Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”

“I’m Alan Trevellyn – merchant. Who’s this master of Furnshill?”

The Bourc started and peered at him on hearing the name, then stared at the woman. She clearly felt that his gaze was in response to the man’s rudeness, and softened the harshness of the question by her gentle voice. Eyes on the Bourc, she said, “I think we have heard of him, Alan. He is named Sir Baldwin.”

The landlord arrived with a tray of wine and handed pots to the man and woman. Other people were entering now, and he was soon busy going from one group to another.

“Sir Baldwin, eh?” said Trevellyn. “Yes, I think I remember him. He’s not been there for long, has he – his brother died or something.”

“I had heard,” the woman said, “that Sir Baldwin came here just before the abbot was murdered last year.”

“But surely you have not lived here long yourself, madam?” asked the Bourc, leaning forward and peering at her.

“She’s been here long enough.” The merchant put himself between them and glared wide-eyed at the Bourc, as if daring him to continue talking.

Staring back, the Bourc allowed himself a small smile and his eyebrows rose. “Do you object to me speaking to the lady?” he inquired softly.

“Yes, I do!” the merchant said, and suddenly his face contorted with fury. “She’s my wife! Leave her alone, or you’ll have to deal with me! Understand?”

The Bourc could not prevent a quick glance at her in open-eyed astonishment. That such a small, frail thing of beauty should be tied to so brutish a man seemed impossible, but even as he caught her eye, he saw the beginnings of the dampness as if she was about to weep, and she looked away quickly. When he unwillingly dragged his gaze back, the merchant’s lip was curled in a disdainful sneer.

“My apologies, sir, I had not realised,” the Bourc said, stiffly formal. A devil tempted him to say that he had assumed Trevellyn to be her servant he looked so poorly made, but he stopped himself. He had no wish to fight so soon after arriving here. “Anyway, I am here to see Sir Baldwin for my master, as I said, and then I have some personal business to see to. There’s a lady I must see. Do you know Agatha Kyteler?”

It was not his imagination. At the name, Mrs. Trevellyn’s head snapped round to stare at him and the merchant paused with his pot halfway to his mouth. Glowering at the Bourc, Trevellyn brought the mug down with slow deliberation. “Agatha Kyteler?” he said, then spat into the fire. “Why do you want to see that old bitch?”

He could feel himself bridling at this contemptuous treatment of the woman, but held his anger on a close rein. Sitting more upright, and resting his left hand on his sword, he said, “If you have something to say of her, share it with me. I know her to be an honourable lady.”

“Honourable? She’s a witch, that’s what she is! She puts curses on people – you ask anyone around here,” Trevellyn said scornfully.

Standing, his face white and taut with anger, the Bourc stared at Trevellyn. “Say that again. Say it again and defend yourself! I know her to be honourable – do you accuse me of lying?”

There was silence for a moment, as if every man in the hall was holding his breath. “Sirs, please!” the publican called anxiously, but the three ignored him. The Gascon was still and watchful, but his rage was boiling beneath his apparent calm. Trevellyn suddenly realised how his words had affected the stranger, and now gaped with fear while his wife looked excited, but kept silent.

At last the merchant shrank back like a whipped dog. Shooting a sullen glance at the Bourc, he shrugged. “I’ve said nothing that others here won’t tell you, but… if I’ve offended you, I ask your pardon. Ask the innkeeper where she lives, if you want to see her. He’ll know.”

And that appeared to be all that he was prepared to say.

When the Bourc drained his mug, Trevellyn hardly moved. He remained sitting, staring before him and carefully ignoring the Gascon. The Bourc looked at him contemptuously, then smiled at his wife. It pained him to see the sadness in her eyes, as if she was despairing at the misery of her life with her man, and the Bourc wondered again that such a lovely woman could have been manacled to such a brute. But there was no profit in thoughts like that, and he turned abruptly and went out to his horses.

“For the love of God, will you get down, you brute! Lionors! No! No! I said… Lionors, NO!”

The bellow of despairing rage carried clearly from the house and far down into the valley as the servant handed the reins to the grinning hostler, and he could hear the sound of scrabbling paws slipping on the floor and pots smashing. He sighed and shook his head in vexation. Since Sir Baldwin had returned, he had been determined to maintain the great hunting pack that his father had owned, and kept a separate kennel for the hounds. But there was one bitch who refused to leave him: Lionors.

Walking inside, he sighed again when he saw the hall. One great iron candle-holder was on its side, a bench was upset, and plates and mugs lay on the floor. In the middle of the floor stood the knight, hands on hips, red-faced and glaring, while in front of him was the dog, lying on her back, belly and legs waving submissively while her massive black jowls dangled ludicrously to display her teeth. A fearful brown eye rolled as Edgar entered.

“After food again, was she?”

“No, damn it!” Baldwin kicked the submissive dog, but not hard, and strode to a chair. Flopping down, he eyed his dog sourly. “She was happy to see me.”

It was always the same, the knight knew. Whenever he went out and left her behind, whether it was for an hour or a day, the result was the same: on his return she would try to bring something for him. In the beginning, when he had first come home to Furnshill, he had found it an endearing trait, a sign of the mastiffs devotion. That was almost a year ago now, though. Two pairs of boots, one rug and an expensive cloak ago. “She was trying to bring me a present.”

Edgar nodded, then bent to pick up shards of broken pottery. “What was it this time?” Shaking his head, the knight motioned to the floor beside the table. When he glanced down, Edgar saw the short hunting spear, heavily chewed at the middle, which lay beside the table. “She was carrying that?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

It was only a few moments later that they heard the sound of an approaching rider. Lionors heard it first, her head snapping round as she stared at the door. Wiping his hands on his shirt, Edgar went out. After a few minutes he was back, and to Baldwin’s surprise, he wore a broad smile.

“Sir Baldwin, a visitor! John, Bourc de Beaumont, son of the Captal de Beaumont.”

“Of course, I knew your father well. We first met in Acre. That would be some six and twenty years ago now, of course.”

Baldwin had been surprised at the demeanour of his guest. He remembered the Captal as being a cheerful, enthusiastic man, and yet the son was withdrawn, almost depressed.

The Bourc had passed on messages from his father and some small gifts, and they were sitting before the fire, which had been stoked and now roared vigorously, lighting the room with a flickering orange glow.

“He rarely talks about those times, sir.”

“I’m not surprised. It was miserable. The end of Outremer. The end of the kingdom of Jerusalem. The finish of many brave and gallant men. Not, luckily, your father, though.”