Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“You have a very pleasant house,” said Simon tentatively, watching the clerk clearing his papers and hurrying from the room.

“Yes. It took many years to build, but now it is as we want it. I only hope,” his face became sour, “we can make enough profit to keep it.”

“To keep it? Why, what’s the difficulty?”

“The Genoese, they’re the problem!” he said, a sneer curling his lip. “The whore-sons want my money.”

The knight turned and watched impassively as the man carried on. “I have been a successful merchant for many years, with my partner, Alan Trevellyn, and now these Italians” He spat the word. “want us to pay them back the loans we have with them. It’s madness! They know we can’t. They just want to bankrupt us, that’s all.”

“Why would they want to do that?” asked Simon reasonably.

The grey eyes fixed on him. “Why? So that their own people can take over the trade from us, of course!”

“My friend has had little experience of trade. Perhaps you could explain for him,” said Baldwin suavely, and Simon threw him a look of sour distaste. To his knowledge, his grasp of trade was as good as any man’s.

“Alan Trevellyn and I hire ships and use them to bring wine over here from Gascony. We’ve been doing it for years. Going the other way we take what we can, wool mainly. When the ships arrive, they sell the cargo and use the money to buy the wine to bring back. We’ve been very successful over the years, but for the last two we’ve been unlucky. The pirates have caught our last two ships, and wiped out the profits from the previous ten. The profit is too low now, with the high costs since the harvests. So now the Italians want back the money they loaned us some time ago. What it means is, they want everything. It could mean losing our houses… Everything!”

They sat for some minutes in silence, and just as Simon opened his mouth to inquire about the consequences should he refuse to pay, they heard the sound of approaching feet, and through the curtain to the screens came the boy they had seen earlier, with a thin, mousy-looking woman who had enough similarity with Stephen to look like his mother. She stood just inside the doorway, darting little glances at each of the men, while her son strode in, boldly enough to Simon’s eye, although his face held a curious expression. It was almost petulant annoyance, as if he were close to anger that the knight and bailiff should dare to invade his father’s household.

He moved directly to a chair and sat, his pale features turned to the knight. “Well?” he asked, impatiently.

Baldwin sat quietly contemplating him. Then he sighed.

“Your friend will not talk to us. It’s as if he wanted to be convicted. I am not happy that he did it, though, and I want to be sure that I have the right man. So tell me, why do you think Greencliff ran away last night?”

“Last night? I’ve no idea,” said Stephen, leaning back and crossing his legs. He appeared to have a slight smile on his face, which Baldwin felt looked a little like a sneer.

“You said to us that you went there because he was upset. In what way was he upset?”

The boy haughtily raised his hands as if in exasperation. “Oh, I don’t know! Upset! Depressed! He just seemed to think that there was nothing to keep him here. He wanted to go: leave and travel. He’s often said he’d like to go to Gascony.”

Frowning, Baldwin peered at him doubtfully. “So although he could give no reason for his misery, you felt he was so upset that you tried to go and see him twice in one day?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, and uncrossed his legs.

“How long have you known him?”

“How…? Oh, almost all my life.”

“You are of the same age?”

“Yes. We are both twenty.”

“I suppose you must have talked about everything.”

“Yes.”

“So why was he upset, then? He must have told you.”

To Simon it looked like a gesture such as a theatrical player might use. The boy half turned to his father, opening his mouth, then faced the knight again with a thoughtful frown on his face. “It is difficult for me to tell you this… I do not know if I should, for he told me in confidence, and I swore to keep it silent for him.”

“What?”

“A woman.”

Baldwin sat back, his eyes still fixed on the boy, and Simon found himself immediately thinking: Sarah Cottey! It must be her.

“Who?” he heard Baldwin rasp.

“I cannot say.”

“This is nonsense!” said Baldwin, standing abruptly. “You expect me to believe that he knew you since childhood, that you talked about everything, that you were close friends, and yet something like this, something so important, he kept from you?”

“No, sir. You don’t understand.” The voice was low now, almost sad. “She is well-born, not a villein. And married.”

“Ah!” The knight faced him again.

“Yes. Of course I know who she is, but I swore to keep her name secret when he told me. You must understand, I cannot break my vow.”

“No. No, of course not,” said the knight hastily.

“But there’s one thing I can tell you.”

“Yes?”

“He couldn’t have killed the witch.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He was with me all afternoon on Monday, and all evening.”

“So?”

“I heard from the innkeeper that old Kyteler was seen by Oatway in the early afternoon, so she was killed later in the afternoon or in the evening. I was with Harry all that time. It can’t have been him.”

The father stood at the door and watched as the two walked to their horses, untied the dog and mounted, turning and slowly making their way back down the path, through the ford, and on to the road back to Wefford.

There was a bitter wind blowing that felt as though it was licking at Simon’s skin with a tongue of pointed ice. His cloak, tunic and shirt were of no use in defence.

“The weather doesn’t improve, does it?” he remarked after some minutes of silence.

“Hmm? Oh! No, no it doesn’t.” Baldwin was jogging along with his mind completely absorbed.

Sighing, Simon said, “What part of his speech did you find confusing?”

“Only the one part that matters. Who is she?”

“This lover of Greencliff’s?”

“Yes. Who could she be?”

“Unless Greencliff himself decides to tell us, I doubt whether we’ll ever find out.”

“No. Unless, of course, the boy de la Forte could be persuaded. I wonder…?”

“What?”

“Was he lying, do you think?”

“Ah!”

Baldwin glanced across at him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to jump to conclusions? Tell me I’m being fanciful?”

“Would you listen to me if I did?”

The knight considered. “No.”

“Good!” said Simon and chuckled. Then, with a small frown, he said, “What did you think of the boy de la Forte?”

“Think of him?” Baldwin shot him a glance. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him. I think he is telling the truth about the woman, though.”

“That Greencliff was having an affair with one?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so too,” said Simon, nodding. “So what do we do now?”

“I suppose we must release him. There can be no doubt that after Stephen de la Forte’s evidence the boy could not have been close to the woman when she was killed.”

“No, unless de la Forte was lying. I felt he was this morning, and again just now. It wasn’t just a case of holding things back. I got the definite impression he was deliberately lying.”

“Yes. I thought so too.” Baldwin glanced up at the clouds overhead. “There’s at least another hour and a half to dark. Do you think Margaret would grudge us a warming drink on our way home?”