Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

It was the Friday when he began to plan his revenge while he spent his morning fetching wood for his fire. He knew where the man lived, so it should be easy enough to waylay him.

Any wealthy man was predictable in his habits, as the Bourc knew. Rising with the sun, he would take a light meal with his servants before dealing with whatever business his clerk wanted to bring to his attention, maybe handing out punishments to wrongdoers. The main meal would follow, and then it would be out with the dogs or hawks to see what game could be found, and back home with the carcasses.

It followed that the Bourc must try to catch him while alone to have any chance of success. There would be no likelihood of taking Trevellyn while he was out hunting – he would have too many men with him.

Late in the morning he had ridden off to the Trevellyn house. Finding a high point in front where few seemed to wander, he saw to his delight that the master of the house did not hunt. He saw the men leaving with the dogs, and stared at the group, but Trevellyn was not there. Shortly afterwards he heard a bellowing, and saw a stable-lad being beaten. The hoarse shouting and pitiful crying came to his ears, making him set his jaw with distaste. It sounded as if the boy had taken too long in bringing the master’s horse when it had been called for.

And now it was Saturday and he was no closer to seeing how to catch the man on his own. Whenever he had thought he had an opportunity, he had been thwarted by the proximity of others. Even now, sitting as he was high on the land behind the house, where the day before Trevellyn had wandered alone and aimlessly for the earlier part of the afternoon, he could see the workers all around, hewing wood or taking it back to the house under the watchful eyes of Trevellyn’s seneschal. The master was there too, close to the house where the Bourc could not reach him.

The smile was still fixed on his face even as he decided he must leave and go back to the hut for the night before he died of cold. He placed his hands on his thighs to begin to rise, but then stilled himself as he heard the hated voice thundering at the two men before him.

“Why have you not finished? Hurry with that wood, you lazy sons-of-whores! Why should you eat when you can’t even fetch the logs we need to cook on?”

There was more in the same vein, but the Bourc was surprised to see that the two men did not answer but redoubled their efforts to cut the branches away from the bough. Their faces set and troubled, they hacked and chopped with a curious silence that was at odds with their frenetic actions. Usually men would answer back if their master shouted at them, or so the Bourc had believed from what he had seen of the lower orders in this country, but these two hardly spoke. They looked terrified of the man blustering below.

“I can’t finish, I’m too tired,” he heard one say.

“Hisht! Save your breath! We have to, or he’ll take the skin off your back. You know what he’s like.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to rest, or I’ll die here.”

“Such talk! Just get on and…” He was cut off by an enraged bellow.

“What are you doing?” The Bourc saw with surprise that the merchant had suddenly come round from the edge of the trees and now stood, hands on hips, glowering at the men. “Well? Why have you slowed? Maybe this will give you some energy!”

As he spoke, his hand reached back over his head, and the Bourc saw he held a short whip. It made a hideous whistling noise, as full of venom as a snake. Then the younger of the woodsmen cried out as it cracked. A fold of the tunic above his elbow opened and flapped, and a red flood began to stain his arm. Whimpering, the boy hefted his hatchet high overhead, but even as the axe fell, the whip slashed across his back.

The older man stoicly chopped at the branches, but he was not safe. Two strokes caught him, one around his waist, one on the chest which made him stumble and forced the breath to sob in his throat.

“Pick up the branches you’ve already cut and carry them to the house!”

“The wagon, sir, it’s not back yet, and…” The boy’s voice faltered. His objection earned him another crack from the whip.

“Do as I order, unless you want to feel this again!”

From his vantage point the Bourc watched as the two men, one snivelling, the other silent with a kind of taut agony, collected armfuls and walked back to the house.

“And hurry. You have to finish this tonight!” the merchant shouted at their retreating backs. Then he turned and looked at their work with a sneer. “Fools!” he muttered contemptuously. He kicked at a branch, walking farther along the trunk towards the trees, and the Bourc smiled to himself.

Giving a polite cough as the merchant passed by, he was pleased to see sudden fear in the man’s face as he turned and saw the Gascon for the first time. “Mr. Trevellyn, I am so pleased to see you again. I think we have some things to talk about.”

He saw the whip rise and leap back, and then it was whistling towards him.

The innkeeper at the ‘Sign of the Moon’ was very busy that night. It seemed that everybody from the village had come to his hall to drink. There was little else to do on a cold and snow-bound night, and while it was a delight to have the room filled with people wanting his ale, it still created havoc. He only hoped that his stocks of beer would survive until the next brew was ready.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered when a new hand stuck in the air or a fresh voice called to him. If it carried on like this until the spring, he would have to get someone to help. As it was, he and his wife were running witlessly like headless chickens, out to the buttery where they refilled their jugs with ale or wine, then to the hall again, where they struggled to fill the mugs and pots before they were all emptied. It was like trying to limewash a city wall, he thought. Just when you think you’ve finished, as you get back to the beginning, you find it’s already old and worn and you have to start again.

One group he watched with a particularly sour eye. He took no delight in gossip, even if it was a stock currency here in the ‘Moon’. He especially disliked malicious rumours that could hurt or offend, and the Miller family had an effective monopoly of them today.

Seeing a man lift his tankard in a silent plea, the innkeeper wove his way through the groups of people. As he stood pouring, he could hear the Millers.

“But how do they know it was Mrs. Trevellyn as was carryin‘ on with young Harry?” he heard one man ask.

Jennie leaned forward, her face serious. “Who else could it’ve been?” she said. “It was her who went to Greencliff and tempted him. And then they went to Agatha. You know what that means. And then they went back, after killing her.”

“So you sayin‘ as it was both of them did it? They both killed Agatha?”

The innkeeper walked away sighing. It was bad hearing such talk, ruining people’s characters to fill a boring evening. There was one thing for certain: it was bound to get someone into trouble. He glanced back at the little huddle, his eyes looking for empty pots, but always they were drawn back to the group. Was it worth telling them to shut up? No, they would carry on. Throw them all out? They would just hold court outside, and he would lose business at the same time. He shrugged. May as well let them continue, he thought, and went out to refill the jug again.

There was another man who was not amused by the talk. Stephen de la Forte sat near the screens, his back to the room, his face twisted as if his ale was vinegar.

His mug was empty. Turning, he tried to catch the eye of the innkeeper, but instead found himself being fixed by the gaze of the Miller girl, the oldest one, who stood and subjected him to a close scrutiny before tugging at her mother’s tunic.