Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“I think I’ll leave you at the inn. I want to go and see Greencliff.”

The Bourc had travelled for over three miles through the woods when he came up to the edge and gazed out at the road. There was nothing overt to cause him alarm, and he was about to kick his horse forward when a sudden caution made him stop.

In front of him the lane straggled untidily down the hill from his left, a red and muddy track cutting through the woods. He could see how it bent, falling down a steep incline to a rushing stream where a massive granite block acted as a simple bridge. At the other side the road rose steeply, soon swinging right to follow the riverbank all the way to Crediton. All seemed quiet and peaceful. There was no obvious reason for nervousness, no indication that any other person was near, but he paused and frowned warily.

Although there was probably nothing, he felt a prickling of his scalp. Partly, he was sure, it was due to the perfect siting of the bridge. If he had wanted to attack someone on the road, this would have been the place he would have chosen. The steep sides of the two hills made a fast escape almost impossible, whether forwards or back. The road narrowed at the bridge over the fast waters, funnelling the victim perfectly into a small area where it would be easy to haul a man from his horse or strike him.

Nodding to himself, he studied the trees lining the trail. They were thick, with dense bushes beneath. If someone was there, he would hardly be able to see them. But he could still feel the warning tingle of danger. Dropping from his horse, he lashed the reins to a branch and walked down the hill, along the line of the road but keeping just inside the trees. All the way he kept a wary eye on the dirt of the lane, but saw nothing alarming.

The traffic making its way from Crediton and Exeter to Moretonhampstead and beyond had chewed the path into a quagmire, and the deep ruts bore witness to the number of vehicles which had recently passed. Hoof prints scarred the red mud, leaving it crate red and pitted, looking like stew left boiling for too long.

As he walked down, pacing slowly and carefully as if hunting a deer, each step carefully measured to keep his noise to a minimum, he kept his attention on the bridge and the trees at either side. There was nothing obvious to warrant the trepidation he felt, but he had been a warrior too long to ignore his instincts. Only rarely had he known this sense of warning, but each time there had been good reason, and the feeling that this place was dangerous was not entirely due to its location. Somehow he knew that someone else was there.

He had covered almost half the distance when he heard a sniff and a low clearing of a throat from a few yards ahead: a man – and hidden to ambush a traveller.

Slowly, carefully, the Bourc laid his hand on his sword hilt and stepped forward softly, up to a thick oak bough with scrubby bushes at either side. Here he paused, putting out a hand to lean against the tree, listening.

“I reckon we’ve missed him. He’s gone some other way.”

He froze at the low, muttered words. They were closer than he had realised.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he’s just round that bend now, just about to come down.”

“Are you going to wait here all night just in case?”

“Trevellyn wanted him taught a lesson: not to insult an Englishman’s wife.”

“But we can’t wait here all night. We’ll freeze.”

“We have to try to get him – do you want to lose your place on the ship?”

“It won’t make much difference, will it? We never make any money on his ships now. Not since the pirates started attacking us every time we leave port.”

“Just give it ‘til dusk. When it’s dark we’ll get back to town.”

The Bourc grinned mirthlessly, then began to make his painstaking way back to his horses. He led them slowly back up the hill for a distance before turning eastward and walking parallel to the stream. The men were too close to the bubbling water to hear his progress. He would leave them there. They would be occupied, and they could take a message back to Trevellyn, seemingly their ship’s owner, although they had failed to teach their lesson, the Bourc did not seem to-have tried to return to Crediton. Trevellyn would think himself safe.

The ride home for Baldwin and Simon was quiet. Neither was in the mood to talk. The knight rode along scowling fixedly ahead while Simon tried desperately to keep warm, taking the long fold of his old cloak and tossing it over his hunched shoulder as he rode in miserable, frozen silence. Every time the slow jogging of the horse would soon shake it free again. The trip seemed at least twice as long in the quickening darkness, with the wind slowly freezing the sweat on his back and the thickening mist ahead. Then, to his disgust, it began to snow again.

“God!” he muttered, and saw Baldwin shoot a quick glance at him.

“Cold, my friend?” he asked sardonically.

“Cold? What do you think?” responded Simon, throwing his cloak once more over his left shoulder.

“I have no idea!” The knight looked upwards before taking his bearings. When he continued, there was a new note of seriousness. “We must hurry before we freeze, Simon. This snow is not going to stop.”

They were back at Furnshill before six o’clock, both pleased to see the welcoming orange glow of the sconces, candles and fire through the tapestry-covered windows. Their breath was steaming in the bitter cold, and they rode straight to the stableyard, the knight bellowing for grooms, before dismounting. Even when the men had taken the horses, he stood quietly watching as their mounts were rubbed down, and when he turned to Simon, he gave a quick grin. “I always watch. It’s a soldier’s habit, I know, but old habits stay with you, and once you’ve lived in a war you learn that it’s crucial that your horse is well fed and cared for. Hello! So you want food too, do you?”

This was to their visitor. As they had turned to walk to the manor house and the warm hall, they found the black and brown dog sitting inquiringly at the entrance to the stables, head on one side as if asking how much longer they must bear the cold.

The dog’s tail began to sweep slowly from side to side, clearing a small fan in the snow, then he stood and waited for them. “Looks like you’ve a new member of your household, Baldwin,” said Simon smiling. His only answer was a low grunt.

Tanner looked up sourly at the tree. His mouth twisted into a grimace of loathing as a small avalanche fell down his back and the wet trickle began its crawl towards his belt.

It was pitch black and freezing cold. The snow fell silently but inexorably. Hunching his shoulders, the constable peered ahead through slitted eyes, grunting in his misery.

After the knight and the bailiff had left, he had gone straight to the inn, drinking a couple of pints of mulled wine with the keeper. He had wanted to see if the man could add anything to his previous statement, and hoped that Greencliff might drop in, but the attempt was a failure. The landlord was happy to sell his wine, but denied knowing more than he had already told, and after morosely waiting for an hour or so, the constable decided to go and see whether he could find the youth at home. He obviously was not coming to the inn.

The track was miserable, though. Thick clumps of snow poured continually from the sky. There was nothing in his world but the cold and the snow. All creatures had fled the bitter chill and the trees at either side were invisible. In the absolute blackness there was no track, just a small patch of clear road ahead before sight was obliterated by whiteness in the dark. Now and again Tanner would see a clump of higher snow, showing where a bush lay hidden, or the branch of a tree. Other than that there was nothing.