Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“And that was all?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And then you went straight back to your horse?”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

“And Greencliff was there?”

“Yes. I had seen him earlier and asked him to mind my mare while I went to see Kyteler.”

Simon interrupted. “But you said you didn’t want the villagers to know you were there: that was why you hid in the trees on the way to her. Why didn’t you mind him?”

Looking at him, her mouth opened but no sound came for a moment. Then she turned back to Baldwin as if in silent appeal. “I know the boy. He is gossiped about as much as I am. He agreed to look after my horse. That is all.”

The knight nodded slowly. It would make sense, he thought. To his mind it was a great deal more likely than a high-born woman such as this having an adulterous affair with a lowly farmer.

“What about Grisel Oatway?” asked Simon. He felt he had an advantage somehow and he was determined to press it.

This time she did not even look at him. “I did not see her.” The tone of her voice carried finality.

Baldwin leaned forward again, and he was about to speak when the door in the screens flew open and a manservant ran in excitedly. “Mistress! Mistress! Come quickly! Oh, please come quickly!”

They all sprang to their feet and stared at the man as he halted before her, his boots and the bottom of his tunic and hose covered in dripping snow. “What is it?” she demanded, apparently angry at the interruption.

“Mistress – it’s the master – he’s dead!”

Simon gaped at him, and when he looked at Baldwin, he could see that the knight was as shocked as he. but then, as the bailiff glanced at the man’s widow, he stopped, his heart clutched in an icy grip. In her eyes there was no sadness. Glittering in the depths of the emerald pools was a cruel, vicious joy.

It was not there for long, and it was speedily covered by an expression of, if not grief, at least a degree of respectable regret. “Where?” she asked simply, and the man led them outside, Edgar silently bringing up the rear.

Walking quickly, the servant kept up a constant stream of apologies and pleas for pardon until she cut him off with a curt gesture, and he fell silent. Out through the door to the stable he took them, across the snow-covered yard, already trampled and flattened into a red-brown shlush, to an open picket gate in the wall that gave on to the pasturage behind. Here they could easily make out footprints, leading straight to the woods. It was a place where he trees looked to Simon as though they were being cleared for a new assart, or perhaps merely to increase the lands available for the hall. Up at the treeline was another servant, moving from one foot to another in obvious agitation and wringing his hands. They made their way to him without a word.

At first the ground fell away, giving the house a solitary imminence. A small stream lay at the bottom, curling lazily round the house. The snow had not covered this rippling water. It lay with small sheer cliffs at either bank like a miniature gorge, almost, Simon thought to himself, like a tiny replica of Lydford itself.

The servant took them to a bridge built of sturdy planks, wide enough for a wagon, then they were climbing the bank to the figure waiting at the trees. He was a middle-aged man, with a face flushed from the cold. His square, stolid features showed his terror. It was as if he feared even to talk, his muscles moving as if with the ague, mouth twitching, brows wrinkling, eyelids flickering. He pointed wordlessly, then remembered his place and would have fallen to his knees if the knight had not sharply ordered him to take them to his master. With a hesitant glance at his mistress, and seeing her nod, he turned and stumbled in among the trees. It was not far.

The assart was a small semicircular clearing, with stumps cut off a few feet above the ground, and Simon realised it was a coppice. The trees were being cut to allow for regrowth. When the new long-stemmed shoots grew, they could be harvested for fencing, staves or just for burning on the fire.

At the far end, to which the servant now led them, there was a spur cut into the forest like a thin, invasive finger of land thrusting the trees apart. Inside was a recently felled oak, lying on its side waiting to be cut into planks or logs. The man led them up to it, and there, just beside the bough, was a rolled-up form. Baldwin stepped up, a hand held out to stop the others, and then crouched by the figure.

On hearing a small gasp, Simon said, “Wait here!” to the others, and went forward to join him. “Oh, God!”

All around he could see the snow was dappled and clotted with frozen black gobbets of blood.

He stood motionless, his eyes on the ground for fully a minute. Then, though waking, he took a deep breath and let it out in one long jet. Breathing slowly, he peered around the small glade. Baldwin was beside him, his eyes on the figure. Beyond was the thickest concentration of blood, as if it had jetted forward under great pressure, thick gouts lying nearby and thinner droplets farther away.

Studying it, he could see that it was almost as if the stream had all been impelled in one direction. It had not all sprayed in a circle, but started to his left, in a thinnish drizzle, then fanned round to the great thick line ahead. When he looked down he could see that the body pointed in this direction too.

Alan Trevellyn lay partially covered with snow. He was down on his knees, his torso and arms outstretched as if praying, his head on the ground between. Only one side of his body was cleared, the other was still as white as the ground. Simon paused and peered down, then crouched, hands on his knees, and stared.

Standing, he pointed at the agitated servant. “You! Did you find him here?”

“Yes, sir. I was here to collect wood for the log store when I stumbled on something. I thought it was a log… Or a stump… I had no idea it was the master… When I kicked at it, all the snow fell away, and I saw it was… Was…” He seemed to run out of energy.

“Did you clear away the snow with your hands?”

“No, sir. I kicked, and the snow fell away, and…”

Simon interrupted harshly, “I know all that. Did anyone else come here to see the body after you found it? Did anyone touch the body?“

“No, sir. I stayed here with the master until you got here just now, sir. I didn’t leave, sir.”

Nodding, the bailiff turned back to the frowning knight.

“What is it, Simon?”

“Look!” He pointed. “There’s snow over the body. But the blood’s on top of the snow.”

“Which doesn’t make much sense,” Baldwin agreed.

“No. He would hardly bury himself in the snow after dying, would he? No, someone else piled the snow around him after he was dead. And there,” he indicated the rows of lines on top of the mound that covered the dead man’s side, “are the finger-marks to prove it.”

“Let’s see what actually killed him.”

Simon grunted assent, and they carefully began to clear away the snow from around the corpse.

“Do you want one of the men to help you?” asked Mrs. Trevellyn.

Looking up, Simon glanced at the two men before returning his gaze to her husband. “No,” he said. “I think we can do this. Could you send one to fetch a wagon, though, to bring the body back to the house?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be inside if you want me.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s too cold for me up here.”

Simon nodded, and watched as she began to make her way back to the house, followed by her two servants, who straggled along like confused dogs expecting to be beaten. Turning back, he caught Baldwin’s eye. The knight was watching her too.