Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

Simon grinned. “And?”

“No, I had not!” he declared hotly, giving the bailiff a black scowl. At the sight of the bailiffs sceptical smile, he shrugged shamefacedly, then became pensive. “You see how it is, though? I did nothing, but the rumours still started. And there was nothing I could do to stop them – it ended up with a projected date for my bastard’s birth!” He subsided, glowering gloomily ahead. A quick smile lightened his features, and he turned conspiratorially to his friend. “But the worst of it was, I would have liked to!”

He paused, scowling and shrugging himself deeper into his cloak, before continuing in a quieter, more pensive tone, “And that’s why I find these rumours about an affair between Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn hard to believe. A wealthy merchant’s wife and a villein? It hardly seems likely. Gossip is always so easily started, but stopping it is like halting a war horse in full gallop – very difficult until it has run its course.”

Looking up at the sky, Simon said, “It’s getting close to dark. Let’s get back and sleep on it. We can get the answers we need in the morning, and if we speak to her well rested, we’ll be more likely to be able to be careful and save her from embarrassment.”

“Very well.” Baldwin nodded. “But let’s go home past her house. At least you can see the place. It’s not far.”

This part of the land was not an area Simon knew well, being too far to the east of his old home. He had always spent more time to the west or the north, in the country where he had grown up, and thus it was a surprise to see the great manor house of the Trevellyns at South Helions.

Baldwin’s house at Furnshill could easily be mistaken for a farm, with its cosiness and simplicity, while the place built by Walter de la Forte was imposing, showing the wealth of its owner. By comparison Trevellyn’s was a castle. It stood in its own clearing, a massive property of grey and ochre, with granite walls topped by castellations, showing that the owner had money and influence: all kings for many years had been trying to reduce the number of fortified houses to stop the internecine warfare that still continued between lords when they had squabbles. A man who could build a place like this was wealthy and important, and the house spoke of his power.

The windows at the base were small, but those higher had been enlarged to allow more sunlight and were mullioned. The door was a small, blackened timber slab set in a tower formed of a projecting section of wall, with an overhang above in which Simon knew there would be trap doors so that defenders could drop rocks or burning oil on any attacker. Overall it gave a feeling of threatening solidity, as if it was glowering down at the humans riding past.

The land all round was set to pasture, and there were a number of sheep grazing, scraping with their hooves at the snow to get to the grass beneath. A small stream led from the house to the lane, so the bailiff correctly assumed that it had its own fresh water from a spring.

“I think I prefer your house, Baldwin,” said Simon meditatively as they rode on.

“Maybe.” The knight was surveying the ground around as if assessing the best point for an assault. “But if we have a new war between barons in England, and this shire is attacked, I think I’d soon get to prefer this to my own!”

The lane curved round in a great sweep after the house, avoiding the hillock it was set upon, and then began the long and steady climb up the hill west of Wefford. It took some time for them to wander up it, both deep in their thoughts, with Edgar silent, as usual, behind. At the top they could see the lane winding through the trees ahead, dark in their leafless splendour against the snow that had fallen through their branches to the ground beneath.

There, only a half mile away, stood a solitary farmhouse, and Simon regarded it with a jealous scowl. It stood so calm and quiet, a single building with a small barn nearby. The smoke drifting from the thatch promised a warm welcome.

As his eyes roved over the surrounding country, he could see that a light mist was rising from the cleared areas, making them appear grey and somehow insubstantial, as if he was looking through fogged glass. The sun was setting slowly behind them now.

It was only then he realised that the farmhouse ahead must be Greencliff’s. Pointing to it, he said, “Baldwin. We could save ourselves some time and see Greencliff now, before we see Mrs. Trevellyn. Get his side of the story before going to her.”

“Do you think he’d tell us more than he already has?” Baldwin mused, staring at the house. He seemed to be talking to himself as he continued, “I suppose we could try. He doesn’t know how much we’ve learned or guessed. The trouble is, will we learn more from her? Should we wait until we’ve spoken to her before we see him again?”

“You’re probably right,” Simon said, staring at the peaceful house again. “There’s a chance we may learn something from Mrs. Trevellyn that could help us question Greencliff. Yes, let’s leave it for now. We’ll see him when we’ve been to the Trevellyn castle.”

Once inside Baldwin’s manor again, they were welcomed by the smell of a pair of roasting fowls, spitted on iron skewers by the fire. Hugh sat nearby, stretching occasionally to turn them.

Laughing, Simon saw that his servant appeared to have made a complete recovery. He looked as though he must have spent the whole day in front of the fire. At Baldwin’s mild inquiry, Hugh nodded towards the screens, and soon Margaret appeared holding two jugs which she set on a table before greeting her husband.

Glancing at Hugh, Simon said, “Has he been making you run around all day?” with mock seriousness.

She registered surprise. “Shouldn’t I have looked after him? Don’t be stupid! Of course not. I’ve done little today, and so has he. I wasn’t going to send him out when his master nearly killed him yesterday, was I? No, but at least he’s cured now.”

“Good,” said Baldwin, sitting by the fire and pulling his boots off. “That’s better! Good, so he can come with us tomorrow, then.”

Hugh’s face was immediately frowningly suspicious. “Why? What are we doing tomorrow?”

Sitting, Simon grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled her on to his lap. “We’re going to go and see the mystery woman who was there when Kyteler died. The woman who, according to gossip, has a fancy for strong young farmers,” he said, and kissed her.

Baldwin smiled at the sight of the bailiff and his struggling wife, then turned to face the fire. Yes, he thought. We’ll surely find out more tomorrow.

The dark was crowding in as the Bourc settled again, squatting as he gazed at the Trevellyn house. He smiled to himself as men hurried past nearby. None could see him, hidden as he was behind the thick fringe of bracken and bramble. Two men were talking as they lopped branches from a fallen tree only a few feet away. They had been there almost from the time that he had arrived, late in the morning, and were still unaware of him.

Since he had seen the ambush, he had carefully considered what to do. The first night he had been able to find a room in an inn in a hamlet to the south of Crediton – keeping to the woods had meant taking a great deal longer on his journey than he had expected, and he had been surprised at how far to the east he had been forced to travel before finding a bridge.

The next day, Thursday, he had risen early and crossed the stream at a small wooden bridge built by the villagers. Taking his time, he had made his way back to Wefford by quiet trails and paths, avoiding any large villages or towns. This way it had taken him until dark to get to the little hut where he had stayed before, and he had been glad to merely light a fire and tumble down to sleep.