Read The Merchant's Partner Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
The Merchant's Partner
A Knights Templar Mystery
This book is for
Peter, Sarah,
Brill and Clive.
Thanks for your support and loyalty,
and for always having confidence.
It was not until much later, when winter had relaxedâ¦
In the late afternoon of the Saturday, under a leadenâ¦
For the love of God, will you get down, youâ¦
Six miles to the south the Bourc was glancing upâ¦
Refusing a jug of ale each, Baldwin and Simon ledâ¦
The Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southward, keeping theâ¦
Old Oatway stood and stared after the bailiff and knightâ¦
What will you call it?” asked Simon as they enteredâ¦
At the door to Cottey's old house, a ramshackle affairâ¦
The father stood at the door and watched as theâ¦
They left the youth with Peter, consuming a large bowlâ¦
In the middle of the afternoon they left Wefford andâ¦
At the yard before Peter Clifford's house, they turned inâ¦
The innkeeper at the “Sign of the Moon” was veryâ¦
It was not there for long, and it was speedilyâ¦
Every now and again Simon or Edgar would stir fromâ¦
It seemed to the bailiff that no sooner had theyâ¦
Damn this snow!”
So, you're awake now, are you?”
It was nearly dark when Jennie Miller walked into theâ¦
Once they had passed through from Crediton and were makingâ¦
After leaving their horses with the hostlers at the backâ¦
Entering the hall, they found an unkempt-looking Greencliff tied toâ¦
When Angelina Trevellyn and her manservant arrived at the door,â¦
They clattered up to the entrance of the house inâ¦
Outside, the mother was standing and staring at the disappearingâ¦
It was late when they finally made it home, andâ¦
When they had been back in their drafty castle forâ¦
I
t was not until much later, when winter had relaxed its grip and spring had touched the land with the fresh, yellow-green shades of renewal, that the feelings of horror and revulsion began to fade.
The knight knew full well that they were not gone entirely but merely superseded for a time by the pragmatic concerns of the villagers. The beginning of a new year forced the killings out of people's minds. Everyone was too busy for contemplation, preparing the fields and making use of the increasing daylight. But the murders had been committed late in the winter, and the long, cold evenings had given time for the storytellers to reflect and embellish. With their faces lighted by the angry red glow at the fireside, the families thrilled to hear about them time and again.
He could not grudge the people their fascination with the murdersâit was only natural in such a quiet, rural shire. Devon was not the same as other parts of the kingdom, where people lived in continual anxiety. On the northern marches men feared more attacks from the Scottish raiders, while at the coast people were terrified of raids by the French pi
rates. Here the only concern was the possibility of a third failed harvest.
No, it was not surprising that the people looked to a story like that of the murdered witch to enliven their evenings, not surprising that every man had his own opinion of the truth behind the killings, or that some now lived in fear of her ghost in case she sought revenge on the village where she had been killed.
Thinking back now, he was not sure when it all began. It was surely not the day when Tanner called, the Wednesday morning when he first saw the body with his friend the bailiff. It was before, maybe on the Saturday, when he was out hunting and saw the women for the first time. The morning he spent falconing with the rector of Crediton.
Â
“It's bitter, isn't it,” said Peter Clifford again.
Without looking at him, Baldwin grinned. His concentration was focused on the slender figure clutching at his gloved fist, admiring her slate-colored back and black-barred white chest. She sat like a high-born Syrian woman, he thought. Confident, strong and elegant, not thick and heavy like a peasant, but slim and quick. Even as he gazed at her, the head under the hood turned to face him as if hearing his thoughts, the yellow, wickedly hooked beak still and controlled. It was not threatening, but she was asserting her independence, knowing she could take her freedom when she wished: she was no dog, no devoted servantâand like all falconers, he knew it.
The priest's words broke in on his meditation and, giving a wry smile, he turned back to the rector of the church at Crediton, the corners of his mouth lifting under the narrow black moustache. “Sorry, Peter. Are you cold?” he asked mildly.
“Cold?” Peter Clifford's face appeared almost blue in the chill of the early morning as he squinted at his companion. “How could I feel cold in this glorious weather? I may not be a knight, I may be used to sitting in a warm hall with a fire blazing at this time of year, I may be thin and older than you, I may be sorely in need of a pint of mulled beer, but that does not mean I feel the bitterness of this wind that cuts through my tunic like a battleaxe through butter.”
Baldwin laughed and looked around at the land. They had left the forests behind and now were on open, bleak moorland. The weak winter sunshine had not yet cleared the damp mists from the ground, and their horses' hooves seemed almost to be wading in the thick dew underfoot. Bracken and heather covered the hill and shimmered under the grayness.
