Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“You can’t do that! I’m your prisoner, you must…”

“I must? I don’t have to do anything. You attacked me. I can do as I wish with you – I’m a knight. And I have little time to take you anywhere, my lord expects me home in Bordeaux. No. I think that leaving you here to freeze slowly will be best.”

Now the fear was fighting to overcome the disbelief. “You can’t! What if someone finds me here and…”

“Finds you? Here?” The Bourc smiled at him again, his knife stilled, and he made a show of gazing round. When his eyes came back to his prisoner, he began to move the blade again. “I think it’s a little unlikely, don’t you? We’re not close to a road here. I doubt whether anyone would come here before morning. Of course, a wolf might come along…”

“Stop.” It was a cry of panic. “I’ll tell you why we were there… Stop! Please?”

The Bourc paused, his dagger poised under the man’s heart. “Yes?”

“We were paid to attack you. Not to kill you, just to hurt you a bit…”

“Who paid you? And why?” He stared. He only knew a few people here – who could have asked for him to be ambushed?

“Trevellyn – Alan Trevellyn – he lives over north of Crediton – we work for him. He paid us to follow you today, after he pointed you out to us in the inn – told us he wanted you hurt. That’s all I know.”

For a minute the Bourc held the man’s gaze while he considered. It was quite possible that the merchant had chosen to pay men to attack him. He had made sure of the Gascon’s route by telling him which way to go. Nodding to himself, he whipped the knife down, swiftly slicing the tunic to the hem. Then he moved the blade down and cut the thongs hobbling his ankles.

“Very well. You can go now.”

“But…”

“What?” He mounted his horse and stared down.

“My hands! And where is my horse?” the man said, struggling to his feet and dejectedly looking down at his bare chest.

“Be grateful you have hands left. As for your horse – you lost it. You know your own way home, I believe. I should begin walking.”

He could still hear the man’s hoarse shouting when he had left him far behind, but he soon put all thoughts of the robber out of his mind. His only concern was how to repay the merchant. Nothing else mattered.

Old Oatway stood and stared after the bailiff and knight as they left his holding, watching carefully as if doubting that they were truly leaving. Once out of sight of him and the rouse, Baldwin grimaced, glancing upwards at the sky. “It’S going to freeze tonight,” he muttered, and Simon nodded glumly, making the knight smile. Simon was not happy. Although he considered himself educated, and knew that rumours could easily accumulate around people and villages like Wefford with no reason, he felt nervous to have heard that the old woman was thought to be a witch, he shook himself. She was probably just a maligned old roman, that was all, surely. Glancing up, he saw the clouds were the colour of old pewter, angry and heavy.

“Well, Simon? Shall we go and question this Jennie Miller? Or should we go and take a look at Kyteler’s house?”

“Tanner? What do you think?”

Ambling up on his horse. Tanner looked down the lane wards Agatha Kyteler’s house. “We have to see her lace. We still don’t know where she was killed. Maybe we’ll find something there.”

It was a good quarter of a mile to the little assart where the old woman had lived, and the difference between her cottage deep in the woods and the Oatway property closer to the road was startling. Here the thatch was fresh, not more than one summer old; the limewash brilliant and white. Even the log store appeared to have been carefully maintained, the logs stacked neatly to the left of the house under an extension of the thatch.

In front were two wattle pens in which goats and chickens roamed, and there was barking and whining at the sound of their arrival. Simon and Baldwin sat on their horses while Tanner alighted and strolled to the door, banging hard on the planks with his fist. There was no reply, so after looking at Baldwin, who gave a curt nod, he lifted the wooden latch and shoved the door open.

Immediately a thin black and brown lurcher burst out, barking excitedly and capering around the horses, jumping up every now and again in an attempt to reach the riders. Laughing, Baldwin threw a quick glance at Simon. “The poor devil must have been in there since yesterday to be this happy to see a stranger!”

“Yes,” said the bailiff, trying to keep his horse steady. The dog unnerved her, and she was trying to keep him in sight, reversing and turning skittishly as the black and brown streak tore round below. “Keep still, damn you!”

He was so involved he did not notice the constable come back to the door and motion to them. Grinning at his friend’s discomfort, Baldwin dropped from his mount and lashed the reins to a sapling, then crouched and stroked the dog before rising, still smiling, to enter. But the smile left his face when he saw the constable’s expression.

“This’s where she died,“ he said curtly as he stood aside to let the knight in.

That was clear as soon as Baldwin’s eyes accustomed themselves to the dark inside the small cottage. It was not as well built as the other houses in the village. In place of the solid timber beams, the gaps filled with cob and dirt to give a weatherproof shell, this place was a simple wooden shed, with earth and straw plastered on the outside to stop draughts.

One window high in the northern wall gave a little light into the gloomy interior. From it he could see that there was one almost square room, with a tiny attic area which had a seven runged ladder leading up to it. Baldwin could make out the rugs and furs that made up the bed in it. Beneath, all was cluttered. In the centre sat a fireplace, around which stood two small benches. To the right was a table, covered with earthenware pots and a variety of twigs, leaves and roots. A pair of large flat granite stones sat near the fire, which must have been used for grinding in place of mortar and pestle.

All over the floor were pots and vessels containing seeds and leaves, some fresh, some dry, giving the room a soft and musty odour. Around the walls and from the beams hung clumps of other branches and drying flowers, but it was to his left that his eyes were pulled. There had been a similar table to that opposite, a simple affair built of roughly-hewn planks on top of a pair of trestles, but here it was fallen, as if pulled or yanked over into the room, away from the wall. The collection of herbs and other plants was scattered all over the floor, and broken pots lay underneath the toppled baulks of wood.

“Wait here,” said Baldwin shortly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the floor around the table. Walking past the constable, he moved forward slowly, gazing at the wreckage while he wondered whether there had been a fight.

Turning, he looked at the other side of the room.

There, he saw, the table was standing hard against the wall. The pots around it on the floor were neatly organised on both sides, as if placed in military lines. He wandered carefully towards it and picked up a pair. One contained what looked like several twigs of yew, the other held leaves and stems from a juniper. He replaced them thoughtfully and strolled back to the fallen table.

Here, it appeared, the same pots had stood at either side, with some resting on top. There were several more smashed on the ground, and leaves and roots were scattered all over the floor. Baldwin crouched down and picked up a few. Mostly they appeared to be different herbs. He smelled thyme, basil and sage. And something else. Over the heavy musk and the thick pine, he could smell the decaying sweetness. As Simon came in, darkening the room as his body shut out the light from the doorway, the knight’s fingers encountered the slight stickiness, chilly and thick on the floor, directly in front of the table.