round to look up the hill, and grinned humourlessly. He knew that the country was as empty for nearly as far in that direction.

Holding the dagger delicately between finger and thumb, point dangling, the Bourc glanced at him again. “Why were you trying to ambush me? And why did your friends not shoot to kill? They had bows, I saw.”

The eyes snapped back to his face and the Bourc was surprised to see no fear there. The dark face stared at him with what looked like a vague sneer. “Why do you think?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” There was no answer. The man hawked and spat contemptuously. Sighing, the Bourc tried again. “My friend, I don’t know. You don’t look hard done by – you aren’t starving or anything. You don’t seem poor: your tunic is good quality and not worn.”

Now the scornful expression grew. “We aren’t footpads!”

“Ah! So why else attack someone you have never met? You have the look of a sailor, and yet I know no sailors…”

Seeing a quick interest, he paused. “So you are a sailor. But I know no sailors… No, I do not understand why you should have tried to rob me. So…”

“So maybe I just hate Gascons.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” said the Bourc softly. With a flick he tossed the dagger up. It turned once in the air and he caught it again by the hilt. Reaching forward, he touched the point at the top of the man’s breast-bone. As the eyes widened, he smiled, then dragged the blade gently downwards, so lightly he left no mark on his prisoner’s skin, although it made the man squirm as it traced a mark of tickling terror down his chest. When it touched the top of his tunic, the Bourc angled it, so that it sliced through the cloth.

Speaking conversationally, he said, “You don’t look worried about dying at my hands. I suppose you aren’t scared of a quick death. That’s fine. But it’s getting close to dark, and it will be very cold tonight. I think I might just leave you here once I have cut your tunic off. After all, maybe I don’t like sailors.”