They had left early, almost as dawn broke, to get here. Baldwin had rescued the peregrine as a young and vicious juvenile in the previous year and Peter had not yet witnessed the bird hunting, so the knight had eagerly agreed to bring her and show off her skill. For him it was a pure delight to watch the creature climb, only to float, high and silent, almost as if she was as light as a piece of wood ash.
This was ideal land for falcons, up here on the moor, away from the woods. Shorter in the wing, hawks were better at chasing their prey and were used by their astringers to hunt among trees or other cramped areas. The falconer used his long-winged birds on open land where they could rise quickly, soaring up to their pitch and staying there, touring above their targets until they stooped down like a falling arrow, rarely missing their mark.
Shrugging himself deeper under his cloak, Peter
Clifford grimaced to himself as they rode along. Last night he had thought it would be pleasant to go hunting, after their meal and with plenty of Sir Baldwin's good Bordeaux wine inside him, heated by the great fire while they chatted of the latest Scottish attacks to the north. Then he had envisioned a warm day, the sky a perfect blue, the hawk swooping on to her targetsâ¦He glowered. Now he felt only cold: cold, damp and miserable. There was a fine sheen of silvery moisture all over his cloak and tunic, the wind cut through to his bones, and his face felt as though he was wearing a mask of ice. It was not as he had imagined.
His feelings of chilly discomfort were emphasized by the relative calmness of the man beside him. Baldwin sat as straight and alert as the bird on his fist, swaying and rocking with the slow walk of his horse. He was a strange man, the rector thought, this quiet, educated and self-possessed knight. Very unlike the normal warriors Peter Clifford met passing through Crediton. In build he was much the same, of course. Tall and strong, with the broad chest and shoulders of a fighter, Sir Baldwin Furnshill was the very image of the Norman knight, even down to the knife scar from temple to jaw that shone with a vivid heat in the cold, and he carried himself with a haughtiness to match his position. Only the black, neatly trimmed beard that covered the line of his jaw seemed incongruous in these days when men went clean-shaven.
With the hood of the knight's cloak lying on his back and the dark eyes roving constantly over the land, Peter could imagine him studying a battlefield, searching out the best points for an ambush, the line in the ground for the cavalry charge, the places to site the archers. His expression was curiously intense, as al
ways, as if the knight had seen and done so much that his spirit could never be completely at ease.
But for all that the rector knew him to be a loyal friend and, more important, an honest representative of the law. Sometimes he looked as though he could only hold his temper at bay with difficulty while dealing with the local folk, but he still managed to hold it in checkâunlike others the priest had known. Even the knight's predecessor, his brother Sir Reynald Furnshill, had been known to beat his men on occasion, though he was considered generally to be a fair man. In comparison, Baldwin appeared to be almost immune to anger.
There was a restlessness about him, though. It was there in his eyes and in the occasional sharpness of his tongue, as if every now and again the slow deliberations of his villeins became intolerably frustrating. Not like Simon Puttock, Peter thought. Simon never allowed his impatience to show. But Simon had gone to Lydford to be the castle's bailiff. At the thought, a vague memory stirred, and his brow creased. “Baldwin? Last nightâ¦Did you say Simon would be here soon?”
The question made the knight turn and raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Yes, in a couple of daysâmaybe three: Monday or Tuesday. He's been to Exeter, visiting the sheriff and the bishop.”
“Good. I would be grateful if you could let me know when he arrives. It's been a long time since I last saw him.”
The eyebrow lifted a little farther in sardonic amusement before Baldwin gave a short laugh. “Peter, you asked me that last night! I said I would send a messenger to you as soon as he arrived. Do you expect me to forget so quickly?”
Smiling, the knight studied the ground ahead, searching for prey. He had not realized how drunk Peter had been the previous night. As for him, he rarely consumed much alcohol. It was too ingrained in his nature now, even if he had turned his back on the religious life of a monk. Glancing back, he saw his quiet, restless servant Edgar close behind. Peter had once said that he appeared to be so close to Baldwin that a shadow could not squeeze between them, the knight recalled, and his smile broadened at the thought. How else should a knight and his man-at-arms be? “This should be fine. There're normally birds here. We need go no further.”
On this hill they were a little above the trees, and they could look down over the woods to the occasional plumes of smoke from the cottages. In the cool morning air they looked like strings of mist trying to rise to heaven, and Peter felt strangely calmed at the sight, as if it was proof of the need of all elements to struggle ever upward to God. The thought helped to ease the pain in his head and the rumbling acid in his belly.
