Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

Jennie saw the white-faced youth staring and her voice failed. Following the direction of her gaze, the group saw Stephen, and their chattering died, as if the sluice that fed their conversation had been shut, and suddenly all talking in the hall stopped.

Now Stephen found himself the focus of all attention. He stood and walked to the table where the Millers sat, the woman staring at him with large bold eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he said deliberately. “You’re all saying it was those two, when there’s nothing to prove it, apart from her,” he pointed to Jennie, “saying he was in the road that day. There’s nothing else says they had anything to do with it. Nothing.”

“Come on, Stephen,” came a voice. “Nothing wrong with wondering. That’s all we’re doing, just wondering who might have done it.”

He spun to face the talker, an older man with round, jowled face and grizzled hair. “Nothing wrong? You’ve all set your mind to it that they’re guilty, haven’t you? Eh?” He looked around the table, staring into their eyes, until he met those of Jennie Miller. Only then did his lip curl into a sneer. Shaking his head with contempt, he spun on his heel and left, yanking so hard at the curtain as he left that he nearly pulled it from its fixings.

The wind had built again, and was whipping the snow into mad, whirling smoke before him, obliterating the view and making it hard to see the ground under his horse’s feet. It was with a curse of sheer fury that the Bourc dropped from the saddle, wincing as the movement pulled the fresh scabs on his back, and led his horses on, trying to keep his head to the south. This was worse than anything he had experienced before.

Here, this far into the moors, it was hard to maintain any course. All sense of direction had left him, and now he found it almost impossible to guess which direction was south. But he was tenacious and determined. He had never before failed to find his way, even when high in the mountains, and he was confident that he would win through, even if occasionally he would curse the thought of the easy lanes and roadways to the north which he had forsaken in favour of this bitter route.

At first he had managed to make good time. He had collected more wood, storing it as faggots on the pack-horse. The sky had been clear over to the south where the moors lay. Only to the north did clouds darken the sky. But that had changed as soon as he rode on to the rolling hills. Immediately the wind had begun to gust and blow, bringing the salty taint of the sea at first, but by late morning it was full of bitter coldness.

A flurry of snow blew at him, and he tugged his cowl over his face. Here, high on the moors, the wind could change direction and dart around at will like a well-trained knife-fighter. It was impossible to find his way.

He turned and stared back the way he had come. Now he could not even see his own trail. As soon as his feet lifted, his prints were filled. Cursing again, he hauled his horse’s head round and began to search for any protection: a wall, even a tree, anything that could give some relief from the elements.

Leaning on the front of his saddle, Simon stared down the hill towards the square, grey house and sighed. “I’m still not sure I’m ready for this,” he admitted.

Baldwin blew out his cheeks and peered ahead. “No, neither am I,” he said.

They had set off just before light, this time with Edgar again. Their packs filled, their wineskins sloshing merrily in case they became stranded, they had ridden through thick drifts to get here.

At points the drifts were so bad that they were forced to leave the lane and move into the woods at either side where the snow did not drift. Using sheep and deer trails, they had managed to continue, occasionally returning to the lane for short periods before moving aside to circumnavigate drifts. Whenever they left the shelter of the trees, they saw that the fine powder had taken possession of the land outside.

Finally they had been forced to leave the tracks completely. Where the lane opened out below Greencliff’s house, the snow had completely blocked their path. They had chosen a diversion to the north, taking a path Baldwin vaguely recalled, which led them up the side of one hill under the cover of the woods until they had passed over a mile beyond the field where they had found Kyteler’s body. At last, when they left the trees behind, they found themselves on a smooth and rounded hillside, and it seemed that here the snow could not drift. It had been blown away before the strong overnight winds.

At the top of the hill overlooking the house, they could see that the master and his wife must be inside. Smoke rose calmly from the chimneys. There were some tracks leaving the property by the road, but they only went a short distance, up as far as the first drift, before returning to the house.

While Baldwin stared, he could see no signs of movement. Sighing, he watched his breath dissipate on the freezing air, then glanced at Simon. “At least there should be something hot to drink down there.”

“Yes, thanks to God! I’m so cold my hair will snap off at the scalp if I touch it,” said the bailiff through teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering. “God! Come on, let’s get to sit before a fire again before we die!”

At the bottom of the hill they had to ride well to their right to find a passage through another thick drift that lay deep and impassable. Once round it, they were in among the trees again and here the snow was thin. But then they could not see any route through the snow on the farther side, and after some minutes of trying, Simon heard Baldwin muttering and Edgar cursing.

In the end it was Simon who lost both temper and patience together, and with his jaw fixed, his head down, he forced a path for them, whipping his horse on. The snow was over his heavily built rounsey’s chest, but the horse was strong, and barged on, whinnying slightly, taking short bounds in an effort to leap the freezing obstacle.

Once through, Simon rode for the house at a loping speed, half canter, half trot, without even glancing behind to see if the others were following. Indeed, he was not sure that they were until he drew up to the little tower that housed the main door and heard the chuckling of his friend. Even Edgar seemed amused, but when the bailiffs glowering countenance shot towards him, the servant appeared to be busily concentrating on the parcel tied behind him on the saddle. Even so, Simon was sure he caught a brief, dry chortle as he turned away.

After hammering on the door, Simon turned and glared at the white landscape. To his disgust, it began to snow again, a thin and fine drizzle of particles as fine but as dry and stolid as ash. It was like watching a rain of flour.

“We had better be quick,” said Baldwin as he approached, his eyes cast upward at the leaden sky. “If this gets worse, and it looks as if it might, we could get stuck here for days.”

Simon grunted, but just then he heard the latch being pulled, and they turned to see a young servant girl. “Ah, good. We’re here to see your master, is he…?” He paused as the girl started, a fist rising to her mouth as she stared at him from terrified eyes. “What is it, girl?”

“The master, sir. He’s disappeared. We don’t know where he is!”

She led the way inside. The stone-flagged screens beyond the door were long, reaching all the way to the other side of the house where another door gave out to the stable area and outbuildings. To their left were three doors, and when Simon peered in, he could see that the first led to the buttery. The others must lead to the pantry and kitchen. On the right were the two doors to the hall itself.

Entering, Simon was awed by the magnificence of the great room. It was vast for a family home, nearly as big as the hall in Tiverton castle, with a high ceiling above and stone pillars supporting it, very like the church at Crediton. Benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a central aisle to the dais. Simon could not help but study the rich-looking tapestries on the walls and the immense fireplace. It roared with massive logs that in his own house would have had to have been shortened and split. Glancing round, he saw that behind him the screens had a rail at the top, and to one side there was a staircase for musicians, so that the master and his lady could hear singing and playing while they sat to eat.