Sighing, he watched as a small fluttering flock of pigeons rose from the trees to their left, drifting off into the rising mist. The sun was quite high now, and the priest gazed up at it with concern. It looked watery in the pale sky, as if the heat which had once blazed would never return, and he offered up a quick prayer for a better harvest this year. From north and east he had heard of people being forced to resort to all sorts of extreme behavior to survive. In parts of the kingdom all dogs and cats had disappeared, and he had heard of people eating rats. There were even rumors of cannibalism in the east.
“Please, God!” he muttered, suddenly struck with a
sense of near panic. “Let us have a good crop this year.”
“Yes,” he heard Baldwin murmur in quiet agreement. “Let's hope it's better this year.” But his reflective mood was broken even as he spoke. From beyond the trees, where a pool lay, there was a sudden flash of feathers as a heron rose. Drawing the hood from the peregrine, Baldwin quickly loosed her and spurred his horse, crying, “Oo-ee! Oo-ee!” to lure her on toward her prey, while Peter sat and watched and winced.
It was mid-morning when they decided to return to Furnshill for lunch. By now Peter was sure it was too late; he would never be able to warm himself again. The cold had eaten past his thick cloak, and under his two tunics and shirt, taking up permanent abode beneath his skin. Although it had been a pleasure to watch the peregrine launch herself upward, only to stoop, plummeting like an iron crossbow bolt on to her unfortunate targets, the delight in her skill was offset by his chilled dampness.
When the knight expressed himself content with their catch and suggested they should make their way back, it came as a relief to the priest, and he agreed with enthusiasm. It was short lived: soon he gave himself up to his abject, frozen misery.
Baldwin was thoughtful too. After many years of wandering and rough living he hardly felt the cold now, but he was aware that he was becoming more used to an easy life. The muscles on his shoulders still bore witness to his days of training as a swordsman, his arms were still thick and hard, his neck corded under the leathery skin, but the definition of his belly was becoming less clear, and he found himself won
dering whether he was losing his fine temper, like a blade left too long unpolished and without care.
It was no false pride that led him to feel concern at the beginning of his paunch. Under the terms of his knight's tenure at Furnshill, he must be ready to go and serve the de Courtenays, the Lords of Devon, for forty days every year. It was always possible that he could be called to go to assist his lord in the north, or on the Welsh marchesâor even over to France to the king's lands there.
Riding down the slope, Baldwin gave the hawk to Edgar before they passed in among the trees. The great oaks, elms and ashes towered above them here, their branches occasionally making the three men duck in their saddles as they passed along, until they came to an open area, the common land that led up to Wefford. Here they turned right, on to the main path north that led through the village itself.
Wefford was a small cluster of houses and farms that serviced the strips to the south of Furnshill, huddled squashed together like suspicious villagers watching a stranger. Baldwin knew it to be a thriving community which contributed well to his estates, providing not only money but also men to work the fields. As with all landholders, his greatest problems were caused by the areas that had insufficient menfolk to help with the manor's estate. Money coming in to his exchequer was welcome, but if there was nobody to tend his fields, his main source of income, his land, must be ruined.
Here in Wefford, though, he had never had any problems. The villeins seemed content, placidly carrying on with their lives. Even last year, in the confusion of the disastrous harvest, the people had managed to produce plenty of food: enough not just for themselves,
but to share with other hamlets on the Furnshill estates, and Baldwin felt a small stirring of pride as they came into the little village.
It was laid out on either side of the north-south road from Exeter to Tiverton, a straggling huddle of cottages and outbuildings that serviced the parallel scars of the fields. All the buildings were limewashed, stolid structures with their thatching thickly covered with moss. Up to the north lay the ford which had given the place its name, and halfway along the village, opposite the building that proudly acted as inn to the local folk, was the road west to Sandford and Crediton. Baldwin glanced at it as he passed. It led in among the woods, through the dark and gloomy trunks of the ancient trees, winding as it rose and fell over the hillocks of the softly undulating land, trying to find the easiest path for the traveller.
But the track was not well kept, he could see, and his brows jerked into a quick frown. Since he had accepted the position of Keeper of the King's Peace, he had needed to take on many new responsibilities, all going back to the Statute of Winchester. There the institutions for law and order had been reorganized and new regulations set out: how the hundred, the watch and the posse should work together; how areas should train for their own defense, and how they should protect against wandering bands of outlaws. Not only must Baldwin ensure that all men in the area were armed and trained in arms, he must keep the brushwood cleared from the public highways as well, to a distance of two hundred feet. Only three weeks ago he had told the constable, Tanner, that this track must be cleared, and Tanner had agreed to arrange it. It looked as if nothing had been done.
